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cheralith · 10 days ago

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vogue (chapter two) — boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader ; REASONS

series synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse to propel your career as a journalist. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink? masterlist

contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned muse!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, angst, slowburn, co-workers-to-lovers, some crack if you squint

chapter synopsis ; it's chaos at kaizen magazine and the entirety of its staff, including its editor-in-chief is stressed. you meet a particular individual at the coffeehouse who seems all too the familiar for some reason whose strange words encourage you to dabble in the world of modelling in a desperate moment.

chapter tags/warnings; she/her pronouns, afab!reader, blood mention (reader gets mild cut on finger), reader models but no mention of body descriptions, some parts not edited

chapter word count: 8.9k

now playing ; reasons - minnie riperton

↩ previous chapter next chapter ↪

Somehow, you think that your boss has it out for you more than usual this week. Granted, he’s been giving you a stink eye at all times since you first started, but you’re getting the gut feeling it’s more prominent this time around. Be it the upcoming charity gala tomorrow or the stress of pushing out this month’s issue due to some last minute… adjustments—you wouldn’t be surprised if Geto is using you as his punching bag for his own relief.

He has never yelled at you, per se, but his soft-spoken insults and scoldings hurt you far more than anything. Whether it be you stumbling ever so slightly over your own two feet in front of him or something as miniscule as simply accidentally taking out a pen that’s lacking ink when jotting notes, Geto always seems to have some sort of reprimand at the ready.

“Why is this packet stapled so awkwardly? You could be covering vital information.”

“Coffee spoons exist for a reason. There’s no reason why I should be using a dessert spoon for my latte.”

“I do wish you spoke with less ‘um’s and ‘uh’s every now and then. It’s quite bothersome.”

You just wish that the job application had listed “Must take on editor-in-chief’s emotional baggage 24/7.” if you knew that this job would just be mentally draining as it is physically. And to think it’s only been only around four and a half months since you’ve started! Obviously, being editor-in-chief of one of the largest and powerful magazines in the nation is going to be mentally depleting, but is there such a need to take it out on the poor associates?

Your mind reflects back to witnessing an intern accidentally running into Geto amidst last night’s crisis when the office was busy about attempting to piece together the issue into one piece before the publisher’s deadline today, the intern’s impact causing a confetti of cut-out paper to fly about everywhere and making Geto’s afternoon matcha pick-me-up splatter green all over his cream white top. He had gently told the shaking intern, amidst his many apologies, that it was no worries before quietly telling you to head down to HR to terminate him by the end of this week.

Chills run down your spine when you remember how quickly Geto’s smile faded and gentle eyes disappeared as they morphed into amethyst daggers the moment his back was turned to the intern. Though… you do give credit to the intern for making his shirt still somehow look fabulous with the earthy green splatter—a feat only a former fashion model was able to do.

You don’t remember when the last time you came home before 11:00pm was or when was the last time you ate three complete meals in a day and not just crumbs of convenience store snacks. It’s been such a hectic week wrapping up the month’s issue that you’re suddenly back to your college days slurping ramen and drinking any drink that contains any amount of caffeine to give back your energy.

You hear the beep of the microwave sing through the kitchen right next to yours and Manami’s desks, signaling your instant ramen was done, but before you can even get up, you hear the muffled sound of a something being broken inside Geto’s office, causing you and Manami to jump. Gazes suddenly flicking toward each other, with neither of you daring to make another move, a moment of complete silence drifts by before you dare to breathe out ever so quietly and almost instantaneously, Manami shouts, “Not it!”

“Not—oh, fine…” A groan drags out of you and your eyes roll as you brush off the prideful look Manami has on her face.

With great hesitation, you avert your direction to the frosted glass window of Geto’s office that sits a little too politely between you and Manami’s desks. Somehow, with each step you take, the impending doom that sits at the bottom of your churning stomach grows bigger and bigger and you can just barely brace yourself for the scolding that you’re about to receive—even if the cause of Geto’s frustration may have not even been at your own fault.

Your shaking knuckles go to rap at his door. A grumbled “come in” barely seeps its way through the door. You allow yourself with great reluctance to open the door to reveal a heavily breathing Geto Suguru, veins visible on his neck and forehead from the pent-up irritation that has been boiling for the past few days with the double whammy of the charity gala and the month’s issue attempting to be push out on time, which may not even be the case given that many columns had to be changed due to a specific supermodel’s recent scandal.

Upon entering your boss’s office, it was near impossible to miss the shattered glass of cucumber water that was clearly thrown at the wall behind himself, a splotch of the carpet now darkened slightly from the original color. Geto caved inwards towards his desk, his blazer from his three-piece set now draped messily over his chair and his usually neatly-made hair a little more frazzled out of its hair band than usual. On his desk were an array of magazine splits with a pile of cut-outs dedicated to said model. It startles you how many pages she had appeared in given how hefty the pile was.

“Why couldn’t she behave after the issue was printed…” Geto seethes under his breath as a poor page of the magazine draft crumples under his grip.

You can see in his trash can the tabloid that featured the supermodel, who allegedly slandered her fellow upcoming star of a colleague backstage of a recent fashion show with the cameras still rolling in order to document the behind the scenes of all the glitz and glamour. While it was normal for models to shade one another to fight for the spotlight, her remarks in particular were rather nasty and brutish, so much so that it caused outrage amongst the public and with the latter supermodel’s fans who ended up revealing her rather… dishonorable social media presence.

Needless to say, having her as the starlight of this month’s issue before it entered the public eye would prove disastrous for Kaizen. She decorated a large portion of the magazine from front cover to back, but the magazine couldn’t afford to have such a trashy person as their graphic ambassador—especially since there has been little to no dirt on the magazine up until now. Geto works hard to make sure any possible slander against the magazine was dealt with as soon as possible before the public could hear about it. You didn’t know how—preferably, you don’t want to know—but he does it somehow.

But the news and the outrage regarding the supermodel had been leaked only a mere eight days before the issue was to be printed, giving the entire department only eight days to fix up the issue before the deadline. To make matters worse—the issue had to be sent to the publisher before the charity gala, which were both on the same day, Friday, meaning that everything had to be finalized before 3pm that day to give ample time for the start of the gala’s last-minute organization at 5:00pm before it started at 7:30pm and for the publishing company to print the thousands of copies to be released to the city come Saturday morning.

It’s Thursday, the day before D-Day, and the office just reached noon. You have yet to eat properly, given that all you ate this morning amidst the morning rush (Geto demanded asked you to arrive at the office an hour earlier to compose the most time to work on the issue) were two pieces of toasted bread and a badly-made cup of instant coffee.

You stare at the broken crystal on the dampened floor before going back to get the dustpan from the kitchen. Without a word, you clean up the remnants of Geto’s frustration quietly so as to not poke the beast even further with one wrong move, but of course, you somehow end up slicing your finger on a stray piece of glass.

A loud yelp from your lips slips through the tight atmosphere of Geto’s office and blood draws fast, so fast that a few drops of crimson fall and miserably stain the pristine white carpet.

You swiftly poke your finger in your mouth and suck on it before more can ooze out, but unfortunately, your little titter was enough to break Geto out of his trance and snap his head back towards you. He spots the splotches of red on his carpet first, but then averts his gaze to you with your fingertip between your lips.

“What happened?” he urges as he approaches you. “Did you cut yourself?”

You nod shyly, a little startled at how quickly his concern for you came to him given that your presence usually arises some sort of mild vex from him. “I apologize for staining the carpet. I’ll get a cleaner right away for it.”

“No need,” Geto mutters before beginning the dust the glass remnants himself. “I’ll call them myself. Just fix yourself up. First-aid kit is in the kitchen. Go get a bandaid—quickly.”

For a split second, you swear you could’ve seen a grain of sympathy in his normally-cold gaze, but the illusion quickly dissipates the moment you see his eyes harden again before he snaps at you for staring.

“Go now. Before your finger gets infected. You can’t use your hand properly with an infected finger.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod lightly and dash out of his office, fighting horribly the urge to mutter curses at him under your breath.

The cut proves rather long and deep, you notice, as Manami gently rolls a strip of tape down a page of gauze on it as she chides you akin to a mother to take care of yourself properly and that this isn’t the week to be injuring yourself like a child. It takes up at least two-thirds of your right index finger and you’re just hoping you’ll be able to use your right hand as efficiently as possible given you still have an extensive list of emails to still send out.

Two hours somehow pass by quicker than expected but you know that your actual day isn’t even halfway done, knowing well that you won’t be clocking out until later in the evening after everyone is gone from the office. For the most part, it looks as though some spare stock images of well-known models were able to suffice the pieces that the scandalous one left them in the columns, but there was one that needed a more specific set of poses given that it was a perfume ad and unlike the other columns, the bottle had to be held in a certain manner that would prove hard for the photo editors to attempt.

Given that the work day was ending, there weren’t many models on-call that could do a last-minute shoot on time and the magazine was running out of time. Geto… was running out of time.

And if Geto, who was known for being rather cool-headed and rational most days, was stressed, that only meant the rest of the office had to follow—whether they liked it or not. Ultimately, his stress became infectious and it was hard to keep a mellow mind in the days filled with chaos. You were already stressed on a day-to-day basis being his junior assistant, but you were basically required to amp it up to the max with the last-minute editing of the magazine and the charity gala.

You’re in line to get Geto’s afternoon pick-me-up, with the minor adjustment of two extra espresso shots for the kick of caffeine to get him through the rest of the working hours. You can hear your name being called up, but with how drained you’ve been from the past few days, the granola bar and Redbull you had for lunch today proves not to be the most efficient source of energy and you end up tumbling over your own two wobbling legs when you rise from the waiting bench.

You crash into the chest of someone taller than you who was passing by and just barely manage to avoid the escaping coffee from the cup of the person you bumped into. Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove well for the latter, as the remainder of the coffee settles itself on the front of their shirt Panic sets in swiftly and you start bumbling apologies left and right before you can even look up to see who exactly you’re apologizing to.

When you do, you’re met with a pair of eyes hidden behind darkened sunglasses ogling at you. It struck you as rather odd—considering it was the middle of winter and that the sun was hiding behind the grayed clouds today. Maybe it was just some sort of fashion statement?

But it’s not the glasses that captivate you. It’s the snowy locks of white hair that belong to a rather tall and leggy figure that belong to it. And despite the pure ivory, he still looks incredibly young. A man of at least six feet and three inches stands before you—a height that easily can rival your boss’s. He’s adorned in a simplistic outfit; black dress shoes with matching slacks held by a glimmering silver buckle, topped with a cool white collared shirt that’s now evidently ruined by the horribly large light brown stain you caused from his coffee.

And judging by the stitching and material of the shirt, you know damn well that the shirt isn’t cheap.

“I-I-I…” you blubber out, teary eyes widened in horror at how fast the stain spreads and how much attention you’re getting from the cafe’s customers. “I’m so sorry…”

The silence that penetrates through from onlookers is terrible and you think you’re getting a fever from how hot your face is burning up.

Thankfully, the man breaks through it with a soft, (dare you say—handsome?) laugh. “I was looking for an excuse to get rid of this shirt anyways,” he says. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

What he says baffles you and your apologies suddenly transform into sounds of confusion to his amusement. “Huh?”

“It’s been two years since it was in season, it’s finally time to throw the old girl out,” the man shrugs nonchalantly.

Suddenly, in front of all the leering eyes of the customers in the coffeehouse, he begins to unbutton his stained shirt and you can only watch in horror with the rest of everyone else. While he still did have one last modest garment beneath the shirt, it was still a sleeveless white undershirt that showed off his visibly sculpted and lean biceps that made a couple of the women in the coffeeshop form heart eyes and bite their lips.

The man flickered his eyes, now shown to be a brilliant shade of crystal blue, to you from atop his glasses and a glint of playfulness shone through, along with a whimsical grin. “Maybe I should’ve been a little more decent. Hope you don’t mind.”

You think that the heat that flushes your cheeks is no longer from embarrassment but… bashfulness?

You attempt to gather what to say in this rather awkward moment, but the bell of the entrance door rings and in comes a young man with spiked noir locks adorned in a midnight blue suit with a visible frown on his face. His eyes skitter through the coffeehouse before landing on not exactly you… but the man before you.

“What the hell Gojo?” the young man scolds as he stomps his way over. “You said you weren’t gonna take long, so why are you stripping in a cafe?”

Gojo… why does that name sound so familiar for some reason? Now that you think about it, the entirety of the man himself seems so vaguely familiar, but you swore you’ve never seen such a unique human being before in real life.

The man turns his head over as he crumples the stain garment in his hands. He perks up in delight at the sight of him, contrary to his furrowed-brow companion. “Megumi! Sorry bud, got wrapped up in a little accident here. Take this and chuck it in the trash, will ya?”

Before “Megumi” can protest, “Gojo” tosses the shirt to him and exclaims for the onlooking baristas to make him another drink if they can. A teenage girl nods excitedly and dashes back to gather the order for the handsome, sleeveless stranger.

Megumi hisses an annoyed insult under his breath before glaring one last time at the taller man and searching for a nearby trash can. The man turns to you again with the same smile that has a lick of mischief to it. “Sorry ‘bout my intern. He’s usually a little sour, so don’t mind him. You okay though?”

“Uh…” your eyes glance around and notice that the commotion in the coffeehouse has started up again. “Yes, thank you. I apologize again for not watching my step.”

He chuckles. “I think you’ve apologized enough. Again, don’t worry about it—it was an old shirt anyways. Has anyone told you you’re quite cute?”

You choke on your saliva. What an odd thing to say in such a moment.

“Wh-what?” you stifle out.

“You’re rather pretty,” the man continues, the same grin still plastered on his face; as if he means every word he says. “Have you modelled before?”

Your jaw is somehow melded into an image that replicates a gaping fish. Somehow, you can’t find the correct words to say at this moment. And it’s not quite like you’ve never been flirted with before, but for some reason, the way that this “Gojo” says it, it doesn’t quite have that tone of flattery, but more like… offering something?

“Thank you?” you say with half-confidence. “And no… sorry.”

“Ah, what a shame,” he sighs wholeheartedly. “Have you considered it though?”

You shake your head, and you’re appalled that the gesture only makes his eyes light up again and his smile grow wider.

“You should try it someday! You know what—hold on. Where’s my wallet?”

The man shoves his hands in his pants pockets to attempt to look for it, but the intern from earlier suddenly appears and shows off his phone to his senior. It visibly reads 2:34 pm.

“The meeting started,” the intern seethes. “We’re late… again.”

“Oh shoot,” the tall man snaps his fingers with pursed lips. “Alright, we can get going soon. But can you do me a favor and get my wal—”

The intern glowers at him. “No. Let’s go.”

You’re surprised at how much guts the intern has, who seems to be rather younger than you by a few years and certainly significantly younger than the man before you, considering he’s the one to command his superior so strictly. Usually, it’s the other way around, is it not? Unless you’re doing something wrong?

“Aw, but—”

“Gojo. If we’re late again, the board of trustees might kick you off, remember?” Megumi says as he pinches the back of his superior’s undershirt and begins to drag him away from you.

The mysterious man pouts childishly and whines. “Ohhh c’mon! They’re not serious! You know those old geezers are practically terrified of me!”

You’ve never seen such a grown man act rather foolishly before, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything. As you watch him be dragged away by the intern, he salutes a goodbye to you with an all-knowing wink to finish things off before he’s shoved into a black Cadillac in nothing but his undershirt for a top amidst the chilly winter air.

As you attempt to process what on earth just happened, the young teenage barista calls at you suddenly.

“Hey! Did that Michizane Sugawara guy leave? The one with the white hair?” she asks you, pointing to her own brown hair. She holds what looks to be milk with a hint of coffee in it, judging by how there’s just barely a tint of brown in the plastic cup.

“Oh… him.”

Wasn’t his name Gojo? There’s no way you could’ve misheard “Michizane Sugawara” as “Gojo” you think, with the six other syllables just simply flying in from the window out of nowhere. Unless the fatigue has finally caught up to you and you’re hearing things wonky.

“Yeah. It seemed like he was in a rush of sorts.”

The barista leans over the counter to see and eventually shrugs. She pushes two cups towards you—your original coffee for Geto you nearly forgot about and the newly-made coffee for the mystery man. “You can just have it then. Not too sure you’ll like it though, it’s pretty sugary, but I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Your eyebrows perk up. With how much suffering you’ve been enduring lately from your work, you might as well indulge yourself in a sweet treat as you think you’ve earned it. Plus, with how much there is more to complete for today, you’re most definitely going to need the caffeine and the communal coffee pot isn’t exactly acquired for your tastebuds.

When you finally settle yourself down back in the comfort of your desk after the coffeehouse fiasco, you take a soft sip of the free coffee…

… only to pull a face at how ridiculously sweet it is. The barista was right. You think that there’s probably only a drop of coffee in the entire cup melded with milk and a variety of syrups and sugar. And to think this was for a grown man?

Sighing miserably, you pour the free drink down the kitchen drain, ignoring the glob of sugar that slugs out of it before you return back to misery.

“And there’s absolutely no models left that are in proximity to us? In any of our partnering agencies?” Geto asks as he rubs his temple.

The head of the PR team shakes his head, ashamed. “All of our current models are either abroad or they’re simply unavailable as of this moment.”

He mutters to himself before gritting his teeth. “And did you try bribing them with additional pay?”

“We tried, sir,” the head says. “And with other compensation like a guaranteed column for next month’s column or brand partnerships, but they wouldn’t budge.”

Geto sighs loudly and slides a hand down his face in exasperation, fatigue visible. It’s currently 5:51pm and the magazine has yet to find a model to try and replace the perfume advertisement. The partnering modelling firms had absolutely no models to offer at the last minute and it was too late to try and get in contact with freelance models considering communication with them proved much more difficult than those in agencies.

“What about recycling an older ad with a similar posed model and just photoshopping the fragrances out?” Geto suggests.

It gets shot down immediately to his dismay. “Unfortunately, that’d be violating some copyright issues.”

You watch with fidgety hands as you stand next to Manami as your boss and the PR team examines the idea board carefully, trying ways to fill in the missing column. Of course, you could chime in with your own ideas, but with how stressed Geto is currently, you didn’t want to risk adding fuel to an already violent fire.

Geto’s eyes scan the board left to right, taking in every single piece pinned onto it for some sort of genius idea, but nothing comes to him on the third try. A rigid silence fills the meeting room that keeps everyone on edge, anticipating his next move. When Geto finishes his fourth scan, in comes another blank page, until the corner of his eye catches you standing idly in the corner.

His gaze moves to fixate on your squirming self as you attempt to look anywhere but his stare. It proves unsuccessful, however, considering that Geto calls your name and motions you to come forward.

Geto presents you like a doll of sorts to the PR team. “(Y/N) here seems to have similar proportions to her,” Geto says, keeping two firm, large hands on your shoulders. You shiver at the strange contact “What if we…?”

One of the team members catches his drift uneasily.

“I don’t know Geto,” he starts as he stares at you incredulously, as if you’ve grown three heads all of a sudden. “Does your junior assistant even have any modelling experience?”

“Well no,” Geto confirms. “However, we’ve attempted to use all that we have available. I think this is our last resort.”

Somehow, you’re a little offended that your being is just simply a “last resort” to him, even if it is true.

The PR team’s director's shifty eyes land on each of his team members with visible hesitation. With a cracked voice, he softly announces, “Well, technically speaking, there is… one more option.”

Geto cocks his brow, his hands still firmly locked onto your shoulders with a whisper of a tighter grasp, as if you’re some sort of scurrying mouse ready to escape his hold at any given moment. “Well?”

The director’s mouth opens and closes for a given moment, attempting to choose the right words to say.

“Technically, we don’t have to use just our partnering agencies,” he begins quietly. There’s now a visible sweat misted on his receding hairline.

The way Geto’s eyes narrow so suddenly makes everyone hold their breath for what comes next. Because, from the looks of it, everyone seems to know what the director is going to suggest and Geto’s reaction.

“We’ve got contracts with every single management in the city. What? Are you saying we reach out to other cities’ talent managements? That’s rather tedious.”

“No, sir, that’s… not what I meant,” the director swallows thickly. “There’s technically one agency that we don’t have a con—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Geto’s stern words ring loud and clear. While his voice volume is still the same as always—soft with an obvious austere to it—his words are tight and evident. The emphasis of the curse word gives more than just a sharp edge to it, leaving no room for negotiation.

Yet, one of the female team members pries anyway. She was hired around the same time you were, but because she didn’t interact with Geto as much as you did, so she didn’t know about how no meant an absolute no when it came from Geto Suguru just yet. Poor thing.

“But this agency has an abundance of models to choose from at their hand!” she exclaims with wide, desperate eyes. “I do think it’s a better decision to contact Infi—”

“I said no.” Geto turns to her and gives her a hard scowl before she can even finish her words. “Do not even say the name around my presence. I have forbidden any contact with that agency for a good reason. They only bring trouble and mayhem and disorder. Remember the Mei Mei scandal? The Kinji Hakari incident?”

Everyone except for you tightens their shoulders and lips at the mention of the particular models. This isn’t the first time you’ve been kept in the dark, since you’re still just as a new hire as the female team member, but something is telling you that this news is much more hush-hush than the other gossip you’ve heard. Geto sighs again, their tensing bodies giving him a clear answer.

“We have done well without them for how long this magazine has existed for the past few years under my leadership,” Geto says. “I see no need to get in contact with them when we have a perfectly good substitute right here.”

His hands pat your shoulders again to properly show you off once more. The PR team goes to scan you up and down with their beady eyes, mutters of half-confident approvals and some other comments that you’re a little offset by rumouring around the meeting room.

The director eventually sighs and gives in, considering that there weren’t many hours left in the day and that he and his team just wanted to go home. “Okay, we’ll use your junior assistant for the replacement shoot. We’ll tell Miguel, the photographer, and the fashion stylists to get ready for her.”

Geto turns to Manami. “Go with them. Just ensure that the creative team will not cause a fuss with the choosing of the model. We don’t have time to dabble in feuds now.”

Manami nods and begins to lead the PR team to the studio, leaving you and Geto in the awkward quietness of the meeting room. Eventually, he releases you from his grasp and lets you breathe normally once they all leave.

Geto leans on the table and returns to rubbing his forehead, muttering to himself at what he just did. You plant your stiff self back to your original position firmly.

“Sir,” you cough out with a voice crack with the lack of use from your voice. A heat rushes to your face and you clear your throat to properly speak. “Sir… I… don’t think I’m the right choice for this job.”

Geto lifts his head up from his hand and stares at you dully. “Excuse me?”

A shiver goes down your spine. Of course you forgot your consciousness and dared to question the Geto Suguru, editor-in-chief of the powerhouse fashion magazine in the country. But… even so. There were some limitations that you dared to even ponder about and though you were a lowly assistant, you still deserved to try and voice your own opinion on this matter.

Especially since you’re going to be affected in more ways than one.

“I…” you start slowly. Your gaze meets the carpet of the room to try and ease yourself out of the intimidating stare of your boss. “I truly don’t think I’m the right fit for this particular feat. Like what they mentioned, I don’t have any modelling experience and I’m sure it’d cause the shoot to be more prolonged than it should be.”

“You don’t need modelling experience for this,” Geto begins. “I’m not asking you to be a model. I’m asking you to be a replacement.”

The familiar odd hurt singes at you again when Geto labels you as nothing more than a prop. Something about him shoving you in a magazine filled with well-experienced and trained models feels like cramming a piece of plain cardboard in a nearly-done puzzle, its individual pieces adorned carefully with each other to create something beautiful and ornate, only to be interrupted by a spare piece of something that just barely imitates it. You may have all the right curves and edges crafted by Geto’s hands, but you know that you don’t belong properly amidst the magazine at the end of the day.

The perfume ad takes up three pages of the entire magazine—two pages for the actual photoshoot and one for the description of it along with its reviews—not much in comparison to the articles written in it. But it’s still enough to composite a significant chunk for the magazine. And enough to make you feel overexposed to a public that in your rational mind, is not going to give you a second glance much more so than the actual product when reading the magazine.

But right now, that unwanted attention is all you can think about.

“But still—” you start with a tight throat. “Manami might be a better suit than I am. Or quite literally anyone in the office.”

“Manami has been feeling under the weather as of recently,” Geto interrupts and shakes his head. “If we had more time, believe me, I’d be searching for a better fit for the ad as well, but right now, given the current predicament and since most of the employees have gone home, we don’t have many options left.”

Geto turns to you and though his face remains stony, his iris eyes gleam with a hint of desperation.

“You’re my best choice right now, (Y/N).”

Time goes still for a moment and you can hear a voice echo in the back of your mind as Geto gazes at you.

“Have you modelled before?”

When you blink, a crystalline blue pair of eyes flashes through your vision all of a sudden. You step back a little, slightly startled at the hazy vision you have of the “Gojo” man from earlier and his proclamation to you.

The tone of the man’s voice echoes through your mind. In a typical male fashion, that sort of sentence would most likely be played off as a flirtatious intent. But the way that he said it made it seem like some sort of actual encouragement, like an urge of sorts for you. It felt genuine. Sincere, even, as if he wanted you to do it for no one but yourself.

And though as of now, you’d technically be doing it for Geto… you can’t help but feel an urge just to try it to see how you yourself would like it. To see whether or not you’d actually fit into the mold of a “model”—even an amateur one.

You suppose… that there’s a first time for everything.

Shuffling your feet, you swallow the last bit of qualms down and let most of your nerves go, choosing to settle in what could be as of this moment. Even if you’re not ready for it, you think you should at least try.

And in the end, if not for Geto, perhaps for yourself.

You lift your head up and lock eyes with Geto’s with a more determined look on your face. The hesitation is still faintly there, but the ghost of it is overpowered by your resolve.

“Okay.”

“Alright, now peek your eyes over the newspaper a little bit, sweetheart! Make it playful!” the photographer chimes as he readjusts his position with his camera.

The photoshoot set is a makeshift cafe, to properly highlight the coffee and sugar notes of the new fragrance you hold in your hand. The backdrop is a fake interior window of the cafe looking out into a winter wonderland. Makeup and clothing took awhile to prosper considering you had to take off your previous makeup and let the MUAs do their magic on you and that you had to test multiple layered clothing sets before the photographer approved of the final one appropriate for the shoot. It didn’t help that you put up a fight to keep your glasses on and that the MUAs had to attempt a look that would highlight your features with your glasses.

You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves of you modelling for the first time or the heat of the lights that’s making you flushed. Something about the flashes of lights felt almost exhilarating to you. It’s foreign, but somehow, they embrace your being like a long lost friend of sorts. You have yet to get used to the blinding white lights from the flashes, but you only have to endure it for a good hour or so. The repetitive mantra of “You’re just trying this out.” echoes in your mind over and over again, even though you already know you seem to not be cut out for this sort of position.

It’s much too hot in the studio, you feel your body being rather awkward, and you don’t appreciate the onlookers that watch your every move as you reposition yourself to the photographer’s demands. You’ve already knocked over a couple of fake cappuccino mugs since your limbs still aren’t working correctly and you can’t seem to make the right facial expression to your degree.

It’s clear your nervousness is evident, considering you can see Geto discussing quietly with the creative director as they examine you closely from the corners of your eyes.

“She’s rather… stiff,” the creative director mutters. “You sure there wasn’t anyone on call?”

Geto hums monotonously as he watches as you attempt to find the right position to try and capture your side profile while showing off the perfume itself. “If there were, they would’ve been here by now.”

“Yes I understand, but,” the director fights the urge to wince as your bracelet gets caught in the chair handle. “I don’t know if this shoot will be proper enough to display in the zine this issue. Can’t we just talk with them and discuss moving the ad to next month’s?”

“No, they’re releasing it the same day the issue comes out. They want people to know about it as soon as possible,” Geto murmurs. “To ask that from us is to ask them to push back their release date. We don’t have that sort of power.”

The creative director sighs and silences himself, wallowing himself in a state of doubt as he and Geto continue to watch the scene before them. Perhaps it’s the state of weariness that Geto has accumulated from the past few days, but he genuinely doesn’t think you’re doing too bad of a job for your first (and probably last time, given the anxiety still within you) time modelling. He thinks the angles of your face hit the light just right when it counts properly, and that the clothes that drape you fit you more than accordingly; it’s surprising given that there was no time to tailor them to properly suit you but somehow, you made it work.

There are certain moments that your nerves fade from view when the director asks you to make a certain facial expression. The little surprised face you make when you hold the perfume up to your face was most likely the money shot, but there were much more shots that could be used for the ad that he didn’t anticipate.

There was one where your eyes stared directly into the camera from a three-fourths angle, a certain warmth to them compelling him to look further into you. Another one was a mild bokeh effect of you sipping coffee from a mug from a lower point of view, where the perfume was fully into view. But Geto was still somehow locked onto your figure from the background despite how crystal clear the bottle was. Either way, there was still a plethora of good shots to use despite you not being a professional model.

“But I do have to admit,” the creative director starts slowly, capturing Geto’s attention and breaking him from his gaze as he fixates on you repositioning yourself on the cafe bench, legs crossed to show off the mocha boots that adorned your calves. “She’s not really all that bad. I can see some potential in her.”

Geto’s body remains still, but his eyes shift to stare at the director from the corner of his eye, watching carefully as he examines you from the set. He narrows his purple eyes as he picks up on a mild lip bite from the creative director as you shed the trenchcoat to reveal a black fitted mini dress with a turtleneck, a vintage cowboy belt cinching your waist. While you’re still modestly covered, it’s the way you show off your long legs emphasized by the short skirt of the dress and the fitted heeled boots.

“I wonder if she’s single…” the director murmurs so softly that Geto just barely picks up on it.

“I completely forgot,” Geto interrupts rather loudly, making the director’s fixed stare falter as the shoot continues. “I believe I left a file in regards to the perfume’s licensing in the meeting room. Would you mind getting it for me? I’ll keep an eye on the shoot.”

The creative director’s brows raise. “O-oh! Yes, of course. I’ll be right back then.”

Geto watches as the director shuffles out of the room and out of view from you. Truth be told, the file was finalized a while ago. But something about how the director was looking at you made Geto wary of his intentions with you, if he had any at all.

Something about it made him a little aware that your temporary spotlight shone a bit brighter than he originally thought it’d be.

The shoot finishes up within the next hour, giving the team a good handful of images to choose from for the column before the issue is printed. Manami is with you in the dressing room as the MUAs carefully take off your makeup and reveal your raw face to everyone, peeling away the heavy amounts of concealer that hide the darkness embedding the rim of your undereyes.

“Christ, how many hours did you sleep last night?” she questions when you give a large yawn.

“I should be asking you that question,” you quietly remark back, studying her equally tired features. “If anything, you need the rest more than I do.”

Manami had been feeling quite ill as of recently, possibly due to the colder weather. She claimed that it was just the new diet she had been trying out to properly fit into the dress that she was planning to wear for the charity gala, but it was clear that no diet was capable of causing stuffy noses, consistent sneezing, and a mild fever. You had encouraged her to try and take some medicine and go home yesterday, but she specifically said that, “Geto will have a guillotine ready come tomorrow morning if I dare to even think about taking a day off right now.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffs with half-assurance as she snatches a tissue from nearby. “Besides, people say you burn more calories when you’re sick so hopefully I can lose another half inch off my waist by tomorrow.”

“Oh, so you admit you’re sick,” you point out with a mild smirk.

“I-I’m not sick—!” she falters before her nose begins to twitch. “Ahchoo!”

You hum, ignoring her protests. It’s currently nearing seven in the evening, and you’re sure that work is just beginning to wrap up as of this moment. Thankfully, everyone agreed to do the work for the perfume ad tomorrow before the finalized issue is shipped to print, but you still had to edit some articles, as well as help Geto still gather materials for his newest fashion line that he only tended to work on in the evenings of the weekdays.

He leaves earlier than you and Manami do, since he often piles the nonsensical work to you and her. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left the office without another word considering he was attempting to push out his new line by the end of next month.

In the past few months, you can’t say your work as a journalist has improved since your time at Kaizen, but you can at least say that your friendship with Manami has blossomed and sailed a little more smoothly than your first few weeks of working with each other. She was still a little snippy towards those below her like the college interns and the other entry-level employees, but you were specifically her junior, so you suppose it gave you special access to a much more kind, yet still sassy, side of her.

You spot the paleness of Manami’s usually glossed lips and how fatigued she looked. It didn’t help that the dressing room was quite warm so she looked rather blushed in the face. She leans back on the couch and puts a hand over her eyes to block out the glaring white light of the vanity.

“God, shut that thing off,” she quips as she lazily wags a finger to the vanity lights. “Feels like I’m staring right into the Sun itself.”

The lights are turned off and the room dims. You chew on your lip before deciding to sacrifice your time a little longer in order to help her out since you knew how badly she wanted to attend tomorrow’s charity gala and show off her new Emilio Pucci dress.

“You should go home,” you say quietly. “Get some rest before tomorrow. I can take care of the Book and the rest of his bullshit.”

She chuckles at your mild cursing regarding you-know-who. “Yes, because that went great last time…”

“I swear I won’t mess up again! That day was just out for me, I swear,” you pout, “But really, you should go home and get some sleep. I know you’re gonna come in tomorrow regardless of what I say, so at the very least take some medicine and sleep.”

Manami pokes an eye out of her hand to study your pleading ones. She gives in rather easily, sighing heavily. “Fine. But if you mess up anything, it’s all on you,” she states pointedly and unlocking her phone to notify Geto you’ll be taking care of her duties tonight.

She shortly leaves the office when you clean yourself back up to your day’s attire. The company car comes promptly on time and you begin to wave goodbye to her, but she opens the window halfway and motions you with a shaky finger to come forward.

“No funny business,” she mutters sternly through her mask. “I mean it. He’ll have your head first, then mine if you pull anything.”

“I swear, nothing will happen,” you promise to her. “Now go home. Or else that that cold will be taking more than just a half inch off your waist.”

She rolls her eyes but you can see the faintest grateful grin from the inside of her mask as she rolls the window back up. You watch until the black car disappears from view and into the city traffic before you go back into the office to wait for the Book to be finalized with its editors.

It reaches your hands eventually just a quarter to 10:00pm, a little earlier than expected. Another company car comes by and picks you up to get his dry-cleaning as well, and you arrive at Geto’s apartment just shy of 10:30pm.

The heavy doors seem much more intimidating the second time around. Perhaps it’s because they knew what happened last time and are just waiting to see what incident occurs today this time around. But you shake your head out of your apprehensiveness and decide the only thing that will be happening behind those doors is just you placing the Book down on his coffee table and leaving to go home and sleep before D-Day.

The entrance was the same as always—decorated with a great assortment of artistry of different mediums. In the corner was the marble dragon and beside it was the archived Basquiat piece that must’ve cost an arm and leg to purchase for the typical person. Up ahead was the entrance to the living room and in the center of it stood the coffee table.

The coffee table.

All you have to do is just simply put the Book on the coffee table.

Then leave.

Then just leave. Do not do anything more than that.

“No funny business.” Manami’s warning chimes in your mind again with each step you take to the living room.

“No funny business,” you repeat to yourself under your breath, clutching the Book tightly to your chest as if it was the most fragile thing on earth.

You eventually reach the beginning of the living room and spot the very ottoman that had caused you to have a much more humiliating night than anticipated during that one day you were given the simple task of dropping off the Book from Geto himself. You hadn’t been asked to do so since then, shamefully. It’s tucked away safely on the side of the sofa, meaning you had to intentionally yourself into it to try and re-enact your foolishness again.

The coffee table stands before your knees and you stare at yourself in the reflection of its glass.

“No funny business.”

You gingerly put the Book down on the center of the coffee table, your fingertips brushing against the many pages of its draft and a relief begins to fill your nerves the moment you’re about to break contact with it…

… until a familiar voice calls to you just as your fingers let go.

“(Y/N)?” Geto calls from above. “Is that you?”

You freeze on the spot. You swore to yourself and Manami that there would be no funny business today, and you were doing such a good job! Did you accidentally leave mud tracks behind? There wasn’t any rain today. Did you leave something else at the office that you needed to bring? No, Manami said he only needed the book… so did you do anything at all that would cause your boss to randomly call out to you during such a menial task?

With a rigid neck, you turn to him slowly with a pained smile and the Book officially set on the coffee table. “Yes, hello. Sorry to interrupt… I was just dropping off the Book.”

Geto peers down at you from the second floor’s staircase. He’s shed his waist coat and has left himself in his grey button up that’s relieved of three buttons at the top, just shyly showing the beginning of his chest and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A rare sight—considering that Geto was often covered from head to toe in fabrics then even seeing him in a short sleeved shirt was a rarity.

“I see,” he says, scanning you from above with his cat-like eyes.

You don’t know what to do. You just needed to drop the Book off and you were so unbelievably close to completing it without trouble. “Did you… did you happen to need something else by any chance?” you ask nervously.

“Ah, well,” Geto starts to your dismay. He pauses palpably before motioning you to come up. “I actually may need your aid on a piece I’m working on. Come upstairs.”

And miraculously, your throat closes up as you struggle not to burst into tears.

All you wanted to do is just drop the Book off!

Despite all the curses that marathon through your head that you aim at your boss, you gather up the courage to shove down any questions of doubt and take your tired legs up the winding staircase. Something is telling you that this is a trick—that when you reach the top, Geto is actually just standing there with your termination letter, telling you that you forgot a vital rule to never go anywhere more than the living room in his house. But because you can rarely ever refute your boss in an effort to spare your sanity, you do as he says willingly like an obedient dog.

By the time you reach the top, there is no pink slip for him to display to you, but instead is an open door that faces the staircase directly. Inside, Geto stands in front of something, and you can see a tape measure around his neck more clearly, as well as a pin cushion on his wrist that usually holds an expensive watch. The room itself is rather large, with a variety of supplies garnered across a pegged wall with rolls of fabric decorating two of the walls. It’s Geto’s atelier room for his fashion line, you detail, the one that he stormed out of with Shigemo that time you had to drop off the Book.

Without turning around, Geto calls to you, “Well don’t just stand there.”

Another thick swallow just barely passes through your dry throat. You prompt out an apology and slowly shuffle into his studio, where you see where the magic happens much more clearly and what exactly he was crafting on so late at night.

Geto moves aside for you to take a proper look at the mannequin adorned in a beautiful A-line black dress with a square neckline and ghostly, sheer sleeves. Around the waist was a loose string of pearls with a matching pearl necklace. It was a simple-looking dress from afar, but up close, you can tell that only a creative genius like Geto himself was capable of making something so minimalistic look so regal.

“Oh my…” you murmur softly as Geto pins a piece into place in its sleeve. “It’s beautiful.”

Geto hums flatly.

“I’m glad you like it,” he begins as he lifts his head to properly face you. One of his arms goes to lean against it (are those tattoos?) and you can feel his eyes scan you up and down like what he usually does in the morning as he examines your outfit. But something about this particular feat feels a little more intimate than usual, and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “You don’t happen to have an outfit for tomorrow’s gala, do you?”

“Well, um,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers. Initially, you were just going to use a plain white, sleeveless dress you had used for a work party you spoiled yourself with before you left your former workplace since it was a rather expensive and nice dress, but as you second-guess, you’re sure Geto wouldn’t approve of a dress that you had bought on clearance at the nearby outlet mall. So you meekly reply with, “... no, not really.”

You’re expecting some sort of scolding from him, possible Geto telling you that you need to be more prepared for such an event and that the last few days’ events were no excuse for sloppy planning, but instead, you’re even more startled when he says something completely unexpected that makes your eyes widen beyond your glasses’s frames.

“Good,” he says and gestures to his creation. “Because I want you to wear this for tomorrow night.”

↩ previous chapter next chapter ↪

a/n ; i have rewatched the devil wears prada for the 123894th time before the year ends and have decided to bring this series back to life because i think it's much to good to give up on 🙂↕️ i don't know if i'll start a taglist just yet, but maybe, we shall see.

i'll also will be using she/her pronouns with an afab-hinted!body from this point on. i'm also still in debate of writing smut since 1) i'm not very good at writing it, 2) i don't usually like to write it lol, and 3) but i still do consider it as some sort of breaking point eventually between geto and reader. so if there will be in the future, it will be tagged and most likely will be extremely mild.

thank you for reading as always! i hope you enjoyed this chapter and this series so far. likes, comments, and reblogs are always noticed and heavily appreciated! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!! until next time!

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thetomorrowshow · 4 days ago

Text

we'll always have each other

trust auuuuu

oki so the other week, oasis and i were playing a dare-based card game with my family. she dared me to let her post something on my tumblr, and i accepted. she decided to post that "trust au jimmy is pregnant". i immediately began to get comments and asks about it. unfortunately, every time i started a post meaning to refute it, i instead doubled down.

this is the closest i can offer to pregnant jimmy. however he is pregnant in my heart <3

There's the Clash of the Stags.

And there's Alinar, sword in hand.

And there's the Crystal of Rivendell.

Where's Jimmy's favorite?

Oh, just over there.

Scott breathes out slowly through his nose, eyes turned up to the heavens as he picks out familiar constellations from among the clusters of stars.

Jimmy's favorite constellation is one that Scott had never heard of before, and as far as he knows, isn't considered a constellation by any modern societies. It makes a large, five-sided rectangle, far off from common elven constellations. Below it are two oddly large, bright stars, stars that Scott used to think of as the wishing stars.

Maybe that should be his next study project. Finding some record of that constellation, so maybe they can finally figure out what it represents.

It’s likely Oceanic in origin, considering Jimmy’s history, but there are very few books that expand upon Ocean history, and even fewer that are actually from past times—and most of those are unreadable by all but Lizzie and Jimmy. Still, maybe in Gem’s secret library there’s some kind of ancient constellation record. He ought to send her a message, see if she has time to research it with him—or maybe one of her students can take it on as a project.

"Hey, baby," a tired voice comes from behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. A thrill runs through Scott's veins at the sleep-rumbly sound of his husband's voice. "What're you doing up?"

Scott doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he points up to Alinar's Sword. "Do you think that Alinar's constellation is holding the Rune Sword, or his famous golden one?"

A bit of shuffling, and out of the corner of his eye, Scott sees Jimmy come up next to him, lean on the deck railing.

In the light of the giant moon (somehow always so much larger in the Codlands rather than in Rivendell) his face is illuminated, washed almost white. His bangs hang down, nearly to cover his eyes—not near as long as they've been in the past, not since Jimmy sheared off most of his hair last year—and he huffs, blowing them up and out of his face.

He's beautiful, from his casually messy golden hair to the plane of his nose, to the sparkling scars on his cheeks. He’s beautiful down to the heaviness of his eyelids, the impression of his pillow still pressed into his forehead.

Jimmy catches his eye, his lips quirking up.

"Hey," he says playfully, voice still all gravelly with sleep in that delightful way Scott loves. "What are you really thinking about?"

Scott frowns. "You didn't answer my question."

"I forgot what it was."

"Probably the golden sword," Scott muses out loud. "The Rune Sword was lost from knowledge. Unless the constellations were identified before the historic legends."

"Scott," Jimmy prods gently.

Scott sighs. He casts his eyes around, looking for something else to occupy himself.

"I don't like that you're in alliance discussions with Sausage," he says bluntly, eyes lighting on the far-off city walls, the border of Mythland just beyond. "He can't be trusted."

"I know how you feel," Jimmy says after a moment. "I think it's what's right for my empire right now. But if you really think it's a bad idea, I can reconsider and we can talk about it."

"I do," says Scott instantly. "I know Pearl says he's trustworthy now, but it doesn't change what he did. How his people treated yours. It isn't safe."

Jimmy wasn’t there. Scott’s never told him about it, either, the wounds still too raw, but that horrible meeting with Lizzie and Gem and Sausage still dwells in a dark corner of his mind. He recalls all too well Sausage’s taunts, his total disdain for the treatment of Jimmy’s body.

He cannot possibly imagine that the man actually intends to do good.

Scott glances at Jimmy, then again, to gauge his reaction. Jimmy nods slowly, scratches at his stubbly beard.

"Thanks. So what are you really thinking about?"

Jimmy's too perceptive for his own good. He’s just as good at faking sleep as Scott is, if not better—he'd probably noticed that Scott hadn't ever fallen asleep; that he'd laid there, awake, trying to bat off the thought that keeps plaguing his mind.

He'd probably noticed when Scott slipped out of bed, padding through the living room and the kitchen in the dark, to the back door, out onto the deck constructed over the wide canal.

They've been married for almost three years, and Scott has no clue how to ask this of Jimmy.

Mostly because they've been married for almost three years, and dated for a year before that, and Scott still doesn't know what his own answer is.

Jimmy already can tell that something is bothering him, though. Maybe he should just dive in headfirst.

Or dive headfirst into the canal, which almost sounds preferable to broaching the subject.

It has to be brought up sometime, and better Scott than his advisors. He wouldn’t put it past his council to corner Jimmy sooner or later.

"What are your thoughts on . . . on children?" he asks, slowly, as if the question has been pulled painfully from between his molars.

Jimmy shifts his weight on the railing, leaning a bit heavier on his elbows.

"Children," he says, a smile in his voice. "They're nice. Small. A bit loud, sometimes. What do you think?"

Scott snorts. "Yeah. They're . . . definitely small. And snotty. And adorable."

"And a huge responsibility," Jimmy adds.

"And a huge responsibility," Scott echoes.

There's a long moment of silence, then, as Scott turns his eyes back to the starry skies, to the brilliant moon.

The stars, in opposition to the moon, seem so far away here. Not like Rivendell, when they seem almost close enough to touch.

These tiny pinpricks in the sky barely appear to be real.

"Did you mean to ask me if I want to have kids?" Jimmy bursts out. "Like, I figured—"

"Yes," Scott cuts in.

"Right, right, but I didn't want to assume, so—um, yeah. . . . Do I want kids?" Jimmy taps his fingers on the railing. "Imagine our kids," he says, something fondly wonderstruck in his tone. "Offspring of a legendary elven hero and a demigod."

"Jimmy, if you hadn't noticed, we're not exactly equipped to have children together," Scott points out drily. "Unless there's something I don't know about demigods?"

"I—no, no, you're right—well, maybe there's a spell somewhere, we should—"

"Jimmy."

"I . . . I don't know."

Scott waits. His wings flutter slightly as a breeze shifts across them.

"Lizzie and Joel decided to not have kids," Jimmy says after a moment. "Like, ever."

"We aren't Lizzie and Joel."

"No. No, we aren't."

Scott sighs, just slightly. "My council has been . . . lightly nudging," he says. "I am quite young to be married, let alone have children, but I think my parents' early death and my supposed even earlier death scared them. They want the throne to be secure."

"Right, but we can't have kids. Does adoption work with elf succession? Have they ever had this problem?"

"I'm not the first gay ruler, darling. Usually it involves a third elf—a surrogate who can bear children. But—"

"Do you want kids, Scott?" Jimmy asks.

Scott falters.

Does he?

It's not that he doesn't, necessarily.

But. . . .

"Not . . . not right now, I don't think," Scott says cautiously. "Unless you want to, in which case—"

"I'm in no hurry," Jimmy interrupts. "Don't worry. If you want to wait, I'm fine with that."

Scott chews on his lip.

"When do most elves have kids?" Jimmy asks curiously.

"Around—well, most elves don't get married until they're around three hundred. It's younger with royalty, of course."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jimmy says, turning suddenly. "You aren't a teenager, right? When do elves come of age?"

Despite himself, Scott laughs. "No, I'm an adult, you're fine. Elves come of age between the ages of seventy and one hundred, generally. I should have probably come of age when I was ninety or so, but I had the ceremony when I was eighty-two."

"Oh, thank goodness," Jimmy breathes, slumping a bit. "Why is the marriage age for royals younger, then?"

"Well, you want all the royals married off as soon as possible," Scott says reasonably. "Make sure alliances are secure, get the royal descendants occupied so that they aren't trying to betray each other, give them something to do other than laze around the palace. It's actually a popular practice to plan a royal wedding on their two hundredth birthday."

When Jimmy doesn't respond, Scott looks over at him. "It's very sensible," he defends. "If my parents had lived, Xornoth likely would have been betrothed to Katherine or Joey or someone while I would have married a random elven duke or lord. Keeps Xornoth away and out of most politics, and keeps me occupied and gets us royal heirs. It's the most sensible way to do things."

Jimmy stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. "That's just weird," he says. "Is it not out of love?"

Scott shrugs. "Exceptions have been made. True love, prophecies, the whatnot. For me, it just meant that my dating pool was limited to the Seven Lords of Rivendell and the Thirteen Dukes, or outside royalty. So, lucky thing I met you—the lords have never really been my favorite of party guests."

"Lucky," Jimmy intones, before shaking himself. "Geez, we got off topic. Kids. We were talking about kids."

Right.

Children.

"So you don't want kids right now," Jimmy says, and Scott nods. He hadn’t properly thought about his own wants until Jimmy had asked him—he’s the king, after all. His country is meant to come first.

He doesn’t want a child, though. Not yet.

"Not right now. I'm only a hundred and twelve, for Aeor's sake."

"Wait, one second, back to the marriage thing—are there elves that get married that young? Or are you the first one?"

"No, no, there's always someone who got married exactly a year after their coming of age," Scott waves. "Younger weddings are becoming more and more common. It isn't an issue."

"Cool. Cool. Back to the other thing. Kids—in the future, then?"

Scott looks down at his hand, resting on the railing. Then past it, to his aching left arm, hanging at his side.

He doesn’t want children right now. That’s what he says, what he puts off, what he insists.

"If we want kids in the future, they won't be yours," he says, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

Jimmy moves a little, his nightshirt sliding against his skin in an intimately familiar sound. "Right. Because of the surrogacy thing."

"I don't want a child who isn't yours," Scott bursts out, and this is really the issue that had woken him up, isn't it?

He can't help but see himself in the future, stuck with a child that's half him and half some other elf, lacking Jimmy's beautiful golden hair and perfect brown eyes and little bundles of scales. All he can envision is resenting that child, not tied to any part of the beauty that he loves so much.

He doesn't want that. He wants a child with Jimmy, made up of the both of them.

Jimmy waits.

He's standing there, patiently, waiting for Scott to speak.

But Scott suddenly has a lump in his throat, built up of guilt and frustration and grief, because there will never be a little version of the two of them running around the palace and he feels terribly selfish for wanting that.

Someday, he will need to have a child. Preferably two.

And they have to be of his blood.

"You're my husband," he says, valiantly holding back the tears that blur the edges of his vision. "I want you to be the father of my child. I want—I want a child with you, Jimmy, not with anyone else."

Jimmy hums. "You know I wouldn't mind, right? Adopting isn't any different to me."

But it's not the same.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I want it to be you."

"Good thing is, we don't have to worry about it right now," Jimmy says gently.

"But my council—"

"Can wait. They've been waiting for hundreds of years anyway. What's another hundred or two?"

Scott nods. Jimmy's right. They have time. More time than most, honestly.

"And who knows?" Jimmy adds. "Maybe someone will discover a way to make it work."

Maybe.

A lot can change in a couple hundred years.

It's even possible that they can get the Crystal Cliffs Academy working on some sort of . . . baby-making charm?

Dear Aeor, the sound of that makes him want to shrivel up in embarrassment. He could never request such a thing.

But Gem would absolutely put everything she has into creating something of the sort. She's a good friend—and the idea of a baby would certainly entice her. He ought to consider it, at least.

They have time, though.

He knows that this may not get any easier with time. His advisors will continue to bother him, and there will be the constant question posed of when is the right time if not now.

He doesn’t want a child right now. All he wants is Jimmy.

Scott takes in a deep breath of the cool night air, before scooting over until he's right next to Jimmy. He lays his head on his husband's shoulder, then his right hand over his husband's left.

Jimmy leans into him, rubs his hair with his cheek for a moment. "I love you," Jimmy says softly.

Even after three years of marriage, those words make Scott's heart want to burst.

"I love you, too."

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 11 months ago

Text

the counterpart

chapter 2 — if you’ve a lesson to teach me — i’m listening, ready to learn

pairing: viktor x fem!reader (no use of y/n, as usual)

word count: 3,7k

rating: explicit

cw: chess games stuffed full of sexual tension are finally HERE, viktor humbles reader (elegantly), reader is a smoker (it’s a modern 90s au, of course her lungs are cooked), mentions of blood and some nail biting injuries (reader has an anxious nail-biting problem). people who are good at chess and english: please come smack me if i wrote something ridiculous, since both of these are mostly self-taught. thank you.

ao3 link

part 3

—

Pop-quiz: what’s the quickest, stupidest, pathetically embarrassing to the point of biting off the nail on your pinky finger way of responding to White’s 1.e4 if your opponent is terrifyingly experienced?

Your teeth closed around the poor claw, nervously reducing it to a thin, fragile little husk, then yanking angrily at the tip of it with a neurotic little squint; eyelids twitching instinctively as it ripped all the way off to the very base of your nail fold.

The consequences of your risky Sicilian were staring at you demeaningly right from the board, sharply invading the retinas of each devastated eye with the misery of your predicament. Made you lick the creased corner of each dry lip with an alarmed shudder, wondering silently if your tiny act of autocannibalism passed more as a cry for help, or as a lamentable, hopefully lethal way out of the stalemate.

But you didn’t have the time to eat yourself alive with that miniscule of a nibble. The clock was ticking ruthlessly — no, but actually, what were you even thinking? Pulling such a stunt; utterly hopeless in front of your unpredictable rival.

So you stared — intimidated and crushed — right at your now queenless, unsolvable quandary; not brave enough to raise your drawn to the board gaze, knowing damn well that if you do — the copper orbs will swallow you whole with the very chair your competitive ass is nailed to.

But that’s precisely what you deserved. Some good, merciless spanking — but not for that lovely, inquisitive rear of yours. Oh no, your ego was the infamous asset on the receiving end of it.

And it made you feel so fucking stupid. Had you muttering a heated curse against the clenched cage of teeth — an angry scold for ever considering the events of the night you met him fruitful.

‘I shall bring the clocks.’

It’s funny how something as crucially significant can slip one’s mind like it was never even in there. You spent the rest of the week by the board, lazily rewinding Tal’s 1976 matches, with an occasional attack of positive nervousness. Crawling out of bed only to fetch a can of deliciously cool sparkling something, or to jump imperiously onto the windowsill, stretching each bare leg out under the cruel sunshine — so hot you could just hold your cigarette up in the air to light it. Your mind would wander back to Viktor — but not frequently. Only when you’d lay sprawled out on the sheets, haphazardly dropping the ashes into the flexure of them, musing dreamily about what opening you should play. Or when you’d fidget mindlessly with a rook or a bishop, spinning it slowly between two fingers as you silently pondered who gets to play White in the very first game. Or — but this one was more of a guilty pleasure, really — when you’d imagine that handsome face of his in deep astonishment, one brow cocking upwards as he would witness his own omission.

‘I shall bring the clocks.’

You’ve played with them before — and quite occasionally, to be frank. Back in the day you were quite the familiar face at every youth chess tournament — until it all came crashing down with college applications, forcing you to put the fervent passion aside. You were still mourning those peaceful years: no responsibilities, just playing chess and consuming books, feeding the insatiable mind with whatever meals you could grab from the library’s shelves.

And now here you were — wrapped up in missed assignments and a million academic burdens, hating your major with a passion more burning than the one you felt towards the board and those pretty sixteen pieces.

The arrangement Viktor offered you felt like a warm embrace you jumped into with no hesitation, eager to escape your desperate, chess-starved state.

But that endlessly slow Friday morning you’d run out of cigarettes. Groaning exasperatedly into the racket of damp from the overnight sweat pillows, you crawled out of bed, preliminarily throwing the empty box of tobacco treats into the darkest corner of your apartment — where the infernal July sun doesn’t shine.

Putting on your clothes felt like pure torture — and as much as you’d love to walk under that scorching ball bare to escape an overheated death, the people outside would most likely not appreciate the bold gesture. Especially your new opponent; though, if Jayce didn’t lie about him only having eyes for one queen — the inanimate, tiny and wooden one — the possibilities of Viktor even noticing your nude form were practically non-existent.

You thoughtlessly slipped into whatever relatively decent pair of pants was plastered across the obscene clutter on the floor, swearing copiously as a bare foot stepped into something liquid and sticky — the remnants of your late night coffee-break, a dark quagmire staining the carpet. Now petulant, you furiously made it to the bathroom — to turn the combed hair into something acceptable, or, rather, something less revolting. Looking like a mad genius — which suited you partially, since you only deemed the former word relatable — you left the dorm in redundant rush, a chess board tucked firmly under your armpit.

It was still somewhat early for your rivalry little date: surprisingly enough, you grabbed a humble breakfast, restocked the nicotine supplies and even fed on them urgently and so very greedily in the soothing silence of the nearby park, but that still didn’t bring noon any closer, leaving you twenty endless minutes ahead of the arranged hour and negatively impatient.

Fuck it. Punctuality is certainly not a vice — and since your expertise in the field was impeccable, you were headed to the library shortly after failing to find that trait among the endless list of your actually contentious ones. Besides, your college always remains unaffected by the heat — it’s better to endure the waiting inside its comfortingly cool walls, instead of letting the vile season fry your last brain cells outside.

The quiet book shrine greeted you a tad bit too dryly. You passed the ever depleted librarian, trading a rushed, yet polite nod for her pretentious sigh, marking it the worst deal of the morning in your mental little planner. Eager to escape her torturously meticulous eyes, you vanished into the labyrinth of shelves, humming a silly tune as your fingers ran over the row of books, searching for a decent one to occupy yourself with until Viktor shows up.

“Hm, ‘Introduction to Quantum Mechanics’, is it?” someone — you knew exactly who — whispered a gentle reproach precisely above your ear, almost wheezing it into your freshly untangled hair. A synevy hand, armed with a set of impressively long fingers, was laid atop the book your touch lingered on, teasing you with a fleeting knuckle brush.

“Excuse me?” you maneuvered with a subtle chuckle, spotting a spike of chestnut curls invading the corners of your peripheral vision. The man was sneaky and utterly undefeatable in that capacity — a calm, charming serpent, the one who comes and goes whenever he pleases.

His cane tapped against the floor with a dull thump.

“A truly peculiar subject,” Viktor observed, stroking a sturdy little spine of the manuscript before you. It had, indeed, taken you long enough to notice the cover your fingertips chose to stop at.

“I suppose so,” you mumbled, secretly admiring the shy intercourse your hands shared on top of a dusty book, watching him extract the ‘Introduction’ out of its secure slot on the shelf, then turning around to face your all too familiar intervention. Voluntarily crawling under the handsome obstacle of his shoulders, letting them block the exit as you leaned against the stand filled with other ‘quantum’ shenanigans.

“A woman of many talents, are you?” He cocked a bushy brow up, half-lidded gaze inscribing into your memory. Made your breath hitch somewhat cowardly at the proximity, and the amber in astute eyes twitched, landing on your stilled expression.

“Perhaps,” you shrugged — a pathetic attempt at regaining some composure, “quantum mechanics is not one of them, though.”

Viktor hummed, putting the book away with an understanding sigh.

“A pity,” he chuckled, chapped lips protruding into a pensive pout, “I’m yet to find other common grounds between us, then.”

“Don’t you deem that unnecessary?” you queried, fingers drumming a light rhythm against the chess board, eager to turn it into your personal battlefield. “You’re not here to befriend me, Viktor.” “I would much prefer to make your acquaintance before we take it to the board,” he objected, flawless in his logic, “getting to know your opponent is… well, profitable. You might find their weaknesses while performing this so-called… interest-autopsy.”

“Oh, are you a mortician now?” it came out unexpectedly bold — almost unnecessary flirtatious considering the context, but the comment seemed to humor him just fine, and he smiled, returning the shrug you offered him earlier.

“Eh, in a way,” he budged, filling the air with raspy laughter as his hand squeezed the handle of his cane.

“I see,” you nodded, watching him squirm oh so courteously in your powerful, grabby hands. At least, that’s how it felt — to finally move him around — a treatment suited for a little pawn: relentless and hasty.

So you decided to push it further. A cheeky creature — you smirked, preparing for the much riskier next remark, had him humming inquisitively in pent up anticipation.

“A man of many talents, are you?”

Well, would you look at that. Check, and an instant, flawlessly smooth mate, Viktor.

Except he didn’t get it. Dropped the tactful smile and surrendered to the panic, glaring at you like a boy who’d just experienced being flirted with for the first time in his life. As if he was utterly oblivious to your random little advances, staying there all wide-eyed and confused to the bone.

Viktor retreated. Turned around with a sharp sigh, inviting you to follow his lead with an adorable little gesture — as if challenging you to have your way with him on the board now. His choice of a sparring room was obvious: you both walked into the reading hall at a slothful pace, simultaneously spotting a distant desk by the window, then exchanging shy, confirming nods before sitting down at it.

‘I shall bring the clocks.’

Your triumph was ruthlessly murdered by those infamous timers, of whose existence you’d so inconsequentially forgotten this very morning. You stared at them — puzzled and deservedly bitter, failing to notice a chair Viktor had obligingly moved out for you beforehand. Not so certain in your flawless victory anymore, you mumbled a quiet ‘thank you’ and settled into the seat, softly placing the board on the table. Your opponent followed suit, crossing his lanky legs in a clumsy manner, haphazardly kissing the nose of your loafer with the evidently polished leather of his shoe, leaving a fresh smear behind.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, rushing to set up the pieces for you — an efficient gentleman, pretty hands not only a sight to behold, but also the nimblest of instruments. Had you laughing softly at his distinguished haste, head tilting to rest on the back of your palm.

“Don’t worry about it,” you protested, brushing him off with a careless shrug. “Are we doing the standard?”

“Ninety minutes for the first forty, yes,” Viktor confirmed, placing one last piece in its place. “Though, by the looks of it: I’m certain I won’t need that many moves nor minutes to defeat you.”

“Are you bluffing to scare me away?” you teased, perfectly aware of just how wholeheartedly he meant that. Cocky or not — he really was talented. You’ve asked around. You had your ways. You knew you had a champion sitting before you. Setting up your board. Blushing awkwardly at your cruel flirtations.

“Of course not,” he objected, nonchalant. “I am merely making an observation. You look terrified of that clock. It was only natural for me to assume you’re not familiar with time limits.”

You huffed out a scoff, displeased with his sharp attentiveness. Merely making an observation. Does he always talk like a sophisticated professor?

He wasn’t exactly wrong though. You decided to allow him at least that mercy.

“It’s been a while since I played in a tournament,” you reluctantly admitted, lazily leaning back in your chair. “So yes, I haven’t dealt with clocks in a fat minute. But it’s nothing I can’t endure. Especially since you were kind enough to offer me the first move.”

Viktor didn’t get it either. His brow formed a perplexed arc, eyes abandoned their thorough examination of your face and flew instantly to the board, mouth dropped open to let out a gasp as he noticed that every single white piece was lined up on your side.

“Oh, how foolish of me,” he excused himself with a sheepish smile, scooping up a pair of pawns from their squares. You watched your potential advantage get swapped a few tortuous times, cursing the fuck out of whatever stupid call tearing that last cheeky remark off your tongue. You already knew it was far too long for your own good — but now the hatred was burning with a particularly lively enthusiasm.

You could have played White first if only you didn’t make him notice.

He could have let it slide.

Your pupils kept jumping between his fists, scared of leaning too much onto your rotten crutch of an intuition.

“Please, pick faster,” Viktor muttered, “sadly, I only have a few hours to indulge you with.”

With a grunt, you gave up the pitiful attempt of finding the white pawn through the gaps between his fingers. You didn’t even squint when the hand you nodded at unraveled before you, black glistening in it with glorious mockery.

Whatever, you hissed, coming to terms with your self-made quandary. Surely, you can beat him even without this little privilege.

You switched places with Viktor, the hostility on your physiognomy so ostentatious it had him dropping an apologetic chuckle. He was now facing you from the other side of the desk, hands tucked under the sharp chin in tacit anticipation.

Viktor started his timer. Grazed the button with the softest of taps, then rubbed a few fingers against the pad of his thumb — picking out your poison with a meditative hum. Reducing you to a tense, sweaty disaster in an instant, made you shake on the very edge of your seat.

His first move was so… predictable. White 1e4 is a classic. An axiom, if you will. A thing you were least expecting from this mystery of a man — wasn’t he supposed to destroy you with a more complex, niche opening? You froze, looking him persistently in the copper eyes. As if silently contemplating his decision, waiting for him to be absolutely certain.

But he pressed the button again, letting you shoot your reciprocal shot. Still wholeheartedly convinced it’s a trap, you timidly moved your pawn to c5. For better or for worse.

The first handful of moves felt quite… tasteless. You decided to be the pioneer: swallowed his d4 pawn and watched him mimic you shortly after — except he went for it with a preliminary prepared knight. Your boldness was nothing but an empty threat to him.

“Greedy much?” you needled with a vicious smile, moving to use your own knight in a frantic rush — turning it into a figurative shield from his sly tricks.

“You can’t win without sacrificing a piece or two,” he replied, taunting you with a crooked half-smirk. Moving his other knight to c3. Sneaky bastard.

“A piece or two?” you laughed, baring your teeth for him to witness your precious derision. No doubt imagining how he’d look with your fingers digging into his throat. “I plan to take much more than that.”

“Take whatever you want,” Viktor replied, too wrapped up in studying the board to pay any mind to your bragging. “Take all my pawns if you have to. I don’t need them to put you in a stalemate.”

You loved the quarrel while it lasted. Both on the board and whatever this sexy verbal bile-spitting was: you’d run away from him by hiding your king behind the bishop, he’d chase you with the peculiar positions of his pieces. It’s like he didn’t know what he was doing: forming a tiny row of pawns, covering the queen with both of his bishops, letting the knights remain still — evidently baiting you to attack, yet still keeping a respectable distance. The actual problem occurred much later though. After a heated session of running around you were done with him. It was pushing past your twentieth move — and Viktor still had almost all his pawns thrown around the place, with only a few substantial pieces missing. This eye for an eye situation — despite looking quite counterpart-ish — still didn’t entertain you as much as you predicted. He took your bishop — you got rid of his shortly after. He chewed your knight up — you were paying him right back.

But it wasn’t enough. You wanted it all, and that included his king lying lifeless on that damned board in an old-fashioned way of resigning.

You decided to go for the bishop’s pair. It seemed logical: the piece was asking for it, standing so dangerously close to your powerful d7 knight. You consumed it without hesitation: had Viktor whistling out an amused little sound, appeasing you with what you believed was a sign of regret.

And a sign of regret it was. However, not to mourn his bishop. But you were too drunk on your freshly annexed trophy to notice the complete lack of defense around your abandoned d5 queen.

Of course: knowing what you know now, you would’ve never let that happen. That game turned you into a changed woman: you’d analyze it countless times months down the line, memorizing each tiny detail. Smacking yourself with a mental whip for even allowing him such an opportunity in the first place.

But that day, he took your careless offer and slayed the royalty. At first, you thought your vision was betraying you from looking at the chequered space for too long. But oh well — he still had one rook, and carefully moved it precisely one square forward, prying your precious omnipotent piece with one subtle movement. And only when it was gone were you able to comprehend the damages. You watched him throw your queen into the pile by his elbow — a makeshift bed for all the fallen soldiers he took from you.

That’s how you lost your nail.

“Fuck,” you groaned, squeezing that poor finger between the hard press of your teeth.

Viktor simply snickered. As if he didn’t just disarm you, guaranteeing himself an easy checkmate.

“A bit too harsh of a word to describe your predicament, don’t you think?” he provoked, gently nudging you towards the already rushing you with its ticking clock. “Surely, you can get out of this.”

“No,” you disputed, feeling the thick metal taste invading the cavity of your mouth. “No, I can’t get out of this. Technically, I already lost.”

“There you are: jumping to conclusions again. I can think of a few ways we could turn this into a draw–“ but he didn’t finish. Something got in his way —just like a sharp fish bone stuck in one’s throat; he even sounded choked up and hoarse, eyes widening with a petrified little gasp.

The way your name rolled off his trembling tongue insisted that his fright was targeted towards you.

“You’re bleeding,” he uttered — a nervous constatation.

You blinked, utterly bewildered. Only then did you register the weird flavour, withdrawing that tremendous finger from the pinch of teeth. Watching the trail of crimson flow rapidly down your arm, a mere inch from snaking into the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh.” A guilty thing, practically unintentional. “I’m aware.”

Viktor froze, now perplexed to the point of reaching over the desk and shaking some sense into you.

“I bite my nails when I’m anxious,” you quickly offered a breathless explanation, “I simply must have bitten too hard this time.”

He didn’t respond. Well, not with his words, to be precise — his hand stopped the timer, signaling the game’s inevitable delay. You almost stuffed your mouth full of still presentably looking digits, almost certain that your opponent was now grabbing his cane to walk away from you as fast as his thin body was capable of moving. Had you grabbing his wrist with a desperate plea, panicking eyes meeting his — strict and half-lidded.

“Where are you going?” you queried, childishly hoping to hear something not including an insult.

“To the pharmacy, of course,” Viktor said, allowing you to hold onto him. Peering down at your contorted with astonishment face: as if he was judging you for ever thinking of him that low.

Because he’s sweet. Sweet boys don’t run away from their dates. Nor from their unfortunate opponents.

“What for?” you dared to ask, releasing his wrist in order not to overstep.

“To fetch you something to disinfect that with,” he laughed, registering your gesture as a non-verbal permission for him to go.

You watched him walk away from you oh so slowly — as if he made each step that pretty of a torture on purpose, tempting you to yell something foolishly grateful while your eyes could still swirl his posture, brimming with glassy, sheer excitement.

Or perhaps the pain from your injury finally decided to kick in.

“Viktor!” you managed to find your voice — shaky, a little too resonant for the library. He didn’t comment on that, though. Just turned to face you once again, nodding quizzically. “Will you show me the draw thing later?” you offered him the loveliest smile — not a smirk or a devious snicker. A smile, sincere and pretty. Had his lips arching into one of his own — so warm you wanted to slap yourself for ever considering toying with this polite, darling man. The thought didn’t linger, of course — but it swelled deliciously inside your mind, making you forget about the stinging finger for a few seconds. “Sure,” Viktor replied — no hesitation prominent in his tone, “just don’t chew on any more of your nails while I’m gone, please.”

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #a very self indulgent reader #but oh well #viktor x f!reader #viktor smut #viktor fluff #the cunterpart

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tip-top-cloud-surfer · 1 year ago

Text

The Love of a Princess - Rooster

Pairing: Rooster / Simpson!OC (Princess Alexandra)

Word Count: 2.3k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Series Warnings: (Modern-ish) Royal AU; Meant to Be Set in 1920s/1930s; AU Country/World; Inspired by History; Royal Protocol; Bodyguard AU; Implied Very Much Legal Age Gap; Mentions of Arranged Marriage; Mentions of Social Construct of Virginity; Sexism; Angst; War and Politics; Eventual Non-Descript and/or Implied Sexual Content; OCs

Series Summary: When Princess Alexandra is sent to the countryside to allow her father, King Beau, to deal with pressing state issues, she views it as a banishment. But with Lieutenant Bradshaw of the Royal Navy accompanying her, perhaps she can finally find the freedom she's been searching for her whole life.

A.N. Very lightly inspired by the first two seasons of the Crown, but it's not meant to reflect that or take on a distinctly British tone.

Master List

Part 2

There was always a silent freedom of the early morning, when the sun was just starting to rise and drops of dew were still forming on the blades of grass. It was her father, the King, that taught her that it was the early hours of the morning where she would always find the most peace in the day.

It was when she was allowed to be herself, and not the Princess, Heir Apparent to the Throne. When the weight of the day had not yet fallen on her shoulders, and she could still breathe freely. And when for just a moment, she could enjoy complete serenity.

As such, there was rarely a morning that Princess Alexandra was not out in the gardens or even a ride when she was out in the country. And this morning was no different.

Sitting on a stone bench in the middle of the gardens—as far away from the walls of the palace as she could get without a chaperone—Princess Alexanda quietly read her book, humming to herself as she reached to take a small sip of her coffee. She just needed a few moments to herself before her country called for her and she was forced to become Princess Alexandra.

From her conversation with her private secretary the night before, she understood that today involved more meetings with stuffy statesmen. Ones that viewed her as a silly little girl playing dress up in the role of the future queen, yet none of them could actually say it or even think it too loudly. And Alexandra was tired of it.

“You should be getting ready for your meetings,” a voice called from her left, causing her to look up suddenly from her book.

“You know how I feel about those meetings,” Alexandra sighed, turning away from her father and back to her book. “Besides, my outfit is already selected for me, down to the earrings and even the stockings. My schedule has been picked for me. And even the words that should travel from my brain to my mouth have already been decided without me.”

“I thought you normally had coffee when you came out here to read?” King Beau mused, resting his hands on his knees.

“I do.”

“Then why are you still so crabby?” he teased his eldest daughter, nudging her with his elbow. Alexandra shot her father a look but it quickly dissolved into an amused smile. “It will get easier with time. I promise, my dear.”

“More automatic, you mean,” she sighed, marking her book before shutting it.

“Perhaps,” he replied softly. “But you’ll find your way, Alexandra. Your own way.”

“I will certainly try.”

“I know that you will. But right now, you should get back to your room and get ready for today before you scare your maid. There are military men coming today. And military men are always on time. You can’t be late.”

“Alright,” Alexandra replied, getting up from her seat. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she bid her father goodbye. She made it a few steps before turning on her heel and asking her father, “Who’s coming today that’s so important?”

~~~~~

“Remind me again why the princesses need additional security? And from a man like me, no less?” Bradley asked, walking a step behind his uncle into the palace.

“Tensions are rising across the globe. The King quietly wants the princesses to be shuttled out to the countryside while he’s in intense meetings all day.”

“He doesn’t want to alarm them?”

“I would think so. He doesn’t need distractions. It’s a very delicate situation everywhere and the princesses are young.”

“The future queen is very much an adult,” Bradley pointed out to Maverick.

“In age, certainly. But in the eyes of the country and of the government, not entirely,” Maverick replied, taking the steps in front of him quickly.

“But why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s a bullshit answer.”

“Do not swear when in the palace,” Maverick hissed, nudging Bradley with his hand. “And be careful here. There are ears in the walls.” Maverick quickly adjusted Bradley's medals and straightened out his collar before shooting Bradley another look. “Just get through today and then you can act like a normal human being again.”

Bradley nodded and followed his uncle’s lead. They walked into a grand room where several gentlemen were mingling. Most of them were in military uniforms, but there were still a fair number of aristocrats running around the place. Probably annoyed at all the commoners running around, if Bradley had to guess. But he stood silently as Maverick led him over to Ice.

“Prime Minister Kazansky,” Maverick greeted, causing Ice to turn.

“Captain Mitchell,” he returned, shaking Maverick’s hand as if they were meeting for the first time. But the smiles shared between them clearly showed a level of familiarity that Ice didn’t share with the other high-ranking officials in the room. Ice turned to Bradley and extended his hand again, as if he was not at Bradley’s military academy graduation, “And Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

“Prime Minister,” Bradley stated, struggling a bit to hide the familiarity in his tone.

“Are you prepared for your next mission, Lieutenant?” Ice asked, folding his arms behind his back.

“Yes, sir. I have studied the mission extensively, as I would any military operation,” Bradley replied, sharing a look with Maverick. “Though, I must admit that I don’t know why this mission has become mine in the first place.”

“There were several factors at play,” Ice explained quietly, keeping his voice low. “The King served in the Royal Navy and therefore trusts a Navy man more than he would another. Your record is exemplary, and your personal recommendations are pristine. You are young and agile. And you don’t have any record of being a fanatic concerned with the Royal Family.”

“Fanatic?” Bradley repeated, confused.

“Fanatic, yes. The Princess is still unmarried, of course, and as she is of marrying age, the King does not want any fanatics or obsessive social climbers anywhere near her.”

“Then why did he invite them?” Maverick asked dryly, gesturing to a group of nobles on the other side of the room. At Ice’s expression, Bradley turned to Maverick with a small smirk. “Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t know proper decorum at these events, Mav.”

“If you would all please get into your order,” a voice boomed from the entryway.

Bradley followed Maverick and stood at the very end of the line. Straightening up, he stared ahead, waiting for the King and Princess to finally arrive. He had seen photos of them, of course, but meeting them in person was different. The black and white of the photos still hid details that Bradley felt like he needed to know if he was going to act as a guard to the three princesses.

The doors opened as Bradley turned his head to watch the King step into the room and greet Ice at the head of the line. Maverick told Bradley that the King was a bit stuffy and a stickler for the rules, but when one truly got to know him outside of his duties, he was a man of exceptional character with a strong, caring nature.

Turning his head again, Bradley paused when he saw the Princess Alexandra step into the room.

Her hair was curled and pinned back into place in a bun that Bradley was sure could probably survive a bomb. She wore a simple gray dress and coat with matching heels, looking a bit like an accountant as she followed a few steps behind her father. And the necklace around her neck was quite simple for the future Queen.

But when she looked down the line and briefly locked eyes with him, there was no mistaking her for an ordinary woman. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, analyzing every minute detail put in front of her, down to the shine of each medal on each man’s chest and the quality of the thread below it. Her quietness that the papers liked to discuss was not timidness, but simply a pause.

Like a lioness waiting in the grass for the right moment to strike.

~~~~~

Princess Alexandra had been through about a thousand lineups in her life and every single one was as boring as the last. There were never people that she wanted to meet—scholars, artists, individuals who did not treat her like a dainty doll that they could manipulate as they pleased, but rather a strong woman with her own thoughts.

No, it was just a lineup of stuffy statesmen and nobles that all thought she was an idiot waiting for her chance to burn it all down through her own delusion.

But she didn’t mind Prime Minister Kazansky.

“Your Royal Highness,” Ice greeted her with a nod of his head, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Prime Minister,” she returned, shaking his hand briefly. “And please tell me that I have the continued mercy of having you at my side at lunch.”

“Indeed, miss.”

“Good,” she stated with a genuine smile before she was ushered on.

Going down the line of statesmen and nobles, she had to bite back a grimace when she saw the next man in the lineup. Michael Warrington, the next Earl of Avon. And the man who seemed so intent on seducing her that it was honestly laughable. She had about as much interest in his serpentine smile, bad breath, and small mind as she had interest in getting shot in the face.

“Lord Warrington,” she greeted him politely.

“Your Royal Highness, it is a pleasure to see your beautiful face again,” he drawled, shaking her hand for a bit longer. Thank goodness she was wearing gloves, or she would have to thoroughly sanitize her hands after this encounter. “We missed your presence at the races. I believe you are a good luck charm for our horses.”

“You are too kind, Lord Warrington.” As she turned to the next man in the line, she muttered under her breath, “Really too kind.”

Making her way down the rest of the way, Alexandra came to the last two men in line. They were both dressed in naval uniforms that were freshly pressed and medals that were recently heavily shined. But she could tell that they were both not used to these events. And that automatically made them more interesting to her.

“The Captain Peter Mitchell of the Royal Navy,” her attendant introduced Maverick to her.

“Captain Mitchell,” she stated, extending her hand for him to shake. “My father has told me a great many stories of your valiance in the Royal Navy.”

“I do hope only the stories that paint me in a good light, Your Highness.”

“Only those that paint him in a good light, I’m afraid,” she replied with a note a humor in her tone. “What brings you to our fine palace today, Captain Mitchell?”

“Military matters, miss.”

“Of course.”

“And the matter of your security, as well.”

“My security?” Alexandra repeated, trying to not show her confusion.

“Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw of the Royal Navy,” her attendant continued, pushing her along.

With her usual stately mask slipping, Alexandra stepped to the side, turning to the man standing beside Maverick, whom her father had been talking to for a few moments longer than the other guests. Looking up at the lieutenant, she felt her cheeks instantly warm with girlish embarrassment that she swore she had outgrown.

He was tall, but not gangly. Nowhere near gangly. The white fabric of his naval uniform was absolutely pristine and outlined the size of his strong frame. His face was tanned, showing that he spent much time out in the sun, and he wore a finely trimmed mustache on his upper lip that framed his plump lips.

She wouldn’t mind statesmen who looked more like him.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw,” she greeted him, offering him her hand.

“Your Highness,” he returned politely, nodding his head to her before shaking her hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“The honor is all mine, Lieutenant,” she stated softly.

“Alexandra,” her father called, causing her to turn to him, “Lieutenant Bradshaw will be joining you and your sisters in the country.”

“Wonderful,” was all she managed, shooting Bradley a small smile. “Well, I look forward to spending more time with you, Lieutenant.”

“I as well, Your Highness.”

Alexandra nodded back to Bradley before following her father towards the dining room where the state lunch would be taking place. When they were a few steps away, her stately expression slipped, and she turned to her father with a look that her mother used to shoot him when she knew that details were being kept from her.

“I’m supposed to go to the country with Ellie and Sophie next week?” she asked quietly, but with a strong measure of force behind her words. “And with a guard?”

“Something has come up,” Beau replied just as quietly as they approached the table. “We will discuss it later tonight.”

“Or never at all?” Alexandra needled, pursing her lips together.

She shot her father one last look before walking around to her side of the table. Beau took a breath before moving to do the same. He was never concerned that his eldest daughter would be able to keep herself composed at these state events. But he was concerned for the sharpness of her words afterwards.

Bradley found himself at the end of the table, but yet he could still see the Princess standing in the middle, beside Ice. She kept her composed expression, but the daggers in her eyes only seemed to have sharpened.

The lioness was getting ready to pounce.

Part 2

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nixie-deangel · 4 months ago

Note

Author love!!!! What are the 5 favourite fics you’ve ever written and why?

💚💙💜💚💙💜 Nonnie, know I am laying the gentlest of kisses upon your forehead and hugging you tightly.

Honestly though Nonnie, I enjoyed writing all of these for a variety of reasons. Each piece I've written holds a special place to me. Also please know Nonnie I cried when I got thise because i've been feeling a little blah about my writing but I went back and reread these and remembered why I loved them while I was trying to figure out which of my works i would add to this because damn it was HARD narrowing it down to five once I started rereading my stuff. So you know what people you should take the time every now and again to reread your own stuff!

In no particular order, here are my favorites I've written:

You Make Me Bold, You Make Me Strong: DCEU, Clois, NSFW.

Perhaps, she thinks, maybe she’ll get him to come once more for her. Though, she muses as she tilts her head, watches the way he pants, the way he’s gripping the sheets — doing his level best not to tear or damage them — she could probably squeeze two more out of him. Before calling it a night and letting him rest. Yes, she decides and shifts, widening her knees, getting herself more balanced, she’ll get two more out of him before letting him float without flying.

Why: Because Clark absolutely DESERVES to be railed by his petite wife and her collection of stap-ons! Like, come on! He's a good boy! He deserves to be rawed and turned into a crying, whiney, blubbering, over stimulated mess.

Didn't Know I Was Lost: Star Wars, Obikin, Modern AU.

No, no, he thinks and shakes his head before pinching himself harshly on his cheek. “Ouch,” he muttered to himself, opening his eyes as he ignored the sting. Swallowing, around the lump once again forming in his throat, he simply stares. Because Obi-wan was still there. Still wrapped up in a perfectly tailored suit and his long beige coat, sitting with no bag in front of his front door. Or both Obi-wan and Anakin both try to make a grand gesture, but only one of them succeeds at it. Also feelings are discussed.

Why: This was honestly a delight to write, despite the angsty bits of it. It kind of just poured out of me and was like my hands were possessed as the story just flowed onto the doc. Was also beyond fun to play around and pack in so much emotion to the only one bed prompt.

The Malfunction: The Flash, Coldflash, Modern/Model AU.

Because of course Iris had mentioned at the last family dinner that she had been asked to cover one of the hottest stories in Central. Barry just wishes he’d bothered to actually ask her which one because standing not ten feet from him is Leonard Snart, Barry’s ultimate celebrity crush and a personal hero of his. *AU where Len is a model and he meets awkward Barry, a tech at a photo shoot.

Why: I wrote this when I was dealing with some feelings about my body issues and this is what came out as a result of me just deciding to not give a fuck about other's opinions and being comfortable with myself! I specifically wrote it as coldflash though, because of Wentworth Miller, who's own statements about people commenting about his body, also helped me with mine.

I'll Be Your Guard Heart: TGM, Hangster, Shifter AU.

Jake only loses control when it comes to Bradley Bradshaw and he was okay with that.

Why: Because I needed Jake to be an absolutely petty, feral, over protective, possessive bitch that's hidden under a veneer of cocky asshole! Really though, it was fun to write. Fun to come up with. And it's been fun expanding upon! (because I am planning to add more to this universe eventually!) Plus it is my favorite thing I've written so far this year.

Uncovering the Meaning: The Flash, Coldflash, Soulmate AU.

“It doesn’t matter, Leo. The little freak wouldn’t love you anyway. No one could love you, boy!” Lewis taunted cruelly. Len felt himself flinch from the memory of his father’s voice from the nightmare that’d woken him up. He brought his left hand to rub at the deep scar on the left side of his chest, but after a moment, he simply laid his palm flat against it.

Why: This was the first thing I'd written in years that was longer than 2k, so it holds a special place in my heart. Plus I met my bestie @asexual-fandom-queen through writing this!

#nixie answers #anonymous #obikin #coldflash #hangster #clois #dcu #star wars #sereshaw #the flash #tgm #top gun maverick #nixie's writing #my writing

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nerdieforpedro · 10 months ago

Text

Last Line Tag Game

rules: in a new post, show the last line(s) you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you like).

Tagged by @tinytinymenace @djarinmuse @chronically-ghosted @pedroshotwifey

So I think I’ll give three last lines, because it’s what I’ve been working on, first up is Din Djarin smut. I was supposed to be writing fluff, between @alltheglitterandtheroar and @megamindsecretlair it changed for the better and teasing is always fun. ☺️

Both arms pull Din’s head to your chest, the sharp inhale of air before he’s buried in your body has you whining. The intensity of just two of this thick fingers have you close to your second orgasm but he removes them, a pop then a second as he mouth part from your nipple. “Taste yourself, then you’ll come twice for me.”

Second is from “This is the Neighboorhood Din” my modern Din AU:

“Dear Lord in heaven I am not dressed or prepared to talk to that sort of man any day.” She muttered as Ms. Harris made her way down the stairs toward her, she hugged her, and her arms wrapped around her as well, eye still lingering on the man sitting on the porch. His sweatpants did not leave much to the imagination. They weren’t tight by any means; one could just trace the lines. Thick thighs and well… heavy in the middle is the most polite way to say it. The only way she can think to describe it while hugging her aunt.

Third, last line from chapter 5 of “The Lake Between Us” (yes I do have future chapters written I planned! Unheard of in Nerdie-land)

“That I did Moonbeam. You should be cautious of my motives, but I can start at the beginning of my troubles for you if you like.” He placed his hand on hers, running up her arm to her shoulder and drew a small circle around her mole. “Be forewarned, the past is neither rosy nor glamorous. It is fraught with hardship, double-crosses and some death.”

Moonbeam grinned, nodding as he spoke, “Sounds like a thriller Ezra. I’m all ears. Add a dash of romance and some mistaken identity and you have yourself a movie marathon.”

“I’m sure you’d be riveted to hear it.”

“That I would.” Moonbeam crosses her legs and leans forward, touching his chin with a finger, “Speak.”

Lastly, I might be trying finish my Dave York series finally. 👀 Or one of them, though I’m not sure all of them are on Tumblr. I think I write too much stuff and it get’s jumbled. This is a softer Dave:

At her core, Kiara felt safe with him. It hurt to admit though she wasn’t exactly sure why, pride maybe? Maybe she wanted to continue to be independent but she hadn’t been for a few months now.

No. Not when she really thought about it.

Her head was leaning against the steering wheel, the nurse had seen his SUV parked in the driveway. Dave pretty much lived with her now, though she didn’t remember giving him a key. He hadn’t needed a key their first night together either.

I’m also working on “Roc & Doc” and crafting the murder mystery since I killed off Rockford’s partner and introduced his brother. What role will his brother play? We’ll see. Also, if you’re going to be a furry for the night, make sure you can in and out of your suit. 😎

Chapter 5 of “Weddings 101 with Dieter” is under way as well. I want a lot to be in it, might be too much. We’ll see how it turns out, also smut because Dieter’s gotta get Maya’s dress off - he did promise her that. 😘 Half-ass and Bridezilla are in full swing!

It’s a lot like always because it’s Nerdie, what else am I supposed to do? Too many ideas, not enough follow-through. I did four instead of three. 😵

NPT: @maggiemayhemnj @morallyinept @rhoorl (for the sweatpants) @linzels-blog for Din @inept-the-magnificent @soft-girl-musings @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @magpiepills @secretelephanttattoo @goodwithcheese @undercoverpena @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @lady-bess @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @gemmahale @laurfilijames @avastrasposts @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @tightjeansjavi @frenchiereading @boliv-jenta @thefrogdalorian @trulybetty @kewwrites @beefrobeefcal @fhatbhabie

And whoever else saw all this and was like, let me do it too! ☺️

#last line tag #last line challenge #last line game #pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #din djarin #dieter bravo #tim rockford #ezra prospect #wips #wip

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star-railfanboy · 2 years ago

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Their Muse

|Hello everyone that comes across this. This is my first writing for Honkai Star Rail. It's going to be a modern au in which the reader is best friends with some of the Star Rail boys and is an artist. The reader will also be smaller than all of the boys. Feel free to change the pronouns to fit your own. Anyways I hope you have a wonderful day or night and please enjoy.

Scenario: You both were considered a pair it's rare to see one without the other. You were always with a sketchbook or something to draw on in your free time. You've been friends since childhood. He constantly wished to see what you had been drawing and is quite surprised when he manages to get a glimpse one day.

Caelus, and Dan Heng (separately) x A Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: long, minor spoiler character spoilers?, and (minor injuy mentions nothing graphic). |

Caelus:

Caelus and (Name) were hanging out at a new Cafe together. It was one if their free moments and were going to be joined by their other two friends eventually. "I'm bored." Caelus whined leaning against his long time friend. He wasn't even allowed to rummage through the trash cans on the way because they stopped him.

Caelus had had a long time crush on (Name) but felt he had better luck with some trash can than them. It was hard for him to gauge what they thought of him. After all they've always treated him the same way. He admired them for a variety of reasons and always enjoyed their presence.

"Well if you're so bored you can pull up your game you're always playing on your phone. Dan Heng should be here soon after all he sent a text saying so in our group chat. Then we'll just be waiting on March and it's anyone's guess to when she'll arrive." (Name) stated while doodling something in their sketchbook. They occasionally glanced up at him making him pout.

Caelus was looking at them intensely as if begging them to entertain him. He was a being of chaos and needed something going on. "How about you show me what your drawing or teach me to draw instead?" He suggested.

He wasn't sure if it was his gaze or his question but he noticed their cheeks turn pink and they quickly shut their sketchbook "I'm going to order another drink would you like anything?"

Caelus perked up at their words. It meant they were going to treat him. "Can I get another juice?" He asked. They simply nodded placing the sketchbook down and getting up. He noticed the sketchbook was still on the table after they went to the counter. He felt a strong sense of complusion come over him.

The two had been friends for so long but for some reason after they graduated high school (Name) stopped showing him their art. It irrated him because he loved their art. Curiosity had over taken him and he glanced around to see them still at the counter ordering. He sneakily grabbed the sketchbook.

He gently flipped it open. His eyes widened in surprise as he flipped through the pages. They were all very well done sketches of him during different outings the two had. When he got to the most recent page which they were just sketching on and it was him sitting there. He glanced back at them and saw them still waiting for their drinks. His face felt like it was on fire.

He quickly shut the book and contemplated the morality of the actions he just performed. All these years they had started drawing him. The drawings were super flattering. One might think they were drawing a model if they were shown it.

"Hey Caelus why are you so flustered?" March's voice quickly snapped him out his thought. He look up at her. Then watched as she noticed (Name)'s sketchbook and her eyes lit up. She quickly grabbed it as they came back to the table.

They placed Caelus' drink right in front of him. Then set their's down before trying to grab their sketchbook from their hyperactive friend. "March I love you but my drawings are private!" Their face had become a deep red. While March held it away from them.

"No! You let Dan Heng see it once but Caelus and I never get to. Just a peak to make it fair. Caelus you wanna see it too don't you?" She whined holding it away from the other. Caelus looked at the two. His guilt was eating away at him. He had a choice to make. He didn't want to be dishonest and March seeing what's in it would mean playing a game of a thousand questions.

Thankfully he didn't have to ponder too much because their stoic friend showed up grabbing the sketchbook from March 7th. "When I saw their sketchbook it was merely because they were asked for my opinion on a drawing. They'll show us when they want to." He simply said handing the book back to them.

"Caelus you have to be curious too right? After all you two are always together and have been friends for like ever. You should help me convince the buzz kills." March whined shaking his arm. Caelus felt it was better to own up to his crimes before March gets back on the topic of his blush.

He cleared his throat looking away rubbing the back of his neck. "I was so I glanced at it while (Name) was getting us some more drinks" He admitted refusing to look at the others.

"Oh did you see their note then?" Dan Heng asked wondering if he should take March somewhere else while the other two talk. Caelus looked surprised again and noticed (Name) was hiding their face with the book. "I didn't. (Name) give it back I need to see this note." He said getting up and reaching for it. They were now playing keep away from him. It was futile because his arms were longer.

"It's not in here anymore I ripped it out." They stated. Caelus looked disappointed. "Wait what's in the sketchbook!?!?" March questioned before being lead away towards the counter by Dan Heng. "We're going to go order drinks while you two sort things out." He said walking away with March.

(Name)'s face was now on fire refusing to look at the other. Caelus leaned down. "So why were you so ashamed of showing me all these drawings. They are very flattering and to know you use me as your art muse makes me happy." He teased. "If you liked me you could've just said so after all the feeling is the same." He said giving a smile.

He grabbed their hand which made their face become more red. He kissed their forehead and the two heard a click. They looked over to see March holding her camera towards them with eyes shining. "You two need to allow me to be apart of the wedding!" She said excitedly.

"They aren't exactly dating just yet though it will be nice to not hear anymore of their pinning." Dan Heng stated crossing his arms. (Name) just wanted to disappear into the floor.

Dan Heng:

Dan Heng got along well with his best friends. Sometimes he'd wonder what it would be like to date them. The two have always been able to spend several hours together in a comfortable silence. He'd be reading while (Name) would be drawing. He never was shown their art work which made him a bit disappointed but he refused to press them in the matter. He figured they would show him if they wished for him to see.

When the two went off to college together they decided to rent an apartment together. After all they've always been near one another since they were young. There was a point he had lost his memories for a bit due to an injury. He started falling in love with them after that incident. A lot of his old friends abandoned him during that time simply because they didn't wish to rebuild the relationship.

However (Name) told him that it was ok he didn't remember them. They wanted to stay by his side even if it meant their friendship had to start over. He regained all the memories he had lost though. He was glad they didn't leave him.

After all that he started noticing very little things about them. He also realized he liked listening to their voice and seeing their smile. It wasn't until he was on an outing with Himiko and Mr. Yang where Himiko pointed out he was in love with his best friend. The idea was reinforced when he was with Caelus and invited him to a study session with the two. Caelus stated he didn't want to be a third wheel to the couple and was planning a date with a trash can instead.

Dan Heng was surprised that a few people had brought the matter of a crush up to him. He wasn't able to deny his feelings now though he didn't want anything to change so he remained quiet about them. Being able to spend his evenings with them while they drew and he read was enough for him.

He was heading home from some of his biology classes. He had gotten out early which was rare but he wasn't complaining. He was gifted a new book from (Name) that he wanted to start reading.

He figured that they wouldn't be home yet when he walked through the door. He went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. On the counter he noticed (Name)'s sketchbook laying there open. He would be lying if he wasn't curious. So he took a quick peak at the page it was open to.

His face immediately heated up. He hid his blush behind his hand. It was a very well drawn sketch oh himself. There were some hearts neatly drawn around it in the blank space. He quickly took a picture of it and sent it to Caelus asking if he knew what it meant. He wouldn't dare send it to March 7th as he couldn't handle the teasing from her at the moment.

'They like you in the same way you like them is my only guess. That drawing is very flattering. Do you think they'd draw me of I asked them?' Caleus had quickly responded. Dan Heng felt his thoughts racing for a second. 'I'm unsure if they would they tend to keep their art private as they draw for themself. Do you mind if we meet up I need help sorting my thoughts?'

Caelus immediately responded with a pompom emoji and 'Be there soon.' Dan Heng had to admit he was glad his friend was sometimes happy to help. Though he wondered if. It was conditioned into him from being asked all the time.

Within a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Dan Heng went to answer and saw Caelus who invited himself in. He walked over to the counter and saw the sketchbook. "Have you looked at any other pages?" He asked.

The black haired male shook his head no. "I don't think I was supposed to see this page. They told me earlier they left in a rush because they had forgotten about their class today." He answered. He watched the taller male walk over and start flipping through the pages.

Dan Heng frowned. "We shouldn't look through it without their permission." He said. Gold eyes looked back at him unbothered. "Shouldn't have left it where I could find it. Be glad March isn't here. She'd be taking pictures of every drawing and sending them to everyone." He stated matter of factly.

"They definitely like you back. This sketchbook is filled to the brim with drawings of you when you two hang out and when we're together as a group. Hey they drew me as a raccoon! Rude." Caelus said with a blank expression.

Dan Heng raised an eyebrow at his friend. "It's pretty accurate if you asked me. What should I do about this situation?" He asked himself. "Ask them out. Though you'll probably get too in your head if you do it in person. I'm gonna ask March and Himiko how they'd do it." Caelus answered closing the sketchbook. "Once you're dating they owe me a drawing of me that isn't a raccoon." He pulled out his phone.

He sent a messages to Kafka instead of the two he mentioned March would ask too many questions and he didn't wanna deal with it and Himiko would just tell him to be honest. He noticed Dan Heng's eyes went wide at the two he mentioned. "Caelus please tell you didn't actually ask those two?" He said.

"Nah I asked someone else whose good at romance." Caelus said waiting for her to respond. Romance wasn't his Forte after all when he was down on his luck he considered dating a trash can. He saw the message. 'If you're too shy to do it in person just write them a letter and let them find it. Though your future lover will need to get my approval kiddo.'

Caelus then grabbed Dan Heng's phone. "What are you doing?" He asked. The silver haired boy rolled his eyes. "Just trust me." The taller male pulled up (Name)'s contact. He typed out a confession that sounded like Dan Heng's writing. He immediately sent the message. "Here's your phone back." He said handing it back to him.

Dan Heng's eyes went wide and he quickly tried deleting the message from the chat log but froze when he saw three dots indicating they had seen the message and was typing a response. Caelus was watching the chaos with an entertained smile. While Dan Heng was standing there frozen.

His face felt like it was on fire when they said they liked him back and was wondering if he wanted to go on a date. He was now contemplating hitting Caelus or thanking him. "I'm gonna be your best man right?" The golden eyed boy asked.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #dan heng x reader #caelus x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #dan heng #caelus #taylor writes

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poorlittlegreenie13 · 6 months ago

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Greenie's Masterlist — Come & join the party <3

About Me:

Hi! My name is Greenie, which is a reference from David Bowie's song The Jean Genie which has the lyric "Poor little Greenie" in it.

I'm a 20-something lesbian virgo, triple earth sign, eternal-student, Donna Tartt enthusiast, 90's alt rock enthusiast, record-collector, & fic writer <3.

This blog doesn't have a specific theme... I go wherever the muses take me. Below you'll find links to & descriptions of all of my fics sorted by fandom.

Link to my AO3

Stories:

The Bear:

Rules For (fake) Dating an Italian 🇮🇹 - Sydney/Carmy. Complete, WC: 100K.

WANTED: Female, aged 20-30, to be my date for Christmas eve dinner with my Italian family. Must be willing to eat my mom’s cooking. No physical intimacy required. No strings attached—I will drive you home after. 4pm-10pm, 12/24. Salary negotiable. Call Carmen: (773) 555-0901.

OR: The one in which Sydney just needs a job, and Carmy will die before he proves Richie right.

Yellowjackets:

Wretched Things 🔥 - Jackie/Shauna, Taissa/Van, Lottie/Natalie. Complete, WC: 260K

It’s been five years since Shauna Sadecki volunteered for Jackie Taylor at the Reaping and won the 45th Hunger Games. Now, at the second annual Quarter Quell, everyone who has been previously Reaped is eligible to be thrown back into the arena. That includes former best friends Lottie and Natalie, and former lovers Van and Taissa.

(aka, me offering up another Yellowjackets Hunger Games AU)

The Killing of a Sacred Doe 🦌 - Lottie/Natalie, Jackie/Shauna, (minor Tai/Van, minor Natalie/Shauna). In progress.

|| Inspired by The Secret History by Donna Tartt || (but can be read without having read TSH)

By every metric that matters, Natalie Scatorccio should not have been admitted to Wiskayok Conservatory for The Arts. She didn’t have the test scores, or the tuition money, or any particular talent or ambition that might have made her a promising asset for a conservatory to acquire. She did have a drinking problem, a dead father, and no other option. So sure, why not art school? It was better than rehab. Or jail.

let the light in 🖤 - Van/Taissa. Complete, WC: 5k.

“Take me home, please, Van.”

Taissa’s words are soft. Not a question, just a destination. They have always been heading here.

(Post finale getting-back-together fic)

Six of Crows / Shadow & Bone:

angelum mortis amo 🪽 - Jesper/Wylan. Complete, WC: 45k.

Jesper and Wylan are both hitmen from rival gangs. Wylan tries to kill Jesper. It goes about as well as you might expect.

(Featuring crazy-in-love Wylan Van Eck, flirting-at-gunpoint Jesper Fahey, and mob boss Kaz Brekker).

Show Me Yours ��‍⬛ - Jesper/Wylan. Complete, WC: 20k.

Wylan's past abuse hovers over him like a shadow. Jesper's gambling addiction binds him like a chain. But as they grow closer, it turns out secrets can melt like ice in the right kind of warmth.

(A character study of TV show-Wylan & Jesper & the way their backstories could factor into the progression of their relationship).

Stranger Things:

Star Star ✨ - Steve/Eddie (minor Chrissy/Robin). Complete, WC: 93K.

Rock band AU in which Robin, Eddie, Jonathan, Nancy, and Chrissy play in a band, and Steve has no choice but to hang out with the most annoying frontman in the world, Eddie Munson. Things escalate when they're forced to pretend they're in a relationship.

Modern AU, fake-dating (kind of).

I Buried a Hatchet (it's coming up lavender) 🪓 - Robin/Nancy (minor Steve/Eddie). Complete, WC: 60K.

Vecna nearly killed Robin before Nancy could take him out for good. Luckily, Robin's too stubborn to die, and Nancy's too stubborn to let her. Nursing her back to health, Nancy soon begins to question the feelings that almost losing Robin awoke in her.

In which Nancy has to do everything herself, compulsory heterosexuality is a bitch, and Robin Buckley is more charming than she thinks she is.

Harry Potter / Marauders:

Burn, Pine, Perish 🎶 - James/Regulus (minor Sirius/Remus). Complete, WC: 33k.

Sirius' family has magically forbidden him from dating anyone until Regulus finds a suitable pureblood partner. The problem is, Sirius is in love with a certain werwolf, and Regulus' romantic inclinations remain a mystery.

James, a pureblood, is nothing if not eager to help a friend.

AKA - A '10 Things I Hate About You' AU in which James attempts to woo Regulus so Sirius can have a chance with Remus.

Lonely Bones 🦴 - Draco/Hermione. Incomplete, on indefinite hiatus, I'm sorry, please stop asking me when I'm going to finish it, your guess is as good as mine, final answers is... sometime, probably, maybe?

Hermione Granger can't sleep. Draco Malfoy can't walk. The war is over, but it feels like it isn't. Neither of them are happy, but maybe the times together are better than the times apart.

Draco is cursed in the battle of Hogwarts with unhealable bone fractures. Hermione is in desperate need of money to bring her parents back from Australia, and when Narcissa offers her a job attempting to cure Draco, she has no choice but to take it.

A League of Their Own:

It's Rotten Work 💐 - Jess/Lupe. Complete. WC: 10K.

Nobody's ever taken care of Jess McCready.

Not until she met Lupe García, anyway.

(In which Jess is oblivious, Lupe is romantic, and both of them are a little bit confused.)

Devour What's Truly Yours 🏴‍☠️ written in collaboration with the lovely @somebodytoundress - Jess/Lupe. Complete, WC: 37K.

Lupe Garcia had planned to go down with her pirate ship when it was raided by Spanish soldiers one dreadful night. Bleeding out on the deck, she accepted her fate—until an infamous ghostly captain with no name and a haunting face rescued her from the burning ship and nursed her back to health. With no ship, no crew, and no fortune, the solution is clear for Lupe. She‘s going to kill this captain and take over her crew so she may return to ruling the seas. And she’s definitely not going to fall in love with her.

Simply Elegant 🚬 - Jess/Lupe. Complete, WC: 7K.

Lupe is the most popular jock in school.

Jess is a burnout weed dealer.

Lupe goes to Jess to buy weed for a party, and things progress from there.

Bein' Good Isn't Always Easy ⛪️ - Jess/Lupe. Complete. WC: 32K.

The hottest part of summer, working in a guitar shop in the heart of Texas, Jess has the worst sunburn of her life. And she has the hots for the preacher’s daughter. She’s not sure which is worse.

Sing Me to Sleep 🌃 - Jess/Lupe. Complete. WC: 5K.

Lupe's past comes back to haunt her on the anniversary of an important date.

Jess tries to understand. They fall a bit deeper in love.

Slice of life.

Keep Your Electric Eye on Me, Babe ⚡️- Jess/Lupe. Complete. WC: 4K.

Five times Jess caught Lupe's eye when she shouldn't have + one time Lupe did something about it.

Fever With Thy Flaming Youth 🌡️ - Jess/Lupe. Complete. WC: 2.5K.

Estí gets the flu. Jess & Lupe take care of her.

FAQs

Can I translate your fic?

Please ask first! We can discuss details.

Can I bind/print your fic?

As long as it's legal and no one is profiting off of it, go wild, send pictures when you're done!

Why haven't you updated (insert fic)?

Either I lost interest in it for some reason, or I got really excited about something else & intend to return to it, or I have something personal going on & can't write as much. Sorry!

Can I make fan art of your fic?

PLEASE make fan art of my fic. Please send it to me when you're done so I can share it!!!!

#welcome to the blog :)#don't be afraid to send asks #I'm nice I promise

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torchwood-99 · 3 months ago

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1, 17, 18, 19 and 28 for the fanfic writer ask game!!

Compliment your writing!

Mean! Ok, I do a lot of it. And when the muse grips me I can churn out a lot of stuff, which means if there's one specific character I'm really digging, like I am now with Eowyn, it means I can dig real deep with them and really explore a lot of different takes/themes. And I do like going back and reading my own stuff, now and then (which I should, as it's written to my specifications.)

17. What trope is your favorite to write?

I loving taking the mick of my characters, affectionately or critically. I love getting to put my Austen cap on and play with the idiosyncrasies of society and human nature. Also, horror.

18. What trope have you not written yet, but want to?

I quite fancy doing a Modern Royalty Au for LOTR, modern Rohan Royals anyone? Might be fun.

19. What headcanon do you always include in your stories?

I headcanon a non-depressed Eowyn as a bit of an imp. Someone who loves to tease and make fun and get into mischief. This is inspired by how she teased Faramir when he proposed, about his "proud folk" of Gondor who will say he "tamed " a shieldmaiden of the North. She obviously has a lot of spirit, that she kept shut inside in the days of Grima, and that boiled over in the end when she rode for Pelennor, and when she's happy and in a healthier environment, she lets it out more easily, but in less deadly ways.

28. Which fic is closest to your heart?

I'm very fond of Living Legends - Chapter 1 - TeamGwenee - The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own as I really, really love the idea of Eowyn helping bring down Minas Morgul, and her legend of killing the Witch King living on. As a Rohan girly, Fragments of a House - TeamGwenee - The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own] is pure indulgence, as The Fellowship of the Gown - TeamGwenee - The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own], which is ultimate fluff.

Thank you for the asks!!!

#LOTR #Lord of the Rings #Eowyn #Ask meme

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esssteee · 1 year ago

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WIP Tag Game

Thank youuuuuuuu @goatsandgangsters for the tag!! Took me a while, but here goes!

I've hit a mean writer's block these past months that I hope will lift away some fateful day, but that does not mean several of these listed wips aren't marinating in my head day and night soooooo ONE DAY I'LL BE BACK!! but anyway, these are all GV fics (and i realise that i have NO folder for my wips so it's just a pure hazard opening my main doc folder each time, should def work on that)

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

the cabin au (where alina and aleksander must hole in during a fjerdan blizzard that interrupts the first book stag hunt and where aleksander is injured and alina is just done with the shit hand life continues to throw her way. lots of spite and hurt/comfort and mutual frustration in that one, which is a killer combo imo)

we are the wild youth chasing visions of our future (that epic AU darklina fic that i will one day finish!! i swear on my life!!!!)

the darkolai priest/demon modern AU that @darkolaism and i fantasise about (so hannigram-konstantin/medved mashup i guess)

PORTFOLIO M (darkolai modern AU photographer/muse)

the three body problem (darkolina follow-up of my of monsters and men series. yuuuuuup, i loved alina too much in that series to not include her more in this no longer only daydreamt epilogue)

as of now the unnamed jurisander second part where aleksander joins juris in his travel to sankt feliks' grave and where he ends up learning more about his own roots and history

And that's it! not a ton of fics, but still too many for my current much too low energy. I've realised I put way too much info related to each title, but fuck it. Anyway, one day, my man will come back from the war (my man = writing mojo, the war = fuckin life)

Tagging: @for-want-of-a-nail, @aloveforjaneausten, @storm-elf, @yletylyf, @iamstartraveller776, @aquitainequeen and anyone else who wanna play!

#tag game

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petriichvrs · 1 year ago

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𝙷𝙾𝙶𝙶𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚆𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙰𝚂𝙺𝙴𝙳 : 3, 4 & 5 !

3. FACE CLAIMS YOU ARE DYING TO USE : archie madekwe and sun yihan are TOP of my list, but i also really wanna use london thor, madchen amick, diego luna, oliver jackson cohen, skeet ulrich, savannah lee smith, nadia hilker, chandler kinney, maia reficco and derek luh ! some have ideas attached for nox / aurora / lumos, but most are just ... waiting for their chance :(

4. FACE CLAIMS YOU ARE DYING TO PLAY AGAINST : oh i don't actually know ... i think pedro pascal has been on my opp list for a WHILE, but the only other people coming to mind are havana rose liu and melanie lynskey. maybe derek luh should be here too because i REALLY like him for astoria's oldest sibling ? but that's about it !

5. YOUR FAVORITE ORIGINAL VERSE OC (OR ONE OF YOUR FAVORITES) : ok she really might not count towards this because of being from a disney / marvel / next gen type group ( depends on your definition of original verse honestly, but since they were super au and set in a made up universe that i fleshed out i feel like all the characters there DO count ) but my number one forever is going to be rylie natalia barton. i've written her on and off since 2014 and she was originally a willa holland fc, though i recasted her for recent musings with my friend as diana silvers, because i think she's a great cast for a 'modern' rylie of a similar age to when i first wrote her. she's the daughter of clint barton & bobbi morse ( & step daughter of natasha romanoff ) and kicked off my whole barton cinematic universe that now includes uncle barney and his only kid, monica barton, and natasha's legal ward, ziva mizrahi. i just ... love her. this is her pin board & three songs from her inspo playlist that i think get her vibe are miss america by james blunt, tightrope by lp and hymn by kesha. she went through a LOT during her original run and was the character i did a three irl year alcoholism arc on that i am still like ... a little proud of, weird as that is to even say, because i feel like i wrote it well, and i just think that her character arc was one of the best things i ever did, tbh. she's always been the character i understood best and for a long time understanding her best and loving her most meant that i was going to give her a gruesome, too soon death, but as i've grown up and gotten myself into a better place and went on my OWN journey, she's now this character that i just want the absolute best for all of the time, even if she can only get to the best through a little more trouble. rylie is inspiration for a lot of characters i have written, but i've never been able to recreate her exactly, nor would i want to. she will always have a lil part of my heart and nobody else can ever take it<3

𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙴𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝚂𝙺 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴 » currently not accepting !

#answered

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torawro · 3 years ago

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𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚 ! (e.y.)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 WARNINGS & 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎! ⤿ pairings; eren yeager x black!fem!reader

includes ; modern au, established relationship. explicit/foul language, yandere tendencies/characteristics including gaslighting, manipulation & obsessive behavior. toxic!eren tbh. dub-con (fingering) , emotional instability (reader is not emotionally stable due to the relationship). mentions of cheating/infidelity. please proceed with caution and 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭!

word count ; ~3.7k

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞! — art from e_m.w on ig! this drabble/fic was inspired by that video of her drawing eren singing the ‘veronica’ song from a play...it had me feeling things im ngl and i couldn’t resist so how else to support this festering eren brain rot i’ve been having by writing this? enjoy & tell me what you think <33 reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

YOU LAID ON YOUR BACK, like a plank of wood, staring at the dark ceiling. the only source of illumination were the LED strip lights that clung to the top corners of your room. the deep blue hue that saturated the quiet ambiance of the night should have been soothing enough to lull your senses and help you drift to sleep.

the events from the past four days were exhausting in every sense of the word; you were so tired. your eyes were puffy and swollen from wearing out your tear ducts, a dull headache drummed away in your frontal lobe, and an even more intense ache lingered in your heart and it just wouldn’t subside.

your phone that laid across your stomach buzzed incessantly for a few seconds before cutting off, your bedroom falling into silence once again. an exasperated sigh left your lips, already regretting your immediate decision to check what it was.

your eyes were greeted with your now ex-boyfriend eren practically having an entire conversation with himself — well, he might as well be considering your lack of reply to anything that he said. your brows creased in concern as you read through each text bubble. it was almost as if he were two different people, and they were taking turns to speak to you, all to reach their ultimate end goal: a response from you.

some messages came off borderline unhinged and demanding, suffocating on his self-proclaimed ‘love’ for you, and forcefully tried to push it onto you. the time span between each text wasn’t even a full five minutes before he sent another. he even went as far as threatening you when he told you to “be a good girl and fucking call me back, or you won’t like what i’ll do to you.”

the other messages, however, showed him being sweetly apologetic and sincere, dredging up memories of happier and more carefree times in your relationship. it felt so real, like those times were in reach, it was almost enough to make your thumb tap the face time icon.

you guessed, he was sorry...right? a feeling deep down in your soul told you that he truly didn’t mean to cheat on you that one time.. did he? that he didn’t mean to ghost you for days just to reappear, whispering saccharine words of how much you meant to him as he ruthlessly pounded into your cunt— which shamelessly wept for his attention— only to disappear again, right? it couldn’t have been his intention to make you lose the little self-worth you did have by making you feel like you weren’t doing enough, could it?

maybe i should call him, you mused to yourself. you were millimeters away from the call button before your manicured thumb stopped in its tracks.

you felt yourself hesitating, reluctant. suddenly it hit you. he did completely ignore your existence, he did fuck you like he loved you just to drop off the face of the earth, he did cheat on you that one time.

endless thoughts of uncertainties and conflicting desires swirled around in your being, making you even more confused and increasingly frustrated.

what did you really want to do? hell if you knew at this point. one part of you never wanted to see his name or face again; your stomach twisted at the thought that you were wholeheartedly in love with an inconsiderate, unfaithful, lying shit like eren yeager.

the other part— that damned other part, though— it longed for that sweet eren you became so enamored with, for his touch, for his sweet whispers of reassurance that brushed your ear when you slept on his chest, for the little acts of kindness that made you grin like a little school girl, and ugh, for that dick…he was really your everything at one point.

you let out a groan, and shifted in your bed again. your mind and heart were fighting an intense battle and were honestly unable to tell who would turn out to be the victor.

you could practically feel your brain shutting down and all logic flying out the window the harder you tried to predict the possible outcomes of what would happen if you ditched your pride and did return his pleas for you. it’d make perfect sense to sleep on it and see how you’d feel about it tomorrow, but you just couldn’t because—

bzzzz! bzzzz! your phone went off again, and then again. absentmindedly picking it up off your chest, you unlocked it with your gaze and reflexively clicked on the message thread between you and him.

“baby please…call me. i said i was sorry.. please give me a chance and answer so i can apologize properly....”

oh, he’s pleading.

such simple terms of endearment like ‘baby’ could easily make your stomach erupt in butterflies. you bit your lip with anxiety, looking up at the ceiling again for a sign to direct you on how you should act, since you clearly couldn’t decide for yourself.

you supposed you thought it over too long, because your phone vibrated in your palms again. checking the message a little too quickly, reading it made your breathing temporarily stop and your heart drop to your ass.

“ykw, come and open the fucking door. i ain’t playin’ with you no more.”

slowly realizing what he typed, your eyes widened in horror. what did he just say? is he...is he here?

you sat in your comfy bed paralyzed until you heard a car door slam, and it sounded like it was very close by. scrambling up from your bed, almost tripping over you comforter and blankets and bonnet slipping off your head, you peered out the window and you did unfortunately see a dark figure resembling eren’s stalking closer and closer to your building.

eren fucking yeager showed up to your house unannounced, at 1:15 am, all because you didn’t text him back.

your figure trembled slightly as you stepped back from the window, grabbing onto your nightstand for balance. “fuck... why..” you couldn’t even think straight with the way your heart hammered in your chest so loud that you heard it in your head.

you were actually scared of what he was going to do once he saw you. mind flashing back to just how crazy some of his texts had been, you didn’t exactly know how to deal with this, since you’ve never seen this type of obsessive behavior from him, or from anyone really. the sense of impending doom increased with every minute that passed.

you nearly jumped out your skin when you heard three knocks on your door. it was quiet for a minute or two before he knocked again, only a little harder. it made you even more uneasy when you wondered how he got up here so quickly.

then, you heard him say your name. that voice that used to make your heart race, used to make your cheeks flush, used to make your pussy drip like no tomorrow. now, it made unpleasant goosebumps rise on your skin and the hair on your neck stand on end. gulping down the lump that was beginning to form in your throat, your legs moved without your brain’s command and silently inched towards the front door.

after a few more minutes of heavy, deafening silence, he called for you again. his tone this time around, however, was filled with a hysterical desperation that caused you to flinch harshly, and pulled a soft sob from your lips. this led you to the conclusion that eren was far past the point of no return — he was crazy. and like, really fucking livid.

he was damn near growling at you from the other side of the door, like an angry, needy dog, and that was surely the most terrifying sound you’ve heard in your life.

you chewed on your lip in apprehension trying to decide your next move, and felt heat flood your body when you heard him growling for you to open up. you should not have been thinking that way. not now, and certainly not ever.

the firm knocks he placed on the dark wood of the door that turned into the banging of his fist never stopped either. you grew worrisome of the attention that the two of you would get when they heard all the ruckus coming from your side of the corridor. may God help anyone that would think to reason, or even approach eren in his current state of mind.

much to your surprise, his voice suddenly grew softer, like a whisper. you had to get even closer to the door to hear him properly. not without a weapon though. you held a white ceramic vase in your sweaty palms.

“princess? p..please just open the door. please. i’m so sorry for yelling at you like that and for saying all those things, i promise i didn’t mean any of that shit. i just got so upset when you weren’t returning my texts or calls that i got frustrated and lost my cool. i don’t want us to fight anymore. i miss you. i miss you so much and it fucking pains me knowing that i’m the cause for all this. please, let me in so we can talk this out.”

you stood against the door in silence, trying to process his words. did he really mean it? of course, there was the obvious off chance he didn’t and was just buttering you up as a means to manipulate you into letting him in your home. he always did have a way with words, and you’d turn a deaf ear, listening to what he said and believing whatever he told you.

but.

the possibility that he wasn’t? that he was being serious and actually wanted to work things out? you supposed, he did drive out here at 1 am when he really didn’t have to. he did spam your phone and was basically begging for you just to call him back. he did put in all this effort...for you. on top of that, you hated to admit it but, you really missed him.

and that possibility was great enough for your hand to reach for the silver lock on your door and slowly untwist it, but kept your weight on the door for leverage. the wall of reason and logic you had built around your heart crumbled as you unlocked the door.

it looks like your heart won the battle.

only cracking it a few inches at first, you peered up at the brown haired male, who had his head hanging low, both arms on either side of the doorframe, effectively encasing and shielding everything behind him from you. feeling your presence, he finally looked up you, and you swore you felt your knees buckle.

he was clad in a black hoodie, black joggers and desert sand yeezy slides. a simple gold chain hung from his neck, and your gaze glided over to the small black hoops he wore in both his ear lobes.

you remember getting those for him as a gift.

and the way eren stared at you... it was enough motivation to make you take an instinctive step back, which he took as an invitation to come inside. it wasn’t.

something predatory swam in his forest green irises. his eyes were lidded but you could tell there was a sinister glint in them that left you deeply disturbed.

“hi, pretty girl,” he whispered in a raspy voice. the use of the pet name and the way it effortlessly rolled off his tongue immediately caused heat to travel straight to your pussy, it loving the “sentiment” your ex still held for you. you were ashamed that such simple words still had an effect on you.

eren didn’t waste any time in completely invading your personal space. closing the door behind him and locking it, he snaked one arm around your waist while the other slipped the would-be weapon out of your grasp, all in one fell swoop.

you were about to protest, but he swallowed whatever harsh words you had for him when he meshed his lips with yours, in a sweet and sloppy kiss. his kisses always managed to leave you breathless and this one was no different. eren’s large hands traveled over every inch of your curvaceous, plush body. his palms stopped their quest on your plump ass, which were only covered by short pajama shorts. he gave it a squeeze that felt something akin to reassurance— of what, you don’t know—before placing a firm slap on the mound of round flesh.

this fucking man. eren was toying with you now, he had to be. he knew how much you liked whenever he groped or fondled your ass at any given time, and he was using it against you to make you putty in his hands. and it fucking worked, because you couldn’t stop the noise that tumbled from your brown lips and into his own.

eren was a tad forceful with his kiss, his dominant nature hopping out in an attempt to overpower you. one hand never left your ass, and the other trailed up your leg to rest on your waist, kneading and squeezing the plush skin that resided there. you whimpered again in response, and he groaned at the sound. so pretty, he thought hazily to himself.

tumbling backwards against an empty wall, he held you against the hard surface and the hand on your waist glided even further up your skin to wrap his cold hand around your large breast, smirking deviously at you not wearing a bra, so your perky nipples were at his mercy. you gasped at the new sensation and could feel your pussy betray you, slick building in between your folds.

slithering his tongue over your lips, he asked for an invitation into your warm mouth and of course your dumbass let him. saliva was indirectly exchanged between his mouth and your own, he could feel your resolve to fight him back wither away with how you relaxed in his arms.

after a few more seconds of the intensely making out, he pulled away from you to replenish your oxygen supplies, but his hands never left your left ass cheek or your breast, massaging both mindlessly.

“e-eren,” you pleaded softly while staring at the floor. you couldn’t bare to look at him after making out with him like starved woman in heat. bringing your hands up to his, you tried to peel his hands off, or at least wiggle away from him. but he didn’t budge, and you didn’t bother to try any harder. you could have, but did you even want him off of you? eren saw through your feeble attempts rather quickly. he tilted his head in faux innocence, arching a thick brow and hummed to himself. you naughty girl.

“baby,” he answered in a gentle tone. when you met his eyes again, you had to fight to keep yourself standing upright. the overwhelming intensity of his stare intimidated you, making you want to fall apart and melt into the floor. there was a trace of a smile on his lips— no, that’s not it. it was more like a condescending sneer, quite literally looking down on you and barely hiding the malice of his true nature. you knew the power eren had over you, and now he knew it too. his expression betrayed the sweet but solemn tone he used when he spoke to you again.

“you know i am truly sorry, right? the way i’ve been acting lately is unacceptable, disrespectful and completely unfair to you. i won’t try to make up some excuse for my behavior because there isn’t any. our falling out made me realize that i was taking you for granted and hurting you in the process.”

he went quiet for a moment before peeling his gaze from the wooden floorboards to your eyes, which were still blurry from past fallen tears, cast down to the little space in between the two of you. and because you weren’t looking at him, you didn’t notice that his murky verdant eyes completely shifted and now held no emotion whatsoever; it was an empty voice behind his irises.

eren didn’t feeling a shred of sympathy for blowing up your inbox, your call log, coming to your place uninvited in the dead of night— for more or less harassing you. he needed you to know that he was indeed sorry, but more importantly, that you were his and his alone. no other girl could ever compare to you and he so desperately needed to atone for his mistakes so you could see that.

you also didn’t realize that eren’s hand that mindlessly squeezed your breast began inch to your clothed cunt very slowly. so slow you didn’t even notice. he figured your brain would have short circuited by now, considering the wave of expressions that crashed on your pretty face.

this was all too much— he was too much. your mind had shut down some time ago, the rationale and fiery rage you held for the man died out. he so clearly feigned the sincerity in voice, but your ears only picked up on what they wanted to hear. just like always.

“i understand if you can’t find it in you to forgive me. or if you...h-hate me.” his voice wavered when he assumed you hated him. this made you finally meet his face. “i...i just love you so much, it drives me crazy sometimes,” lightly chuckling to himself.

for the first time in what seemed like forever you replied, your hand instinctively raising to caress his chiseled face. “i hear what you’re saying. but eren, i just....can’t. what you did, what you’re doing right now, is wrong. it’s so fucked up on so many levels i...if you really wanted me to even think about forgiving you, you sh—”

your words were yanked back in your throat when you felt his long, thick fingers move your shorts to the side and graze your covered clit and damp panties, giving away to eren that you were aroused by this. a breathy shiver escaped your brown lips, taking purchase in his black hoodie. you weren’t even naked, yet you felt so exposed.

“shh— e-eren?! what are you—” a louder whine reverberated throughout your living space when he plunged two fingers into your dripping heat. he completely ignored your cries of his name, his blank eyes only hyperfixated on your contorted facial expressions. it’s like you were physically trying to deny how good it felt, that some part of him was inside you again.

damn bastard. you should have called him that out loud. but every time you opened your mouth the only thing came out was a needy moan. the squelching sounds of his digits pumping in and out of your greedy cunt were downright embarrassing and disrespectful.

any dignity you had left evaporated when you arched your back off the wall and into his chest, bucking your hips for more. the massages and love taps on your ass contrasted with the quickening pace and increasing depth of his long fingers so deliciously, you couldn’t help but screw your eyes shut and bite your lip. you had to fight back the tears of pure bliss and lovesick joy when eren leaned forward, nipped against your neck, and peppered it with tender kisses, his raspy voice licking against your eardrums in the best way.

“i’m so sorry, angel. fuck, i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to hurt you. please forgive me, please, s-shit, you’re so tight. is all this for me? huh? that’s so sweet of you baby, keeping this pussy tight for me.” eren babbled uncontrollably in your ear, bouncing back and forth between sweet nothings of “i’m sorry” and “missed you so damn much” and spewing complete filth of how slutty you were for getting so turned on by this, of how much your cunt missed him with the way it was sucking him in.

he knew your beautiful, soaking pussy like the back of his hand, so it didn’t take him long to find your sweet spot. he prodded and poked and teased it, gliding his tongue over his top row of teeth as he watched your countenance make different expressions. eren’s actions were enough to send you over the edge. you let out a strangled cry, no longer holding back, no longer denying that you actually missed eren, you missed his fingers inside you, you missed how his presence engulfed your all senses, you missed how he loved you. it’s come to your attention that deep down you still loved this handsome, lying, charming, sweet, piece of shit.

“nngh— fuckk! right there baby, yesyesyesyes, need more! feels s’goood,” great, now you started babbling, too. at this point your finger nails dug into his clothed skin as you held him close, closer as if it would making your pending orgasm more intense and arrive sooner. there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes when he heard you call him baby. now he knew, he had you now.

eren continued to watch you like a hawk, lowkey scared that if he blinked, he’d wake up from this dream. but feeling the way your slick dribbled from your folds onto his long fingers and down his knuckles, one of your hands at the nape of his neck and the other resting on his firm abs, he knew this was very real.

he chuckled sardonically at your current state, finding this entire situation amusing but adorable at the same time. “i’ll give you more baby, i’ll give you so much more, ‘m gonna you everything. b-but answer this question for me, just one question, ‘kay?” his tone teetered on raspy desperation and the condescension he was so fluent in.

you whimpered pathetically at the sound of his voice. your vision getting blurry as you looked at him again, jaw slacking slightly with a silent moan. eren loved you completely, but this look on your face, might have been his absolute favorite. your brown skin shone beautifully in the moonlight that trickled into your living room, giving you an ethereal glow, your pretty braided head on autopilot, not thinking of a single thing but him. he was completely enamored.

your lips now brushed against each other as he muttered, “do you love me baby? i know you do, don’t you?” eren was losing his composure as he picked up the pace, letting his neediness shine through. his breath was heavy, the tent in his pants was now demanding for attention that it was starting to hurt. he shoved another finger in your leaking hole, causing you to cry out and your body to jolt upwards. you unconsciously hunched forward and leaned into his mouth for a kiss. though unintentional, he gladly accepted and returned the gesture with a passion that you’ve never, and will never feel from anyone else.

“yes, eren i-i love you so much, yes yes please i love you i—” you let out another string of moans as your climax was within reach. “s-so close. ‘m so close baby,”

“i know angel, i know. i promise i’ll never hurt you again, i promise okay? now cum for me baby, c’mon pretty girl. just let go,” he purred sensually against your lips, your breathing becoming one.

and you listened.

both of you were too far gone, so infatuated and lovelorn with the other that you didn’t know anything else; neither of you wanted to know anything else. even through your incredible, toe-curling climax that only he seemed to be able to pull from you, you’d hope that maybe things would be different after this time.

a/n! — i……..literally have no words. eren really been making me act UP, shame on him. did i really write this…. LMAOOOO anyway, i hope yall enjoy shhhshahhfsdfsdfs

— to @38riku who was eager to read this and wanted me to tag her when i finished 😭 her saying that made me go into overtime HAJDJD. also to @sintiva bc we bond over this genocidal maniac 💗 also to @hellavile & @f4irycafe bc i just want their approval 🙂 anddd to @lunarsap bc she thinks my writing is good and we just became moots today :)))

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