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risuola · 7 months ago

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ENTRY #8 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // You said you love me, I heard it between the lines.

contents: arranged marriage!au, it gets a little steamy, reader discretion is advised — wc. 2556

a/n: longer part, little steam, some more confused fools in love, what else can we want ♡ i kinda enjoy writing the story a little more from satoru's pov, i hope you don't mind! also, the wedding picture that my friend draw for me is here for anyone interested!

series masterlist

You love him.

Well, technically, you didn’t say you love him. You were tidying just next to him, wiping the dust off the shelves and he was on the couch, doing paperwork that might’ve been — and most likely were — partially responsible for his poor mood. He hated paperwork and ironically, Yaga loved giving him a fair share of it — it was fair, he knew that. His missions, his forms to fill but couldn’t Ijichi take care of it–

“We should retake that picture one day,” he heard you muse and he didn’t need to look up to know what picture you had in mind. You had, after all, just one picture together and it was taken forcefully as a proof of your marriage, right after the ceremony. He was in a suit, black and crisp, looking good as always with his glasses — that he didn’t bother taking off for the photo — resting on the bridge of his nose, low enough to show a little bit of his eyes and high enough to hide the lack of amusement he felt that day. You were in front of him, partially exposing your bare back to the camera and holding a bouquet of flowers that someone got you — not him, that’s for sure. As he thought of it, you were looking stunning. Breathtaking, to say the least, in the long white dress, not too plain but definitely not overly embellished. You didn’t need to be dressed in layers of princess-worthy fabrics to look like one. The picture though — it lacked emotion. You were there with him and he was there with you, but you weren’t together on it. You were just both in the frame.

“Why would we?” He asked dryly, growing more and more irritated by the bureaucracy at hand. He was stuck on one of the points, the one he disliked the most because it required him to elaborate on something that didn’t need to be elaborated on. Why would he describe the curses he saw, evaluate their strengths and consider their techniques, when he turned them to dust before they even realized he was there?

“It would be nice to have a wedding picture with some actual love in it, not just a dry, forced pose and stone faces,” you reasoned and your voice was light, it was innocent almost as if you were speaking of something so obviously natural. As if you were not considering exchanging the picture-proof of your arranged marriage into one of real marriage.

“We’re not married for love, do I need to remind you?” Satoru scoffed. He was annoyed. At you, because you were able to make his heart beat in ways he never knew are possible and at himself — for letting that happen. Or for saying what he just said because of course you knew the marriage wasn’t based on love and it didn’t change the fact you just allowed your mouth to slip away words that shouldn’t be slipped. He was annoyed because you shouldn’t feel that way, because he wasn’t ready to hear it, because he’s a coward.

But, instead of getting annoyed, he heard you chuckling. It was an odd point in your marriage. You were closer, the closest you’ve been until now, but the feelings that were undeniably blooming underneath the surface had to force their way through the layer of sarcasm he and you spread out thickly over the course of past weeks. You were still foreign to affection but curiously exploring the topic with each other and Satoru was suffering severe heart palpitations because of it. You seemed to enjoy it though — your smiles and very purposeful touches were enough of a proof of it.

Satoru sometimes wished he could fluster you just as you fluster him and he would give the world to see your face tinted with deep, red blush because of him. He will see you like this one day, but for now, you were still learning to express civil behaviors in the confines of your shared house. You called it a success that fights were much rarer now than at the beginning; perhaps you grew accustomed to the amount of snarkiness and irony or maybe it mellowed down. Maybe the fact that you were spending more and more time together, now working at school side by side, had something to do with the much warmer relation shyly building itself up between you, or maybe it’s because of the long, late night talks you share every night when he’s laying in bed with you.

“Oh, you really should shut up sometimes,” you said and he felt you approaching.

“I should, huh?” He rolled his eyes and smirked, eager to put down the papers and pay his attention to you. His eyes, that first landed on your legs, moved up following the shape of your body until he met your gaze. “And who are you to order me such things?”

“Your wife, Satoru, we’re married, as you probably noticed,” you snapped back, but something in the tone of your voice told him, you’re not as bothered as the bite of your words suggested.

“Married,” he said, humming. His smirk faltered just slightly and for a second, he was silenced by your presence. He couldn’t bring himself to fight against it. “And hating every second of it.” But he’d still reached forward to take your hand.

This time, it's you who rolled eyes but you allowed your fingers to intertwine with his. You sat down next to him, dropping your weight onto the soft, bouncy cushions and positioning yourself in a way to be able to face him. The top of your knee met the side of his thigh and Gojo put the pile of formalities to the side. “You are annoying, you know that, right?”

“I’ve been told,” Satoru said, his mouth twitching into a small smile. “Several times. By you, actually.” He chuckled and shifted a little on the couch. His free arm was rested along the backrest and he leaned his head back, giving you a sideways look. “But I know I am,” he teased with a smirk now fully bloomed on his features. “I’m glad you’re at least acknowledging it.”

“Kinda hard to miss when it’s written all over your face,” you teased him back and he laughed, running his thumb along the side of your hand. Then, he was rubbing small circles onto your skin, grazing over the delicate spots of your wrist.

“Oh? You’ve been paying more attention to me than I thought.”

“You really need to shut up,” you sighed, exhaling slowly in feigned annoyance, but you were clearly amused by his antics and he was growing amused too. Gojo was testing you, seeing how far you were willing to push him. He had every intention of testing your boundaries, pushing your buttons. He was curious, excited even, to see where it could go. You were incredible, Satoru thought, because weeks before he was sure he was going to break you, get you to back off, but you just kept coming at him. He wasn’t complaining.

“But I don’t want to,” he said, his tone teasing as he leaned towards you, bringing his face inches from yours. Your eyes met and the air got a little thicker, a little more warm. “What are you gonna do about it?” His voice was quiet, murmur-like, challenging. He didn’t let go of your wrist or stop the soft circles of his thumb.

“Easy,” you scoffed, but a smile tugged on the corners of your mouth when you leaned in as well. Your head tilted and then, your lips were just breath away from his own. “I’ll shut you myself,” you whispered, right against his face.

Satoru nearly lost it when he felt your breath on his lips. His heart seemed to skip a beat, this wasn’t how he thought this conversation would go, but he wasn’t exactly complaining. He wasn’t supposed to get jealous, to want you, to need you, but now that you were this close, there was no way he was going to let it end here.

He leaned a little closer as well, closing the distance just a bit more. He was practically asking for your lips to meet and the way your voice teased him when you whispered– oh, the man was getting weak. For the first time, he was speechless. His eyes drifted shut, the feel of your lips so close being enough to set him on fire. The silence hung in the air for only a moment before he pulled you to him, his mouth crashing into yours. He wanted to feel you against him as much as he could. One of his hands went to the back of your head and he began to pull you even tighter.

And you purred. Climbing on top of him, straddling his lap and the moment your legs gripped onto his, every thought was lost, every desire was awakened. One of his arms naturally shifted to pull you against his body and the other was in your hair, tangled within the strands. He felt the heat of you on his chest, he felt you on top of him and in his mind, there was no place he wanted you more. Satoru couldn't get enough of you, of being close.

His back was against the couch, he was kissing you roughly, almost desperately as if there was no air on the planet anymore and you were the only saving grace. He had waited so long to do this, wished for it. Every morning he spent looking at your calm, sleeping face he wondered what would you do if he made a move, if he kissed you softly, if he woke you up with his touch.

And now that it was happening.

He didn’t want to waste a single second. Your hands run over his shoulders and brushed through his hair, pulling and tugging them ever so slightly and he shivered from how close to the edge it brought him. Your touch was electric, sending tendrils of pleasure right through his system, filling his veins with something warm and unknown, making him lose himself into the feeling.

Your tongues met, exploring each other and he was focused on the taste of your lips, the sharpness of your teeth closing teasingly on his lower lip from time to time, the sound of your breathing and how soft and smooth your skin was against his own. Your nose was brushing against his every time you shifted your head and each movement made him want more. He felt like he could spend the rest of his life kissing you.

Satoru’s hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer and he leaned forward, pressing himself against you. He had a good bit more muscle than you and he wasn’t afraid to use it if it meant pulling you even closer, leaving no space between. Your body fit with his, the two of you like puzzle pieces fitting together in the perfect spot.

His hands were moving, following the shapes of you, learning them as his fingers were brushing your sides, his thumb sliding along your back. He gripped your waist a little harder and then, his mouth fell to your neck. You whimpered and a small groan escaped his lips as he kissed you there, his lips and tongue making their way to the soft, delicate skin behind your ear and you gasped on air when his teeth grazed the shell of your lobe.

Your fingers tightened on the muscles of his shoulders, searching for a way to ground yourself and you struggled to stay present, when he made it so easy to get lost.

A smile tugged on Gojo’s lips, he felt how hot your cheek was against the side of his head when he peppered tender kisses along the side of your neck. Then, he pulled away from you for a moment, breathing heavily. His eyes flickered over your face, taking in the sight of you before they dropped to your mouth once more. You were so pretty like this, panting and with your lips parted and swollen, red and glistening with saliva. You were so gorgeous with blush spilled over your complexion, with your half-lidded eyes and your arms around him.

His hands were still on your waist, and his lips found yours again — just as hungry and desperate as it was before.

“God,” he breathed, between one kiss and another. His voice was rough and gruff, carried by the heavy breaths and want. “I can’t believe I’m married to you,” he said, his tone full of awe. “Positive.”

He felt your lips curve upwards and your body squirm against him, and that was enough to make him almost lose control over himself. His hand moved from your waist to the hem of your shirt, moving it just enough to get access to the skin beneath it. He kept kissing you and his fingers were shifting from the hem back to your waist, then back again. You were so soft, and his entire body was filled with the urge to explore it. To taste it. To learn it.

He leaned back just slightly, breaking the kiss and you let out a soft sigh. Your cheek was now pressed against his shoulder, your face exposed. He rested his head against yours, his eyes fluttered shut and all he could hear was a mixture of breaths and his own heart.

“We should stop,” he whispered, sighing and you hummed, nuzzling your nose into his neck, kissing him there.

And like that, Satoru melted.

His body relaxed against yours once more. The breath he took was long and shaky, the sensation of your lips on his neck making his brain short circuit. Any thought he’d had of actually stopping threatened to fell to the wayside.

“We should really stop,” he repeated, louder this time, but he wasn’t making any attempts to move you off his lap. His hands gripped you a little more instead. “You’re gonna make me lose control.”

“Isn’t that a tempting thought,” you teased, the softest mischief lining your tone and you gave the side of his neck a little kitten-lick. Satoru groaned when your tongue touched his neck. His hold tightened on you, his fingers digging into your waist.

“Oh god, don’t do that,” he whispered, sounding desperate. His arm came up to brush your hair out of your face and he leaned his head to the side, giving you better access to his neck, despite all of his instincts telling him to not do that.

“Don’t do what?” Your voice rumbled against his flesh, the sensitive area leading from his ear to his shoulder vulnerable and exposed to your whims.

"That."

"That?"

Gojo jolted the moment your teeth sunk into his skin, just barely hard enough to leave a mark and it made him lose it. With a deep groan, his head shot upwards. The hand that had been running through your hair now gripped your hip, and in an instant, he had you flipped so you were flat on your back, him on top and the papers he’s got from Yaga long forgotten and spread all over the floor.

He’ll worry about them later.

Now: you.

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tropes-and-tales · 2 months ago

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Of Every Kinnë Tre

(Pero Tovar x F!Reader)

CW: Angst (death); smut (dubious consent, maybe, but I don't know if medieval times cared much for intoxicated sex acts; loss of virginity; oblique talk of sex; fingering, PiV, unprotected), 18+ only.

Word Count: 8370

AN: This was originally requested by @justreblogginfics!

AN2: The title of this is taken from an anonymous medieval love poem called, in modern English, "Of Every Kind of Tree."

AN3: Tropes is playing fast and loose with historical fact here (and geography, and linguistics, etc. etc).

Pero Tovar never counted marriage as something written into his fate.

Starvation? Possibly. Plague? There was a chance. Death in war or battle or in a misunderstanding on the road to China and back?

All too certain.

But marriage? Never.

Until it was foisted on him, quite unexpectedly, as he made his way back to Europa from his trials at the Great Wall.

-----

Tales from Pero Tovar’s time were largely passed down through the oral tradition: great speakers and orators stood in front of captive audiences, or ordinary men and women sat around fires and told stories to while away the dark hours, the cold hours. To brighten their lives.

These stories usually began like this:

Lo! We have heard of the glory of the Spear-Danes’ achievements!

Harken, my brethren, while I tell you the tale of Igor, son of Svyatoslav.

Pwyll Prince of Dyved was lord of the seven Cantrevs of Dyved; and once upon a time he was at Narberth his chief palace…

So we will begin our tale the same way, as the people of Pero’s time would have told it: around the fire, in the deep of winter’s cold—for it is a love story, and love is most appreciated when the days are short and the nights are long.

-----

Gather, friends, as I tell the tale of Pero Tovar, an orphan in want of a heel of bread, who became a sell-sword in want of coin, who became a lord who possessed the greatest treasure of all.

Pero was born in Galicia, and his entry into our world was what harried his dear mother into the next. Motherless, the babe Pero was given to a cousin to care for him, though she had her own children and gave Pero only the remainder of anything she had. Pero’s father, a brute of a blacksmith, was dispatched by a horse’s kick to the head when Pero was just a boy, and so he found himself an orphan.

The cousin’s house was meanly built, and the cousin’s husband was a miser who counted every peseta thrice before tucking it away in the pouch he always kept on his person. Pero was often cold, more often hungry, and when he reached the age of ten, he heard of a boy’s army that was forming to retake the Holy Land for the Christians.

Pero ran away from the cousin’s house, and while he never made it to Levant, he found that he had a talent for survival in the rough company of sell-swords, and it became his life for the next decades.

Unlike his fellow sell-swords, though, Pero had a talent for saving his coin. His compatriots caroused, whored, drank themselves stupid the moment a coin crossed their palm.

Pero? Perhaps he had learned a lesson from the cousin’s miserly husband. He held his coin, he spent little beyond the care of himself and his horse, and he saved. He had an idea to leave his life as a sell-sword before he lost it, to retire to some quiet green place and toil in the earth for whatever years remained to him.

To this end, he kept his coin safe with a certain prior in a certain priory. For a portion of what Pero earned, the prior tucked away the rest and guarded it, kept it protected in an iron box secured with a cunning lock that only he had the key to.

Pero saw much of God’s earth and beyond: into the Emirate of Mosul, the Buyid Emirate, where leagues of golden sand stretched beyond one’s vision, and where a lush green paradise could be found over the next rise. Then Sena, Bagan, the Kingdom of Bali—where he could not fathom the tongues in which they spoke, but where work could be found, as it seemed men across all lands always needed swords for coin. Then further east where the Song Dynasty ruled, and here Pero faced monsters from Revelation and survived.

With the coin he earned from fighting beasts, Pero calculated that he had enough now to retire from this life. He could find a patch of land and till it. He could hitch his warhorse to a plow and plant seeds that would sustain him, and when it was time for him to die, he could lay down in the furrows and pass with the blue firmament over his head.

-----

When Pero returned to the priory to collect his accumulated wealth, however, he found that disaster had struck.

The old prior, a gentle and pious man, had died, and his successor was the son of a bishop, a wastrel and spendthrift whose first order of business had been to set an inventory of the prior’s wealth. This inventory included the iron box where Pero's savings where stored.

The new prior's second order of business was to take that wealth and spend it on sinful pursuits.

Which meant Pero found himself with little beyond the payment from the Song people, a handful of treasures from his journeys, and a stretch of long years in front of him where he’d have to continue selling his sword to survive.

-----

Which was how Pero found himself outside of the Holy Roman Empire, to the east where the people spoke Latin but with a thick tongue, where many kept with the old gods and customs, and where the borders changed every fortnight as men grappled for land, consolidated their holding of scattered tribes and strongholds into what would pass for a kingdom or duchy further west.

Pero took work that winter, guarding the storehouse of a league of merchants who strove to protect their wares from both marauders and quarreling nobles alike. In this way, Pero came to understand the local tongue and customs, and he learned of the Princeling named Radomil, whose eldest half-brother had just died.

“They say Radomil murdered his kin as he slept,” spat one man in a tavern. “Just as he slayed his own father, years before.”

Another man lifted his hand, two fingers forked to ward off the Devil. “There will be hard times ahead, should he gain control.”

In this way, by keeping his head down and his ears open, Pero came to learn of the cowardly murderous Prince Radomil, now King. He came to learn that the people feared what this murderous king may do to his half-sister.

In some way that Pero would never learn, though, King Radomil came to learn of him in turn, and within a score of days, Pero found himself summoned to the squat stone fortress for an audience with the new King.

-----

The proposal was simple, once it was put to Pero in a tongue he could grasp better.

King Radomil wanted to see his half-sister wed. A kindness, it was said, in light of her recent loss. She was a widow with a small babe, and King Radomil in his infinite love and benevolence, saw fit to arrange such a match. Pero had been measured and found just such a match.

Pero, always blunt, asked, “why me?”

The King’s advisor talked at length, and though Pero was not especially versed in court intrigue, he knew enough of flattery and lies when he heard it.

“You are a noble man,” the advisor said, bowing his head at Pero. “We have it on good authority that you are descended from the family of Alfonso el Monje, King of León. Ancient blood proves out, despite your meager circumstances now.”

When Pero tried to argue and claim that he was from Galicia, son of a drunkard blacksmith, the advisor waved him away.

“We have priests who have studied your lineage and found it to not be so,” he said.

It was only later that evening that another advisor, an older man with a bald pate but a long beard set Pero straight in hushed tones and darting glances.

“The King cannot kill his sister,” he told Pero. “She is beloved by the people, and the killing of a woman would unravel his already tenuous hold on the region.”

“Why kill her at all?” Pero remembered that the sister was a widow, and he imagined an old woman, hunched back, white hair tucked under a veil. He could not fathom the risk she posed, but then again, he was in unfamiliar lands.

“She is a tool that others would use. Her father the King was beloved as well, and her mother had an ancient claim to royalty in her own right. The Princess could be snatched up by a rival for the throne, and her blood could bolster any claim. But if her brother the King could marry her off to a nobody, no one else could claim her.”

Pero remembered a certain game from his journey to the east, a way for the idle to while away the hours. It was war in miniature, a board with pieces, and while he watched it played many times, Pero never quite grasped how to win at shatranj. But he knew enough to recognize it now.

“Marrying her to me would remove her from the field,” Pero replied, understanding at last.

The old advisor nodded. “And it would keep her alive. Consider it seriously, Tovar. You would save not just her life but the life of her babe, and you would come out of it a wealthy man. You could claim her inheritance that her mother the Queen left her.”

“What inheritance?”

The old advisor glanced into the shadows, then said, “on her mother’s side, she is nobility. There is a handsome manor far from here, further north, that belongs to the Princess. It would be yours, should you marry her.”

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be married.

-----

The marriage took place on a rainy evening, and the ceremonies were doubled: one performed in the Latin rite by a priest in a grease-stained cassock, the other performed by a wise-man of the local custom. The latter, it must be said, was more boisterous—it involved winding a cord around the hand of the Princess and Pero’s, linking the two together in the eyes of the local gods. Then, to seal it, a feast where Pero and the Princess fed each other and gave each other drink. The drink was a local concoction, dark plum spirits that went down easier with each subsequent sip.

The Princess only took a mouthful when Pero held the cup to her mouth.

Pero took deep swallows and drained the cup when she held it to his.

Then there was dancing, and the dancing led to the great hall spinning, and from the spinning Pero found himself being carried away, up and floating away from the music, borne by the king’s men. When he turned his head, he saw the Princess - his wife - being borne away beside him, the newlyweds floating, and he did not realize—as she did—that this was the bedding ceremony.

How could Pero know? He had never laid with a woman before.

*****

You understood your circumstances.

You have always understood your circumstances.

Your mother died when you were young. Too young to make any memories of her beyond a general impression of loveliness, of gentleness before the fever took her and your unborn sister to the underworld. Your father remarried soon after, and he had a son with your stepmother, but she was a scheming woman, grasping, and your circumstances were clear forever after.

Your father, at least, lived long enough to marry you off to an ally. Your first husband had been much older, silver in his beard, but kind. Extraordinarily kind, in fact, and you wondered sometimes if your father knew he had given you to a man who made you a woman gently, who made you a mother to his daughter just as gently, and who died from an ague only last summer.

It was the only time he hurt you, dying as he did.

Your second husband? Well, you understood your circumstances. You knew it was a farce, a noble lineage hung on the shoulders of a sell-sword. You knew your brother’s motives when he and his advisors found you and informed you of your impending marriage. You knew it would keep you safe, being tucked away with some rough peasant, but as you observed this Tovar—his rough looks, his rougher manner—you wondered if death would perhaps be a kinder fate.

-----

Like your first marriage, you did not properly meet your intended until the ceremonies themselves.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not seem to understand the potency of the rakija. Unless he was a drunkard as well as a sell-sword.

Like your first marriage, you did not properly exchange a word beyond the ceremonies until you were locked in the chamber for the bedding ceremony.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not say, as your first husband had, “please trust in me, little princess. I will do you no harm.”

Instead, this Tovar stared at you, swayed on his feet, and mumbled, “fuck, how did this happen?”

Your first marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with far more pleasure than pain—the former a revelation that your body could produce such sensations, and the latter just a faint ache between your legs.

Your second marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with neither pleasure nor pain. You left it with confusion, at first, then understanding, then a bemusement that would one day cede to love.

This Tovar understood enough to undress himself. He shed the embroidered surcoat, the fine-woven shirt, the doe-skin trousers. The linen smallclothes. He stood before you unabashed, naked, swaying still on his feet. His manhood stood to proud attention, and you studied him. He was not unappealing, you thought, so long as he didn’t spew from the drink.

But he made no further move, and you lifted your hands to undress yourself too. You lifted away the headdress sewn with seed pearls and small gems. The outer robe, heavy with brocade. The inner dress, the woolen slippers, then the shift, and you stood as proudly as you could but felt a shyness overtake you, so you wrapped your arm around yourself and hid what you could.

Perhaps you misunderstood the sell-sword, though. A man, you thought, would take what was his, but this Tovar only stared at you—his cock twitching—and he made no further move.

“Perhaps,” you said, tentative. “We could lie down on the bed?”

He nodded and gestured for you to lead. You stretched out on the coverlet, but when he joined you, he only laid beside you, like two corpses in the tomb. The moment grew long, and there was no noise other than each of you breathing and the distant merriment of the wedding feast in the great hall.

“Tovar, we must…you must bed me for it to be legal,” you finally told him. Quietly, though. He was drunk, and you knew enough of men to know that drunkenness made them violent. And at your words, he shook his head and turned to face you, and his expression was dark.

“Pero,” he whispered harshly. “My given name is Pero.”

“P-Pero.” You didn’t mean to stammer, but his face was like a thundercloud, like the storm god that men worshiped here—

Saying his name made his expression soften in an instant, though. The thunderhead passed, and his face was like dawn’s light.

“My mother named me Pero,” he explained. “Tovar is what my father gave me.”

“Your mother…is she kind?”

“She is dead.”

“Oh.” You bit your lip and studied him; the darkness was edging back into his expression, so you added, “mine is dead too.”

“Mine died in my birthing.”

“Mine died when I was young, as she birthed my sister.” You paused, added, “she died too.”

Pero’s eyes had a glassy quality to them, whether it be the drink or the sorrow of his mother, so you reminded him, just as gently, that the bedding ceremony needed to be complete before your brother the Usurper would let you both leave. Before he returned your young daughter to you and let the three of you leave for your mother’s homeland.

To aid Pero, you reached out a hand to him, thinking you could lead him to you, but he misunderstood. He took your hand in his, much like at the wedding ceremony, and he raised it to his mouth. His mustache tickled against your skin as he pressed wet kisses to the back of it, to your wrist, to the inside of your forearm.

His kisses were sloppy, like a child playing at love. You thought it was the drink.

Little by little, you led him, or tried to. An hour passed, you judged from where the tall tapers burned in their pewter holders. Each moment saw the man get nowhere closer to consummating the thing; he only pressed his mouth to your hands and arms, and when he got breathless, which was often, he gazed over at you. Sometimes he touched your face with his calloused fingertips, and once he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in your unbound hair, but the time passed, and you felt your daughter—your freedom, your life—slipping away bit by bit.

“For the love of the gods, man,” you finally snapped. “Finish the thing!”

It made Pero rear back his head from where he nuzzled against you, and his expression was not thunderous so much as baleful.

“It is uncharted waters,” he muttered.

“The terrain from one woman to another is much the same, I imagine,” you retorted, then you reached for him in earnest, took him by his shoulder and urged him to climb onto you, which he did, clumsily. It felt so much the same, though, the warm touch of another’s body against yours, and the first real flower of desire bloomed in you.

“Perhaps,” you thought, “this may be a successful marriage.”

But Pero seemed confused still, still too addled by the strong plum brandy, and he moved awkwardly, muttered near your ear that he could map the hillocks and dales of this territory, but was unsure of the way home—

“Here,” you breathed into his ear, and your hand found where he strained, hot and heavy and ready to join to you. You took him by the root and tried to lead him to you, but your touch alone made him groan against your neck, made him mutter some word you didn’t know, and then you felt him go rigid above you.

Your second bedding ceremony, then: your new husband’s slack weight against you, his spend, hastily given from the mere touch of your palm, cooling against your hip.

Still, it was enough for your brother the Usurper and his flock of advisors in their dusty, moth-eaten robes. The usual inspection of the bedchamber come morning, the usual sly smiles and off-hand jokes…and then you were away, your daughter restored to your arms and your new husband—and his aching head—off to the lands of your mother.

-----

“What is her name?” Pero asked, startling you out of your thoughts. When you glanced at him, he nodded at your daughter dozing against your side.

“Vesna,” you replied. “It means ‘dawn.’”

He stared at you both for a long moment, this woman and her daughter that he got at a bargain.

“Her father…was he a good man?”

You nodded. “He was.”

“How did he die?”

You turned away and looked at the landscape from the narrow window of the carriage. “A fever took him.

“You cared for him?”

You nodded again. “I did.”

Pero made a noise at that, a grumble at the back of his throat that you couldn’t discern the meaning of. “Why did you care for him?”

“Why would you ask?” It was an impossible question to answer anyway, how you cared for your first husband and why. Because he was strong and wise, but gentle in equal measure. That he sat in council with your father, then your elder brother, his face stern and grave, then returned home and played with your daughter, pulled faces and allowed her to ride him as a pony, her small chubby fists tugging at his hair.

Pero must have heard the edge in your voice, because he answered softly, “I only hope to model my behavior on his own.” He paused. “I’ve never had a wife. I should like to do well by you.”

Vesna grumbled in her sleep and turned deeper in your side before she settled. “Will you do well by her too, Tovar?”

“Pero,” he corrected you gently. “And I would. I would be a father to her, and I would have her call me father as I would call her daughter.”

You laughed, the bitterness heavy in your mouth. “Sweet words, until you have a child of your own. Once you have your own blood, you’ll seek to cast her away.”

The man scowled but shook his head. “You have the wrong of it, wife.”

“I’ve yet to meet a person in a second marriage to do otherwise.”

“But you’ve met me,” he snapped. “And I am not your father’s second wife, nor her treacherous son.” His face softened, that ebb and flow of darkness that you recognized now from your wedding night. “I am just a blacksmith’s son, an orphan in my own right. I would not make an orphan of her, no matter what you think.”

He sounded so injured, stung from your accusation that you nodded at his words, then reached across the carriage and laid a soft hand on his arm.

“Peace, Pero,” you replied. “I meant no harm.”

“No one would blame you if you did. But I will prove you wrong, with both her—” Here, he jerked his chin in the direction of your sleeping daughter. “And with our own children. My hands may have slain many men, but I would cradle any child of yours, or any child of ours, as softly as a bird’s egg.”

You could not help the smile. “You have a gift of language, husband.”

He smiled back, though it looked uncertain, like he was unfamiliar with the motion of lifting his lips into the expression.

“Perhaps you already carry my child,” he said, a bit shyly. His gaze drifted to your belly under its thick woolen cloak. “Perhaps I bred you on our wedding night.”

You could not help the laugh this time. “I think not.”

At that, his smile fled. “Why not?”

“Because…” You watched him, uncertain. Perhaps he had been so drunk he didn’t realize. “Because you did not…complete the act.”

“I did!”

You shook your head. “Pero, you drank so much, I trust you must not remember, but you did not.”

“I…” He hesitated, glanced at Vesna to see that she was still fast asleep. He dropped his voice to a rough whisper. “Wife, I spilled my seed. I remember as much. The King’s advisors confirmed as much.”

“You did, but outside of me. Not inside.”

You realized it far too late, but you would be forgiven for never considering it. How many men had you ever known to enter their marriages as virgins? Especially a sell-sword who had traveled the world, who had likely been tempted by women of all shades and hues, of all sizes and temperaments.

You realized it when Pero, your husband, looked at you. Bewildered, he asked, “does not that count, wife?”

-----

“I do not understand how you could not know,” you told him that evening. You were lodged in a lord’s house, a friend of your late father, and Vesna had been tucked into her cot in an adjoining room.

“I did not.” Pero sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed. He looked much like a petulant child, not unlike Vesna when she was in a sulk.

“But you are a grown man, and you’ve kept rough company.”

“I have fought with rough company and traveled with rough company, but I’ve never fucked with rough company.”

You winced at the crude word for it. “You have never laid with even a woman for coin? Not once? Or some sweetheart, back in León?”

“Galicia,” he muttered. “And no. I fled home before I could grow hair on my balls, and I held my coin too dear to waste it on pretend love.”

“And you never traveled with a woman, perhaps? You were never tempted in the rough travel to curl up with a woman—”

“The only women that ever traveled with us were whores and wives. I would not waste my coin on the first and I would not waste my life on the second.”

You were unsure how to proceed. True, your marriage was not consummated, but that hardly registered with you. You did not know this Pero Tovar, in truth, beyond the handful of days you had spent together on the road. You knew little—just the few conversations, but it was more of his actions that spoke to who he was.

There was a moment early in the journey, just a half day’s ride out, that he had caught Vesna when her little boot caught in the carriage step. How Pero had swept her up, some fatherly instinct that made it a game for the little girl, a moment to pretend she was flying instead of stumbling.

When you fell asleep and woke to find his cloak tucked around you.

When you entered an unproven tavern for a late meal, how Pero had stood between you and Vesna and the rest of the room, like a loyal cur protecting its flock.

He was rough in his ways, but there was a gentleness to him, and it was as much what he didn’t do—he got drunk on your wedding night and had been as gentle as a lamb. And now, this line of questioning that frustrated him—he only sat and sulked with his arms crossed, when many men would strike you for being so blunt with his discomfort.

Pero Tovar, you wondered, could perhaps simply be a gentle man who fell into a rough life, and shouldn’t you foster that gentleness, now that he was yours?

“Husband, will you let me show you?” you asked quietly, and when his eyes found yours, you smiled at him. You held out your hands, and after a moment of hesitation, he took them in his own. His calloused hands, only recently washed of all the blood they had spilled.

“Please, wife,” he replied. “Please do.”

-----

The first time that night, it was much like the bedding ceremony: the moment your hand found Pero’s cock, he groaned, then erupted in your palm.

This time, though, he was sober enough to know what had happened.

“Shit!” he hissed, and he rolled away from you. You sensed that this was a defining moment in your marriage, the entire enterprise teetering on a knife’s edge. Fall one way, a life of stilted exchanges, closed-off conversations, miscommunications. Fall the other way?

“Pero, please.” You took a cloth from near the bed and wiped your hand, then reached for his deflated manhood. You wiped him off gently, and you smiled to feel the answering twitch to it, even so soon afterwards.

“The gods did not make us like dogs, rutting in the street, with only one chance in a while,” you whispered to him. “We can rest and try again, as many times as we like.”

“Did your other husband spill like a boy?” he asked, his voice an angry growl. You sensed better the way this may fall, how Pero seemed to compare himself to your first husband and found himself wanting.

“My other husband had been married before,” you replied. You set the soiled cloth aside, and you laid your hand on the side of Pero’s face so you could look him in the eyes. He avoided your gaze, so you sighed and stroked his hair back from his face, ran your thumb over his bristly cheek. And Pero, cur that he was, turned into your touch despite his low mood.

“I was not my husband’s first wife,” you explained. “He and his first wife had many years together, until she died from a wasting disease. But he was patient with me, and he taught me, just as I will be patient with you. Just as I will teach you.”

“It is a poor husband who must be taught by his wife.”

You hummed thoughtful at that, then leaned forward to press your lips to his. You let your breasts brush over his bare arm, and you took in the sharp inhale he made at the touch.

“Such a poor husband,” you chanced to tease. “Yet such fun in the teaching, hmm?”

“Did I marry a princess or a temptress?” he grumbled back, but there was a teasing tone to his voice.

“Perhaps you should take her counsel and decide for yourself.”

Pero turned onto his side and faced you, and his eyes finally sought yours. “I would be a good husband to you,” he said. “I would be a man who could give you pleasure.”

“Would you be humble enough for your wife to teach you then?”

He nodded, and his eyes grew darker with desire.

“Consider me humble. Consider me your pupil.” His voice fell to a lower register, and it sent a frisson of heat through you.

-----

Your lessons, as you came to call them, were strenuously applied and practiced until the pupil became a master in his own right.

You taught him the pleasure of simple touch: of feather-light strokes and firm grasping, of where to caress and where to lightly pinch, where to soothe and where to worry.

You taught him how to use his mouth—such a sulking, pouting mouth with such full lips, and with such a wicked tongue. You taught him how to suckle and lick, how to lap against which parts of you, and you taught him how to kiss with more skill and finesse than that first night together.

You taught him too how to receive the pleasure you could give him beyond the mating. You used your own hands and mouth in turn, and by the time he strained against you again, his cock ruddy and leaking from its broad tip, Pero was a panting, pleading mess.

“Please, wife,” he cried against your shoulder as you stroked him, then stopped, then stroked him again. “Please, show me—”

“Here.” You took his hand and led him to the place between your thighs, let him feel where he should seat himself. “Just here, husband.”

“It is slippery, your cunt,” he whispered, his voice wracked with awe. His blunt finger prodded at you, slipped inside, and his groan was a twin to your own.

“It m-makes the joining easier.”

Pero slid more of his finger inside you, then pulled it out, then sunk it back in. A preview, you supposed, from your eager pupil. You moaned again when he added a second finger, and you felt his eyes on you, peering down at you.

“Does that give you pleasure?” he asked without a bit of guile.

You nodded. It did.

He furrowed his brow. “I would mount you now, but I may spill too soon.”

“I would not care a whit, Pero. We have the time to master it together.”

He nodded, then pulled his fingers from you. He made to climb between your legs, and you parted them for him, spread yourself wide to fit him in the cradle of your hips. When he lowered himself, you felt his cock brush against you, and he reached down to grasp himself.

It only took him two tries. Just as you opened your mouth to guide him, he found your entrance, and then he pushed into you, the searing heat of him finally inside you. Pero groaned to feel you, but he did not spill—he stilled once he was buried in your depths, and he lifted his head to gaze down at you. The look on his face was somewhere between stupefaction and bliss, and you imagined you looked much the same.

“There,” you told him, brushing your fingertips over the planes of his handsome face. “Now we are wed, husband.”

*****

In this way, Pero Tovar became a man in love, who was loved in turn by his wife. Their journey to her mother’s homeland lost much of its earlier speed, and it took them far longer to arrive. Their servants—the carriage driver, the footman, the guards and lady’s maid, and child’s nurse—could guess the reason for their delay. After all, Pero and his wife were newlyweds, and they often stayed abed until late in the morning, though no one supposed they slept.

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be a father, the seed planted on that journey quickening in his wife’s belly months later. The daughter that followed thereafter, and the sons that came after that, and then a final daughter who looked so much like her father that despite the name her parents chose for her, she was forever known as Peročka.

True to his word, Pero never treated little Vesna as anything other than his own child. It had to be said that when the girl was grown and married off to a boy in a nearby city, Pero was the one who openly wept at the loss of her.

In the tales of this time, once the dragon is slain or the kingdom regained or the treasure earned, the tale ends. And so should ours, except to remind that Pero Tovar had traveled the known world only to end up with a treasure beyond compare in his wife and the family they created together. He never found the life he sought for himself—that spot of green land, dirt to furrow, plants to coax into life. Instead, he found a better life with a wife and children, with a community of people who came to value his wisdom…though he did end up with a garden where he tended to a grove of small plum trees and distilled their sweet fruits into a brandy that young men often toasted with on their wedding days.

If there is a lesson to Pero Tovar’s story, then, it’s this: sometimes the life we desire is not the life we need.

And to add that when his wife died from a wasting disease when only a bit of silver threaded through her hair, Pero spared no expense in building her the finest stone crypt to hold her bones. He had her dressed in the gown she wore to marry him so long ago. In her hair, he tucked the small jade and enamel comb that had somehow survived his journey from the Far East when he fought monsters in another life entirely. As was the custom in his adopted home, his children and grandchildren took hawthorn branches—in full bloom, as his beloved wife died in spring—and laid them in the crypt with her.

And to add too, when Pero himself died from a fever years later, his children and grandchildren dressed him in his finest tunic and opened the crypt so he could be laid beside his beloved. As was the custom, they took hawthorn branches —laden with red berries, as he died in the autumn—and laid them in the crypt with him.

And to add finally, Vesna, by then a mother in her own right, reached into the crypt and adjusted the two bodies so that their hands were clasped in their eternal rest. How could she do otherwise? They had loved each other fiercely in this life, and she prayed to the gods that they would do so in the next life too. Her mother and her father both, and she did not hide the tears that fell as her brothers and husband slid the heavy stone lid in place, sealing both Pero and his beloved in their shared tomb.

*****

He only has a single evening, and the surfeit of options in D.C. paralyzes him with choice. The Phillips Collection? The Renwick Gallery? Or the National Gallery of Art?

He mentions it to Ruiz, who laughs and says, “c’mon, man. The National Gallery, obviously.”

“I’d like something a little more off the beaten path,” Marcus replies.

Ruiz studies him, thinks on it. Finally says, “you know, I know a woman over there. She’s curating this huge exhibit that’s coming out next year. You want something unique, why don’t I set you up?”

“The exhibit isn’t even up yet?”

Ruiz waves him off. “Nah, but it might be fun to see how the sausage is made, right?”

-----

Which is how FBI Agent Marcus Pike comes to meet you. Ruiz is on your bar trivia team (he’s your ace in the hole on sports trivia), and when he calls with a favor, the call on speaker between Ruiz and Marcus, you happily agree to show him around your budding exhibit.

“It’s called ‘Stronger than Death,’” you tell him after you hold your hand out to shake. “After the Thomas Mann quote. ‘It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.’ Which is cheesy, admittedly, but it’s my first big solo exhibit I’m pulling together, and it’s the culmination of years of research and work.”

Marcus smiles. “I don’t think it’s cheesy at all.”

“Tell Tony that.”

“Eh, Ruiz is just jaded.” Marcus follows you into the storage area where some crates have already been unloaded and unpacked. “Tell me about this exhibit. Ruiz said it already has a lot of buzz.”

If Marcus thought your smile was lovely when you introduced yourself, he finds it utterly beautiful now, because you are passionate about your exhibit. An intersection of art and architecture and history, across time and distance, focused on the two most human emotions, you explain: love and grief.

“No matter when or where, it’s the two constants, you know?” You gesture widely, taking in the breadth of the crates, but even further too: the breadth of human history across the globe. “If you’re talking about humans in fourteenth century Iran or Berber tribes in the twelfth century or a Lutheran and Catholic couple during the heart of reformation, the story is the same. The details change, but the love is the same, and the grief when death comes is the same.”

“So the exhibit is…” Marcus trails off, and you take a deep breath. You’ve gone breathless in your explanation, a fact that charms him. Then you continue. Your exhibit is everything that encompasses that central idea of grief when love is ended by death, and how grief is an outpouring of that endless love. You have everything from big pieces to ephemera. There’s Victorian memorial photography. There’s a gravestone from a Catholic cemetery that edged against a Protestant one, the stone bridging the two graves because neither church allowed the couple to be buried together. There’s a letter found in a grave from the 1500’s in Korea, where the woman pours out her grief and love for her husband who is buried there.

You show him the artifacts already unpacked and catalogued. You hand him a pair of cotton gloves and allow him to touch some of the sturdier pieces, and you’ve pulled him into your wavelength because as he touches each piece, he feels weak in the knees, heavy with kinship he feels with strangers separated from him by centuries and thousands of miles.

“Here’s an interesting piece,” you tell him, and you lead him to a smaller crate that’s been opened, its packing material piled in a small snowdrift around the box. On the table beside it, there’s a smaller box. You open it and pull out a delicate-looking piece, and Marcus holds out his palm, flat. You lay it there, and he studies it in the light.

“Jade?”

You hum in agreement. “And enamel. It’s consistent with craftsmanship from the Song Dynasty.”

Marcus reaches back through his memory to his eastern histories and civilizations course. “Is that…. eleven hundred A.D.?”

“In part. It lasted over three hundred years.”

Marcus peers at it closer. “It’s amazingly preserved.”

“It was found in a grave in Latvia last year.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Seriously? How?”

“Trade wasn’t unheard of then, east from west. It was far more popular in the Holy Roman Empire, though. This part of Latvia was rural in that period. A collection of city-states and loosely-stitched tribes.”

“The comb must have been buried later then.”

You shake your head and take the comb from him, lie it gently back in its box. “That’s the story. It was buried around the year one thousand A.D. Archeologists found the grave five years ago. A bunch of kids were riding dirt bikes around the countryside in Latvia. One kid hits something, goes flying. It turns out it was a stone, but when they look at it, it’s carved. Too square, right? Has markings on it. It turns out, it’s this perfectly preserved medieval town. The archeologists did all their digging and carbon testing. They are still digging, honestly. But it looks like through soil samples, the best theory is that a tributary to the Daugava flooded at some point in twelve-hundred A.D and buried the entire place.”

“I never heard about it.”

You snort. “Yeah, a rare well-preserved medieval village will never hit the front page when there’s war and political scandals.”

You reach for a large envelope on the table and open it. You pull out a sheaf of photos, high resolution, and Marcus sees the link between the delicate jade comb and the overall theme of your exhibit.

The photos show the grave, a carved stone tomb that the river mud preserved for nearly a thousand years. It is simple by today’s standards, but Marcus can guess the care and expense of it. There are flowers and trees carved into the lid of it, a flat-faced woman who was probably a saint or local goddess to the time.

Then the photos cede to shots inside the opened grave. Again, the river buried the village and preserved it for Marcus and you to stare at it now: the pair of skeletons, on their sides and facing each other, their empty eye sockets seeming to stare at each other, the tiny bones of their hands a jumble as they were clearly buried together.

“They died together,” Marcus muses. “Plague, maybe?”

You shrug. “Who can say? But if it’s plague, it was several years apart. That’s why I’m putting them in the eastern corner of my exhibit. The archeologists spent a lot of time on this tomb, since it’s such a rare find. The skeleton on the left was a woman, roughly forty years old when she died. She was buried with the comb, and the archeologists found hawthorn branches with her.”

You tap the other side of the photo. “This one was a man, died around his sixties. Also buried with hawthorn branches.”

“So, how do we know they were buried at different times?”

“That’s the punchline. Archeologists found flower petals on her branches, but berries on his. They were buried at different times of the year, at least. Which means that the tomb was reopened to put the latter one in, and they were turned to face each other. Their hands were clasped together. It’s significant, especially when records seem to indicate that many burials of that time and place were cremations.”

Marcus turns to the next photo, a closeup of the hands. Sure enough, he can see the dusty, dried remnants of blossoms, the wizened berries. His eyes drift to their hands, the delicate bones a jumble to where he could not tell who’s belonged to which skeleton.

“Can you imagine the love they must have had for each other? First to build such an elaborate tomb for such a rural area that likely lacked craftsmen of this caliber. To choose to bury instead of cremating. And then to reopen the tomb and place the second body in, to turn them towards each other instead of facing up to face heaven or down to face the underworld. The jade comb is only a device to open the story, but the real story is the most common one across time. It’s love, and grief when the love is ended by death.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice low. “Sad, but beautiful.”

“We’ll never know their names, you know? We’ll never know what they looked like, or even really what language they spoke. If they had children or what they did. But we know…” You pause, take a breath. “We know they loved each other, and they died but the proof of that love can be witnessed by us a millennium later. And here we are with smart phones and airplanes and dating apps, but if you boil us down, we are just the same as them. Exactly the same.”

What can Marcus say to that? He agrees with you completely. When your voice cracks on the word exactly, his own throat grows a lump in it. He’s always been a romantic anyway, but the scope and scale of this project makes him feel like he could easily be pushed into tearing up too.

“This exhibit is going to be amazing,” he finally tells you. “Honestly. People are going to love it.”

You grin at him, and your eyes are a little glazed with tears, but Marcus wonders what would push you to take such an interest in this topic. Many curators home in on a much narrower niche, but yours is universal, so broad it could be sloppy or unfocused. But you seem to be taking a broad cross-section of artifacts, an attentive lens at different times and places and cultures.

“Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it.” You turn and slide the photographs back into their envelope. “Ruiz didn’t say much about why you wanted to check this out.”

Marcus follows you out of the storeroom. “I didn’t, really. I’m only in town for the evening. I fly out in the morning.”

“Where to?”

“Texas. I live there. I’m just in town for an interview.”

You lead him back to your office where his coat is stashed, and you hand it to him. You grab your own, grab your purse, and lock up. Together, you walk out of the building and into the evening. D.C. glitters: it must have rained while you were inside, and the lights sparkle on the wet pavement and buildings. You walk together for a few blocks, chatting amiably.

“Ruiz said you were FBI too?”

“Yeah, I’m in the Art Squad.”

You laugh. “Art Squad. I love it. You armed with an FBI-issued oil pastel?”

When Marcus starts to explain that he investigates stolen art and artifacts, you elbow him gently and cut him off. “I was teasing. I know what you do.”

He chuckles, shakes his head. He can feel his face flush a bit. “Anyway, there’s an open position here, and I thought it might be a good move, career-wise.” He pauses. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Texas to D.C. It could be a fun move.”

He agrees, but before he can stop himself, he’s talking about Teresa, how he has fallen in love, how he has a ring picked out and an idea of proposing—and you listen to it, nodding sympathetically, cooing when he sings Teresa’s virtues. Agreeing when he says his life is finally shaping out the way he always wanted: career and love, both moving forward in wonderful ways.

“That’s really great,” you reply. “I’m happy for you.”

He feels slightly asshole-ish, rambling about his life. He asks, more charitably, “what about you? Married?”

You laugh, a dry single ‘ha.’ “No.”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.” You glance at him. “Let’s just say I’m married to my work and leave it at that.”

He lifts his palms in surrender and in apology. “Fair. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” You pause. “But Teresa sounds great, and you’re lovely, so when the two of you come to D.C., look me up and you’ll give you both a private tour, okay?”

Marcus smiles at the thought of him and Teresa together in the capitol, hand in hand at your wonderful exhibit. “Deal.”

You stop in your tracks and point at the intersection. “I’m this way. It was really nice to meet you, Marcus.”

He holds out his hand and you take it. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I enjoyed it.”

“For one of Ruiz’s buddies? Anytime. And for real—you and your girl. Private tour, on me.”

The private tour, obviously, will never happen with Marcus and Teresa. Marcus will move to D.C. and Teresa will never follow. He’ll go through a dark period that he assumes will last the rest of his life, but it hardly lasts at all because by then, the city is plastered with advertisements for your exhibit, which is as big as Marcus predicted.

The private tour will happen with just Marcus, and it will hit different to see it laid out with the lighting, the flow, the signage.

It will hit different considering his recent breakup and recent heartache.

It will hit different when he shakes your hand again, when he takes in your soft, steady voice as you explain every artifact, as you offer him that lovely smile that turns beautiful as you talk about your work.

And it will hit different as you lead him through the history of love and grief, the history of what makes him no different from, say, a man who lived and loved and died a thousand years earlier. A man, perhaps, who thought his life would venture into one direction but instead went in another: how the life he desired was not the life he needed, but how it ended in love all the same.

In that way, Marcus and Pero, separated by a millennium are the same.

#kinktober2024 #clear the inbox 2024 #tropes and #tropes and tales #pero tovar #pero tovar imagine #pero tovar x reader #the great wall

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thewritingofspencerrose · 1 year ago

Text

A Future With You

Luke Hughes x oc

"Okay, but do we really need a second bedroom?" Luke asks, his arms wrapped around my body as I lean against his chest, the laptop rested on my thighs as we search for apartments, thinking a lot lately about when I graduate from Michigan and get to finally move to Jersey.

"Where will your brother's stay if we don't have a second room?"

"On the couch?" Lu supplies as if it should have been clear. "Or Jack can stay at his own apartment and Quinn can stay with him."

"And your parents?"

"We'll book them a hotel room."

"Lu, we can't just make your family stay in a hotel, they'll be here to visit us, that's rude," He clearly doesn't understand, because he gets his cute little confused face, mouth pouty and eyebrows furrowed.

"Plus, if we have a guest room now, we may not have to move into a new place for a while, we'll be able to just redecorate if the time comes," I can't help but mention, glancing up hesitantly, and the confused look hasn't changed.

I'm going to actually have to say this out loud. And while Lu and I have discussed living together a lot, down to now looking at apartments online, and we've discussed getting married one day, we've never discussed this.

Kids.

"What do you mean, baby?" He asks when I've paused for too long.

"Uh." What am I supposed to say? For when we have babies one day? "You know, for the future."

And it's now that his confusion is morphed into joy, him moving my laptop to the floor and flipping me over so that my front is facing his, his arms around me tightening as he kisses me.

"Are you talking about having kids with me?" And the absolute look of hope on his face makes me want to cry tears of joy.

"I didn't mean to assume that you'd want to have kids with me, I just- it breaks my heart to even consider a future without you but -"

"Never think like that," He interrupts, smile smaller than before as he cups my face. "Never think of a future without me in it, cause if I'm not in it I'm dead."

"Lu-"

"No," He interrupts again. "You need to know that I plan to marry you. Hell-" Is the next thing to come out of his mouth, moving from under me and earning a groan of disapproval, but he's back a second later, a small box in his hand and his heart rate skyrocketing as he retakes his place behind me.

"Luke, what is that?" I can't help but ask, even though I'm almost positive in the answer.

"It's the ring I bought for you right after our first anniversary," He begins to explain, bringing tears to my eyes. "Hey now, please don't cry baby."

And I shove him, not hard, but enough against his chest for him to get the memo. "You just told me you bought a ring for me after our first anniversary, A YEAR AND A HALF AGO and you expect me not to cry?"

"I need you to know, I was not planning on showing this to you, or giving this to you, for a while. I just knew I was going to marry you and bought it with my sign-on check for the Devils."

"Do you want an answer? Need an answer? Are you actively proposing or just showing me that you've thought about it?"

Lu chuckles, running him hand that's not holding the closed box through my hair and letting it rest on my shoulder.

"You need to know that I was going to do it this summer. Take you to the lake house, take you to that little bookstore-cafe type place I let you talk me into for our first date and propose," he explains, tears pouring down my face. And he looks at me with such a soft expression that I just know I'll forever feel at home with this boy.

"Would you be okay with me just asking you n-"

"Yes," I interrupt, not caring about what comes next.

Chuckling, he shakes his head, the curls moving this way and that. "Yes you're okay with me asking now or yes to the question?"

"Both," I answer without a second thought. "God Lu just ask me to marry you already!"

"Mackenzie-"

"Yes."

"- will you -"

"Yes."

"Marry me? Not now, but at some point?" And although he knows my answer, he looks nervous.

"Luke Hughes there is no universe where I say no to spending forever with you," I assure, kissing him softly before he slips the ring, a gorgeous one that could have come straight from my dreams, onto my finger, pulling me as close to his chest as humanly possible. We stay like this, just resting together in excitement and love before I can feel his head shift back to looking at me.

"So, kids?" Are the words he chooses the re-start our conversation from earlier, making me giggle.

"One day."

#original character #the writing of spencer rose #nhl fanfiction #best friends to lovers trope #new jersey devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes #luke hughes x best friend oc #established relationship #young love

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goldenempyrean · 1 year ago

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Back To Bed With You

« Day 10: “Honey, you’re supposed to be in bed." »

« Pairing: Lizzie Olsen x Reader »

« Notes: lil' bit late oops, I had to wait till I finished work to make the post :P »

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙〘 Advent 2023 Masterlist! 〙

"Alright. Cut. Take 5 while we set up the next scene, I want makeup touch-ups done on everyone in the next shot please!" The voice of your director dismissed you from the current scene as people began rushing around to set up everything for the next.

"Lizzie?" You tilted your head in surprise at the sight of your wife leaning up against some equipment behind the main camera. On any normal day you wouldn't have thought anything of it. But she'd woken up sick this morning with little to no voice left, and it'd taken you almost half an hour to convince her to go back to bed and take the day off. Yet here she was. Standing just off set... in her pyjamas. “Honey you’re supposed to be in bed. What are you doing here?”

She only shivered in response and goosebumps ran up her exposed arms as she pulled them round herself. “Oh, come here sweetheart,” You shook your head, taking off the jumper you’d been wearing and pulled it over her pink pyjama shirt. It was slightly baggy but on her, but it was better than that thin fabric that seemed to be doing little to keep her warm, “That better?”

She nodded before clearing her throat, "I missed you," Lizzie whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible. "And I wanted to see your scenes. You always watch mine.” She sniffled before muffling a cough against the collar of her borrowed jumper, making you raise an eyebrow slightly knowing you had to wear that later.

You cupped her flushed face in your hands, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. "You're the sweetest really, you are, but I don't want you getting any sicker. Your voice sounds awful darling. So how about this? You stay right here, I'll finish up this next scene and then I’ll walk you back to our trailer and get you settled back down, okay? How does that sound?” Lizzie gave a weak smile, appreciating the warmth of your jumper and the concern in your eyes. "Okay," she agreed in a raspy whisper, her hand finding yours as you began to lead her over towards where one of the runners had plugged a small portable heater into an extension cord.

“You just concentrate on getting warm, okay?” You murmured, kissing her hand, “I’ve gotta sort out my makeup. The scene’s only short but if you really don’t feel well, just head back without me. I’ll catch you up.”

With that you turned to quickly run over to makeup to get touched up before making it back down in front of the camera. The scene went well. Everyone had delivered their lines well and you’d only needed to do a couple to retakes to get the perfect shot.

As the director called for a wrap on the scene, you wasted no time in heading back over to where you had left Lizzie. She looked a little more tired now but at least the heater had been doing its job and had kept her warm as she watched.

“Alright, you, we had an agreement, didn’t we?” You smiled, knowing it was time for her to go back to bed. Your wife pouted but nodded in agreement and with a bit of effort, you helped her to her feet, wrapping your arm around her for support as you walked back to your trailer

"You're a terrible patient," You teased once you’d gotten inside, still holding her hand as you led her back to bed, a bundle of blankets that she more than willingly climbed back into.

Lizzie grinned weakly as you leant down to press a soft kiss to her warm cheek once she’d gotten settled, "But still the best wife, right?"

"Absolutely.” You chucked as you pulled the blanket up to her chin, “Now rest, my love and I'll be back as soon as I can."

〖 Join My Taglist! 〗@scrambled-brain-eggs @natashamyl0ve @bloomingflowersthings @kathleenmikaelson @shamelessbearunknown @inluvwithfictionalwomen @citrussnz @fluffyblanketgecko @kljhsong @santana1437 @lovelyy-moonlight @juiles @lots-of-pockets @sashawalker2 @natashamaximoff69 @observeowl @beholdagaywriter @danveration @idkeithershawty @rainedontknow @poison-blackheart @loveshineslikethesky @somber-sapphic @lexasaurs634 @scarlettssub @paisley-yy @wandanats-goodgirl @nuianced-tck-enby @maomaoincomming @anne-lister

#elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen fluff #elizabeth olsen x you #elizabeth olsen x female reader #elizabeth olsen imagine #elizabeth olsen x reader #lizzie olsen #lizzie olsen imagine #lizzie olsen x reader #lizzie olsen x you #sickfic #mcu #marvel sickfic #whump #fluffy #fluff #comfort #empyrean's advent 2023 #lizzie olsen sickfic

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dragonofthedepths · 2 years ago

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Zone Royalty 3.2.23

DP x DC. Danny Phantom, Clockwork, Wonder Woman, John Constantine, Shazam.

So, Clockwork is Kronos! Also, the Infinite Realms include all the various afterlifes and hells (there are a lot of them), which means one of the lesser kings in attendance when the High King/Ghost King calls a meeting of Important People, is Hades.

Now Hades doesn't know anything about the new Ghost King, but Danny calls a meeting, so he attends.

And then in walks Clockwork.

Now, the ancients are supposed to be like advisors to the King, but everyone knows why the ancient of time never shows up. He's kinda, ya'know, a little supposed to be imprisoned. As soon as the meeting is adjourned Hades rushes back home to tell the rest of his family that Kronos is free, and they all panic and end up contacting their mortal agents and intermediaries, because, well, none of them really want to risk going 1-on-1 with the titan of time. Which is how the Justice League gets involved and sent to investigate the situation.

So Diana, Shazam, Constantine, and a few others end up making their way into the Zone and going to look for Clockwork. He's pretty easy to find actually, he's hanging around Danny, and finding Danny is just a case of following his rouges. Now they just need to find out what he's is up to. Is he going to attack Mount Olympus and try to retake his throne from Zeus? Is he going to try to reignite worship of him on earth?

And Constantine is like; I don't know what to tell you, but That Is A Ghost. He looks like a ghost, floats like a ghost, radiates ectoplasam like a ghost, and freaking purrs like a ghost. He's not a god, he’s a ghost.

Or; leave a dead guy (even a god) in the Ghost Zone long enough, and, big surprise, he turns into a ghost.

Day (613/100) in my #∞daysofwriting @the-wip-project 3rd of Feb

#dp x dc #Danny Phantom #Clockwork #John Constantine #gods rely on worship #ghosts just kinda *are*#Shazam #Wonder Woman #Clockwork is Kronos #Hades #DP #DC #scribblings from the deep #∞daysofwriting #hey look I’m back to posting at noonish #yes this is morning for me #Clockwork & Danny

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zombii-writess · 2 months ago

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ᴠɪʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴍ! ꜱ/ᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ

Synopsis: Being stressed 24/7 with over blots and barely getting by with the limited cash you have, it's no wonder you barely noticed the red lumps all over your face that seem ready to burst.

Character/s: Vil

A/N: wrote this because I'm also breaking out so badly and also because I'm almost done with Book 5 WOOOO. Vil might be a little ooc imo ;;

also excuse any spelling mistakes, I wrote on 3 hours of sleep 😭

If you knew about how bad your face looked, you would've made an attempt to hide it better. But thanks to Ace who immediately called you 'pepperoni face' upon your arrival, you knew you had limited time before running into Vil.

It was bad enough you were stressed over classes, over blots sprouting everywhere, and Grim causing trouble everywhere you went, that you barely had time to take care of yourself, now you had to worry about Vil finding out about your face before you run into each other. Or worse, Rook sees you and tells him of your problem.

But it seems like luck was not on your side after you tried to sneak back to your dorm when someone cleared their throat behind you. Slowly turning around, you began to wish the ground would swallow you as you made eye contact with Vil's. And he does not look happy.

He opens his mouth to scold you for avoiding him but after scanning your face, Vil closes his mouth and sighs. "Have you not been following the skincare routine I've given you?"

Grimacing at his sharp, accusing tone, you turn your face away as you felt tears sting your eyes, head pounding from the stress that had piled upon piles. Vil shakes his head, "Come with me, Potatoe." Then turns to leave back to his dorm. With no other choice, you decide to follow him, wiping at the tears that managed to slip through.

Now here you were, sitting in front of Vil in clean clothing, because he "doesn't want to dirty his bed with outside germs,". Never have you felt so nervous as he was quick to slather some skincare products on you. On the way here, he hadn't said a word about your face or you avoiding him the entire day.

Once he finished putting on a face mask to deal with the pimples, he turns to his mirror, ties his hair up, and begins to work on himself. Finally, he speaks.

"So, [Name], what has been keeping you from taking care of yourself?"

That's when the damn breaks, your bottom lip begins to wobble as tears slid down your face, the face mask Vil had gently applied had been ruined from your tears and you desperately to wipe them away, but alas, you had failed. Too busy wiping your tears, you don't notice Vil turning back around in his seat to face you. Gently, he rests a hand on your head, thumb rubbing at your hairline.

Sniffling, you look up at him as he gazes at you with soft eyes. Vil softly kisses the crown of your head and embraces you, not caring that both of your masks rubbed onto each other's clothing. The warmth radiating from his body sends more tears down your cheeks as you swallowed air to hold back a sob.

Vil brushes his finger through your hair. Earlier it was tangled due to you arriving late to school thanks to Grim keeping you up with his sleep talking, thus leaving you with little to no time to fix your hair.

Once you calmed down, you spilled all of the problems that had you stressed out to Vil. How Grim kept getting you in trouble for sleeping in class, how you failed the last exam and needed to retake it, to how Ace called you 'pepperoni face' earlier. You could've gone all day if not for Vil using a manicured finger to wipe at your tear-stricken eyes.

"It'll be alright, [Name]," He spoke softly, never had he been so gently with anybody. But you weren't just anybody. You were his girlfriend. And although he was harsh on you too, Vil only showed this side of him to you. "You know, you can come to me whenever you need help?"

"Mhm," You sniffle as an embarrassed smile spreads on your face. "Sorry about all... that." Vil clicks his tongue, separating from you to head to his drawer to fish out some clean shirts for the both of you.

"There's no need to apologize," He heads back with the folded items in his hands and passes you a new shirt. "Crying is a great way to relieve stress,"

The rest of the day consisted of Vil treating you to face masks, relaxing shoulder messages, and tons of love.

Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi!

#x reader #stars o writing #twst x reader #twst wonderland #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader

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zerobaselove · 3 months ago

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randomly thought of asking zb1 to do that surf cruise- disco challenge w you 🫶🫶

this is so cute WAIT i wanna talk abt this (also anon reading through the stuff you sent has given me more motivation to write than ive had in weeks so THANK YOU ily (good) so bad

surf curse - disco challenge with zb1

okay first of all i can just imagine jiwoong being so confused when you mention it. it wouldn't click for him until you show him an example where he's like "ohhhh that's what you're talking about." but i totally think he would do it w you. though i think he would have a rlly hard time keeping a straight face KJSDFH probably ends the challenge with his head in his hands

rest of the members under the cut

as soon as you bring it up zhang hao is sat there shaking his head, insisting he won't do it with you. but after a couple minutes of pouting and begging he would give in. (you might have to kiss him to make up for it though) BUT despite originally being against it, you best believe his ass is making y'all retake it 4 times until its Perfect.

eeeeee hanbin!!! absolutely thrilled that you asked him to do it with you honestly. takes one look at the video you sent him with the caption "can we pls do this" and learns it within like 15 seconds max. (are we rlly surprised) definitely ends the video with his arms wrapped around your waist as you go to click the stop button on your phone.

lets all be fr here, matthew is probably the one who asked you to do it with him, and you happily agree. makes a big deal out of it too like he is getting the camera set up with good lighting and making sure your fits look cute together, the whole 9 yards. definitely very giggly the whole time, just massive smiles. also probably hugs you rlly tight at the end n spins you around a little (im losing my mind)

ok i think taerae would take very little convincing honestly. like hes shaking his head and waving his hand for about 10 seconds and then he sees how excited you are and boom hes off the bed going "fine, fine show me your little dance" and you two are in such a giggling mess when you film it that you almost mess it up (but you think it makes it that much better)

hear me out. i know its a silly little trend but ricky gets romantic w it alright. first of all i already know yall would be dressed so nicely, maybe out on a date or smth when you mention it and hes like, lets do it! bc he knows you want to. u guys practice once or twice but when you go to record it he takes you by the hand at the end and gives you a little twirl before pulling you in, where the video inevitably ends. (you don't even notice though)

tell me this isn't exactly how it would go with gyuvin. like the silliness and playfulness of it is just SOO correct. definitely just bounces around w you at some point, ruffling your hair n maybe giving you a peck on the temple. i think you both mutually were like we should do this its so silly!! also i feel like now it'd become your thing?? like he'll just start humming it or doing the dance and you pick up on it or vice versa.

ok honestly i think it comes up randomly with gunwook. like maybe y'all are walking home and you mention it and boom. ur stopping at the nearest park bench to set up ur phone and teaching him how it goes. i can just imagine him watching you with the most smitten look on his face as you rush back to where hes standing after you press start. like borderline giggling and kicking his feet bc he is rlly taking in how much he loves moments like this w you.

arguably i think this would be the most fun with yujin. like yeah i think he would get a little shy the first take but when you do it again hes just so bubbly and having such a fun time w you. like y'all both definitely just keep vibing and dancing around as the audio loops around after the video ends. ugh i just love that lil guy so bad

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s-awturn · 3 months ago

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Karma Is A Bitch | MV1

summary: S/N and Max invented hate at first sight, they hate each other from the first moment they met and never tried to make things better. The hatred between the two is real and almost palpable to the point of becoming karma... In the dirtiest sense of the word.

cw: Conflict, verbal fighting, insults and name calling, suggestive, mild smut (very little), mention of accidents, and what else? Somewhat based on the discussion between Max and Esteban (no explanation needed). No real events will be taken into consideration here, so everything was taken from my head (duh)

a/n: I wrote this based on Max's headcanon in "Pilots and their romantic tropes", because it stuck in my head and I needed to develop it. It's my first time with Max (⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°) heheheh so he's gonna be a little OC, don't take it too seriously pls. I just saw that I reached 101 followers, I'm going to shout it out (I'll think of something to celebrate, suggestions?)

Melbourne, 2023

"You're doing great, kiddo," Hugh said into the headphones. "We're down to the last ten laps, keep doing that and we could have a double podium today."

"Cool," she said through gritted teeth, focused on keeping Lando where he was: on her tail. "How's the car? Can we fight Verstappen for first place?"

Y/N heard Hugh's heavy sigh, and if she knew Hugh, she knew the engineer was rubbing his beard, as he always did when he was nervous.

The season was still in its early stages, it was only the third race of the year and the rivalry between Max and Y/N had already reached a dangerous peak, they competed more with each other than with other drivers. Luckily for the team, both Max and Y/N managed to keep the competition alive both among themselves and with the other teams — even if the two always took their internal rivalry more seriously.

"The wear on the tires has not yet reached a precarious level, so you can compete, but you need to be careful, there may be rubber debris on the track," he advised, hearing her click her tongue in agreement, Hugh knew he was stirring the hunger of a beast, and for all intents and purposes, Max had the prey she wanted. "God help us," he muttered, closing the communication channel.

Y/N smiled at the free pass Hugh had given her, she shifted gears, hearing the engine roar loudly and she smiled, there was a DRS zone. She was a few seconds behind Max, three maybe four seconds and with the possibility of overtaking in front of her, Y/N did what her instincts told her: she opened the rear wing and put her foot down on the accelerator, breaking the distance between her and Max and consequently stealing first place from the Dutch driver. She not only passed Max, but managed to establish the four-second gap between them again, with herself in the lead. Her smile under her helmet was wide enough for her to feel pain in the cheeks.

The rest of the race was fast and intense, she and Max fought aggressively for first place, Y/N didn't let Max take advantage of any opening, she broke all chances of Max regaining first place. Not even with DRS active was Verstappen able to retake the lead.

As the two entered the last lap, Christian, Hugh and the entire Red Bull team began to think they would have an accident, because the two were, literally, playing cat and mouse.

"Keep it up, girl" Hugh suddenly appeared on the comms, making Y/N laugh "you're going to win your first F1 race, keep it up"

She laughed with victory, feeling as light as a balloon as her car passed the checkered flag in first place. Everyone in the garage heard her happy screams, when Y/N parked the car in the spot reserved for the winner, she could barely see because of her tears. The girl didn't even have time to take off her helmet before she was engulfed in the team's hug.

"You did it, girl!" Hugh lifted her into the air, celebrating the victory. It all went through her mind like a torpedo, but she remembers well when her country's anthem played, Y/N cried. She couldn't even explain how light she felt without the weight on her shoulders.Being the only woman among drivers in the top category of motorsport was heavier than she thought and winning was not a dream, it was an obligation.

She greeted the champagne shower as if it were a blessing, laughing as she doused the other riders. If it were possible, she would be exploding like fireworks.

Victory tasted sweet, and she got addicted.

After Melbourne, what was already tense got even worse. Y/N discovered what victory tasted like and Max wasn't about to let her taste it again. But what he didn't know was that his teammate was just as stubborn as he was and was willing to commit atrocities if it guaranteed her a podium finish — just like Max himself.

The races became increasingly fierce, the other teams instructed their drivers to stay away from the fight between Max and Y/N. The possibility of the two RBR drivers putting a third person in an accident was immense, and no one wanted to risk it.

"You" Christian pointed at S/N, watching the girl play with the zipper of her jumpsuit, as if she wasn't being reprimanded "don't tease, I know how much of a brat you can be when you want and you" he turned to Max "calm your nerves, you'll end up causing an accident, and no one here needs any more punishment"

The team leader scratched the back of his neck, all his efforts to convert the hatred between the two into anything but... Harmful, but nothing worked. Frustrated because neither of them seemed willing to give in, so if neither of them would make the first move, Christian would.

"You two are going to stay here until you sort it out, I don't care how, if you want to be treated like children, I will treat you like children" he scolded, putting his hands on his hips "You have plenty of time to sort things out and when you leave here, I expect you to respect each other, at the very least!"

Christian left the room, locking them in there, Y/N snorted, aware that Horner wasn't joking and the sound of the doorknob locking made that obvious. From her corner of the couch, she glanced sideways at Max, making a disgusted face, which he scoffed at.

"If we're here it's your fault" he said, pointing his finger in her direction, S/N frowned in confusion and stood up.

"My fault?! You're the idiot who thinks everyone has to give you back the position! Do you know how to lose a race without crying in the team's lap?!" She yelled back, stopping just a few steps away from him. Both of them radiated pure rage.

"I wouldn't need to ask for the positions back if you weren't a treacherous snake!"

"And you're a crybaby!" She said angrily and soon a wicked smile appeared on her face "You hate knowing that there's someone really competing with you, threatening your title"

Max scoffed, stepping away from her as he adjusted his hat. "As if you were enough competition to threaten me with, cutie."

“You wouldn’t be so mad if I wasn’t,” she retorted, balancing on his ankles, being petulant enough to prick Max’s short temper. “It’s okay to admit you’re afraid of me, Verstappen.”

“As if I would fear someone who still smells of milk”

Y/N laughed, leaning closer to him. “Should I be worried about your nose being so close to my neck?” He clicked his tongue again, increasing the level of mockery, making Max even more irritated.

“I would never get close to you, under any circumstances,” he replied, with nothing less than raw disgust in his voice and Y/N would never be able to explain why that was such a hard blow to her ego.

“As if you had any chance,” she said, composing herself with dignity.

“Anyway, fuck you, stay out of my way, girl,” he warned, pointing his index finger at her, “or I’ll throw you in the gravel.”

“Do that and I’ll be your worst nightmare, kid.”

The two went to opposite corners of the room, leaving the entire place filled with animosity. They remained in the office for almost two hours until the public relations manager took them out, scolding them because they were late for their interviews.

When Christian saw them leave the office, he couldn't tell if his attempts had yielded any results, but from the way they existed near each other, he was afraid. Whatever would come after this conversation, he had the entire team ready, whether it was for a fight or, maybe, the apocalypse.

Spielberg, 2023.

The Austrian GP was an important circuit for RBR and S/N was excited, she really wanted to win at the team's home ground, it would be an important victory and she wanted first place as much as she wanted oxygen, perhaps victory was more important.

Since Christian's intervention, instead of her and Max strengthening their rivalry, it seemed to increase, which was great for the fans, the races became more exciting and fun to watch, but for the team, the atmosphere was unbearable. The fear of an accident between the two happening was real and increasingly possible; and the race at Red Bull Ring gave an extra weight to the competitiveness of the RBR drivers,

"Keep your head cool, girl." Hugh ruffled her hair as Y/N sat in the cockpit, reading the information on the monitor. "Do your race, stay calm and everything will be fine, you have a good score in the drivers' championship, don't let your problems with Max get in the way of the race, It's important for the team"

"Relax Hugh, we'll win the race and increase the points gap with the second team"

"You're in second, so try to preserve your tires until the pitstop, our strategy will come into play after the first stop, understand?"

"Yep Hugh, I understand."

"In other words, no pointless fights with Max." He said, giving her a stern look, Y/N giggled and held up her crossed fingers. "Y/N..."

"I'll try, I promise"

The minutes until the start of the race were spent fine-tuning the details of the strategy, meditating and listening to encouragement from the family. And as always, the moments until she positioned herself on the grid passed as if she were on autopilot, without realizing where she was or what she was doing until her engines roared. It wasn't until the lights came on that Y/N blinked back to the real world and she smiled, gripping the sides of the steering wheel. She glanced quickly in the rearview mirror, seeing her purple helmet gleam in the faint light of the weak sun. The forecast was for rain for the second half of the circuit, which made her anxious, she loved racing in the rain just like one of her greatest examples in motorsport, Ayrton Senna.

When the lights went out, she let her instincts take over and her focus was on one thing, the highest place on the podium.

In the second half of the race, the rain fell like a torrent, nothing that S/N wasn't used to and with this new obstacle, she held on, trying to have a safe race, even though he was still competing for victory with his teammate. She stepped on the brakes several times, trying to avoid any collision and as they were entering the forty-fifth lap, exactly at the Schlossgold Curve, in a fierce dispute with Max, where she tried to overtake him when a collision with the two front wings made S/N spin on the track until she was pushed against the barrier. The shock was strong enough to make her hit her head against the steering wheel; S/N was disoriented for a few seconds and shook her head, but the act made her grunt in pain and hearing Hugh's desperate calls in the dot in her ear only made her more nervous. She didn't even know when she was pulled out of the cockpit or when she was taken to the circuit hospital, but she knew exactly the moment the rage exploded in her chest.

Max threw her off the track, in a dirty move, Max took her out of the race.

"I'm going to kill him," she said as the nurse bandaged her forehead. The poor nurse gave S/N's companion a frightened look, who signaled for her to ignore it. "He threw me off the track, mom, I hit the barrier!"

"Honey, don't worry about it, you're fine, luckily the accident wasn't more serious" she tried to calm her daughter down and asked the nurse to leave, which she did in a hurry.

The driver's time in the hospital was spent hurling abuse and homicidal thoughts at Max Verstappen. So it was no surprise when she arrived at the Red Bull garage screaming and swearing. She shook off Hugh's grip on her, marched straight to Max, and pressed her finger against his chest.

"You scream that I'm a treacherous snake, but you're the most dishonest son of a bitch that ever walked this fucking earth!" She yelled, seeing Max's eyes widen until he understood what was happening.

"What? Did you really think I was going to give you my position? Wake up girl."

"Are you an idiot? That was a clean maneuver, I didn't attack you to get thrown off the fucking track"

"You wouldn't have gone off the track if you were a good driver, or an honest one" Jos Verstappen interjected into the conversation, pulling Max away from it.

"Maybe it's time for you to rethink your career, this profession isn't for everyone, including cute and delicate little things like you" Max said, and that made something burn deep inside her before it completely faded away.

She licked her lips and pulled away, playing with the zipper of her jumpsuit, a habit she did whenever she was nervous, she took a deep breath and said "You know what? Fuck it, from today you died to me"

And with that, Y/N retreated to her room, feeling her whole body tremble, since she was four years old, she never questioned herself, She always knew that she would race in F1. This was always a certainty in her life and she had the unconditional support of her parents; thinking about anything else for her life never crossed her mind, Y/N knew she would be the first girl in the highest category of motorsport.

However, being discredited in that way, especially after an accident, shook her convictions.

And for the first time in many years, she cried in fear that she would not be able to do it anymore.

São Paulo, 2023

After Spielberg, things in the RBR pit changed drastically, Y/N didn't just avoid Max, she literally pretended he didn't exist, of course the Dutchman didn't take it seriously in the first few weeks, he thought Y/N was just making a fuss to get attention, but he realized things were serious when Hugh started relaying her decisions to him. Of course, the PR team did best to keep things away from the general public, It was necessary for the pilots to maintain good relations, even if just a little, for the good of the team.

She did what she promised and it was as if Max didn't even exist.

And shit, that really bothered Max, because Y/N looked past him, she never spoke to him again, she never stayed in the same place as him again, even the races had changed, Y/N hadn't lost the will to win, but something had really lost its essence.

It was Saturday, almost eleven o'clock at night when Max's discomfort about Y/N became unbearable.

He didn't know why, but it was boring, really bad not having someone to fight with, to make things more exciting. There was a piece missing and he knew where it was.

Y/N was the karma in his life, to torment him, to make his life hell, but fuck it, Y/N was still his karma and he would deal with her.

He put on his slippers and got the room key, he didn't need to ask, he knew which room she was staying in, Max crossed the hotel like a caged lion that had found freedom and it was with all that frantic energy that he almost broke down the door to her room.

Max hoped that this would get some reaction from his teammate, but Y/N opened the door and remained silent, looking at him standing in the hallway.

"You can't fucking ignore me forever!" He yelled, expecting her to retaliate, but Y/N just prepared to close the door, but Max stopped her. "Talk to me, damn it."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" She said, too calm, too soft, and Max didn't like it.

"Fight, scream, do anything, but don't ignore me"

She reached out, checking her cuticles, a clear sign of disinterest that increased Max's disgust, she couldn't act like that.

"I can't ignore what's dead to me," she said dryly, "was that all?"

Max swallowed the lump in his throat, her indifference made him uncomfortable in his own skin, it was impossible to deal with it calmly. He took a deep breath, letting the act clear his mind, he let all his arrogance and pride fall away and allowed himself to be vulnerable; Max admitted to himself that he missed her, Y/N was a constant in his life, chaotic, disturbing and restless, but a constant, he knew she would be there to stick his ass in the races, to take everything he had and without it, things would get monotonous.

But still, he wanted a reaction, he wanted the white-hot, overwhelming anger that was always in her.

"Yes! I want you to stop ignoring me, acting like I'm nothing in front of you."

"I don't care what you want, Verstappen," she said, crossing her arms. "I couldn't care less about your desires."

"You think that makes you better than me? You're always saying how arrogant I am and what do you think that swagger is? Niceness?"

Y/N gave an exhausted sigh and pulled Max into her room, because in a little while longer, he would be causing a ruckus in the hallway.

"Why is this important to you, Verstappen? Unfortunately for you and your father I didn't change careers, but to your delight, as your father once said...?" she paused, resting her index finger on her lips as she pretended to think, "Oh yes, a hindrance to your brilliant career."

"And you gave in? Did you accept it so easily?!" He exclaimed and she pressed her temples, already exhausted from that conversation, feeling her patience drain away very quickly.

"Do you have some personality problem? You have to! Why the hell are you so bothered by this, damn it?!" She finally screamed, stressed out by the whole thing.

"I don't like it! I hate that you're distant, damn it!" He took over, making her posture break, Y/N looked at him in surprise, what was Max talking about?"

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?!"

"I hate you, I hate the fact that you are hard-working and intelligent, that you work on your strategies, the way you drive, the way you laugh" he spoke quickly, not giving her a chance to respond "I hate how you fill every space with your presence, I hate how nice you are to Charles, how you idolize Hamilton, I hate you for flirting with Lando because..."

Y/N's eyes were wide as she watched Max's monologue in his suite.

In return, Max found his breath — and the courage to finish what he had started, because hell, Y/N was more challenging than any race he had faced.

"Because I get jealous, I hate that they have your attention, I hate that they have any part of you while I have nothing"

Y/N rested her hands on her hips, absorbing Max's confession, God knows she never expected to hear that, not even in that circumstance.

"Fuck, that's something," she said, wanting to break the silence, seeing Max twist his fingers in pure nervousness. But nothing more was said for long minutes until she looked him in the eyes, peering into whatever he was trying to keep hidden. "Have you ever thought about talking about this in therapy?"

Max gasped, this was fucking not what he was expecting.

"Well, damn, that caught me off guard, you know?" She said, sitting on the bed. "That doesn't justify your shitty behavior towards me this whole year."

"I know, but you were a bitch to me too."

"And I ignored you"

"And I hated that shit, keep being a bitch to me, it's better than being treated like nothing"

"You deserved every second, you still do"

Max sat next to her, both of them staring at the huge black and white photograph of the capital of São Paulo.

"I'm sorry, you're a great driver, I never meant to make you doubt your potential and the sport would be a lot more boring without you in my rear view mirror" he said sincerely "You make a difference in racing and I wouldn't forgive myself if I ruined that... None of what I said was true, it was a bit of spite"

"You need to work on being forgiven... And if your father talks to me like that again, I'll throw my helmet at him."

"Okay, fair enough."

"And you need to learn to declare yourself, that was completely unromantic"

"Was that all you paid attention to?"

"And you're judging me for that?"

"Obviously, because I opened my heart here, "go fuck yourself, damn it"

"Why don't you come do it, you coward"

Before the two could process what was happening, Max and S/N were kissing, rolling around on the mattress. Grunts and curses were uttered in a confused manner and before long, the clothes were scattered around the suite and before long, the girl was riding the Dutchman, moaning insults as he bit her breasts and neck, leaving fingerprints on her hips, her thighs and ass. He swore in Dutch — and it made Y/N clench around him.

Maybe it was the euphoria, or the repressed feelings that led them both to orgasm in a violent way.

"Fuck," they said together.

The sky above her was so blue and bright it hurt to look at and behind her, Max was on her tail, nudging for any chance to retake the lead of the pack, but Y/N increased the gap, from four seconds to six. She knew he was cursing and that it would be harder to close the gap between them.

The fans screamed, fired up by the competition for first place, suddenly that fight, the anger had arisen again, making things interesting again.

"One more quarter of a lap and you'll win the race, firecracker." Hugh said into the headset, making Y/N laugh in excitement. "Things are in place again, that is great"

"I know you missed me, I missed you too," she admitted, changing gears at once, making the engine roar. "I love my job."

The podium featured Red Bull Racing twice and the last time anyone saw such a bright smile on S/N's face was in Melbourne, months before.

"You should make it easier sometimes" he said as they both waited for her anthem to start, Y/N giggled.

"As if you liked that," he retorted ironically and Max shrugged, yeah, he didn't.

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#max verstappen x reader #f1 imagine #enemies to lovers #rbr!max #max verstappen x you #sawturn #fruit of a headcanon

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mikajunie · 6 months ago

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how to deal with failure when all you know how to do is beat up yourself (as an adhder)

please read this if you are a chronic self-loather like myself.

i used to hate myself for everything i did; the way i talk and walk, my accomplishments, my daily activities, how i cannot keep up with my peers, all that jazz. and especially as a late-diagnosed adhder this gets worse overtime. i ended up getting into a 6-month burnout, failed 3 classes and have to extend one semester, and i had lost my identity as a person.

overall i was just a breathing, walking flesh with depressive thoughts every day.

but after many many months of rediscovering myself, i have come up with the conclusion that life gets easier when i don't fucking hate myself.

shocker, right? ik this is probably like a 'obviously' type of thing, but i think many ppl with adhd can confirm that this is one of the hardest pills to swallow.

but trust me, you don't need to feel bad!!! and i will tell you how to do it down below. pls read, i hope it helps.

(keep in mind im not a psychiatrist or a therapist btw i just wanna help fellow ppl with adhd)

reminder #1: adhd makes you more prone to making mistakes - beating yourself up for every failure is torture.

as people with adhd, we are more prone to making more mistakes and questionable decisions. we are just built that way. we can work on it, but that's our baseline.

self loathing encourages you to beat up your baseline. your default state. your non-productive mode.

beating yourself up for making a mistake is literally like beating up a cat for sleeping. humans are bound to make mistakes, and us with adhd are bound to make more. it's fine, let yourself breathe. im not saying we cannot do anything right or that our mistakes are permissible, but missing an alarm clock or forgetting things we want to say are not surprising. it's just embedded inside us, so either be miserable for the rest of your life or work on reframing your thoughts on failure in general.

reminder #2: you can learn how to be better even if you don't beat yourself up for it

these neurotypical adults who tell you that you should feel bad about failing are stupid. and whoever tell you that negative reinforcement is needed for you to get better are the dumbest motherfuckers ever.

you don't need to feel bad to ge better.

in fact, once you don't feel too bad about it, you can focus more on how to do better in the future instead of replaying the past over and over again.

literally after almost failing college, i only realized that i should not be hard on myself. literally. i remember deciding i should try being nice on myself and now boom! i feel better AND i actually have been working towards fixing my life more and more.

and you know whats the best part?? i can finally start enjoying my life again!!

reminder #3: not everything you do is a failure. seriously.

this is a thought pattern i keep seeing in every person with adhd.

"nothing i can do is right" WRONG!!!! you do some things wrong but you also do some things right!!!! quit discrediting yourself

now try acknowledging your failures:

cry about it first. let yourself sit in and feel your feelings first. you can continue after you finish crying about it

do some form of meditation that helps you clear out your mind. i suggest just 5 minutes or until you don't feel as heavy anymore

let yourself know that failing is an action and consequence, not a part of your identity. it is not you: you are someone who succeeds and fails sometimes. you can fail, but that does not mean everything you do will be a failure.

identify what kind of failure you're thinking about , why you feel so shitty about it, and what you should do for next time. it'd be good if you could write this down. here is an example from me:

failure: failing out of class

what happened: i failed bc i kept procrastinating and ended up sleeping in, so i could not submit on time

consequences of event: i had to retake the class, paid a significant amount of money, and now i cant graduate on time with my friends

why i feel shitty: i feel so left behind and stupid. i feel like this is such a stupid mistake that was easily avoidable.

and now i have so many thoughts in my mind right now, like "how can i be so stupid? how can i be so careless? this is such a stupid mistake."

now notice. if you also think like this, you are actively judging yourself. you are being so mean to yourself, and for what? would you ever told your friends they are so stupid and dumb for making careless mistakes? even if it's stupid, you wouldn't say it to their faces.

after identifying everything, confirm what actually happened, reframe your thoughts, and apologize to yourself:

"How can I be so careless?" -> It's not intentional, and I did try my best to work on it. It's not my fault my executive dysfunction took over the better part of me.

"How can I be so stupid?" -> Just because I cannot initiate tasks as well as the others, it doesn't mean i'm stupid. i am pretty good at other things, i cannot expect myself to be good at everything.

"This is such a stupid mistake." -> It is stupid, and that's... okay. It's fine. I accept it, I'll work on how to make it better in the future.

when you combat negative thoughts, make sure you combat them not only with facts but also with empathy and future action-focused thoughts.

the key is to focus on what you can do now, not what you should have done.

because focusing on the past is very very unhelpful.

now please focus on what you can do now:

Make small goals for the future.

What you should not say:

"I promise I will try harder to focus" -> Nope, you are relying on your ADHD symptom to not be ADHD anymore... which is impossible.

"I promise I won't forget next time" -> Same thing.

"I promise I will make a routine that I will stick to" -> This is too idealist, don't commit to anything for a long run, it's just setting yourself up for more failure.

What you should say instead:

"Next time, I will try to write it down so I won't forget next time" -> Tell yourself the clear steps on what you need to do. You cannot rely on your brain to just be better, come up with actions that can support you!

"Next time, I will set more alarms and ask a friend to remind me. In fact, I will do it now" -> Commit to things you can do immediately! The faster, the better so you won't lose this momentum. Stop thinking that your future self is 100% reliable. Always assume you need to do it as soon as possible to help yourself in the future.

"Next time, I will try out this routine and see if it works or not" -> Experiment with routines. Routines don't last long, so don't give youreelf empty promises. Instead, accept that your routine will chance every once in a while so you need to learn what works or not.

Apologize and forgive yourself

Say sorry to yourself.

It's normal to make mistakes, and it's unrealistic to think you won't make more.

Move on

Seriously. Don't sit on it too much.

Once you know what you need to do to not fail in the future and you have written it down... just let it go.

You don't need to feel bad to grow. You don't need to feel bad to be better.

You are allowed to feel good about yourself.

In fact, you should feel better about yourself now because you are showing your commitment to getting better by reading this long ass post.

Pat yourself in the back.

Failure has its consequences already, you don't need to punish yourself more. Please get something nice.

Failing is EXHAUSTING. Please give yourself a snack or some gaming time.

Allow yourself to breathe.

We are humans, we are not failures. We succeed and fail sometimes, not all the time.

Be nice to yourself, you have been through a lot.

#adhd #adhd things #adhd problems #adhd brain #actually adhd #actually neurodivergent #neurodivergent #adhd tips #neurodiversity #advice #mental health #mental illness #self loathing

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carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich · 10 months ago

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Diaboy Yandere Quiz Results

So if you haven't taken my "which one of the diabolik lovers boys would go yandere for you?" quiz, you might want to do that before reading the rest of this post. If you have taken the quiz and are curious as to what the other results are like but don't want to retake said quiz 14 times, then this post is for you! Below the cut are the yandere!diaboy x reader drabbles for every diaboy + Karl that I wrote for the quiz.

Quick warning: These drabbles feature dark content including themes of imprisonment, torture, blackmail and stalking.

Combined these results have a total word count of 3.4k :') If you enjoy them, let me know which one is your favourite!

Shuu

You’re crying again. You’re not being loud about it but from where you’re currently splayed half on top of him—the heat of you warming his bones in lieu of the fireplace he refuses to light—it would be impossible for him not to notice the faint trembling of your body and the growing wet patch on his shoulder. There isn’t any point in saying much when you’re like this, which is somewhat ironic when you’re the only person he’d even consider putting the effort in for. Instead he shifts slightly, moving his arm over you so you’re more securely held against him while the other slips out one of his earbuds and places it into your ear instead. He’s not stupid, he knew what dragging you to the other side of the world—far away from everything you’d ever known—would do to you, but if he’s honest with himself he’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was your own fault, in a way, for making him care, for making the fear when he saw the way Reiji looked at you sharp enough to cut through the numbness he’d lived with for so long. Yes, it was you who’d sought him out in the first place, so no matter how miserable you might be now, you only had yourself to blame.

Reiji

The tea in your cup is poisoned. You’re sure of it, even without the faint bitterness tainting the delicate aroma, you can tell from the look in Reiji’s eyes alone—you’ve seen it often enough. The question is what concoction he’s prepared for you this time; whether he’s decided he’d rather you be numb and pliant or feverish with want. Still, you do not break your composure, remaining the image of grace as you lift the cup to your mouth. The tight corset your captor has forced upon is not nearly as constricting as the way he watches you, his own cup left ignored on the table. Months ago you’d have scoffed at the idea of someone willing drinking poisoned tea, but now you are aware the consequences if you do not will be far worse than whatever toxins he’s prepared for you. He won’t kill you, you don’t think, not when the way he looks at you can only be described as obsessive. You used to think it came from his desire to mold you into his ideal of a perfect partner, but now you’re not so sure. Sometimes, when you catch him watching you while you’re supposed to be asleep, you wonder if just maybe he simply wants you. A pity for him then, that no matter how many restraints he binds you with or drugs he pours down your throat, you will ensure your heart remains forever out of his reach.

Ayato

Blood always tastes at its best when the person being drunk from enjoys it. It’s something Ayato figured out after the old bastard let them loose in the human world, the occasional sacrificial bride being ferried in to keep them from causing enough trouble to attract unwanted attention. But no blood has ever tasted as sweet as yours when you’re pinned down beneath him, whimpering in the ecstasy of having your lifeblood drained away and mixing with his. He draws away only briefly to take note of your expression, eyes screwed up with tears of pleasure brewing at the corners. You look amazing like this, even better than you had in the cute little cheerleading outfit you’d worn to school sports games, back before he’d had his first taste of you. You’d screamed the first time, your usual bright enthusiasm falling off your features as you’d realized what he was. And yet you’d still come to your practice the very next day, a brightly coloured band-aid on your neck to hide the marks. When he’d come back for a second bite, you’d only struggled a little—enough to keep things interesting, but not so much that you could fool him into thinking you were actually trying to get away. No, you want to be here, he’s certain of it, and he’s generous enough to keep you.

Kanato

You’re alone again today. Sitting perfectly still, empty bento box in your lap, eyes shut as you listen to a soft melodic tune through your headphones. You look lovely like this, the moonlight filtering through the window painting the planes of your face a silvery hue. It's only the fact you look so peaceful—almost like one of his wax dolls—that keeps Kanato from tearing your headphones away. He will, once he's had enough of watching you like this, and he knows from your previous encounters that the wide-eyed expression you’ll make is almost as good as the one you wear now. The still healing marks from his fangs peek out from the collar of your white school shirt and the corner of his lips twist. You’ve not told any of your schoolmates of any of your encounters, he’s certain of it from how closely he’s been watching you. If anything, you’ve isolated yourself even further than you already were, only briefly exchanging pleasantries in that barely there voice of yours he’s grown so fond of. The air stirs faintly, a gentle breeze through a cracked open window, and you open your eyes. The fear is immediate as you take in his face, close enough to yours that you should have been able to feel his breath—if he had any need to breathe. He does now, to take in the scent of your terror, and it is oh so very sweet.

Laito

Laito has broken so many mortal things, he’s long since lost count. He can’t even remember what all of them looked like, but he does remember the expressions on their faces in their final moments—fervent devotion, desperation and sometimes just pure madness. You, however, he’s had for months, and yet the light has yet to fade from your eyes despite his very best efforts. Sometimes you even look at him with pity—likely due to what you’ve put together of his history from the scraps of it scattered over the manor—though those days have grown less frequently since he made your move to his room a permanent affair. Now when you look at him, it’s mostly filled with a hatred that burns brighter than any emotion he’s ever had from his other lovers. It’s intoxicating, more so than even your blood. Laito’s not sure when exactly he stopped wanting anyone else to see it—or when he stopped wanting anything else for that matter. He thinks you feel the same way, that you’d like nothing more than to see him dead, enough that it keeps the spark inside of you burning bright. You’d confessed to believing in love once in the early days and he’d laughed at you for it. Even now the memory makes him scoff, for the love you spoke of that day could never possibly compare to this.

Subaru

You get the impression you’re being watched. It’s subtle at first, a small movement at the corner of your eye that vanishes as soon as you turn towards it. A faint prickle on the back of your neck every so often when you walk through the hallway. It doesn’t take long for things to escalate, until you can no longer shake the feeling of eyes on you almost everywhere you go. You think there’s something else going on too, the underclassman who you could have sworn had a crush on you now refuses to so much as look at you and he’d gone running like the devil himself was on his tail when you’d tried to approach him. Other people around you have started behaving weirdly too, a strange hush following you wherever you go, your fellow students going out of their way to avoid jostling you when you have move classrooms between lessons. There is one constant in all of this, and you’re starting to wonder if he might somehow be responsible for it. Subaru Sakamaki, despite the prestige of his father’s name, has the air of someone who’s had a difficult life. You’d decided to make an effort to be kind to him when you’d first noticed it, not necessarily going out of your way to hunt him down, but to grant him a little more patience and understanding than you might normally. He’s currently the only person who hasn’t started acting like you’ve contracted some horrible contagious disease, but you do catch him looking at you strangely sometimes. The moment he notices and immediately turns away are the few occasions you no longer feel watched. His expression in those moments is a bit like someone caught between wanting something but feeling conflicted over whether or not they should have it. And for some reason, the thought that he may eventually make up his mind fills you with nothing but dread.

Ruki

You’re being difficult again. It’s not that Ruki had believed you were past this stage—far from it in fact—but he had thought the punishment you’d received in your last session with him might have at least served as a temporary reminder to not push his limits again so soon. He knows the wounds have yet to properly heal from the faint trace of your blood that blossoms in the air whenever you move in a way that strains the skin of your back—and yet still you insist on running your mouth. Ruki regards you coldly for a moment. Back when he’d first met you, he might have mistaken the look on your face for defiance, but now he takes note of how brightly your eyes shine, the faint tremble of your lower lip. You’re lashing out because you’re afraid, like a cornered animal that hasn’t yet learnt not to bite the hand that feeds. He closes his book and places it to the side, not missing the way you try to hide your flinch as he stands up. There need to be consequences for this type of behaviour, there’s no point in putting this much effort into your training if not, but rather feeling annoyed, Ruki finds himself almost pleased at the prospect. For as much as your insolence grinds, there’s something about the way your tough façade breaks almost as soon as he gets started—and in the way you fall apart under his hands with the sting of antiseptic that follows. You cling to him sometimes, half delirious with pain, and it’s those moments he finds he savours the most.

Kou

Kou chuckles as you cling onto his arm, still unused to the heels he’d forced you into before you left the mansion. It’s honestly pretty cute, although not as cute as the way you keep glancing around anxiously, convinced that at any moment now his fans will appear around the corner and start baying for your blood. That same fear, however, is the only reason you’re here in the first place—his demand in return for not posting staged pictures of the two of you tangled together online. You’re actually doing pretty well all things considered, you even manage to flash him a wobbling smile when he tells you about the café he’s taking you to. Kou can’t quite decide what he likes most about about your little arrangement—that you’ve gotten good enough at acting that he can almost pretend you’re on a date with him because you want to be, or that the scent of your fear in the air tells him is doesn’t really matter because he has you right in the palm of his hand.

Yuma

Yuma’s used to people being intimidated by him. If not for his stature, and it usually is, then the way he speaks is often enough to set those around him slightly on edge. Not you though. No, the first time you meet, you look him dead in the eye without a hint of any sort of fear in your face. It’s not a judging look either, more of an assessment, that you realize he is used to being one of the biggest people in the room but that will carry no weight with you. It feels more like a challenge than anything else, and he feels the tips of one of fangs peek out from where the corner of his lip curls into a smirk. You never show fear when you look at him in any of your subsequent meetings either, even when you really should—like now, when he’s keeping your hands secured above your head with only the sheer weight of him. You're not stupid enough to put up a real fight, not when you can already feel the strain on your bones from his grip, but you are stubborn. And the defiance in your face even when you’re pinned helplessly just makes your blood taste all the sweeter for it.

Azusa

It had been an accident, the first time you’d pushed him down the stairs. You’d been in a rush, running late to one of your classes, when you’d tripped over your own feet, the hand you threw out to steady yourself slamming into the back of someone you hadn’t realized was there. All you could do was watch with a look of horror as the figure lost their balance and fell right down the otherwise abandoned stairwell. Perhaps you should have registered there was something wrong then, when instead of crying or getting angry at you or having any sort of normal response to being shoved down a set of stairs, Azusa—as you’d later come to find out his name was—had simply sat up and stared up at you like you were some kind of god. The second time you’d pushed Azusa down the stairs was less of an accident. He hadn’t left you alone after the first unfortunate incident and no amount of apologizing or promises it wouldn’t happen again were enough to get rid of him. One day, he’d managed to corner you after the ring of the final bell, standing so close you could feel an eerie coldness emanating from his body, and you felt the final threads of your patience snap. In truth, you hadn’t registered how close you were to those wretched stairs—too focused on the primitive part of your brain that screamed to get away from the strange boy—and thus, the quick short shove you gave him was enough to send him tumbling a second time. You’d stood there, frozen, as he slowly sat up, a rivulet of blood trailing down his face from where he must have knocked his head on the way down. And yet the injury was not the most appalling part of the scene. No, that right was reserved for the look of pure adoration in his eyes, directed straight at you.

Carla

You’re too kind for your own good. It’s something Carla’s become painfully aware of over the months he’s known you. At first he’d believed you were simply frightened by him, acting on his wishes to avoid his wrath as so many others had done in the past. But he’s familiar with the scent of your fear now and it is not fear you feel when you check on him after hearing the Endzeit-induced coughs from his room or when you make dishes with cured ham for him after he let slip that he was fond of it. It is a weakness, he thinks, but one he could perhaps tolerate if simply reserved for him. It is not however, anyone who crosses your path is greeted with your good nature and it eats at Carla’s insides far more than the disease rotting his blood. He is the Founder King, he should be able to have what he wants. And he will have you, all of you, so that no one else ever will.

Shin

Shin knows you like him, at least, he’s nearly certain of it. Because despite the hell he’d put you through after you first met, you’d still ended up hanging around him. The once fear-filled look on face whenever you saw him slowly becoming resigned until, at some point, your gaze had started to turn heated. For Shin’s part, you’d only been a bit of idle amusement at first, someone to terrorize whenever the frustration of his and Carla’s situation got to be too much. Eventually, however, your interactions had gone from being a way to pass the time to something he looked forward to; a wolf anticipating a meal. It was the first time he’d noticed the look of want in your eyes that he’d started to feel the same. So then why? If you want him, why does he never quite feel like he has you? His initial conclusion had been that it was something to do with Carla, that you were trying to pull one over on him to cosy up to the Founder King. But no amount of stalking from you from the shadows or checking on your scent every time he saw you had revealed that anything was going on between the two of you. If anything, you actively avoid his brother—Shin’s only ever seen you in the same room together when he himself is present. Perhaps you’re still hung up on how your relationship started, some part of you yet to forgive him for all the things he did to you. Or maybe, you’re doing it on purpose. After all, you’ve seen enough of his wolf form to know that when something runs away, there’s always an instinctive drive to chase.

Kino

Kino makes it seem like a coincidence when he runs into you outside of the local games arcade. You have no need to know he’d seen your social media post featuring a photo of a popular new café, the one opposite the shop he’d lingered in, waiting to stage this particular encounter. He’s done it a couple of times now—pulling at the strings attached to you to arrange these chance meetings. A couple of months ago he could never have imagined putting this much effort into a single human, especially one who wasn’t the Vampire Lord’s chosen Eve, but now it's turned into a game of sorts—to what degree can he entangle you in this web before you start to notice. It’s going well so far, you think him a simple classmate who’s a regular in the area—you’ve even given him your ID for a couple of the games you have on your phone. Tonight’s looking to be a lot of fun too. In just a couple of minutes, the friend you’d been hanging out with will get a call from their mother who should have just received a selection of pictures showing her precious darling skipping the cram school she paid oh so much money for. The friend will likely get called home—a shame, Kino will say, with a smile on his lips, but there’s no reason he and you can’t still have some fun before the night is over.

Karlheinz

Under any other circumstances, the scene before you would have had you swooning. A meal not out of place in a Michelin star restaurant laid out beautifully before you on top of an intricately carved antique table with possibly the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on seated at the opposite end to you, swirling a glass full of a rich, red liquid. The view out of the floor to ceiling windows is spectacular, a sky full of stars and a view of the forest and various small towns far below. Except these are not other circumstances, and the man who sits, watching you carefully as you cut into your food is none other than the Vampire King himself—and you are quite certain that it’s not wine that sits in his cup. The view is no comfort either, not when you know you are looking out over the demon world, a place that you’re sure would be quite hostile to you if not for the protection of the man keeping you here. Not that you’d gotten any real chance to see it save for the view from the castle you hadn’t left once in the months since you’d arrived here. You tell if the complete lack of any sort of guard makes you feel better or worse, on one hand at least you’re not followed everywhere, but on the other hand, the fact Karlheinz is powerful enough to keep you here without them makes the odds of escape seem slim.

#my writing #diabolik lovers #Shuu Sakamaki #Reiji Sakamaki #Ayato Sakamaki #Kanato Sakamaki #Laito Sakamaki #Subaru Sakamaki #Ruki Mukami #Kou Mukami #Yuma Mukami #Azusa Mukami #Carla Tsukinami #Shin Tsukinami #Kino #Karlheinz #I think results are also slight spoilers for what personality types are likely to get what result #so do take the quiz before reading this!

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lightlycareless · 3 months ago

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Don't mind me, I'm just posting a little something that I had in mind, a continuation of Naoya's and Y/N's many HS adventures :) in other words, their first official Valentine's Day.

warnings: fluff. a tiny small hint of smut, implied by someone else. please read this part first followed by this other one to get the full picture!! and I guess this too.

Happy reading :)

Your first valentine’s day with Naoya—like, the actual one and not the fiasco that transpired last year—is one that has you very excited. And how couldn’t you?! Naoya had been very… enigmatic when preparing you for today.

“Clear out your schedule after school, princess. All the way down to the weekend.”

“Huh? Why?” you ask, feigning ignorance—as if you weren’t waiting for this exact moment since you started dating him. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

But you couldn’t wait! Not at all! In fact, such was your excitement that you could barely get any sleep— it was a miracle that you managed to get a few hours of rest before eagerly jumping out of bed, getting ready, and subsequently making your way to class while fervently imagining all the surprises Naoya had in store for you.

Well, whatever it was, there was no doubt in your mind that it would be much better than whatever your classmates discussed—glad that you no longer felt out of the conversation, not entirely that is, for you still had to figure out what your boyfriend was planning…

Thankfully, it wouldn’t take long for you to see the first details of his extensive itinerary, much to your eventual embarrassment.

It would begin with the so-called cupid’s mail service, a way for the student council to take advantage of help couples who wished to send gifts to their significant other’s while raising funds for whatever expenses they might have—such as graduation costs, school trips, so on and so forth.

Last year you were undoubtedly upset for not being sent anything throughout the day, so this time around, Naoya made it his personal mission to not let that happen again, under any circumstance!

And what extravagant way to assure so.

“Senseeeeei, can you give us a moment to deliver the mail?”

Teachers were no strangers to the excessive ways enamored students got to be when prompted—however, none of them had experienced a besotted Naoya, an heir with all possibilities within his grasp motivated to impress his beloved.

“Sure, go ahead.” The sensei responded, barely glancing at the mountain of gifts that made him assume they’d be here for a long time and returning to the blackboard; readying whatever subject followed to retake class once they were gone.

However, as soon as he began his attention would be forced back onto the students the moment they collectively gasped, realizing that the gifts didn’t pertain to various senders, no. Only one—and with a sole receiver too: you.

“All this for you, Y/N, how lucky!” Mei Mei says while placing down a large bouquet of red roses on your desk. “To think that last year you didn’t get a single thing until the very end… you truly are one fortunate girl.”

“Is this—is this really all for me?” You murmur, still in disbelief that Naoya had gone above and beyond with his gifts—but isn’t he always like this, though?

“Oh, this is just for the first class, your beloved boyfriend scheduled more for later.”

“Wh—what?” you breathe, turning even redder, comparable to the roses in front of you. Mei Mei chuckles at the curious sight. “M—more?”

“Don’t forget the note.” she says, plucking an envelope from the bouquet and handing it over to you. “Now, say cheese~”

“Huh, what now?” You stammer, then startled by the bright flash of her cellphone, recollecting the so-called proof Naoya demanded of the goods being delivered—he didn’t want to risk being played the same card he applied last year, this was only a necessary request.

“Well, my job here is done. Have a nice Valentine’s Day, Y/N; Naoya sure is expecting you to have one.”

…

“Need another desk?” The teacher would suggest after seeing you awkwardly trying to continue with your work through all the items cluttering your counter.

“…yes, please.”

And as Mei Mei promised, more gifts came soon after—from expensive boxes of chocolate from brands you’ve never even heard of in your life, to jewelry and other things you once mentioned wanting before: like a new case for your phone, a cute shirt you saw at the mall (with an additional gift card of a exuberant amount in it if you wished more) and of course, all the mochi you could eat.

Everyone around you wouldn’t take long to begin murmuring about your situation, commenting on how they never expected Naoya to be so passionate about his girlfriend—or anything that wasn’t berating others!

Yet, here he was, spoiling you with all things unimaginable, and that was barely to be the tip of the iceberg.

“Well, at least Naoya had the decency to help you move all these things to your dorm” Shoko commented as she watched the group of students Mei Mei ordered to relocate all of your gifts, work. “Don’t think you would’ve been able to do all that by yourself.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” you breathe, still embarrassed by all that transpired. Being the center of attention is something you never handled well, and more often than not, you tried to pass under the radar.

And yet, as much as you disliked it, it was impossible for you to not enjoy it this time around, for it came from something so sweet as your boyfriend wanting to show his ever-growing adoration for you.

“All this is so excessive, Y/N. I can’t help but wonder what you gave him to evoke all this?”

“I don’t recall anything in particular… I just gave him some chocolates I made.” You murmur, Shoko chuckles. “What?”

“It’s ok, no need to act coy with me. I just know you must’ve given it to him real good.”

“Oh. My. God. Shoko!” you gasp, eyes wide as your friend added onto your embarrassment. Just what you needed!

“Ugh, that is so gross.” Satoru would scowl; the only reason why he was around was to check if the rumors were true, see if Naoya had truly become even more unhinged in the name of love. “I would never do anything like that for a woman.”

“Mmm… maybe not for a woman; but what about a man?” Shoko teases, Gojo quickly becomes flustered, doing what many couldn’t: silence him. “That’s what I thought.”

“Whatever… at least I’m not the one being humiliated—look.” Satoru would then nudge to the person standing by the end of the hallway—a nervous Naoya waiting for you while holding another bouquet of flowers, this time purple roses accompanied by a small Gengar plush in the middle; a sight that has you freezing on the spot, overwhelmed by his seemingly endless gestures of appreciation and all those that were to come.

“We’ll leave you two alone.” Shoko says, grabbing Satoru by the arm and pulling him away. “Have fun!”

“Thanks, Shoko.” You murmur before shyly making your way towards your boyfriend, staring at him for a few seconds, finding the right words to say before settling for a simple greeting. “He—Hey, Naoya…”

“Hello, princess.” Naoya manages to say through the tightness of his throat, excited to see you after a long day of schoolwork, and worried that you might’ve not liked his gifts.

That, of course, is something that wouldn’t perturb him much longer after seeing the way you happily received the flowers from his grasp, a wider smile on your lips as you relished their smell and decoration.

“Did you like your gifts?” He asks, placing his arm around your waist and pulling you closer; your heart skips a beat as you lean into him.

“Ye—yeah… I liked all of them.” You admit with a nod. “They were… really nice. Thank you.”

“I wanted to make it up to you, for the shame I put you through last year.”

“Oh, Naoya—don’t say that.” You fret, wanting to leave that in the past. “It was nothing but a misunderstanding…”

“I still made you feel bad, and that is something I will never forgive myself for.”

“Well, if you must know… today succeed all Valentine’s days I’ve ever had.” You happily declare, much to Naoya’s unexpected concern.

“I fear I might’ve shoot myself on the foot, then.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve set the bar too high, I’m not sure if I’ll be capable of surprising you next year.”

“Just spending the day with you is enough for me.” You gently reassure, making Naoya’s heart melt.

“Then I think what I have planned next might be of your liking.”

“Wait, you have more?”

“I did ask you to clear out your schedule for the rest of the week, didn’t I?” Naoya teases,

“Yes…”

He then reaches for his pocket to take out a set of two tickets—the biggest surprise yet.

“I got us a reservation to visit that park you wanted to go to—Disneyland, I believe? From the accommodations to the transportation, I’ve taken care of everything, all my pretty princess needs to do is be ready by—wait, Y/N? Y/N!”

You don’t remember much after that, outside of an overwhelming shock and happiness that deafened and blinded your senses, leading you to assume that you simply… passed out.

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