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blackynsupremacy · 2 months ago

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THE GLAMOROUS

LIFE

boys with small talk and small minds

really don't impress me in bed

she said, "i need a man's man, baby"

diamonds and furs

love would only conquer my head

pairing: nicholas chavez x black!fem!reader

also starring: cooper koch and normani as valerie

read: part two

summary: it’s the year 1987. you and your best friend, valerie, are rising college graduates and are part of one of the most affluent african american families of the decade. yachts, designer fashion, handsome yuppies, diamonds, and grand soirées all sound like a ball, but to you, it’s so predictable. especially when it comes to dating. your not-so-friendly personality underneath all of that designer tends to be men repellent, until this one double date valerie sets up with a renowned tennis player and promising law student shifts your entire perspective.

inspo: fresh prince of bel-air, 1x19. cred to @fear-is-truth for the idea of an 80s au.

contains: lots of words, eighties au, reader is a bit toxic, yuppie culture, swearing, rudeness, alcohol consumption, arguing, nicholas gets reader together, enemies to lovers, fluff.

tags: @sabrinasopposite @supaprettyg @camiesully @zombigrlll @ellethespaceunicorn @rosiestalez @afrogirl3005 @afrowrites @elitesanjisimp @jkr820 @simply-the-best23 @gxuxhdjdu @tryingtograspctrl

“valerie, for the love of god, don’t make me go on this date. i swear on daddy’s credit card that i can get you backstage passes for the bad tour. hell, i’ll even let you get with michael if it would change your mind. just please don’t make go on this double date.”

you groan and plead while watching your best friend since birth, valerie hill, primp herself at her pristine, white vanity for a night on the town. she had a date with this tennis player named, cooper koch. apparently he was so talented in the sport, that he was well on his way to the olympics within the next year. valerie mentioned that he was bringing his friend, nicholas. she didn’t really ask about him, what he did, nor if you were down for the double date, so you were practically forced into this. you both were the heiresses of the richest black families in the nation, so going out on dates to the most exclusive and expensive restaurants with the richest bachelors were the norm for you both. for you, the norm was getting so damn predictable. all of the guys you’ve dated in the past only care about two things: getting paid and getting laid. it was enjoyable at first, but as you grew older, you realized that life shouldn’t just be about drugs, money, and sex. it should have some sort of substance, some depth, some purpose. these guys never challenged you. they talk a big game with their cars and lavish spending, but it’s all a load of materialistic bullshit. each time you give them a chance, it’s like you want to put a combination lock on your pussy and forget the numbers. that’s the energy you give out: cold, distant, snarky, rude, anything to get these yuppie ass wannabe’s out of your face.

but here you were, already showered and clad in a cream satin robe with curlers in your hair. valerie was the popular one out of you both. besides studying to take over the family business, she was a model. her face would be on commercials, billboards, and magazines. it’s no wonder why she had a line of men begging to breathe the same oxygen as her. you were studying business as well and in your free time, you would compose new masterpieces on the grand piano you were gifted when you were fifteen after perfecting the instrument since kindergarten. even with the pressure of performances, recitals, and competitions, you grew to love writing a new piece in different styles. your idols consisted of stevie wonder and quincy jones. your parents never really knew, but you were so lucky to have valerie be a support system for your passion.

your inner turmoil was interrupted at the ring of valerie’s telephone to which she picked up and answered with the customary “hello”. your brown eyes peer at her figure as your ears tune into the conversation she’s having.

“hello?… oh, hey, cooper!…uh-huh. yeah, i can’t wait either…oh, is he? well, she’s definitely looking forward to meeting him.” valerie pauses to cut her eyes at you, in which you respond with the rolling of your own.

“okay…yes, three eighty five willard lane is correct. i’ve already told the guard at the gate your names, so just give it to him and you should be good to go. thirty minutes? okay…see you then! ciao for now!” valerie blows a kiss to the receiver with a smile on her made up face and hangs the phone up. she turns to you with those alluring deep, brown eyes that’s captivated so many hearts. with a huff of her breath, she stands up from the vanity stool and saunters over to you, donning a long hot pink sleeveless evening dress that hugged her body just right. it was cut low with diamond straps paired with matching pink opera gloves and an assortment of genuine diamond jewelry that was adorned on her ears, fingers, neck, and wrists. you feel her palms on your shoulders and she gives you a knowing glance.

“i know that you’ve been burned before, but for some odd reason, i got a feeling down in my gut that this guy is exactly what you’ve been looking for. if he’s not what you expect within an hour, we can go home.”

“no bullshit?” you questioned with an arched brow.

“no bullshit, but please try not to have that stank ass attitude at dinner tonight, y/n!”

“i might bullshit on that, valerie. you know when i hear something stupid, my attitude can’t help it. i’ll try for you though! not my best, but i’ll try.”

you retort with a smirk and release yourself from a giggling valerie. you take the last thirty minutes to get ready. you don your white, shimmery strapless evening dress with matching fingerless opera gloves. you perfect your hair and makeup to your liking. to say you looked beautiful tonight was an understatement. you bashfully receive the encouraging compliments from valerie in which you reciprocate the kindness. there’s a knock on the bedroom door and valerie opens it to reveal one of the maids, letting you know that there are two gentlemen in the foyer waiting. your stomach starts to rumble with dread, but then it serves to your memory that you only have to give this man an hour of your time if he’s not up to par, so fuck it, just get it over with.

“ah, shit. is it too late to take back what i said about michael jackson?” you curse under your breath, rolling your eyes slightly.

valerie nudges you playfully, her excitement buzzing in the air, but still some annoyance towards your irritability. “girl, don’t start. they just got here, damn! you’ll never know, you might end up diggin’ on him when the night is over. now haul ass!”

you suck your teeth and quietly retort, “diggin’ my ass.”

you grab your fur boas and designer clutch handbags. valerie takes the lead and you exit her bedroom to descend down the marble staircase of the hill manor. you keep your head down to watch your step, but then you hear a male voice circulating in the room.

“wow, you guys look absolutely stunning. the talk around town certainly don’t do you ladies any justice. pardon my language, but i’d tell those shit-heads to eat every word.”

“oh, my. why, thank you, cooper! you didn’t have to get the flowers, you know.” valerie responds with an elated smile.

you look up to see two handsome, strapping young men in finely tailored suits with one of their hands casually stuffed in the pocket and each with a bouquet of red roses in the other. they were caucasian and stood tall in the six foot one range with dark brown hair. one had curly hair, the other straight. one had brown eyes, the other had green. as valerie scurries down the rest of the stairs to greet the curly haired green eyed suitor with an embrace and peck to his cheeks to graciously receive her roses, you were still a bit reluctant to move any further down the staircase. you swallowed and you slowly follow her path, your sweaty palm smooths your dress down your waist before approaching the man with the scrutinizing, yet amicable brown gaze. you’ve been all too familiar with this look before. that’s how they ease you in. to keep your end of the bargain, you simply flash your award winning smile when he guides the bouquet in your direction with a casual grin on his lips.

“i’m nicholas. nicholas chavez. you must be valerie’s friend—uh, y/n l/n, right? i have to say i agree with cooper here. you look absolutely gorgeous and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. these are for you. may i?” he greets with such an air of politeness. well, all of the guys have to with their background before they show their true colors.

“roses? cute. original. sure.” you somewhat dryly respond. you thanked him and took the bouquet in one hand and gave your free hand to his for him to place his lips on the back, your stomach fluttered and your cheeks heated when his eyes nor lips didn’t pull away from you for a second. you pull your hand back before things got too awkward. after valerie calls the maid to put the flowers in a vase of water, she’s already walking out the door on cooper’s arm, leaving you and nicholas standing alone in the foyer. he turns his large frame to yours and juts his elbow out towards you,

“shall we? we don’t want to lose the reservation.” he quips with a smirk. so insufferable! typical yuppie. with a tight lipped grin, you nod and your hand circles around his—bulging bicep. well, fuck! nicholas was indeed jacked. you don’t let the tingles of your lower region let your guard down though.

“mm-hmm. i guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting.” you and him step out into the starlit evening and you stop noticing two cars, one red ferrari f40 and a black chevrolet corvette. wait a fucking minute. why the hell are there two cars? you could’ve sworn that valerie said that all four of you were taking a limousine. nicholas led you to the ferrari, while cooper led valerie to the corvette. before they could go any further, you took your hand from nicholas’ arm and called out valerie’s name in a faux friendly tone and smile.

“i apologize, fellas, but valerie, a word?” you hastily ask cutting your eyes to your best friend that protested by standing closer to cooper.

“but, y/n, we’re gonna be la—” you cut her short by taking her hand and scurrying a few feet from your dates, so they couldn’t hear your griping.

“valerie, you sneaky ass skank! you told me we were taking a limo. you ain’t said nothing about going in two separate cars! what the fuck are you trying to do!?” you hiss in a whispered tone, you were hotter than a firecracker. dumbfounded, your best friend responds with a shrug and glanced over to the confused men, sending them a wave with an embarrassed smile before shifting her focus back to you.

“girl, i didn’t know either. i guess cooper changed his mind about it before he left! i’m not mad about it though. this is our chance to get to know them one on one. i might even get lucky tonight, honey! besides, i don’t need you to scare off your and my date. ride with nicholas and don’t be fucking rude. just give him an hour. you promised.”

“not exactly.” you deadpanned.

“y/n!” she hissed in the lowest, yet sharpest warning tone.

“ugh. fine, i’ll ride with him. i’ll be—civil.”

“perfect. now let’s get our fine asses wined and dined.”

you both hurriedly walked back nicholas and cooper. like the gentlemen they were, they opened the passenger doors for you and valerie to enter their respective vehicles and buckle up. cooper and nicholas agreed to having cooper lead the way to the restaurant while nicholas followed behind. once they entered the driver’s seats, you four made your journey. you and nicholas didn’t ride in complete silence. the radio was filling the car with phil collins’ “in the air tonight” faintly in the background. nicholas eyes glanced over to your figure briefly. you sat in the passenger seat, one hand in your lap, the other propped up on the door as you looked out at the glistening city lights through the window, not uttering a single word. you seemed so cold. was it something he did? something he said? what he said earlier wasn’t really bullshit though. nicholas has encountered his share of women who were forgettable after a night of passion, but he honest to god thought that you were a breathtakingly beautiful woman with the world at her fingertips. he’d think you’d share the same sentiment as he did, but given your bored expression, perhaps not. he took the opportunity to turn the volume knob to the left to make room for small talk. nicholas clears his throat as he slightly grips the steering wheel, his eyes focusing on the road as he trails behind cooper.

“so, uh, tell me, y/n. cooper has told me that you and valerie are studying business. i assume that’s going well.”

you sigh at hearing the “b” word. it felt like such a curse. your head hurts at the very mention. you muster up an answer that’s right to the point.

“yeah, i better be or i’ll bring the greatest shame to the l/n family, so i suggest you shouldn’t assume, nicholas.” you retort dryly, gazing at your rose red manicured nails. nicholas felt a twinge of a tingling pain in his stomach. it’s almost eighty degrees out, but it just got to thirty in here. talk about a cold shoulder.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to pry or make you uncomfortable. i was just trying to make conversation considering it’s a da—” you cut him short.

“i know how a date works, man. what are you? a prosecutor trying to present to me the evidence of exhibit obvious?”

“matter of fact, i am, well— studying to be. i’m in the pre-law and criminology program at my university. just like you, it’s in my bloodline.”

“oh, well. i guess it’s a change from all the guys i’ve met. they’re always waiting for their folks to kick the bucket or step down, so they could inherit a position of power that’s worth twenty years of work, but get it because they were born. they’ll spend a shit load of money and the body’s not even cold yet.”

“woah—wow. i’ve never seen it in that perspective, especially not from an heiress like yourself.” nicholas’ brows furrowed and he exasperatedly whistled.

“wow indeed, nicholas. it’s a goddamn shame. what the hell does me being an heiress got to do with it, huh?” you quiz defensively, cutting your eyes to the male. nicholas takes a deep breath and combats with a firm and calm voice,

“hey, there’s no need to get defensive, y/n. i’m just saying most people from families like ours don’t typically share the same thought as you nor care—i believe it’s an interesting perspective, not a bad one, so i don’t blame you for believing that money could easily sway someone’s morals.”

“hm.” that’s all you could respond with and you returned your gaze to the window sitting in deep thought. who the hell did nicholas chavez think he was? why isn’t he combating you with the benefits of all that luxury? did this man just—sympathize with you? something was definitely up with nicholas and not to mention, you were being a bit of a bitch towards him and he was still holding a civil conversation with you. there had to be a narcissistic, egotistical bratty yuppie prick underneath that calm and collected gentleman-like demeanor. you had a scheme: you were gonna push that limit to make sure that asshole makes an appearance at that restaurant.

the guys smoothly pull up to the entrance where the security and valet are standing. they get out of their cars to open the doors for you and valerie before handing their keys and a handsome tip to the valet to get their cars parked. you gazed up at the illuminating skyscraper of the restaurant before you. THE OPULENT HAVEN flashed itself so vibrantly in the city that even the stars had some competition. it was hypnotic to say the least. you stop your gawking when you feel a large palm rest itself on the small of your spine. your brown eyes lean up to see the familiar pair of nicholas’, a grin playing across his chiseled face.

“i take it by the way you’re staring that this is your first time here. breathtaking, isn’t it?” he softly whispers in awe with a matching expression towards the structure. you inwardly groan as your stomach does that thing again. here he goes with this fake prince charming, nice guy act. who was he to assume that you haven’t been here? you’re y/n fucking l/n for god’s sake! oh, who the hell were you kidding? this was your first time at this place and it looked like a palace. you didn’t want to let him know that though. he’s probably been here a thousand times with a myriad of women. you never forgot your scheme to release the animal within him, so you smirk with a quirked brow in his direction before you shot back in the same whispered voice,

“and who are you to assume that i haven’t been here? it just looks very elegant, nothing more. you’re acting as if i’m a damn tourist to these kinds of establishments.”

“it’s not my intention to assume, y/n. i’ve just noticed that you could see and appreciate the beauty in this building like i do. if it makes you feel any better, this is just my second time around. you don’t have to be so guarded, you know? now, let’s get inside before our party leaves us behind. after you.” he gives you a once over to the see through revolving doors where cooper and valerie are standing at the hostess’ station awaiting your arrival.

“whatever.” you grumble under your breath, rolling your eyes.

“i beg your pardon?”

“nothing—let’s just get inside.”

with a silent nod and his hand still on your back, he takes the lead for you to meet with the other two. the hostess guides you all to your table and it wasn’t long before a waiter arrived. cooper takes the initiative to request the restaurant’s finest merlot, water, shrimp cocktails, and pâté as the starting course of the evening. when the server returns again, you all agree to settle on the main course of the beef wellington and lobster thermidor, and topping it off with the crème brûlée. cooper and valerie start to break the ice with everyone at the table. you sat with your eyes down at your purse and courtly spoke whenever spoken to without getting caught peering at the ticking clock every once in a while. who knew that a fucking hour would take a lifetime? it also didn’t help that when valerie was in her own world with her precious koch boy, nicholas tried every way possible to get you to open up and with every attempt, you respond to him with such a snarky and dismissive attitude. valerie tries her best to paint you as a decent human being to the best of her ability because she really likes cooper and the last thing she needed is you scaring him off because you’re pissed at her.

“so, nicholas! do you like music? y/n sure does. i bet you didn’t know that she’s very talented at the grand piano and has been doing performances and competitions when we coming up! she even dabbles in a bit of composing.” valerie chimed, gesturing her gloved hand in your direction like you were an exhibit on display.

“yeah, i love music and that’s actually really cool, y/n. how long have you been playing for?”

“since i was five. you’re about to be a top shit lawyer, right? you do the math and get the facts.” you retort as you take a sip of wine. valerie rolls her eyes and hisses your name as cooper places a hand on hers. his forest eyes giving her the reassuring look of “let it go”. cooper knew exactly what you were doing and as his best friend, he knew that nicholas’ politeness could only be pushed so far, they all just had to wait and see it all come to a head. after your response, you noticed how nicholas clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and his composed expression returns with a tight lipped smile. what is this guy’s deal? where’s his backbone? he’s just like the rest of these sorry ass yuppie motherfuckers.

“shot in the dark, here. seventeen years?”

“ding, ding, ding! we got a winner!” you sarcastically cheered with a toast of your wine glass.

“that’s impressive. you must be really passionate about it. what type of styles do you typically play? classical? baroque? romantic? maybe jazz?” he leans back casually in his seat awaiting your answer. you were quite surprised that a pre-law student had such a knowledge in that area.

“anything that sounds good to my ears.” you announce with an air of confidence and shrug your shoulders. there was no utterance of a thank you, not nothing. you were gonna make sure this plan to expose him for who he truly is doesn’t all go to hell. it was pissing you off that with every brash comment you made, he would kill you with cordiality.

it was pissing you off so much that even the server was catching stray bullets from you.

“excuse me, would you tell whoever the hell prepared this dish to please remake this? there’s no way this was right because i’ve had better at a fucking cheesecake factory.” the server stood with such timidity and tried plead their case on behalf of the chef.

“ma’am, we understand your concern, but i assure that the head chef has made it—“

“wait a minute, you’re telling me this is the work of your head chef? well, i guess it’s time for him to head back to culinary school because this is fucking terrible. this is ALL terrible!” your voice rose with frustration as you throw your lap cloth down on the table like a child having a tantrum and stood from your chair with your arms firmly crossed. all you could think was fuck this restaurant, fuck this date, fuck valerie, and fuck nicholas for foiling your plan. before you could bitch and berate any further, nicholas also stood up from his chair. “wait, nicholas, don’t—”, valerie tried to open her mouth to protest and deescalate the situation, but cooper gently grabbed her wrist, shaking his head to let valerie know that nicholas had this. she just needed to watch. he was composed, but he held a perfect posture with his chest was puffed up, he kept his hands flat at his side, and he looked at you with such contempt, such disappointment, before his baritone voice dominated the room.

“no, valerie, this is not okay. i’m sorry, but i’ve got to get this off my chest.” he paused. his serious, deep gaze not pulling from your curious eyes before he resumes speaking, “y/n, your behavior this whole night was completely inappropriate and unacceptable. i’m not exactly sure what your problem is with me, but i’ve done nothing, but try to be civil. i don’t know what type of guy you may think i am, but where i come from, manners and decorum count a lot wherever and to whoever, so i can’t just sit back and let your nasty, smart-ass attitude continue. you owe every single one of us an apology, especially to that poor server. now, if you refuse, we’ll take you back home and continue the night without you. do i make myself clear?”

you stood there silently, still trying to keep your guard up, but the muscles of your crossed arms loosened. the furrow of your perfectly arched brows softened and a small smile crept on your painted lips while you listen to nicholas chavez set you, y/n l/n, in her rightful place. he was respectfully getting you all the way together and boy, did you get such a titillating rush from how he was so assertive yet, still had that integrity. he was exactly the type of man you’ve been craving for in your circle. the type of man that wasn’t afraid to stand up for what’s right no matter how many times he’s given the benefit of the doubt. he’d make one hell of a lawyer. it was like you were seeing stars when his eyes bore into yours, awaiting an answer. you were so stuck in staring at him, his colossal frame stepped forward to be in closer proximity to yours. the warm chocolate hue of his pupils turn darker as they continue to stare down into your own. nicholas takes the opportunity to repeat his question with an added firmness, considering he didn’t get an answer the first time.

“y/n, do i make myself clear?”

you swallow.

“yes, nicholas.”

you were so entrapped in his softening gaze when you gave in. valerie sat in awe and confusion as she witnessed you humbly apologize to everyone for your behavior, including the server and the night went on pleasantly. plus, you decided to give nicholas more than an hour, you decided to give him a chance. there was something about him that had some potential you craved to see more of. you weren’t always the one to get second dates, but as you attentively indulge in amicable conversation with him, you’d hope you were redeemed enough to get that chance to see nicholas again. alone. although you hated him less, he was still a fine specimen of a man. he gave you a sense of warmth. that warm feeling didn’t leave when he drove you home after dinner. it didn’t leave when he walked you to the door. it sure as hell didn’t leave when he bid you a sweet goodnight with another lingering kiss to your hand. the image of his beautifully sculpted countenance burned deep within your brain. nicholas was even the type of guy that made sure you entered your home first before disappearing into the night. a regular yuppie asshole would speed off as soon as you closed his car door. your heart pounded within your chest as you stared at the ceiling while immersed in your satin rose duvet. every single shitty word you’ve ever said and every judgmental thought you’ve had towards nicholas alexander chavez was immediately transformed into immense respect and burning desire.

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cheralith · 11 months ago

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vogue — 「 boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader 」

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. 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?

content tags/warnings ; gn!reader, use of they/them pronouns, mild language, traditional japanese basis of (l/n) (f/n) used, reader wears glasses, makeup, and heeled boots, some mild manga and jjk 0 spoilers (three minor characters from each are introduced), uhhh suguru being a dick lawl, some parts not edited/not beta read

contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned ****!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, mild angst, some crack if you squint

word count ; 10.2k

notes ; heavily inspired by "the devil wears prada" and "paradise kiss", so there'll be some references i've dropped within this—see if you can spot them! also the censored is spoilers so until then, hehe.

now playing ; seven days in sunny june - jamiroquai

It’d be foolish not to know the household name of Geto Suguru, the ultimate male muse of Jun Takahashi whose title has yet to be reigned by another. He was the ultimate breathing mannequin of the iconic Yohji Yamamoto piece he had worn on the Milan runway back when he was just a teenager. It was one of the most staple pieces of the new century that helped open the gates of the mixing of world culture and avant garde fashion—an England-Japanese punk fusion of an ashen and tattered kasaya layered under the contrasting statement piece: the earth-toned gojōu-gesa splattered with weaves of gold—and it was that very piece that rose him to the top of the fashion world as one of the most powerful names in global fashion.

And how could he not? At seventeen, he was scouted as a model for Gaulthier and became his muse at the ripe age of twenty before several other worldwide designers began to fight for his eyes. It was only a few shrewd years later that he’d open up his own successful fashion line, RIIKO, named in honor of his late sister, resulting in it becoming one of the fashion line pillars in the modern century.

It didn’t take long after that, due to his fame and distinct education from Jujutsu University, rising to the top for Kaizen fashion magazine and ruling it with an iron fist and several cups of coffee with almost all his designs on display for all to see in the office. It was due to his work that Kaizen became the powerhouse of powerhouses of fashion editorials and magazines and it was solely his work that made fashion what it was in present times.

Whether it was direct or indirect, Geto had impacted the industry in all sorts of ways. Be it blossoming an upcoming supermodel’s name or setting new fashion trends, everything could essentially be traced to Geto Suguru.

So it’s understandable that many had called you a fool—a dimwit, even—for not understanding how big of a deal it was to become his junior assistant after lazily submitting your resume. Originally, you had just wanted to become a simple lifestyle journalist for papers like Sankei Shimbun or The Japan Times, but seeing how it was between a seemingly mysterious fashion magazine that mentioned, received gasps, or the measly and homely newspaper of The Hokkaido Tribune, a magazine you knew would only give new journalists the scraps of what they earned, the choice was obvious.

Whatever gave you more money, you’d take. Survival of the fittest, was this world not?

“Do not tell me you’re going to your interview at Kaizen wearing that?” Ino barks out a laugh as he finishes his morning cereal for breakfast, scanning your outfit. “You’re going to work in a fashion magazine, not some dingy corporate office.”

You sneer at him as you shove on your loafers (don’t mind that the leather is peeling slightly on the side). You think that there’s nothing remotely wrong with your overused gauntlet gray matching set of trousers and blazer with a slightly wrinkled button-up underneath it.

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at your roommate and parttime brother figure. “What on earth do you know about fashion?”

“Enough of it to know that outfit is atrocious for that type of environment,” he states simply as he shoves a donut in his mouth. He kicks his feet up on the table, making you cringe at their nakedness. “Trust me, change if you can. Make a statement for ‘em.”

Ino Takuma sighs and glances at your thick spectacles that you’ve worn since early college. “And at least change your glasses for your contacts. Heard they don’t like those sorta things over there. At least not the prescription kind.”

“Can’t find them,” you grunt when you feel the weight of your shoulder bag heave down your body. “I’m already late, anyway,” you sigh, “Listen, if I don’t come back alive, which I will by the way, then you can dance on my grave all you want.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he chants before he lets out a haughty snicker that gets muffled instantly when you slam the door on him.

You throw insults at Ino in your mind, grumbling about how a mere job hopper like him wouldn’t even know the speck of fashion, how you refuse to take advice from someone who wears the same thing every day. There’s nothing wrong with the gray, you think. It’s safe and presentable, ordinary and professional, and you’d much rather blend in than stand out as you believe standing out and making yourself known is just a recipe for trouble.

Stretching out a hand on the street, you call for a taxi and humbly enter as you smooth out your trousers. The taxi driver eyes you in the rearview mirror with a questioning glint in your eye. “Job interview?” he asks.

“Oh, um,” you nod your head. “Yep! I'm a little nervous, haha.”

“Really?” he says as he gratefully steps on the accelerator a little faster. “Better get you there quick, then. Would hate to have you late. Where are you planning on working?”

“Kaizen Magazine,” you declare confidently, an affirmative look on your face.

“Kaizen?” questions the driver slowly as his eyes go to scan your outfit in the mirror again, his brows raised. “As in the… the fashion magazine?”

You nod with visible apprehensiveness. You think that maybe you truly were the only person in the world that didn’t know the impact of Kaizen, seeing as how a mere taxi driver even knew about the name and you didn’t up until a few weeks ago.

“I see…” he mutters. The drive there is a mix of silence and everyday morning conversations, before he pulls up to the building that held the key to your dreams. “Well then, here’s your stop.”

You let out a little gasp of excitement. “Thank you so much,” you reply as you shove some cash into the slot.

“Hm, well,” the taxi driver counts the money carefully, barely looking just before you close the door as he mutters, “Good luck, Plain Jane.”

You turn back to the taxi, your hearing a little awry. “Sorry, what was that?”

But when you turn back to the yellow cab, all that’s left is a billow of smoke and cinders. Dazed and confused, you quickly shake those feelings off before you head inside to the building that was now your shining beacon of hope with a determined smile still plastered on your lips. White is the first thing that greets you when you enter the building as it was essentially aired out onto every corner. White marble counters, white tile flooring with white grout, white frames of fashion icons—the white screams pristine and perfection to you and its message went very much noticed. You haven’t even met Geto Suguru yet, but you understood already that he expected nothing but excellence.

You ride up the elevator quietly and alone, trying not to focus on how your anxiety increased with each ding of the passing floors. The elevator screen seems to almost taunt you as it closes in on your doom, the numbers getting closer to the designated floor until it slowly pauses and shone brightly the number 21 in stippled red.

The doors slowly open and the light seeps itself back to your vision, white flooding your senses again. You carry yourself carefully down the hallway whilst taking your time to admire the many framed pictures of past magazines, multiple runway models, and scraps of newspaper articles. One specific piece catches your attention, however; it was large, almost half your body size and framed in a gilded black frame. It was a picture of a mannequin wearing a tawdry gray-black robe with the kanji characters of “summer” painted with purple messily atop. Layered was a loose, but well-fitted piece of thick green and gold cloth that looked much more refined to the messiness of the other materials.

You stare at it for what seemed to be forever whilst admiring the contrast and beauty of the work before your name is called out.

“(Y/N) (L/N)?”

Your trance breaks from the voice approaching you. You turn to see a short and young woman with dark blue eyes staring at you with a raised brow. “That’s you I presume?” she asks.

“Oh! Uh,” you nod furiously and smooth out your trousers again. “Yes… yes, that’s me. I assume you’re Manami Suda? The one I spoke with on the phone?”

She nods slowly, her eyes going to study your outfit which was a rather stark contrast to her own attire that highlighted an emphasis on shades of opal and navy. Her eyes have a similar glint in the way that Ino’s and the taxi driver’s had, further enunciating the message that your attire was rather… something.

“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” she murmurs. Sarcasm going undetected by you, you grin as a response and think that a compliment from her was a sign you did something right. Her eyes go to rise back and meet yours again before she turns and redirects you to the end of the hallway where some rooms belonging to subordinal editors sat in, clacking away at the computers. There was one singular room that held the only door on the floor and it doesn’t take you long to assume who it belongs to considering the large letters of GS frosted onto the glass.

Two desks stood on each side of the door, one completely devoid of life and decorations. Manami guides you to the empty one and patted the top of it. “This will be yours if you manage to miraculously pass.”

Manami taps on her clipboard a couple of times, listing off a couple of requirements that you were most likely going to need in the future: efficient time management, ability to fight for what Geto wants, sharp memory, quick feet…

“And uh…” Manami flickers her eyes to you and the details (or lack of, in this case). She mutters under her breath quietly, “... a good wardrobe.”

You turn to her, internally wondering if you were going deaf today. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“A good, warm…” she squints, obviously finding the right word to keep that ignorant smile on your face. “... welcome to start off his day.”

She succeeds in her task as you merely nod with the same blatant grin attached. “Got it!”

Manami tours you around the floor of the office, letting you say hello to your future coworkers that work in the cubicles that send you worried looks behind your back. They obviously seem too pitying of you, knowing that your fate would be sealed as Geto’s potential right hand man the moment you signed that employee contract.

“This is Human Resources,” Manami gestures over to a room filled with chattering employees who seemed to be getting their gossip out before their day started. “You’ll contact them if you have any—” her phone dings suddenly. Casually, she pulls it out, only for all of her resolve to disappear in an instant. Manami then abruptly blows a whistle with her teeth, alerting everybody in the radius.

“Everybody! His morning facial was canceled!” Manami hollers. “Geto is coming in…” her phone pings again with another notification, and you can tell Manami’s heart instantly drops. “Oh God… he’s in the lobby! Everybody, places! You,” she snags the sleeve of your blazer and drags you along with her, your clunky loafers nearly tripping you. “Come with me.”

Manami takes back to where you first started and orders you to stand in the front of the blank desk with a look that screams both fright and anxiousness all in one. She lists off too many tasks that you need to do before he comes, but you’re so frazzled with trying to remember how to act in front of your future boss that you can’t even remember the first thing she told you.

“Help me arrange the drafts of the magazines from most recent to least recent before he—”

The elevator dings and all goes quiet; Manami tosses the magazines over her shoulders and positions herself firmly in her place, gesturing for you to do the same. The doors open and unveiled from two bodyguards is a man—a tall man, around six feet or perhaps even taller—dressed in noir fitted pants and a matching button-up closed only halfway to reveal a silk navy turtleneck. Caped behind him is a black velvet trenchcoat that you’re sure is worth half your rent and a watch plated on his wrist that is well over your life savings. He’s slightly sunkissed, with blue-black tresses of hair with a soft bang sneaking through and large plated earrings to match. His eyes, however, show a tint of color—a sharp dark amethyst that you think could cut through you like crystals.

But he’s almost hauntingly attracting—like a spirit. Something about him was an enigma and his aura was nothing less than powerful.

“Good morning, Geto,” Manami chants with an artificial happiness to her tone.

Geto doesn’t reply, just merely giving a silent blink before he sheds his coat off and tosses it aimlessly towards Manami. It proves to be heavier than anticipated, giving how she fights to groan from the weight of it. He’s handed his briefcase from one of the bodyguards and begins to open the door to his office until he pauses and turns and glances at you, the stranger.

“Hello,” you state with a slight bow. “I-I’m one of the interviewees for your junior assistant. My name is—”

“(Y/N),” Geto murmurs; his voice is soft and low. It’s all knowing, with indigo eyes boring into your own. “(L/N) (Y/N), I know. The one that graduated from Jujutsu University recently, yes?”

Adjusting your glasses to wave away the blurriness, you nod with anticipation. “Yes, that’s me.”

Geto turns back and opens the door, to which he only replies back, “In my office.”

You glance at Manami for confirmation, only given back with a jut of her head towards the door. All the unease you felt in the elevator comes hurdling back to you in an instinct and you feel as if you were no more than a peasant to someone that was essentially royalty in the fashion world.

Geto turns his chair to face away from you, shuffling a few papers over each other that appears to be your resume, before he spins it slowly towards you. He kicks his feet up lazily on his desk.

“It’s nice to have another Jujutsu alum to join us,” he says. His voice is still the same—a little baritone with a wisping edge of a whisper to it, but it almost sounds… bored. Unamused even. “A bachelors in print journalism… same as mine, hm. Tell me, is Professor Tengen still as loose as ever with their practices?”

You fight to fiddle with your glasses as you watch as Geto tangibly toys with his own, with his focus angled on the papers in front of him rather than you. “Um, I assume so. Though I believe they’re actually retiring this year.”

“Good,” he sighs in what seems to be relief. “Shame that the university had wasted time and money by hiring them. Truly, I hope they can find someone much better suited for their position.”

“Really?” you quietly question. You had only taken their class a few semesters ago and thought despite their rather… all too lenient disposition… you did learn quite a lot in their class. “I thought they were a rather alright teacher…”

Regret pools in your mouth from the moment you have finished your sentence. Geto finally goes to look at you from the edge of his glasses with a sharp look, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

“Tengen was merely a sorry excuse for a professor. They were rather nothing but a nanny who gave their students too much leeway,” Geto declares. “Though, I’ll admit, I am pleasantly surprised that you managed to take something out of that class.”

A laugh that’s just dripping with nothing but nervousness leaks out of your lips. “I suppose I had learned just a few things…”

“Mmh,” Geto nod nonchalantly, eyes drawing back to the papers. “Well. Let’s start with the basics. Why exactly do you want to work here?”

Geto already feels the cliche comments erupting. Had the person in front of him say at least one of them, he was ready to insert the papers he was holding into the nearby shredder. Or maybe out the window this time, he wonders—something nice for a change.

“I was inspired by your work.”

“It’s been my dream to work at Kaizen.”

“Fashion is my absolute passion.”

“I want to—”

“I’m just in need of a job, really,” you say lifelessly.

He goes to raise his head slowly from the packet and turns to you slowly. Geto doesn’t say anything, but his facial expressions indicate a blend of confusion and intrigue. A slithering tongue darts out to slick his lips, indicating you’ve piqued his interest. “Well, obviously. But why this job specifically? What about it stood out to you?”

You clear your throat. “I had learned recently that Kaizen is a rather prestigious mag—”

“‘Recently’?” Geto repeats quietly. “You hadn’t heard of us before?”

Lips thinning, you shake your head slightly. His eyes go narrow again to your dread, serpent-like. “My specialty is more in newspapers rather than magazines, I-I’m not too knowledgeable in that area.”

Geto goes quiet and the silence makes the air go thick. It’s then that familiar glint sparkles in his sullen eyes when they go to examine your choice of clothing—it confirms Ino was truly right in the end, as he lets out a smile-less chuckle that doesn’t do much to ease your brain.

“Continue,” Geto gestures and takes off his glasses to look at you, or you suppose your outfit, more properly. He folds his hands and places his chin on top of them. “You said you only learned about us not too long ago?”

“Yes, and I realized that perhaps working here for a while would, at least I hope, grant me access to other media houses,” you explain. It’s only then you realize that your declaration sounds absolutely ludicrous and almost disrespectful to the editor-in-chief of the most iconic fashion magazine in the nation. “Connections are quite powerful in this day and age, haha…”

“I suppose,” Geto mumbles with not much interest in your poor humor. “What about me? I do hate bragging but surely, you know about my name or at least my fashion line?”

Your hesitant countenance and silence tells Geto all he needs to know. He thinks that it’s almost some sort of marvel that no one has heard of him or his works before.

He sighs. “Do you have any experience working in any fashion-related activities at least?”

“Well, I once worked in a department store for a few months back in high school,” you say thoughtfully (and ignorantly).

Geto gives you a blank look. His blinks are apathetically slow.

“Um,” you clear your throat again and shake your head, timid. “N-no…”

“Then tell me,” he continues smoothly. “Why exactly should I hire you? You obviously have no taste in fashion and you hadn’t even heard of my name, let alone my magazine, until recently. What is there within that makes you want to work here other than you just… what was it that you said?” He air-quotes mockingly, “‘needing a job?’”

Your throat runs dry and limbs go stiff. A heat rockets to your face when you seemingly can’t get any words out to excuse yourself, much too caught up in the same of your ignorance towards Geto’s profession. And that’s all the response he needs to make his decision.

His hand takes the packet again and to your horror that you fight to keep in, inserts it into the paper shredder. The groan of it rumbles through the room agonizingly and you realize that Ino is going to have the time of your life planning your doomsday.

Geto gives you the mercy of breaking the thick silence first. “You may go.”

With a swift flick of his wrist, Geto dismisses you with a slight edge to his murmuring as he puts back on his glasses to examine the morning newspaper to not waste any more incessant time in the day.

You don’t even attempt to fight back with any poor excuses. Tears prick the corner of your eyes, the sting of them frustrating you to your wits end. Instead, you gather the last of your resolve and bid him through a strained throat good day and make your leave, humiliation and disappointment trailing not too far behind.

You hope that Ino will give a nice eulogy, at least.

Out of all the miracles that await you in life, you do not expect the one that comes in the form of an early morning phone call that wakes you at the ass-crack of dawn. When you pick it up with sleep still very much embedded in your eyes, it dissipates in the instant you hear Manami’s voice. It’s only then that it hits you why on earth she was calling so early and why she was demanding to know your whereabouts, claiming you were going to be late on your first day of work.

You think it’s some sort of cruel joke maneuvered by Ino, especially with how his comforts from last night were mixed with taunts. But when Manami’s voice finally registers in your brain, by some sort of miracle or stroke of luck, you have gotten the job as Geto Suguru’s junior assistant.

You don’t know how, but you don’t waste any time questioning how on earth you landed in such a position because you leap out of bed at 7:23 a.m. and manage to do your morning routine in the matter of what you think is a record-breaking fifteen minutes. Your ruckus manages to wake up deep-sleeping Ino, who, when you excitedly tell him to postpone your funeral, gives a groggy thumbs up before drooling back into his pillow. It’s 7:38 a.m. when you shove on your shabby coat and you realize you only have a mere twenty-two minutes left until you have to officially clock in for work.

At 7:40, you’re out the door and sprinting to the located coffee shop that thankfully wasn’t too far from where you lived.

At 7:47, you’re at the designated cafe whilst attempting to swim through the crowds of morning bustlers to pick up Geto’s coffee.

7:50, you’re sticking your hand out waving desperately for a taxi and tip extra to make the driver speed through as you attempt to make sure the coffees don’t spill out of their containers.

7:58, you arrive at the building and just barely make it into the narrow gap of a tight-fitting elevator, earning stares from the others from your rather… frazzled appearance.

At 8:02 a.m., you dash out the elevator and officially clock in for your first day at work at Kaizen Magazine amidst a birdnest of hair, clothes that were plucked out of your hamper, and what you pray to the heavens above are hefty layers of deodorant and perfume since you were given no time to shower.

When Geto comes in that day, all suave and composed, he takes one good look at you before sighing and focusing his attention to the more refined Manami and lets her take the gears for the day. The only attention he gives you that morning is the rough toss of his heavy coat—a cashmere pearl peacoat today—flung at your arms that nearly makes you tumble from its weight.

You quickly learn that working for Geto requires high demand and maintenance, as he is not one to skip over any details in his day. Not even three hours in your first day, you already have to plan out his future meetings, reschedule one with a rather feisty and insistent client, edit a forest of emails, finishing by dashing out five blocks on foot to the two michelin star restaurant to retrieve Geto’s weekly steak for lunch. Had this been your old corporate job, you only would’ve gotten half the tasks you had completed by the end of the usual eight hours, but you realized early on that you had barely scratched the surface of your future in Kaizen.

You think that after plating his steak with the shakiest of hands, you finally have time to relax during lunch time when you see the small hand of the clock finally hit 12:00 p.m. , especially since you and him were left alone in his part of the office together. But the moment that Geto saunters into the office again, he tends to you once again with a final task by himself.

“(Y/N),” he calls from the office, the scrape of his fork against ceramic cluttering your ears agonizingly.

You fight the urge to cringe from the sound as you scurry to the doorframe, hands stiffly intertwined together. “Yes, Mr. Geto?”

“No need for such formalities,” he remarks with the dab of a napkin to his lips. “They make me feel old, and I’m surely not much older than you are…” you think that’s the longest he’s spoken to you since the day had started. “Did Leibovitz confirm?”

Blinking, you tilt your head ignorantly. “D-did who confirm?”

He pauses and does that taunting slow rise of his eyes from his steak to you. “Leibovitz. Did she confirm?”

Silence fills the office, much like the silence that drowned you back at the interview. He clicks his tongue and dismisses you with a disappointed shake of his head. “Just go on your lunch,” he mutters, sighing.

Manami, the savior that she is, is called into the office after her break and is asked the same task and you watch with humiliation whilst packing your things to go on your lunch as she picks up the telephone and speaks to someone over the line before confirming to Geto that, “I’ve got Annie!”

“He hates me, Taku!” you cry out whilst flopping onto the dinner table. It’s ten in the evening and you’ve just come home after what was supposed to be an 8-5 shift. You suppose you should be used to this already after two months of working for the Lucifer donned ritually in white in the building, but you don’t know how much your sanity (and body) can take.

Normally, Geto is usually cold to those who he wasn’t familiar with, but you think that his distaste for you sours everyday. You notice that he’s beginning to pile you with the more urgent and busier duties and that he often stares you down more menacingly in the morning with those piercing purple eyes of his, like you were gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. You thought it was just him being normal Geto Suguru, the man with the expectations higher than the clouds, and that you just were still adjusting to such a high-intensity environment, but it was today that your world came crumbling down when you overheard him muttering to his associates about you, tone icier than ever.

You were on the other side of the door, a fist going to rap on the glass with the other holding his afternoon coffee pick-me-up when you heard it.

“... can’t even do the most miniscule things right,” Geto had groaned. “I ask if Lanvin’s models are all good to go for next Thursday’s shoot and somehow, they have the nerve to ask ‘How do you spell Lanvin’? For fuck’s sake, I can feel my goddamn conscious just wither away by the second.”

You hadn’t heard Geto swear since you had started working there, but something about his venomous tone enunciating such words had made your blood run cold from the other side of the door. Not having the courage to face him after that, you left his coffee on Manami’s desk for her to tend to with a post-it note saying a sorry excuse for yourself before letting your eyes sob frustratingly in the bathroom, isolated from others.

The last time you had cried that hard was way back in childhood, where you had broken your arm from falling down a tree branch. But you think that Geto’s words had twisted through your skin and bone much harsher than that pain ever will.

“It’s a miracle how I haven’t been fired yet… I don’t even know why he hired me!” you wail.

Ino sighs from across the dinner table and you can’t tell if it’s a sigh of pity or a sigh of criticism. You learn that it’s both when he rolls his eyes at you whilst simultaneously pushing a plate of much needed food towards you.

“First off, you need to eat,” he presses, staring at your gaunt features. “The way your face is swallowing is making me feel like I’m living’ with a ghost. You’ve lost some weight, I’ve noticed.”

Awareingly, you touch your cheekbones and realize he’s right, for you feel the small disc of sharpness from them prick your fingertips. They’ve never been so cavern before. You suppose it’s because of the lack of proper meal time between your days and how you often eat small and very late dinners back at home, truly not enough needed fuel for you.

“Secondly,” Ino chews his tongue, wondering if he should really say what he’s about to say because of your current disposition but goes through with it anyway. He might as well rip the bandaid off now to let more time for the wound to heal. “You won’t like what I’m ‘bout to say, but you need to up your game. Severely.”

An aching body rises up from the table. You go to stare at Ino through glazed eyes and a pouty lip, asking him what he meant.

“Ah nope! Don’t give me that face and don’t play coy with me,” he hisses, looking away to not give in to your helpless puppy eyes. He can’t—he shouldn’t give you the easy way out and just say to quit—not when you’ve been earning so much bank that rent isn’t a problem for either of you anymore. He wonders, though, for a moment if so much money is worth your rationality.

He drags a hand down his face before placing his chin on it, examining your haggard appearance. “What I mean is that you need to see through Geto’s eyes. See what he sees when he looks at you. Tell me, if you had an assistant that showed up wearing things that looked like they were plucked from the clearance bin at a thrift store and didn’t show any respect for your brand, which just so happens to be a fashion magazine out of all things…” Ino eyes you with a raised brow. “You startin’ to follow me?”

Your fingers fiddle with each other. “... sorta.”

“Now listen,” he raises his hands up lazily in surrender. “I already know what you’re ‘bout to say about me not knowing’ how to dress in shit other than black and more black, but even I know that you should put in more effort into your appearance. That’s the first step.”

“But I have—!” you exclaim helplessly, “I-I swear, I’ve been trying to… but it’s not my fault that it isn’t up to his standards.”

Your roommate groans and rubs his forehead, not really knowing what else to do for your situation until an idea pops in his head. “Free up your weekend,” he demands with a sly grin that makes you a little uneasy. “I’m no fashion connoisseur, but you know who is?”

“And remember, we never touch anything with chevron on it, especially in today’s fashion world,” Yuki chimes as she slaps on a navy blue pageboy cap on your head and she prances about your bedroom that’s been littered with spare clothes from her very own closet she graciously gifted to you for the past weekend. “I’m so utterly relieved that the trend has dug its own grave.”

The past weekend had been filled with endless shopping trips and you shuffling in and out of clothes every minute, practicing how to pair items and colors together by Yuki’s teachings. Of course you should’ve known that Ino was going to contact the one person that he was within reach that was essentially a walking encyclopedia when it came to fashion. You’ve met Tsukumo Yuki before, found her to be quite delightful even, but you never anticipated she would be this giddy, especially about clothes of all things.

And she used her brain to good use for not only clothes, but the entirety of yourself. You never knew how much just a simple haircut could do your face along with small hints of makeup to emphasize the best parts of it. Dared not your hands go to a lash curler, but here you are now, making sure your powder compact and lipstick for the day was in your bag before you went out.

“Uh, I don’t think I ever mentioned this before yet, but thank you for helping my wardrobe out, it really means a lot,” you say just before she slides on a pair of gold bangles on your wrist. “Are you sure you wanna give these clothes to me? I’m okay with just borrowing them.”

“Nonsense, babe,” she wavers off before shuffling through your now-hearty closet, a closet that’s now bursting with many clothes given by her. “I needed space in my closet anyway, so take as much as you need.”

So (Y/N)’s closet is basically her trash can, a particular shaggy brunette thinks with a roll of his eyes. Ino fiddles with the piece of toast in his mouth as he leans on the doorway, watching as Yuki essentially treats you like her very own Barbie doll at such an odd morning hour.

“(Y/N)’s not a doll, Yuki,” Ino lazily calls aloud through a tired yawn. “You better get ‘em out the door soon or else they’ll get late for work. Especially need that money since the landlord’s been on our ass about increasing our rent…” he mutters, sniffing. “Damn bastard.”

She snaps at Ino to be quiet and let her work before she shuffles on a regal blue overcoat over your shoulders that completes your look. When you look at yourself finally in the mirror, you almost think there’s a stranger in your house from the way you look so dignified compared to the you just three days ago. It’s a simple outfit with not much layering, but it’s still enough to ooze charisma and elegance to wandering eyes. You’re adorned in a white weaved sweater with flared, light-wash jeans and white boots to match. Over the outfit lies the coat that drapes almost like a king’s mantle behind you and the pageboy cap as your crown.

Yuki creeps up behind you, her manicured hands on your shoulders affirmingly. “How’re you feeling, hun?” she asks quietly as she shares the same sight with you in the mirror. “Don’t you look wonderful?”

You know that it was all her work, it was all her creativity that made you into the artwork that you are now, so breathlessly laugh with a smile on your painted lips and thank her quietly once more before whispering, “Yeah… yeah, I do.”

Her eyes study you for another minute, going to stare at the glasses still atop your face. Yes, they were new and much more modern considering she quite literally called your old pair atrocious, snapped them in half, and tossed them over her shoulder, but she was still quite dissatisfied when you told her about your hesitance about using contacts. “Are you sure you don’t want to give contacts another chance?” she sighs.

You shake your head with a small smile, “I’ll feel completely naked without them,” you murmur, “Besides, I think they actually compliment this look, if I’m being honest.”

Her lips stretch out into a grin, too absorbed in her fashion education finally being used.

“Well then!” she begins to drag you by the sleeve out your room. “We wouldn’t want you to be late then for your first day as the new you, right? Let’s get you a cab!”

Somehow, you think you really are at your first day at work again from the way you feel that same fluttering in your stomach and from how the people you’ve once grown accustomed to seeing in the early mornings are not merely passing you with mundane nods of their heads but instead, greeting you with wide-eyed gawks and open-mouthed smiles. Some of them, a few who you knew but never spoke a word to, even do a double take and compliment you aloud on the new look. Even the cute barista in the lobby that never bothered to spell your name right at last did after finally taking a good look at the holder of the card.

When you exit out of the elevator, Manami nearly drops the pile of magazines she’s holding when she spots a refined and refreshed you. You offer a bright smile to her and you watch as her gasp slowly forms into an affirmative grin when you round your desk.

She laughs softly. “And who might you be?” she asks with a tease in her voice. “‘Cause last time I checked, that’s my coworker (Y/N)’s desk.”

“I murdered them,” you shrug nonchalantly, earning another chuckle from her. You take it as a good sign, great even, considering up until now, Manami had been rather stoic and a little indifferent towards you because of your amateurism; but now, you suppose that ditching that Plain Jane from just two days ago is finally beginning to do you good by finally grounding a proper relationship with her. “Shame, isn’t it? Poor thing.”

“Truly,” she nods. Her eyes trail further down until they spot something that makes her gasp. “Don’t tell me those are—”

“—the new calfskin gold studded Louboutin boots?” you finish for her. You flex your ankle and show off the ravishing red bottoms of your shoes. “Oh yeah.”

Manami squeals in excitement and rushes over to your desk, begging to take a look at them. “How on earth did you manage to get your hands on these?! I’ve been looking for them fo—”

The elevator dings again but with a tone that makes you and Manami flinch. Both of you stiffen and straighten out your posture, falling into a thick silence when out comes Geto traipsing out like he usually did—his aura being nothing less than dominating. You and Manami chime out in sync a good morning to him as he saunters towards his office as he begins to shuffle off his coat as usual to toss to you until he looks up and catches you in his field of vision.

He stops all of a sudden with his eyes dancing about your figure, a stark contrast to the rest of his paralyzed body. Geto’s lips thin all of a sudden, and so do his eyes when they scan your outfit. He takes in a sharp breath and opens his mouth to say something to you, yet nothing comes out, even as your eyes glisten with anticipation.

It merely instead zips itself close and he finally whisks himself into his office, coat still on and briefcase still in hand, and slams the door shut.

But not without glancing at you one last time.

Much has changed in the past month for the better.

Yuki was a godsend—she had been your guardian angel, your fairy godmother of sorts—because you swore your career life had taken a complete 180° the moment your closet was revamped. Ever since that makeover, you had felt so much more confident in your actions, so much lighter on your feet. The price of your efforts was beginning to pay off as well, as Geto began to slowly thaw his icier sense of self when you began to actually put effort into your appearance. His thrusts of his coat towards you began to become less aggressive, was significantly more lenient when it came to more of the impossible tasks, and had at one time actually muttered a ‘good morning’ to you and Manami after months of greeting with silence and judgemental glances.

She’d occasionally check up on you every once in a while, usually to offer new clothes that she didn’t want anymore. And by offer, it actually just meant packing them in a box from her place to yours with a post-it that’d usually read “With love, YT ❤” in neat cursive. Along with forming a close bond with Yuki, your relationship with Manami improved significantly, especially when you gave her those white Louboutins she was eyeing. She often invited you to lunch with her other friends, Larue and Remi.

The iconic John Galliano once said that, “The joy of dressing is an art.” A month ago, you would’ve never believed what you would think is a rather tacky statement, but now, you can truly see it to believe it. It never occurred to you to actually look at your surroundings closely, but you often would sometimes take a few seconds out of your day to admire the many colors and materials that would adorn your coworkers. Whether it be admiration for their sense of style or mild jealousy over luxurious pieces, you were finally understanding what makes fashion, fashion.

And your epiphany was awarded today with the task that you thought would never come into the light of your days working for Geto—being tasked with dropping off The Book.

The Book was a collection of pieces that were needed for the upcoming edition of the magazine, regarding it as being the most important item in the entire company. It was a duty that usually Manami tended to, but she hypothesized that you managed to finally get on Geto’s good side after a while and congratulated you. Manami spoke to you briefly about how trivial The Book was to both Geto and Kaizen. She told you about how you must guard it and Geto’s key to his penthouse with your life, and that you were to remain absolutely invisible to him if he was in the apartment. Manami told you because it was usually the hour he needed most concentration—it was during the later hours of the day that he usually mended last minute edits to the edition or he was working on his latest fashion collection since he was only able to work on it during the weekends as Kaizen took too much of his time.

Manami told you he would most likely be found on the second floor of his penthouse, and you were to remain on the first floor at all costs.

“The editors will finish The Book around 10:30 or 11:00 at night, wait in the office until then. Then, drop the book off at his penthouse at no later than 11:30 with his dry cleaning, too.”

Her words echo in your mind as you tiptoe out of the cab and look up to see a gleaming, glamorous building sitting in the heart of the city. It’s one you’ve passed a plenty of times—hell, you pass it on your way to work—but it never occurred to you that it’d be this antique white, Parisian-styled building that would be the abode of your boss.

“Take the elevator to the top floor and enter his apartment. Do not call out his name, don’t wander around, don’t even make a single sound. You are nothing more than a ghost when you step foot into his house.”

The only doors that are on the very top floor of the apartment complex are two large metal doors that sit before you. You enter the key into the keyhole and push them open with controlled force, closing them as quietly as possible with Manami’s whispers still floating about your head. You knew that Geto was certainly a man of luxury, but to see that wealth exempt in a form other than fashion was a sight that you weren’t sure if your eyes deserved to feast on. Sculptures and paintings decorated the foyer and hallway, adding occasional splashes of color to the ivory-adorned apartment. After hanging the dry cleaning in the designated coat closet, the first room you enter - and perhaps the only one you’ll ever be in - is the said living room with the glass coffee table sitting in the center of it.

“Place The Book on the coffee table in the living room. That’s it. Do not toddle any longer in his house and get out immediately. Don’t let curiosity get the better of you and just simply go afterwards. It’s for your own good.”

But oh, how curiosity is just a little devil of temptation that sits far too easily on your shoulder. A house holds the most of a person, and Geto is just an all too mysterious enigma for you not to at least dip your toe in. The doors at the end of the hallway are waiting for you, but so are the picture frames that sit atop the TV stand. You suppose… maybe another minute wouldn’t hurt.

Your feet carry you slowly to the stand and you crouch, adjusting your glasses to get a better look at the pictures. There’s only two of them—six by fours, both in oak brown frames. The first one is a picture of a smiling young girl with short chestnut hair sporting a smile with a cigarette between her teeth. Beside her are two boys taller than her, both making similar faces at the camera. One of them, the one that’s a little taller with silvery snow hair and opaque black sunglasses, throwing a forced, all-too wide grin that almost looks maniacal. It doesn’t require much brain power to know the other figure in the photo is a younger Geto Suguru, his hair shorter in a tight bun with a rare, but soft grin on his face, his gaze affectionate to the others.

The other picture is of the same two boys arm in arm with each other. Both of them are grinning now, with the white haired boy still smiling a little more largely than the other. It doesn’t take long for you to assume who the other boy was considering that the shade of purple sheathing his twinkling eyes is unique to only one individual in your life.

Best friends, you suggest in your mind as you study the pictures a little longer than needed. A minute, you thought, wouldn’t do much harm, but how utterly wrong your thoughts prove when you suddenly hear the slam of a door from the floor above. The crash of it makes you yelp and breaks you out of your trance from the pictures and your gaze suddenly snaps to the open stairs above you, as well as two voices echoing aloud.

“Y-you can’t—” an unknown voice wheezes. “I’ve been your muse for years. You possibly can’t just abandon me out of nowhere…”

“You say that as if I’m not doing that right now,” a familiar one replies back boredly. It’s Geto, and his voice makes your nerves electrify in fear because it’s in that moment that you remember that you can’t get caught inside of his house. “This is the last time I’m telling you, Shigemo. Get out.”

The man that you assume is Shigemo heaves heavy breaths. “You need me,” he declares.

“Needed. Past tense,” Geto corrects as he almost forces Shigemo down the stairs with an invisible force surrounding him. You can see their figures above you, Shigemo slowly stepping backwards with each step Geto takes forward. “You’ve done me well these few years, I admit, and I do thank you for that. But I suppose your expiration date has finally come.”

“I’m not a food,” Shigemo snivels. “I’m a person. Most importantly. I’m the reason your fashion line flourished, I was the inspiration for almost all your works. We’re essentially a team.”

They’re towards the end of the staircase, towards where you are still present in plain sight. Your eyes scatter about a place to hide in the meantime, but there are seemingly no places to hide that would hide you well without the notice of Geto’s eyes.

“A team?” Geto barks out a sarcastic laugh, one that makes shivers run down your spine from both the rarity of the sound and how utterly intimidating it is. “I work alone and I always have. There is no point on relying on anyone of any kind when my independence obviously pays off.”

“Who will you have then?” Shigemo retaliates with a whimper in his voice. “You know that I’m the only one that will tolerate you. It’s not like you can go crawling to Goj—“

“Finish that sentence and see what happens,” Geto hisses, causing the other man to fall into a forced silence.

Your eyes finally land on the small space between the fireplace and a pillar. It’s a space large enough for you to fill and efficient enough to hide you from sight. Unsticking your feet from the ground, you make a run for the small space, only for you to forget about the obstacle that was the ottoman sitting spitefully on the floor.

The thud that comes from your body almost rivals the volume of the door slamming open moments earlier and just like the door, it attracts unneeded attention. Geto and Shigemo stop their bickering for a moment to search for the cause of the sound, only to see you humiliatingly face first on the floor. Geto narrows his eyes at the sight of you, an unwanted visitor in his home.

A pained groan slips from your lips accidentally. You silently curse yourself for not taking the time to properly break into the tantalizing loafers Yuki bought you the day prior and wince at the pain blooming from your knees and chest. When you finally get up, you can’t help but notice that everything around you seems rather… hazy.

“Who is that…” Shigemo mutters.

Geto bites back a sigh and instead, pinches the bridge of his nose. He supposes that despite your improved mannerisms, your clumsiness still has yet to dissipate. Annoyed, he grunts out, “One of my new assistants.”

Shaking his head, Geto decides to deal with you later. His home is already suffocated with one individual, he doesn’t need another clogging the atmosphere up. He returns his attention back to Shigemo. “I thought I told you to leave,” he states, shoving his bag towards him.

Shigemo’s face paints a horrified expression once again. “Geto, please rethink this,” Shigemo pleads.

He lets out a chain of pleads and excuses for himself as Geto essentially escorts him out with just walking towards him, his face still icy. Shigemo ends up on the other side of the door to his penthouse and it’s there where his patheticness exudes the most—he falls on his hands and knees like a beggar, claiming he’d do anything and everything just to be by his side.

But his voice is suddenly cut short when Geto finally slams the door in his face, the thickness of them guarding him from Shigemo’s whines. He lets out another sigh and locks up the door securely before dealing with the other parasite in his house.

“I don’t think dropping off a book should take longer than thirty seconds,” Geto drawls as he saunters towards the living room, where you’re still on all fours on the floor, your hands tapping around. “So tell me, why are you still here?”

At the sound of his sharp tone, you freeze. You’re sure you looked utterly stupid and a mess right now, considering that you had just lost a fight to an ottoman out of all things, but you couldn’t let Geto see you in such a state. It didn’t take you long to realize that the reason why everything around you looked so blurry was because of your now-missing glasses that you attempted to look around for. But you pulled a Velma, and just like her, you can’t see without your glasses.

Everyone thinks it’s an exaggeration when you state that you felt utterly naked without them, but you truly did. You’ve been wearing glasses ever since childhood and you really didn’t appreciate the looks you had gotten when you were younger when at times you’d take them off. Some complained that your eyes were too small, too big—others mentioned you looked “off” and “weird” without them. Either way, comments from the other children stuck with you like scars, and ever since then, you refused to be seen without them.

“I a-apologize,” you stutter, shuffling your body to hide behind the recliner so Geto wouldn’t see how much of a clutter you are. You’ve humiliated yourself too much already in the office and the last thing you truly need is for you to get fired merely because your curiosity got the better of you. “I was about to head out and th-then I heard your voice from upstairs and—”

Your words fall deaf on Geto’s ears. He lets out another groan while stretching the aching muscles in his neck as he closes in on your disorderedness. A hand goes to shield your face—you don’t want him to see the bareness of your face, especially since you didn’t bother wearing makeup today. You can’t even bear the thought of him looking at it. In a rushed state, you wander around for your glasses with your head tucked in, using the remnants of your hair to curtain your face.

A jumble of excuses tumble out of your quivering lip, but Geto is too preoccupied with the gleam of something catching his eye. Laying flat on the floor are a pair of glasses that doesn’t take Geto long to presume who they belong to. He plucks them from the ground and examines them for a brief moment before holding them above you.

“I assume these are yours,” he asserts with a cocked brow.

Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice directly right above you and through your foggy field of vision is the seraphic figure of Geto holding what seems to be your glasses. Lips escaping a relieved gasp, you hurriedly scramble to your feet. Your eyes are too poor to see it properly, but Geto also shares surprise, but for an entirely different reason.

He doesn’t give you the sanity that is your glasses right away, because he’s much too preoccupied studying your face. It’s so… fresh. Your glasses were hiding such a view, like curtains to a window that unveiled the utmost rare and breathtaking sights. The way your eyes are wide open, pupils blown with a touch of singularity makes him even more intrigued because of how they’re uniquely placed onto your face along with the rest of your features. Your lips, plump with a natural sheen to them—your cheekbones, perfectly rounded. The slope of your nose fell just right. Geto studies it like an artist to a blank canvas, devoid of anything yet holding just the perfect amount of space—wanting, waiting to be filled with anything and everything.

When his eyes stare at you in what seems to be bewilderment, you swallow thickly and look away. But you can only glance at your surroundings for less than a second before Geto takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning your face toward him again. It’s then that you realize that Geto isn’t staring at you, but your face as a whole. His eyes flick with small movements, dancing about as they go from eyebrow to lips, freckle to lash, examining each and every single particle that your face has to offer.

You feel a heat creep onto your cheeks. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the closeness you and him share or the fact that you can’t detect his opinions on the one thing you’ve been disclosed about for years, but either way, you feel weak in the knees; it only worsens when Geto’s thumb brushes over the entirety of your bottom lip, feeling the plushness of it on his the pad of his finger.

“Has your face always been this open…?” he murmurs softly as he studies the various angles of your face.

You aren’t sure whether it’s a compliment or insult, either or neither. Geto’s tone always had a sort of bleakness to it, but in this very moment, you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“My glasses…” is all you manage to squeak out, fighting the urge to squirm in his grasp. Another gulp goes down your dry throat when Geto’s face contorts to an irritated confusion before he realizes his other hand holds the one thing dear to your heart.

“Oh,” he mutters and hands them back to you. His opposing hand finally goes to release your face. “Right.”

Shaking hands go to put them back onto your face again. Sighing internally of relief of your now crystal-clear surroundings, you dust yourself off with your head once more, tucked into your chest.

“I’m so sorry for this,” you whisper. The heat on your face has now spread to the entirety of your body, your nerves alight with the rush of adrenaline. “I-I’ll make sure this never happens again… good night.”

With that, you scurry yourself out before Geto has the chance to falter. All words to urge you to stay to either scold you or excuse you evaporate on his tongue. He can only watch in a strange silence as your figure rushes down the hall and out the doors, the click of them ringing out in his penthouse.

After moments of self-paralysis, an unknown feeling boils inside the pit of Geto’s stomach. He thinks he’s seen your face before with the familiarity of it unsettling him. The ghost of your face prances about in his mind as he slowly climbs the stairs to his sewing room, ignoring the shattered wine glass on the floor thrown by Shigemo. He instead, refills his own glass again with the nearby bottle of merlot wine and savoring the thickness of it running down his dry throat, embellishing in its warmth.

A single, large window faces the busy nighttime street and Geto walks and stills near it, watching carefully as the speck of your figure on the street below calls for a cab. He eyes how you turn towards the building one more time, doing your usual adjustment of your glasses (it’s a habit you often do in times of nervousness, he’s picked up) before you shuffle yourself into a cab that speeds off into the night.

Geto lets out an annoyed click of his tongue. Something about your face seems haunting and he doesn’t enjoy it. The last thing that he needed for today was even more plaguing thoughts in his head after the loss of his muse not even just ten minutes ago, but now with your face staining the back of his head, his jaw grits in irritation. In a poor attempt to take his mind off the excursion of today and the future, he shuffles about his many sketchbooks to look for any designs he could pluck out for his latest collection.

It’s an hour in, two glasses of wine later, and somehow, he still hasn’t found a single piece to begin working on that fits into his theme. Miraculously, through the vast array of what is thought to be thousands of sketches, Geto hasn’t found one that stood out to him until he gets to the last sketchbook. It’s an early one—he thinks it dates back to his early college days, when he was just beginning to peek into the world of fashion. A pang of nostalgia hits him all of a sudden when he flips to a specific page that was the start of his history.

It’s the very design that had the attention of many designers. The sketch featured a gold and red embellished outfit, a sheen of glittering flickers adorning it. The shirt features a mosaic of gold and small flecks of color here and there, imitating the many church mosaics he’d often admired as a child. The skirt and collar of the shirt were the same shade of blood red, crimson gems bespeckling them.

It’s not the outfit, however, that makes his eyes harden. Why would it? He’s seen it many times before. It’s been brought up over and over again—in interviews, in magazines. It’s one of the staples that made Geto the pillar that he is. He knows every detail of it, much like his other designs, so it isn’t the design of the outfit that made him appalled. It’s instead, the person that’s wearing it.

Because somehow, the eerie sketch of the model’s face that he had drawn years ago…

… somehow replicates your own face perfectly.

a/n: first jjk fic in forever! wowie it's been much too long... also if u need a refresher on who shigemo is, he's the guy with the ponytail that nanami pulled kekeke

10.2k is hefty i know but i couldn't help myself my bad lolol T_T currently just a test run of what i hope to be is a series that some may be interested in because clearly this barely scratches the surface of what i want to embed haha so please let me know how you like it so far :))

continuing, i hope you enjoyed and thank you for taking time out of your day to enjoy my craft, whether it be your first time or your hundredth! once more, likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and are always appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!!

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lovecla · 3 months ago

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TAKE YOUR PAIN AWAY | quinn hughes.

00.1. the first time you saw quinn hughes.

➴ chapter warnings: mentions of shitty family.

➴ word count: 1.08k

💌 from me to you: this has been sitting on my drafts for days because i wasn’t brave enough to post it. but this story is very important to me and i promised myself i’d stop doubting what i write and just go for it. i hope with all my heart u guys like this ♡

౨ৎ

2013, SEPTEMBER.

THE first time you saw Quinn Hughes you were eleven years old.

Your family had just bought the house next to his, a beautiful four bedroom house with lots of space and a beautiful backyard— the perfect house for a family of four.

It was a week after you all settled in, your Dad as a Sports Medicine Physician working for a Hockey Canadian team, the Toronto Maple Leafs— the whole reason why you moved in the first place— your Mom as a Editor-in-Chief for the Fashion magazine, one of Canada's leading fashion publications, featuring content related to fashion, beauty, culture, and modeling and your brother, Peter, in High School as a freshman.

You were sitting on your porch, while you waited for Peter to be back so you could convince him to play football with you. He always said no, but you didn't give up. A few minutes later, Peter got out of your neighbor’s house, alongside another boy, who was slightly shorter than Peter.

You watched as they both walked towards your house, talking about something you couldn’t hear. You remember being so enamored with the sight of the boy that you couldn’t stop fidgeting your hands.

They stopped right in front of you, and while Peter was ready to ignore you and move on with his day— he’d been doing that more and more since he started High School— the other boy stopped and looked right at you.

“You didn’t tell me you have a sister.” The boy said, looking at your brother for a second before turning back at you.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter shrugged. “That’s Madison. She’s ten.”

“I’m eleven,” you corrected, voice soft and quiet.

“Whatever,” he scoffed, grabbing his keys so he could open the front door.

“Can you play with me now?” You asked, getting up from your seat, finally noticing how tall this other boy was. “I have the ball with me already.” You pointed at the ball that sat on the same couch you were also sitting not a minute ago.

“No, Madison. I’m with Quinn now.” Peter said, pointing at the boy beside him, who was now frowning at your brother.

Quinn. That’s a funny name, you remember thinking.

“We can play with her, I don’t mind—” the boy, Quinn, said, already reaching for the ball.

“Nah, bro. She’s annoying as hell. Once you pick that ball up, you won’t be able to let it go for like, three hours.” Peter replied, already opening the door.

You felt yourself tearing up and even though you hated crying in front of your brother, you couldn’t help it. Growing up, he was your best friend. Your hero even, when your parents decided that arguing during dinner, in front of their children, was a nice thing to do and he would make funny faces at you across the table just so you could laugh. When he pretended to yell at the monster under your bed or when he let you paint his nails with your pink nail polish.

But somewhere between turning fifteen and entering High School, he changed. And you hated every inch of this new Peter Carter.

He entered the house, shouting something, probably announcing to your mom that he was home. And you stood there, looking at your hands.

“Next time, I’ll play with you, okay?” Quinn, who was still standing in front of you, hesitated, looking as devastated as ever.

You felt embarrassed and you got out of there as fast as you could, running back inside and nestling yourself between your covers and plushies.

౨ৎ

YOU didn’t think Quinn had meant what he had said the other day, so you were surprised to see that he showed up the next morning, when both of your parents were at work and Peter was asleep in his bedroom upstairs.

“Hey,” he greeted you, stepping on your backyard patio and looking around. “Nice place you got here. We can play for a long time without risking throwing the ball in Mrs. Wright window.”

You giggled, remembering Mrs. Wright's funny wig.

“I’m Quinn Hughes.” He introduced himself after a while.

“I know that,” you whispered, watching as he laughed. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen, but I turn fourteen on October 14th,” he said. “You’re eleven, right?”

“Yes. My birthday was in February. I got this ball,” you raised the ball you were holding so he could see it better. It had your name on it. “And I also got new clothes for my plushies.”

“That sounds nice,” he nodded. “I’ll probably get a new stick on my birthday.”

“Why would you need a stick?” You asked, not sure what he could do with a stick. A tree’s stick. At least that’s what you thought a stick was.

Maybe he wants to put it on his fireplace.

“I play Hockey,” he answered and you still didn’t understand. The only thing you knew about Hockey was that it was the reason you and your family moved to Toronto. So it probably wasn’t a good thing. “And I need a new one.”

“Well, if it makes you happy, then I guess it’s fine,” you shrugged, poking your ball. “But that will probably be boring. You should ask for something cooler.”

He laughed again, sitting on the grass beside you. “I’ll think about that. Thank you for your advice.”

You puffed your chest a little, happy to feel useful for once.

That morning, you and Quinn didn’t end up playing; instead, you talked for hours, with you both asking each other questions about literally everything. From what’s your favorite color to what you wanna be when you grow up.

You could feel your heart racing in your chest every time you stared into his blue eyes that sometimes morphed into a light green shade, but you didn’t understand why. Quinn was being nice, he was treating you just like Peter did before you moved to Toronto and it felt so, so nice.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” You asked, right before he left for lunch at his house.

“I think so.” He smiled, quickly patting you on the head. He gave you a short wave before moving back to his home.

And you just stood there, counting the seconds so that maybe tomorrow would come faster, and you’d finally have a friend again.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x fem!reader #quinn hughes x model!fmc #nhl hockey #nhl players #nhl x reader #quinn hughes smut #TYPA

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librarycards · 1 year ago

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hello! i apologize in advance this is probably something that you get asked a lot. but do you have any recs on literary magazines to submit to? im a trans poet, ive been writing for over a decade but never shared anything and ive been wanting to try to send my stuff to get it published somewhere. obv ive been google searching but theres so many big and small publications and i was wondering if you have ones you like especially and/or tips on how to choose a magazine/journal to submit to. thanks a lot! <3

no worries, thank you for reaching out!! i've been publishing for like 8 years + an editor for almost 4, so i always appreciate the opportunity to help people new to the world find ethical publications that will treat their work with the care it deserves.

first and foremost: there are going to be pubs out there that are awesome and i don't know about. you may be the one to discover them for yourself! one aid in finding the best mag for your work is the wonderful, writer-created chillsubs. it's a fantastic platform that keeps a huge list of mags and presses and their relevant stats, and lets you create an account and bookmark those you're interested in. everyone i know uses them, and it's very worth it given the sheer volume of mags out there.

i also have some recs of my own, ofc. i'm going to list them below. if they pay (which i prioritize) I'll mark them with a $. some are trans/queer focused and some aren't, but all are pubs i've either edited and/or published with and can confirm their ethics + respect for writers.

manywor(l)ds - my mag! i'm co-founder and eic. break genre _ shapeshift with us. ($)

Sinister Wisdom - old, well-regarded lesbian+ lit mag, now open to everyone who is/loves a dyke. I'm guest-editing an issue on Madness with them, now open for submissions!

fifth wheel press - run by a beloved friend and comrade of mine. i've published here. excellent transparency, care, great for first-timers. ($).

kith books - headed by trans literary icon kat blair. a mag/press/community centered around bodymind non-conformity and noncompliance.

Honey Literary - QTPOC-centered, unabashedly pop-culture + social justice oriented. the vibes are simply immaculate.

Whale Road Review - not queer/trans focused, more oriented toward....'grown up' poetry/prose/pedagogy papers. Katie Manning (eic) is a fucking gem.

Graphic Violence Lit - just had my first experience publishing with them, and their care + consideration for the whole writer is amazing. they publish boundary-pushing work.

beestung - one of the brainchildren of Sarah Clark. nb/gq/2s SFF. I just edited a few guest issues w them and have published with them. amazing work. ($)

A Velvet Giant - genrequeer work. the editors are experienced, enthusiastic, and amazing at promoting writers long after publication. it's a family! ($)

Ethel Zine + Press - handmade with love by Sara Lefsyk (as you can see, trans/nonbinary/2s sarahs dominate indie publishing, as well we should :3). Sara is a sensitive and care-full editor and bookmaker whose every publication is a work of art.

Protean - pro- as in proletariat. awesome left mag with a mix of politics and culture and everything in between. they take reprints! ($)

Mudroom - publish your work along with a picture of your mudroom/shoe rack. very responsive editors who will hype you tf up. ($)

The Institutionalized Review - for psych survivors. the editors concreteness of vision and dedication to their community know no bounds.

Just Femme + Dandy - queer and fashion-focused! led by the inimitable Addie Tsai. They pay *handsomely*. ($)

In addition, there are also some "big" mags I have had excellent experiences publishing with and wanted to shout out. These are harder for a beginner to break into, but worth keeping on your radar + have been fantastic to me as a writer.

Electric Lit

Split Lip Magazine

The Offing

Nat. Brut

Santa Fe Writers' Project

Bodega

New Orleans Review

Augur Magazine

I hope this is helpful to you + others! the literary world is ever-changing and this is just a snapshot. Hopefully you find some that you like!

#ask #anonymous #writing #literary magazines #lit mag #call for submissions

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treedaddymcpuffpuff · 8 months ago

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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six

TW: violence, choking, mentions of bdsm, abuse of authority, cops, unfair power dynamics, harassment, body fluids and drug use mentions, mentions of harm/accidents

For California, it’s a bit chilly out this morning. The sun is getting a lazy late start, just beginning to yawn golden orange and fiery yellow over the horizon. Julian’s hair in that light is the high shine of fashion magazine model locs, and you’re, as usual, opening your mouth before you think. “What shampoo and conditioner do you use?”

He seems thoroughly amused. “Honestly? You’re going to be mad about it.”

“Try me,” you prod, slipping inside his little sports car that smells like lemon air freshener and coffee.

He seems a little cramped in the seat, knees bent up and head almost touching the ceiling, and you wonder if he actually even tried to get into this thing before buying it.

“It’s a rental,” he explains.

“Did you get into an accident?”

“A truck hit mine while it was parked.”

“How are you so calm about that? I’d punch someone.”

He looks over at you with a sculpted, raised brow. “I just cannot imagine you hurting a fly, y/n.”

“Flies are innocent, truck drivers are free game.”

He gives you a big laugh that strokes the flame of your ego. “You’re hilarious. I use men’s body wash.”

“What?” Okay, he’s right, you are a little mad. You use shampoo and conditioner that are specifically supposed to soften your hair, but the poof on your head absolutely pales in comparison to his soft, beautiful mane that gets the luxury of â€¦ what? Old spice? Axe body wash?

“I told you,” he sings, turning on the engine.

Genetics is a bitch.

He takes you to a fancy little French inspired coffee shop cuddled into the center of an outlet mall with salt lamps and big ferns and comfy chairs. You settle into a nook closests to the sunned windows so Julian can keep an eye on his rental, which is understandable. No part of LA is good to have a Porsche in, but especially not the inner city.

“This is delicious,” you tell him through a mouthful of warm croissant, covering your lips in embarrassment when you realize that your table manners are less than adequately prepared for a date with a doctor.

“They have the best coffee,” he agrees, taking a sip of his steaming latte.

You don’t have time to stop your brain from comparing Julian to a certain cop you know who prefers his coffee black and bitter, or at least that’s what he told you when he saw you drinking your vanilla cream cold foam at the nurse’s station.

Julian is talking, you think, and you’re only half listening while you remember how Tom had snatched that drink right out of your hands and held it up in the air.

“Give it back!” You hissed, reaching up on tiptoes while he laughed at the pathetic rescue attempt.

“Careful, honey, don’t hurt yourself for this pathetic excuse of caffeine. What is it anyway? Is there even coffee in here?”

After he walked away with his discharge paperwork, your coworkers were understandably curious about the tall, puckish cop who fucked with you any chance he got.

Miguel watched his ass move the whole way down the hallway and out the glass exit doors while literally clutching the rosary under his scrub shirt as if a devil had just walked by, then looked over at you. “What a man.”

“Are you alright?” Julian asks, bringing you back to the present conversation with a hand over your forearm. He does seem concerned, and it makes you feel like a piece of shit. This guy is a gentleman and here you are on a date with him fantasizing about the brute that is Tom Ludlow.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave away his concern. “Tell me about you, Julian. What do you do for fun? Doctor-by-night, Violin-player-by-morning?

He chuckles. “Nothing that cultured. I like riding motorcycles.”

“Really?” You ask, genuinely surprised and trying to imagine Julian in a gang of bikers with cracked leather skull and snake jackets.

“I love them.” He nods. “I have three that I take for long rides along the coast. You get lost in it, the wind and salt and sand. The rumble of the engine under you.”

“I’ve never been on one,” you tell him, “and I’m honestly surprised you ride them after what we see in the ER. Don’t you remember that guy that had his calf hanging on by a tendon? Or that woman who had half her face missing?”

“Yes, I do. But I go the speed limit and wear the proper gear. And I like the thrill.”

It’s not just the casual t-shirt and worn jeans or the way the light halos his thick silk nest of hair or the roguish grin that makes you see Julian in an entirely new way, now. “You’re wild, Dr. Mercer.”

He licks spilled cream at the ridge of his coffee cup, rubs at the skin of your forearm with his fingers, and winks. You wonder what he would look like between your legs doing the same thing, except with your fingers gripping that luscious hair.

“You should let me take you for a ride, sometime,” he suggests, and for a minute you forget you’re talking about motorcycles.

“Oh, I don’t know, Julian.”

“C’mon.” He nudges your knee under the table and relaxes back into his seat, now reminding you too much of someone else you know. Same height, same hair color, same facial structure.

Fuck. Really?

“Good boyfriends take their girlfriends on long, romantic motorcycle rides.”

“But you’re not my boyfriend.”

His smile droops a little bit and it makes you feel bad for being so illiterately ignorant. Well, you feel bad until he opens his mouth. “I am, though.”

He paints it playful, but it sounds a little bit pushy-bossy, even. “I don’t know about that, either, Julian.”

He tries a different angle. “You know, believe it or not, most women would consider me quite the catch.”

You hope your face doesn’t betray the little bit of ick you get from him saying something so egotistical. “I don’t doubt it, and you deserve someone that can give you what you’re looking for.”

“You think you can’t give me what I’m looking for?” He leans across the table in sudden intensity, and you balk at the notion.

“No, I honestly don’t.”

“Why?”

You start to say something, but he cuts you off. “And, I really mean why? Why can’t you give me what I’m looking for? Enlighten me.”

“I’m not-I have too much baggage.” You unconsciously lean away from his swelling intensity.

“That’s a little vague.” He frowns.

“I’m not normal, Julian. You seem like you would like normal women.” You cringe at the childish sentiment, but truly have no idea how to get the point across except for basically telling him that you’re a freak with a bad past and worse coping mechanisms. You eat slices of bread for dinner and drink out of the milk carton. Julian probably irons his shirts. This will not work.

“You’re assuming I’m normal?”

“Yes. I guess I am.” You lean back and cross your arms over your chest.

“Well, I’m not. In fact, I’ll prove it to you.” He takes out his wallet, pulls a laminated card from it, and slides it over the table to you.

“What..” It’s a little red card framed in black with big bold letters on the front advertising a BDSM club in the heart of downtown Venice. “What is this?”

“BDSM is bondage, domination-“

“I know what that is,” you interrupt. “I just meant.. You go here?”

“I do.” He nods and takes a drink. “I occasionally engage in scenes.”

You decide that you should coat your suddenly very dry mouth and drink a big gulp of your coffee. “Like with a dominatrix?”

He laughs at you, puts his head in his hand and shakes his head. “No. I prefer to be the dominant one.”

You look at-really, really look at this man for the first time and honestly cannot imagine him taking that role.

He must see the confusion on your face, because his laughter grows. “That’s the usual reaction I get.”

Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the-you know what, fuck it.

“So, what do you do at the club?”

“A typical play scene, you mean?” How in the hell he can be so casual and relaxed about this you’re not sure. Because you can already feel the cold sweat breaking along your shoulders and neck.

“I guess? Yeah.”

“Well, ideally the woman is tied up in some fashion, and of course there’s a safe word, negotiated limits. Perhaps a punishment scenario with pain play. Are you okay?”

He looks at your table-clutching, white knuckled hands, searches your face, giving you a genuine concerned expression that makes you wonder what actually is going on with you right now. You feel like you're on a tightrope over a ravine of crocodiles and Julian’s on the other end lazily sawing at the rope with dull scissors.

“I’m fine,” you say breathily, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about all that.”

His gentle smile is nothing less than kind, though maybe also, a little disappointed. “I get that a lot too.”

“Is that…the only way you enjoy sex?” you ask quietly, leery of the blue-haired old lady just two tables away.

“No,” he seems happy to tell you. “Though it is…the way I enjoy sex most.”

You blink, digesting this with understandable trepidation. He’s basically telling you that it would be impossible to be in a relationship with him without dipping into this eventually. And you…?

Are definitely intrigued, and you’re not really sure why.

“You said you have baggage,” Julien probes cautiously. You can feel him looking at you, but you’re not quite up to eye contact with him yet. You fix your gaze out the window. “Well, I do too. I haven’t had a perfect life. No one does, and I’m not interested in a perfect girlfriend. I like you, y/n.”

You feel your breath go out in an audible whoosh. It actually makes him smile-you feel it like rays of the sun. How can this man be so warm, and yet have such a dark side?

Well, maybe it’s not a dark side, you reason. Maybe it’s just…a thing he likes, and between consenting adults, what’s the harm?

“Soâ€¦” You can’t help but think about how odd this is, discussing this in this coffee shop filled with mild-mannered caffeine addicts. What you really want to ask, is what happened to him that makes him like this kind of sexual play, but you know it would be too far, and you damn well don’t feel like talking about your own fucked up past. But there is something you do feel you have a right to know. “Is this something you want to do to me?”

Again, he fixes you with that bad boy smirk that gives you chills and utterly ruins your panties. “Since the moment you stood up to me over that patient,” he admits. And maybe that should alarm you, that he wants to tie you up and hurt you for being defiant about something that deserved defiance. It does alarm you, but… It also… It sounds a little thrilling. “In fact-“

Julian and the rest of the world and even your own thoughts disappear when you meet a pair of familiar, sun tinted eyes out the window of the coffee shop. He’s grinning-when is he not grinning at you like he knows what it does to your helpless insides?-and licking his fingers, tearing off a yellow parking ticket to slap it under the windshield of Julian’s rental.

“Uh, Julian-“

“Just let me finish,” Julian insists. His bossy tone irritates you, but Tom brightens the mood by making a jerking off motion towards the doctor, and then winking at you.

You can’t help but laugh. It’s honestly involuntary, the loud wheeze that tears from your chest and makes Julian look outside to see the yellow ticket shining under his wiper as Ludlow’s ass saunters away.

You’re not sure what Julian’s plan is when he storms outside to catch Ludlow by the arm, but you’re definitely following ten strides behind to prevent his untimely death.

“I’m parked legally.” His voice is a menacing growl instead of the smooth honey you’re used to, and yeah, maybe now you can see a little bit of that Dominant Persona he was talking about.

“Not after 9AM,” Tom says, unbothered by Julian’s anger, still grinning like an idiot.

“It’s eight-thirty,” Julian argues, tugging on Tom’s sleeve-that earns him a bent back arm and even the appearance of handcuffs.

“Tom, stop it, fucking really?”

“Sorry, honey, your boyfriend’s going to jail.”

“For what?!” You and Julian both demand at once.

“Putting his pristine fucking hands on what’s mine.” Tom tugs Julian up on his toes and clicks one handcuff into place.

You hope he means his uniform, but you have a feeling he doesn’t.

“That’s way too tight and you know it,” Julian grunts.

“What, someone likes to dish it out but can’t take it? Don’t be a bitch,” Tom muses, grabbing Julian’s other arm and twisting it-not gently-behind his back.

“Tom, you fucking dickhead.”

He looks at you as he’s putting the other cuff on your date. “Oh, I’ll deal with you later.” His grin looks more like a snarl at this point, and you think that Julian could probably take some pretty good Dom pointers from Tom, because your heart is galloping and your clit is pulsing despite the absolute absurdity of the situation. Also-it's a miracle-your sassing mouth has snapped shut.

After Officer Ludlow practically throws Dr. Mercer into the back of his Charger, slamming the door, he turns to you with a smirk and his thumb in his belt. Goddammit, if that fucking look doesn’t go straight to your lady parts.

“Tom…you cannot do this.”

A tow truck has pulled up, and is in process of impounding the sweet little Porsche.

He steps up to you in those big black boots that make him a mile tall.

“You’d be surprised what I can and cannot do, sweetheart.”

“Please.” You hate how desperate you know you sound.

He taps his chin. “Well, I do like the sound of that. But it would be a lot more convincing if you got on your knees and said it.”

“You asshole,” you seethe, even as you can feel the moisture pooling between your legs.

“That kinda language definitely isn’t going to get Doctor Bitch Boy out of my car.”

“What the fuck do you want then?” You know it was a stupid question the moment it flies from your mouth. He’s going to reply with something filthy, and demeaning, and-

“Have dinner with me.”

You’re going to need another tow truck just to get your jaw up off the ground.

“You’re going to get in trouble for this,” you say. “This isn’t harassing a lowly broke-ass nurse. He is going to sue the shit out of you.”

Tom just snorts at that, unimpressed. “Did you know your friend likes to hang out at a BDSM club in Venice Beach? Whips and chains and shit? Bet this asshole has mommy issues from here to Pasadena. Come on, y/n, you don’t need that in your life.”

It almost sounds like he’s…worried about you?

Officer Ludlow has no idea how badly he’s misjudged you, now that he’s pissed you off. “Maybe I like it,” you snipe back, stretching up so you’re almost in his face. “Fact is, it’s none of your fucking business.”

Ludlow just narrows his eyes down at you, those dark orbs glinting like sharp obsidian. “Well, sorry, guess he’s not tying you up tonight, baby. He’s gotta cool down in the tank.”

He makes to go, but you reach out, not grabbing him, per se, but just touching his chest. He freezes, and you can practically feel him vibrating beneath your hand. With excitement, because he fucking lives for being an asshole, or…you hate to think you know the real answer.

His mitt of a hand covers yours, holding it just above his heart.

“Tom….” Caught up in this tension between you, you’re not even sure what you’re asking now.

You expect him to say something dirty, or snide, but instead you swear that just for a moment, his gaze softens as he looks down at you. “Dinner?” he asks again, with a note of hope in his voice that is almost endearing, if he wasn’t being such a class A jerk.

“I can’t.”

His demeanor changes in less than a second, drawing up to his full height, his shoulders squared. He flicks down his sunglasses that were on his head, so you can no longer even see his eyes. His voice changes, drops an octave, something. The authority in it makes you shudder inside. “Wave to Dr. Bitch Boy, y/n, we’re going for a little ride.”

Before you can grab him, or do anything, really, Tom is behind the wheel, speeding off with a very pissed off Julian in the back seat.

Your heart drops to your feet as you are left standing there alone on the sidewalk without a ride, and completely at a loss as to what to do.

***

“I’m going to fucking sue you,” Julian grits, kicking the back of Tom’s seat for good measure.

“Yeah, yeah, with your doctor money,” Tom grumbles, taking a big swig of coffee with one hand and steering recklessly with the other because it’s fun to watch that skinny fuck bounce around helplessly in the seat.

“I’m not getting booked tonight, Officer Ludlow. I’m calling my fucking lawyer.”

“Sorry, Doctor Bitch, your Lawyer’s busy until tomorrow afternoon, didn’t you hear?”

“You son of a-“

Tom gasses the car over a big pothole and it sends Julian flying into the opposite door. It’s a sight he could almost get off to.

Julian, big goose egg swelling up on his temple, gets yanked out of the squad car and tossed on the shit smeared, needle peppered streets of South Central. “They probably need you here more than the hospital, Doctor. Have funâ€“”

“Wait! Fuck. I’m still cuffed for fuck’s sake!” Tom gives the little guy credit for being able to get up on his feet so fast with his hands behind his back and a probable minor concussion. “You can’t leave me here.”

Tom pauses with his hand on the lip of the hot car door, but only to memorize the sight of a sweat-stained, wild eyed, trembling distinguished doctor about to get his shit wrecked on the mean LA Streets. He’s guessing Julian’s never visited much outside of Hollywood, Venice, and Santa Monica, and the cute little horrified expression on his face is testament to that.

Tom taps the hood of his car. “See ya, Doc.”

“You know,” Julian says, “this isn’t going to stop me from seeing her, Tom.”

Well, if he wants a fight.

Tom slams the charger door, whips off his belt, backs Julian up until he falls on his ass into a steaming puddle of unknown origin, and loops the leather around his neck.

He tugs him up by the belt, onto his toes, eliminating that fraction of height difference just so he can see the whites of this prick’s eyes.

He doubles the wrap of the belt in his fist, and Julian sputters something unintelligible through a thick choke.

“What’s wrong? Thought you liked this shit?” Tom pretends to wait for an answer that he prevents. “Oh, that’s right, you like being the one doing the choking. That gets your dick wet, huh? Beating on women?”

He wants nothing more than to choke this fucker unconscious and leave him on the streets for the hepatitis rats to chew on his toes, and, fuck it, if he ends up passing out by the time Tom’s done saying his peace, then so be it.

“You can see her all you want, asshole. Take her on as many dates as you like. But if I see one fuckin’ bruise on her-one red mark on that pretty skin-I’m gonna make the rest of your short life very fucking unpleasant. Comprende?”

#tom ludlow x reader #tom ludlow #street kings #keanuverse fic #keanuverse

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listofwhyyouloveher · 7 months ago

Note

Hiiiii I hope ur doing good but can I request the greaser gang with fem!black reader :33 (this is very much self indulgent heheehe)

Summary: The Outsiders x Black!Reader

Warnings: none Author's Note: sorry if I got somethings wrong againnn

PONYBOY CURTIS

Thinks you're so pretty and have the prettiest eyes

Stares at them, Def gets “lost in them”

buys you cds of all your fav music so you can listen to them with him

Will ALWAYS be with you. He thinks he can intimidate the socs away

JOHNNY CADE

Very insecure abt yalls relationship because he doesnt think hes cute enough to be with you

Stands in the pharmacy to read about your pop culture in magazines

Thinks your hair is so attractive, loves running his hands (gently) through it

he'll get literally red faced, screaming, attacking anything if you get insulted or jumped, he's gonna be your ride or die.

SODAPOP CURTIS

Obsessed with your facial harmony

When your doing your hair he'll help you separate the curls for you

Loves seeing you in his DX shirt because of your perfect figure

If you like a certain artist, he'll definitely try and sneak you into the concert

STEVE RANDLE

His love language is food, so hell cook whatever your mom gives him recipes for

If you don't like it, he's making that same thing everyday until it's perfect for you

Loves your fashion sense, he tells you that its like dating a model

Tries his absolute hardest to get you the right color jewelry, like he has a note of either gold or silver

TWO BIT MATHEWS

Perhaps a little insensitive and rude without trying to be, like hes trying to crack jokes but some of those dont land

IMMEDIATELY respects the boundaries you put down, backs off quickly.

Likes doing your “girly” stuff with you, but he mostly tells you to do it on his sister so you two can bond

Turns out her hair hold a really pretty curl and she asks you to do her hair everytime you come over, hes literally so in love with the fact that you two get along

DARRY CURTIS

Tries his best to not be rude, its like hes always walking on eggshells.

He has you explain everything to him so now he has 100 mental notes about everything you do, like, eat etc.

Tries to treat you like a queen and saves up so much money for fancy dates and stuff.

No one fucks with you because hes on semi good terms with socs and good terms with greasers. So ur just in the middle ground

DALLAS WINSTON

Once again (say it with me guys!) DALLAS IS A WHITE BITCH

doesn't understand anything, will lowkey judge you for many things

Literally tried to bag you as a challenge, but kinda fell for your charm

Hes not head over heels but he's falling, just will never admit it.

#shroomsroom #clara'sroom #the outsiders x reader #dallas winston x reader #dally winston x reader #johnny cade x reader #steve randle x reader #darrel curtis x reader #darry curtis x reader #pony curtis x reader #ponyboy x reader #ponyboy curtis x reader #soda curtis x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #two bit mathews x reader #two bit matthews x reader #two bit x reader

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amphibious-thing · 1 year ago

Text

Pink is for Boys

"Pink or Blue? Which is intended for boys and which for girls? This question comes from one of our readers this month, and the discussion may be of interest to others. There has been a great diversity of opinion on this subject, but the generally accepted rule is pink for the boy and blue for the girl. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl." ~ The Infants' Department, June 1918

[Left: The Blue Boy, oil on canvas, c. 1770, by Thomas Gainsborough.

Right: The Pink Boy, oil on canvas, c. 1782, by Thomas Gainsborough.]

Pink is for girls and blue is for boys. But it hasn't always been this way. Colour coding infants as a way of denoting gender was popular in 20th century America. The problem? Pink and blue? Which is for boys and which is for girls?

In 1927 TIME Magazine asked ten of the "leading stores that sell baby equipment" which colour was for which gender. Four stores responded pink for girls and blue for boys; Macy's (Manhattan), Franklin Simon (Manhattan), Wanamaker's (Philadelphia) and Bullock's (Los Angeles). Five stores responded pink for boys and blue for girls; Best's (Manhattan), Marshall Field's (Chicago), Filene's (Boston), Maison Blanche (New Orleans) and The White House (San Francisco). Curiously Halle's (Cleveland) responded that pink was for both boys and girls.

This debate would continue and it wasn't until mid-20th century that pink for girls and blue for boys became firmly cemented in western culture.

However the idea of colour coding infants dates back to the 19th century. According to La cour de Hollande sous le règne de Louis Bonaparte in 1808 in Holland pink was used to announce the birth of a girl and blue a boy. In March 1856 Peterson's Magazine (Philadelphia, USA) advises that the ribbon on a christening cap should be blue for a boy and pink for a girl. On the 23rd of July 1893 the New York Times writes that for baby clothes it's "pink for a boy and blue for a girl!"

[The Oddie Children, oil on canvas, c. 1789, by William Beechey, via North Carolina Museum of Art.]

During the latter half of the 18th century one of the most popular outfits for young children, regardless of gender, was a white dress with a coloured sash tied around the waist. Pink and blue being the most popular colours, although other colours were worn as well. It would be tempting to assume that the colour of the sash indicated gender but there isn't clear evidence that this was the case. The Oddie Children (above) depicts Sarah, Henry, Catherine, and Jane Oddie. The three girls are all wearing white dresses; two with a blue sash one with a pink sash. We also see Henry Russell (bellow left) wearing a blue sash and Prince William (bellow right) wearing a pink sash.

[Left: Anne Barbara Russell née Whitworth with her son Sir Henry Russell, oil on canvas, c. 1786, by George Romney, via Woolley & Wallis.

Right: Prince William, oil on canvas, c. 1767, by Allan Ramsay, via the Royal Collection Trust.]

Pink was just one of the many colours popular in 18th century English womenswear and seems to have stayed popular throughout the century. On the 3rd of January 1712 The Spectator published an article in which a man recalls seeing "a little Cluster of Women sitting together in the prettiest coloured Hoods that I ever saw. One of them was Blew, another Yellow, and another Philomot; the fourth was of a Pink Colour, and the fifth of a pale Green". On the 1st of May 1736 the Read's Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer reports that the ladies attending the royal wedding wore gowns of "Gold stuffs, or rich Silks with Gold or Silver Flowers, or Pink or White Silks, with either Gold or Silver Netts or Trimmings;" shoes either "Pink, White or Green Silk, with Gold or Silver Lace and braid all over." On the 24th of May 1785 Charles Storer writes to Abigail Adams advising that fashionable colours in English court dress are "pink, lilac, and blue" such "as is worn at Versailles".

[Left: Frances, Daughter of Evelyn Pierpont, 1st Duke of Kingston, oil on canvas, c. 1700-23, by Godfrey Kneller, via Art UK.

Middle: Mrs. Abington as Miss Prue in "Love for Love" by William Congreve, oil on canvas, c. 1771, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, via Yale Center for British Art.

Right: Mary Little, later Lady Carr, oil on canvas, c. 1765, by Thomas Gainsborough, via Yale Center for British Art.]

In particular pink was popular amongst young women as the colour was associated with youth. Older women who wore pink were mocked as vain for dressing in a way that was seen as improper for their age. On the 31st of January 1754 Lady Jane Coke writes to Mrs. Eyre criticising old women who wear pink:

As for fashions in dress, which you sometimes inquire after, they are too various to describe. One thing is new, which is, there is not such a thing as a decent old woman left, everybody curls their hair, shews their neck, and wears pink, but your humble servant. People who have covered their heads for forty years now leave off their caps and think it becomes them, in short we try to out-do our patterns, the French, in every ridiculous vanity.

[Folly Embellishing Old Age With the Adornments of Youth, oil on canvas, c. 1743, by Charles-Antoine Coypel, via Master Art.]

For Englishmen acceptable clothing way much more limited. In A Foreign View of England in the Reigns of George I & George II Monsieur César de Saussure writes that Englishmen "do not trouble themselves about dress, but leave that to their womenfolk". He explains:

Englishmen are usually very plainly dressed, they scarcely ever wear gold on their clothes; they wear little coats called "frocks," without facings and without pleats, with a short cape above. Almost all wear small, round wigs, plain hats, and carry canes in their hands, but no swords. Their cloth and linen are of the best and finest. You will see rich merchants and gentlemen thus dressed, and sometimes even noblemen of high rank, especially in the morning, walking through the filthy and muddy streets.

César de Saussure warns that "a well-dressed person in the streets, especially if he is wearing a braided coat, a plume in his hat, or his hair tied in a bow, he will, without doubt, be called "French dog" twenty times perhaps before he reaches his destination" and is not only at risk of "being jeered at" but also "being bespattered with mud, but as likely as not dead dogs and cats will be thrown at him."

[Reverend Charles Everard Booth, Captain Griffith Booth, and an Unidentified Man playing Billiards, oil on canvas, c. 1775-9, by John Hamilton Mortimer, via the Royal Collection Trust.]

For Englishmen dressing "plainly" mostly meant wearing blacks and browns. In his book on macaroni, Pretty Gentleman, Peter McNeil found that in contrast most English menswear that he describes as generally consisting of "monochrome broadcloth" macaroni wore a variety of colours including green, orange, yellow, violet, red, white, blue, gold, silver and of course pink.

But it's not just the macaroni of the 1770s & 1780s that wore pink. We see pink in descriptions of feminine men's dress (both real and fictional) throughout the 18th century.

On the 2nd of June 1722 Sarah Osborn writes to Robert Byng:

I believe the gentlemen will wear petticoats very soon, for many of their coats were like our mantuas. Lord Essex had a silver tissue coat, and pink color lutestring waistcoat, and several had pink color and pale blue paduasoy coats, which looked prodigiously effeminate.

On the 18th of October 1729 the Universal Spectator and Weekly Journal published a story where an "effeminate" man's clothes were described as follows:

He had a flower'd pink-colour Silk Coat, with a Green-Sattin Waistcoat lac'd with Silver. Velvet Breeches, Clock'd Stockings the Colour of his Coat, Red-heel'd Pumps, a Blue Ribbon at the Collar of his Shirt, and his Sword-Hilt he embrac'd under the Elbow of his Left Arm,

[Sir Miles Stapylton, 4th Bt of Myton, oil on canvas, c. 1730-35, via Art UK.]

In The Adventures of Roderick Random (1748) the effeminate (and queer coded) Captain Whiffle is described as follows:

our new commander came on board in a ten-oared barge, overshadowed with a vast umbrella, and appeared in everything the reverse of Oakum, being a tall, thin young man, dressed in this manner: a white hat, garnished with a red feather, adorned his head, from whence his hair flowed upon his shoulders, in ringlets tied behind with a ribbon. His coat, consisting of pink-coloured silk, lined with white, by the elegance of the cut retired backward, as it were, to discover a white satin waistcoat embroidered with gold, unbuttoned at the upper part to display a brooch set with garnets, that glittered in the breast of his shirt, which was of the finest cambric, edged with right Mechlin: the knees of his crimson velvet breeches scarce descended so low as to meet his silk stockings, which rose without spot or wrinkle on his meagre legs, from shoes of blue Meroquin, studded with diamond buckles that flamed forth rivals to the sun! A steel-hilted sword, inlaid with gold, and decked with a knot of ribbon which fell down in a rich tassel, equipped his side; and an amber-headed cane hung dangling from his wrist. But the most remarkable parts of his furniture were, a mask on his face, and white gloves on his hands, which did not seem to be put on with an intention to be pulled off occasionally, but were fixed with a curious ring on the little finger of each hand.

[Henry Ingram, 7th Viscount Irwin and His Wife Anne, oil on canvas, c. 1745, by Philippe Mercier, via Art UK.]

On the 28th of July 1780 the London Courant reports:

A few days ago, a Macaroni made his appearance in the Assembly-room at Whitehaven, in the Following dress: a mixed silk coat, pink sattin waistcoat and breeches, covered with an elegant silver nett, white silk stockings with pink clocks, pink sattin shoes and large pearl buckles, a mushroom coloured stock, covered with a fine point lace; his hair dressed remarkably high, and stuck full of pearl pins.

On the 6th of August 1792 The Weekly Entertainer published Sketches and Portraits form the Life by Simon Tueopnrastus which included the following description:

Mercator was a youth of some genius and expectation, but by a strange perverseness of disposition, notwithstanding the extreme natural stiffness of his limbs, he had acquired an early attachment to the most finical and effeminate finery; so that, while yet a boy, he would exhaust every expedient of a fertile invention to procure a laced waistcoat, or the most foppish toy; would dangle a watch-string, with brass seals, from each fob, at a time when the frugal care of his parents would not permit him to wear a watch in either; and would strut in a fine pair of second-hand pink silk breeches, and a light blue coat, with all the formal dignity of—a soldier upon the parade.

[Left: Thomas King in "The Clandestine Marriage", oil on canvas, c. 1792, by Samuel De Wilde, via Yale Center for British Art.

Right: Edward Payne, oil on canvas, by Arthur Devis, via Art UK.]

While pink is mentioned in these descriptions of feminine men's dress it's not singled out as the girl colour the way pink would become in the 20th century. I would argue pink is seen as effeminate not because pink is a uniquely feminine colour but because it was used in fashionable dress. In 18th century England being interested in fashion was seen as an frivolous female trait. Men who showed too much interest in fashion were mocked and ridiculed for their gender nonconformity. "A Man must sink below the Dignity of his Nature, before he can suffer his Thoughts to be taken up on so trivial an Affair, as the Chosing, Suiting, and Adjusting the Adornments of his Person," complains a letter published on the 8th of May 1731 in Read's Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer:

Decency of Garb ought inviolably to be preserved; nor can there be possibly an Excuse for Dressing like a Merry-Andrew: Rich and coloured Silks are in themselves effeminate, and unbecoming a Man; as are, in short, all Things that discover Dress to have been his Study 'Tis in vain for a Fop of Quality, to think his Title will protect him.

[Left: Madame de Pompadour (detail), oil on canvas, c. 1756, by François Boucher, via Alte Pinakothek.

Right: Elizabeth Wrottesley, later Duchess of Grafton, oil on canvas, c. 1764-5, by Thomas Gainsborough, via National Gallery of Victoria.]

English fashion was highly influenced by French fashion. A popular colour scheme in French fashion was green and pink. A famous example of this colour pairing can be seen in François Boucher's portrait of Madame de Pompadour (above left), she is depicted in a green gown with pink bows and flowers. You can see and example of how this style inspired English fashion in Thomas Gainsborough's portrait of Elizabeth Wrottesley (above right), who is depicted in a green gown with a floral pattern adorned with pink, white and green striped bows.

[Left: Sir Harry Fetherstonhaugh, oil on canvas, c. 1776, by Pompeo Batoni, via Wikimedia.

Right: Francis Lind, oil on canvas, c. 1775, by George Romney, via Mackinnon Fine Art.]

Fashionable Englishmen were also inspired by these French designs. Horace Walpole refers to the popularity of the colour combination writing to Lady Ossory on the 19th of February 1774 "If I went to Almack's and decked out my wrinkles in pink and green like Lord Harrington, I might still be in vogue". Almack's is referring to Almack's Assembly Rooms on Pall Mall which is believed to be the inspiration for the Macaroni Club. (see Pretty Gentleman by Petter McNeil p52-55) In a letter to Lord Harcourt on the 27th of July 1773 Walpole writes of "Macaronis lolling out of windows at Almack's like carpets to be dusted."

[Left: Detail of Stephen Fox from The Hervey Conversation Piece, oil on canvas, c. 1738-40, by William Hogarth, via Fairfax House.

Middle: Sir William Jones, oil on canvas, c. 1769, by Francis Cotes, via Art UK.

Right: Portrait of a Gentleman, oil on canvas, by George Romney.]

Men who wore green seem to have been just as much, if not more, at risk of being ridiculed, or even assaulted, for the colour of their clothes as those who wore pink. In Pierre Jean Grosley's A Tour to London (originally published 1772) he recalls traveling with a young English surgeon who was harassed by Londoners due to his green French frock coat:

At the first visit which he paid me in London, he informed me, that, a few days after his arrival, happening to take a walk thro' the fields on the Surry side of the Thames, dressed in a little green frock, which he had brought from Paris, he was attacked by three of those gentlemen of the mobility, who, taking him for a Frenchman, not only abused him with the foulest language, but gave him two or three slaps on the face: "Luckily, added he in French, I did not return their ill language; for, if I had, they would certainly have thrown me into the Thames, as they assured me they would, as soon as they perceived I was an Englishman, if I ever happened to come in their way again, in my Paris dress."

#fashion history #god I spent so long sifting through primary sources for mentions of pink

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cherish--these--times · 1 year ago

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Good evening. This is your little reminder that Detty is real and Daniel wrote this letter in his last MODE issue before going to London, as per the ABC website back in the day. THE LAST TWO PARAGRAPHS THO-

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR A Hundred Years of Attitude April 15, 2010

A hundred years is plenty of time for a lot to happen in anything. Political powers change hands and change back again, cultural movements evolve into something completely different, whole empires rise and fall. And yet, this is somehow even truer for the world of fashion, one in which a constant state of changing attitudes is implied by the very term itself. For a hundred years, Mode Magazine has been a leader, an ambassador, a harbinger, an opponent of and a champion for shifts in the way our society sees itself, and our next issue is a celebration of that complicated legacy.

Of course, an institution like Mode cannot even pretend to the throne of molding the attitudes of culture if it were not full of attitude itself. And attitude is one thing Mode has always had in abundance. To be honest, sometimes I feel as though we at Mode pack a hundred years worth of it into one day, especially since my co-Editor-in-Chief, Wilhelmina Slater, came on the scene. Ah, but I kid...

...And yet, I don't -- the truth is, the field of fashion is one that is both fast and fierce, and sometimes you have to go through a hundred years worth of attitudes in a day to find the one that suits the precise pulse of our culture at that given point. It's an amazing and arduous process, but, to be even more honest, it's one for which I admit I am not a natural fit, one for which Wilhelmina is.

Since I've experienced so much attitude in my time at Mode, I'd like to posit an observation: One thing that is often lost in the changing of an attitude is the cause for that change. This is best understood when you consider attitudes on a personal level. I ask you, dear reader, to think back to a time when you experienced a major shift in your life. Was it an external change, something that happened outside of you, and forced a change of attitude to help you adapt to the future? Perhaps you saw a friend demonstrate a prowess that cast her in a new light. Heck, maybe it was as simple as your friend getting a makeover. Or perhaps that friend was undergoing her own life change, one in which she would no longer be present in your life, compelling you to make your own change to keep her in it, even if it were in a new context.

Just as important: Maybe the change was an internal one. Maybe you realized you were no longer interested in maintaining your status quo. Perhaps you wanted to try new challenges not only in your professional life, but also in your personal one. Or maybe one day something just changed inside you in the way you saw that good friend, causing you to want her to be more than, well, just a friend.

As you experience our One Hundred Years of Attitude Issue, I ask that you consider not only the attitudes themselves, but the causes that precipitated their change and coming to be. Often the changes in attitude that are the most powerful are rooted in causes that come from without and within. When that unusual synergy occurs, love is often the result. And take it from me: Love is the one attitude that never goes out of fashion. - Daniel Meade

@existential-labrador 💜

#ugly betty #daniel x betty #detty #america ferrera #eric mabius #DANIEL IS IN LOVE IT'S CANON

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imahgined · 13 days ago

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the rosy blog project - episode 1:

꒰ঌ intro + pt. 1 on how we made 2024 actually feel like 2014 ໒꒱

hiiii sweethearts! ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

welcome to the first episode of the rosy blog project! i’m andrea, but you can call me roseate. i'll be your host to this dreamy corner of the internet, where we celebrate all things feminine and inspiring.

this project is my way of reviving the iconic rosy blog era here on tumblr. in the 2010s, life felt slower, filled with hobbies, fashion, beauty tips, boybands, fandoms, iconic tv shows, and bubbly playlists. here, we'll savor the little things that made us feel connected, feminine and creative!

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. part 1: what was the rosy blog era?

just in case you weren't around on tumblr in the early 2010s, rosy blog content focused on the years we spent hours reading glossy magazines like teen vogue, watching our fave youtubers, and scrolling through dreamy blogs. the rosy blog style was unapologetically girly. it embraced soft pinks, cream tones, and everything feminine. it was all about finding joy in the little things, like curating playlists, buying self-care products, and creating a space that felt uniquely yours.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. part 2: my take on how we made 2024 really feel like 2014

from the beggining of the year, i saw so much content on ig and tiktok from people begging to bring back 2014 vibes in 2024. i definitely believe that, collectively, we made it happen. this will be a series of a few blog posts breaking down this year's best moments and how everything felt like the rosy blog era.

section 1: music and pop culture

ariana grande in her wicked & eternal sunshine era: she literally embraced everything we loved from her yours truly era and reinvented it to fit her glinda role. the looks we got from her were super feminine, elegant and classy. seeing her like this reminded me so much of her gorgeous 2010s aesthetic. also, her eternal sunshine album was insanely good. the dreamy vocals felt like a new era that revisited her feminine side from her first album. last year, we even had her yours truly live sessions. inmaculate vibes!

madison beer slowly becoming viral again: i've been a fan of madison ever since i discovered her. this year, i got so excited when her song make you mine went viral. the techno style and her beautiful voice reminded me of some of her earlier songs, even a bit of i won't let you walk away. she’s so talented, and back in 2014, she was all over tumblr. i hope she finally gets the recognition she deserves!

fangirl nostalgia: during the 2010s, you were either a 1d, 5sos, jb or btr fangirl (or all of them at once!). so much has happened this year with our faves—jb having his first child, btr touring again—it’s been a beautiful revisit of the memories we made in those fandoms. and the best part? we continue to create new ones by supporting them into their adulthood. (except for the tragic passing of liam—may he rest in peace).

lana in coachella: nothing felt more 2014 than our beautiful lana headlining coachella this year. her ethereal voice revided her most iconic songs, and the vibes were simply the dreamiest. i completely adored the setlist, and her styling was too cute! classic lana, yet timelessly fresh.

girly pop revival: from sabrina carpenter's short n' sweet tour to taylor swift's eras tour, 2024 absolutely brought girly pop back to the mainstream. we had amazing albums from artists like charli xcx (the most 2014 revival ever) and rising stars like tate mcrae, addison rae and many more. my personal favorite? FLO's debut album, access all areas. their vocals and y2k style are a must hear i'm sure you'll adore.

.mp3 by emilia: if you haven’t heard of emilia i'll be GLAD to introduce you. she's an insanely talented argentinian singer, composer, actress and model (also, the most stunning girl ever). last year, she released her second studio album, .mp3, with a 2000s-inspired sound and vibe. it's the girliest, most empowering, and fun album from a latin artist. this album served girly vibes with genres like pop, urban, dance pop, and contemporary r&b. even though this project and tour leaned into a y2k aesthetic, it also gave me major 2010 vibes with its sounds, looks and visuals. i'll dedicate a whole post to her and the album soon because, genuinely, the art direction is INSANE, and it's my favorite thing ever

for now, that’s it for this first section. i have so much to share with you—from lifestyle to fashion and so much more! i hope you enjoyed reading this 2024 recap, pt. 2 will be up soon.

i'd love to hear your thoughts on this post! let me know what you’d add or want to chat about, my dms are always open lovelies! have a magical and dreamy day ೀ ׅ ۫ . ㅇ

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macrolit · 3 months ago

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NYT: Why Do So Many People Wear All Black?

Article

A reader struggles to see the allure of wearing black clothing. Our fashion critic offers an explanation for its popularity.

By Vanessa Friedman

Sept. 16, 2024

Leer en español

I don’t understand the perennial appeal of black clothing, which seems ubiquitous. Is it a trend? Is it a statement? Will it ever go away? — Ilse, Washington, D.C.

In August, a middle school in El Paso, Texas, sent out a missive to families announcing that students were no longer allowed to wear black from top to bottom. The thinking was that black was more associated with “depression and mental health issues and/or criminality than with happy and healthy kids ready to learn.”

The decision, not surprisingly, produced such an outcry that it was quickly put on hold to allow for community discussion. And while it does seem somewhat extreme and not entirely realistic, reflecting a very limited understanding of black clothing’s role in the public psyche, it also demonstrates the very real power of wearing all black. More than any other color, it is replete with associations and symbolism, which may mean one thing to a wearer and another to an observer — and which changes depending on the context.

After all, black is the color of witches. Of ninjas. Of rock stars. Of the beats and the Hong Kong protesters. Of Darth Vader, Johnny Cash, Batman, Morticia Addams and Lydia Deetz. It is associated with mystery, mourning, eccentricity and elegance. (Oh, the allure of the little black dress!) Also teenage rebellion and angst.

Fashion people are known to love black, even though Anna Wintour reportedly hates it. Many designers, including Yohji Yamamoto, are partial to it.

Mr. Yamamoto once told The New York Times: “Black is modest and arrogant at the same time. Black is lazy and easy, but mysterious. But above all, black says this: I don’t bother you, don’t bother me.”

I asked Kate Lanphear, the women’s style editor of T magazine and a favorite of street-style photographers thanks to her personal look, which mostly involves black, why she likes it.

“All black quickly became my go-to uniform early in my career for two simple reasons,” she said. “First, it often looks more expensive than it is. This was essential when I was a struggling assistant and couldn’t afford the very best. And second, it’s easy. You could essentially get dressed in the dark.”

This is also what the designer Narciso Rodriguez told me when I asked him. (At the time he was wearing a black T-shirt with black jeans and a black jacket.) “It’s a no-brainer,” he said. “And you always look pulled together.”

You don’t have to worry about clashing patterns, what color goes with what or sticking out like a sore thumb in chartreuse. And precisely because there are so many cultural associations attached to the color black, it comes ready-made with a certain amount of mystery and provocation. Which one is yours?

That can be an advantage, or it can be annoying. It is also why black has been a wardrobe color of choice for so long, and why it is unlikely it will go away as a fashion choice any time soon — or, in fact, ever. (Another reason to wear black is that it’s a pretty good investment.)

Still, if you wear it, you have to be prepared for the reactions it may provoke. Thanks to all of the above, and as that El Paso hoo-ha showed, black may be a basic, but it is rarely neutral.

#new york times #nyt #article #fashion #black #clothes #style

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mylifeisinanotherreality · 17 days ago

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day 6 of shiftmas

⌗ 𝟔. stockings ; What is your family like? What are your relationships with different members? Any extended family? Who is visiting for Christmas?

it’s pretty long, I yap a lot

I have two loving parents, and 4 older siblings. We get along pretty well, and our parents made sure we’ve never really wanted for anything. Our lives aren’t perfect, but my parents are happy with their current lifestyle and my siblings are in good spots in their lives, even if it isn’t the society’s definition of success (though no one says shit bc we already have money).

we all get along pretty well — sometimes we meddle in each other’s lives and tease each other, but it’s not done in a mean way. I’m the closest to my second-oldest brother, James (he’s the fourth child), and he tends to come to me when he needs help — I’m the only one in the family who knows the specifics of his last relationship and how badly it wrecked him, but I’ve been helping him focus on other things like his studies. Rafal, my oldest brother and third born, is set to inherit my father’s business and we’re all okay with that — we all think he’s the best to do so anyways. He can be quiet and expresses himself through actions, but we all know he loves us and we love him. When it comes to Dahlia, we are the closest in terms of personality. Though she’s older than me, we are pretty involved in each other’s lives and I tend to ask for her opinion on fashion. Occida’s the one who is the most “settled down”. She plans to propose to her girlfriend, owns a cafe with her girlfriend where they sell her girlfriend’s artworks, and also share an apartment. She can get a little protective, ready to fight whoever hurts her siblings, and I tend to go to her when I need advice or comfort.

as for extended family, I’m close to my grandparents on both sides. My paternal grandmother’s chinese, so she tends to teach me more about her culture, and is the reason why I can speak chinese. I also learnt Italian from my maternal grandmother, and I remember her helping to customise the different rooms in her house for me and my siblings. My father’s an only child so I only have one cousin on my mother’s side, and she helps work with me on my fashion magazine.

for Christmas, I’d say that all my family members would be invited, and of course, we’re allowed to invite our friends so I might do that too.

#shiftmas #shiftmas2024 #reality shifter #spiderverse reality #spiderverse shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting community #reality shift #reality shifting #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #desired reality #shifters #shifting realities #shifting reality #shifting motivation

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vixentheplanet · 1 year ago

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illicit nights

“a little less conversation and a little more touch my body.”

shuri x black!reader | 18+

Summary: You were born and raised in Wakanda, but you chose to leave to pursue a modeling career. You've amassed global fame as an international model, gracing runway shows, featuring in luxury campaigns, and appearing in fashion magazines. You're in the spotlight, and the entire world is watching your every move. After a very public breakup, you decide to return home to reconnect with your country and the people you love.

You didn't expect to catch the attention of your sister's best friend in your attempt to get over your heartbreak, let alone end up in a private sexual relationship with said friend. The Wakandan Queen.

word count: 5.9k

themes: model/famous reader, queen shuri, childhood friends, hookups

warnings: sex, drinking, idk i forget y’all read this before

hi! 🤧😔 this is actually kinda hard because i never title my stories in the documents and i make copies when i’m editing in case i delete something and i want it so i’m going through so many documents to find the right one and then all the outfits are gone. i can’t remember the themes and warnings i put… anyways, y’all good sister is back up

When you decided not to attend Wakanda University to pursue a modeling career, you did not doubt that you would succeed. Your parents wanted you to follow in the footsteps of your elder sister, but subjects like physics and calculus never piqued your interest. There was a lot of debate regarding your decisions, especially when you told your family that you were leaving Wakanda. Many Wakandans live beyond the borders, but you weren't looking for a simple life.

You were blessed with breathtaking beauty and the qualities for which others were willing to pay millions. It's hardly surprising with a face like yours, in just a few years, your career has skyrocketed to unfathomable heights, catapulting you into worldwide fame. Every fashion week, you're on the runway, traveling worldwide for campaigns, fittings, and numerous billboards of your face.

While you like the acclaim and spotlight, you quickly learn that being such a public figure in the entertainment industry has drawbacks. You have been in a highly publicized relationship with actress Mya Hope for nearly two years. Maybe it was your naivety, being new to everyone, but you and Mya hit it off immediately. It was lovely initially, but as your relationship progressed, it was just continuous disputes, mistrust, and resentment. You endured it because you expected things to change one day, but then Mya cheated. You learned through a gossip article that several individuals provided you with via text and social media.

Because her infidelity provided concrete evidence that things weren't working out between the two of you, you broke up. It was awful after the public found out. You've had relationships in the past, but they were the silly childlike attachments all kids have as time passes. Nothing has ever been this long or public. Being followed around and pressured into making a statement about something so personal was a culture shock. Who in their right mind wants to expose their private grievances to the rest of the world?

This month was an emotional roller coaster, and after wrapping up a photo shoot for Dior's upcoming campaign, you instructed your manager not to arrange anything else. You needed some alone time and wanted to go home and rest away from everything and everyone—home, not LA.

With the help of your older sister, Izara, by the end of the week, you'll be back in the safety of your rightful home, Wakanda.

Your mother never approved of Mya, and despite your best efforts to keep your family informed, she had kept up with your activities in your work through Western media, including your relationship. You guessed it was because she was afraid you'd end up permanently residing outside of Wakanda, but maybe mother intuition told her the relationship wasn’t right for her daughter.

When you arrived at the house where you'd grown up and rushed back to your mother's arms, she didn't criticize or tell you that you should have listened. "I expected you to say I told you so." You inform her.

"A mother can only guide her child and hope that they will listen, but it's our responsibility to be here when you fall," she adds as she pulls you tight.

The next day, your sister comes over first thing in the morning. Izara was four years older than you. You two were close; she was your elder sibling, and you naturally respected her intelligence and accomplishments. However, as you matured, you came to see that you had different interests despite your shared affection for one another. While Izara excelled at technology and engineering, you discovered a love of fashion and beauty. You loved your nation and knew you could build a successful career in Wakanda once you found you wanted to be a model, but you wanted to be known worldwide.

Being the baby of the family, it was difficult for your family to accept that you were going, but they realized deep down that there wasn't much they could do to influence you or your choices. As they witnessed your success, your family became increasingly supportive and proud. The only disadvantage is that your career has kept you away from Wakanda and the people you care about. It was challenging to find time to return home while growing your profession. You weren't worried about taking time off now that you were in a secured position in the industry.

“What are you moving back in?” Your sister makes a joke about all the things you brought. One packing rule you had was that it was better to be cautious than sorry. You’d rather overpack than need something thousands of miles away. After all, you didn't arrive by plane. A Wakandan aircraft had no weight restrictions.

Your mother is quick to reprimand her. “Hush. My child is always welcome to come back.”

“I- I don’t know about moving back yet,” You admit, dismissing any thoughts your mother has about you moving in. "But, I'll be here a little while." Though you did not intend to stay in Wakanda indefinitely, you weren't in a hurry to go. The combination of fresh air and your mom's homemade pastries positively impacted your mood.

Later, you and your sister relaxed in the living room while your mother was in the kitchen. She was so excited to see both of her daughters under the same roof after such a long period that she rushed to prepare tea and lime cake. Your favorites. “No moping. Your sadness is going to make me sad,” Izara says, frowning at you.

"I'm not moping," you say with a sigh. “It wasn’t even going to last. We fought a lot. I knew I was unhappy, but all the attention was overwhelming. It simply has to blow over." Your sister was the only person who understood the ins and outs of your previous relationship. She was your closest confidante and had warned you to leave Mya so often that she was probably exhausted by how stubborn you were.

Izara hums understandingly. “Don’t worry. It will. Those silly foreigners will find something else trivial and pointless to focus on. In the meantime, you need to be out and enjoy being single.” She advises. “Like, when’s the last time you had sex?”

“Izara, shut up,” there’s a warning in your tone. You confided in your sister about many things, but that was where you drew the line. She didn't need to know what you did, and you didn’t need to know what she did. Though the question did make you think, it’s been over a month since the initial break up, and you and Mya had long stopped being intimate. The passion just wasn’t there.

Izara is always persistent and keeps talking. “What! We’re both grown. We can talk about that now.”

“Absolutely not.” You groan, deciding to change the conversation to focus on your sister, “How is work?” She’d recently been promoted at her job working in the laboratory at the palace. She had called to tell you, but you had been in the midst of a photoshoot. Part of you felt bad you couldn’t give her your full attention upon hearing the news.

As the director of research methodologies, she spent a great deal of time in the various villages conducting focus groups to determine where improvements were needed. She then brought the data back to the lab, where they worked to enhance the areas that needed it. “It's incredible. I feel good knowing that my work has a positive influence.” Your sister has always been active in the community, dedicating her life to helping others.

“That’s amazing, Izara. I’m proud of you.” You say because you genuinely are, even though you didn’t take after your sister and her love for science. Her drive and passion are admirable. “It’s okay. It’s your job not to be fucked up so I can be the rebellious one.”

That gets a laugh out of your sister. You’ve missed that sound. “Not to brag, but I’ve been considering returning to University for my Ph.D.. Shuri is encouraging me.”

Shuri. Since childhood, the Princess, now Queen of Wakanda, was your sister's best friend. They attended the same primary school and connected instantly. You recall when Izara snuck Shuri into your home for a playdate, unbeknownst to your mother and the King and Queen. The Dora Milaje arrived at your mother's home with spears in hand before learning that the mischievous princess had sneaked away to play with her new companion. Your cheeks rise as you recall that day. "There's that smile again!"

“Just remember the time you almost got our entire family executed.” You chuckle, and Izara groans. She hates this story.

“We didn’t know any better!” After that day, Queen Ramonda invited your sister to the palace to play to prevent any other misunderstandings. Shuri would occasionally come to your house, allowing the two girls to form a lasting bond. “You had the biggest crush on her. You used to follow us around whenever she’d come over,” Izara added, laughing as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

For the record, it was a brief crush. The wooden doll house you had collapsed a few weeks before your seventh birthday, and you cried all night about it. Shuri presented you with a fully equipped doll house for your birthday. You recall looking on with wide eyes as she demonstrated all of the functions, the lights switched on, and water poured out of the sink. Still, you'd never acknowledge it. “I did not have a crush on her. I was following you. I wanted to be just like you until I realized how boring you were.” You snickered. A look of disbelief crosses your sister's face, and you laugh harder.

"I should thank Shuri," you say once you've quieted down. When you told Izara you were planning to return home, she enlisted the assistance of her best friend, who made every effort to ensure your safe arrival. You're not sure you could have endured another moment amid the chaos.

“You should, and she would love to see you.” Your sister agrees. “I have to go to the office tomorrow. Actually, we can stop over there, and then we can go to the shops. I have to buy Aneka a birthday gift.” Aneka, another one of your sister's friends. She had such a bold personality but was always kind to you. “Oh, and you’re coming Saturday.”

"I-" you start, thinking for a moment. There's no justification for you staying at home, feeling miserable over a failed relationship that wasn't going anywhere. It's been a little more than a month, and you're supposed to be unwinding and having fun. Izara squeals and orders you to be prepared by an ungodly hour after you accept.

You and your sister traveled to Birnin Zana the following day. You knew the Golden City but had never been within the Citadel. While your sister is likely to be familiar with both the interior and outside of the high-rise glass tower, you have never stepped foot inside. With all the Dora Milaje present, it was a little intimidating, and you did your best to keep up with your sister in your heels. As Izara was a few steps ahead of you, someone you imagined was a staff member gave you a strange look. “Stop walking so fast.”

Izara ignores your request and keeps moving. "No one told you you had to wear those shoes." She lets you catch up by coming to a halt in front of an elevator.

“It’s not the shoes. It’s you.” You argue, coming up to her as you wait for the elevator.

As you rode the elevator, your thoughts turned to the new Queen. Several years have passed since your last interaction with her. Shuri had always impressed you with her intelligence, and she was extraordinarily strategic and visionary. She undoubtedly carried those attributes with her when she ascended to the throne.

“I didn't tell her you were coming. She’s going to be so surprised.” Izara scans her badge and enters the lab. You follow behind her. “Shuri, I have the file you asked for; sorry, I was reviewing it over to make sure we caught all the errors from the last trial and-”

Shuri had looked up when she heard your sister's voice, but you saw her eyes widen in your presence. “Y/N?” You watch as she blinks a few times, taking you in.

Shuri’s hair was short now, the sides shaved, and her hair coiled into a mohawk. She wore a light gray boiler suit. Truth be told, you did have a crush on Shuri when you were younger but grew out of it. It was the projection of a childish imagination. It faded with time and age as you ventured away from your sister and developed your own relationship with friends, no longer in the same space as the Wakandan Princess. But now, she looks good, very good.

“Hi,” you say, happy to see another familiar face. After being surrounded by strangers and new faces for the past few years, the familiarity of home was comforting. "I appreciate you arranging transportation for me to get here." You instantly tell her, knowing the reason for your visit. You did not intend to disturb her.

Shuri is quick to respond, “Of course, Izara said you wanted to visit. It was no trouble.” It was the honest truth. You know Shuri would do anything for your sister and, in relation, you.

Izara smiles, “I’m happy to have my little sister home though I wish it were under better circumstances. I’m trying to cheer her up.” Your sister pinches your cheeks and immediately moves away from reach when you swat her hand away. She might be a little obnoxious. You are not a baby.

“I am not a baby.” You vocalize, rolling your eyes.

"You'll always be my baby," she replies with a childish pout. "Now, wait right here. I’ll be back. I’m going to grab something from my office.” Izara says as she walks out of the lab, leaving you and Shuri alone.

You begin to appreciate the painting on the cylindrical pillar in the room, assuming you won't bother Shuri anymore, but Shuri speaks. “To what do I owe this visit? Not every day, I have Wakanda’s most famous supermodel walking into my lab,” she jokes.

It’s clear she’s being humorous, but your face heats up. “Oh, I wanted to see you and say thank you. I’m just following Izara around, and we’re going to pick out a birthday gift for Aneka.” You explain, trying to ignore the sensation in your cheeks.

Shuri is now leaning back against one of the tables, completely focused on you. "What did Izara mean when she said 'better circumstances'?" She inquires, her gaze fixed on yours.

She patiently waits. You pause, unsure how much you should reveal. All the arguments and nights of crying make you question if your sister ever mentioned Mya to Shuri. You make the decision to keep things simple. “I’m going through a very public breakup which means nothing to anyone here but everything to the media out there.”

“You know how hard it is to be walking down the street and be harassed with a thousand questions about your ex?” It was a rhetorical question. The media was ruthless and would stop at nothing until they could pull enough out of you to exploit for their own selfish advantage.

Shuri, being the intellect she is, probably realizes you'd rather not discuss this and moves on. "Wakanda, thankfully, does not have such an animalistic journalism system." Culturally, there was a high level of respect and awareness throughout the community that your business was private. Wakanda was far more developed and gave little thought to gossip and drama.

You were thankful for that. Breakups aren’t easy, no matter how shitty the relationship was. External stress wasn’t helping with your mood. You finally felt like you could breathe. “Exactly. Anyways I’m happy to be back.”

“Any plans?” She asks.

You shake your head. “Other than spending time with my family, no.” Further into your stay, you’d probably come up with some type of itinerary, but you were laying low for now. “Izara thinks I should be out enjoying being single.” She or your mom would probably try to set you up sooner or later.

Shuri nods in agreement. “She’s right, you know? There’s no reason to waste time thinking about someone who isn’t thinking about you when you could be having fun.”

The bluntness of Shuri’s words surprises you. “I suppose I’m young. I should be doing what I want with who I want.” You remark in a lighthearted tone.

Shuri glances at you, licking her lips, and winks. "Exactly," she replies. Your heart rate increases. Is she hitting on you?

Izara returns, and you both say goodbye to the Queen before heading to the shops. The brief exchange has left your thoughts in a frenzy. You spent the rest of the day trying to persuade yourself. Shuri was undoubtedly attractive, but there was no way a years-old crush would be rekindled within seconds of seeing her again. A crush you had when you were five at that, but the way her tone held so much suggestion.

Wakanda's nightlife was always lively. People come together, clubbing at the same venue, existing at the same time in the same place. It was an essential aspect of the culture and many people's choice for a social gathering or celebration.

The next night, you're on Elixir's second floor, famed for its massive and powerful alcoholic beverages. Aneka's party had the entire floor to themselves, and she leaped up and down as soon as she noticed you. “Ah! Baby Izara! We see your billboards when we’re on missions outside Wakanda.” She tells you, and you feel shy under all the attention. It was nice to know that the people at home were supportive in seeing you thrive. "Thank you!" You exclaim as you hug her. You said hello to a couple more people before ordering a cocktail and settling in. You're seated alone in one of the many round booths. Your sister and a few others had gone downstairs to join the sea of crowded and sweaty bodies.

You had the idea to go down there. Dance on someone, make an emotionless connection, and return to their apartment, but you know in the back of your mind that it wasn't for you. Impersonal connections lack the comfort of knowing each other's bodies and personalities.

There's quite a commotion at the club's entrance, and you peek down to see all the excitement. Shuri navigated the crowd with a small group of individuals following behind her. The woman was dressed in all black, with form-fitting pants and a tailored blazer—dark shades, shielding her eyes from those around her.

You felt something stirring deep within you the entire time your attention was drawn to her.

The sheer strength and command of her presence divides the crowd. She doesn’t have to ask. Everything about her screams dominance, and you can't deny that you're drawn to it, trying not to let your imagination wander into the illicit territory. This was not a crush. This was pure want. Shuri makes her way up the large metal steps, where she is embraced by the bubbly birthday girl who has had too many drinks. “Shuri! You made it,” Aneka says excitedly. The sweet look Ayo gives her excited girlfriend warms your heart. They're adorable.

Before hugging Aneka, the Queen leans in and says something only she can hear. She fades from view as she moves deeper into the scene, most likely conversing with others. When you see Shuri again, she's walking over to you, drink in hand, her steps purposeful.

She slides into the booth across from you without asking. “I’m surprised you’re not down there dancing. What happened to being young and single?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Please," you retort. "So I can have sweaty men press their balls on my back. Thank you, but no." Your lips were pursed.

“So you came out to sit around?” Shuri comments. “In such a pretty outfit,” she notes. Her eyes are covered behind those black shades, but her statement indicates she's checking you out, taking in the way your boobs sit nicely and the tiny skirt displaying the silky flesh of your upper thigh. There's a trace of something in her voice as if she's coaxing you to reveal more, understanding there's more to your decision to isolate yourself. Again, a tempting tone.

You’re not in the mood for mind games. “You ask a lot of questions. Besides, are you not doing the same thing?” Your voice is laced with skepticism as you eye her.

Shuri lets out a disagreeing sound. “I’m here to celebrate Aneka and enjoy my night.”

If she can tease you, why can’t you do the same? You twirl your tongue around the straw in your drink, and Shuri can’t look away. “Since you’re here with me, am I a part of the enjoyment?”

When your eyes meet, there’s a glint of danger in them. “I think you should behave.” Her tone was low and warning.

If she believed that would get you to listen, she was mistaken. That resulted in the opposite effect, as you felt arousal between your legs. "And what if I don't?" You push, your eyes innocent, as if you had no idea how provocative your tone was. She looked damn good in that suit.

You were putting aside the complication caused by the fact that Shuri was your sister's best friend and the Queen of your country. Something enticed you to make a move on her. You notice the cherry in her glass and immediately say, "I can tie that with my tongue." It was a cool trick you picked up from a model in Cannes. People were always shocked at how simple you made it look before trying it themselves.

Shuri glances at you as she takes the cherry into her mouth instead of answering vocally. The stem is just beyond her lips, and her brows are lifted, waiting for you. You bend across the table, making sure not to brush your lips together as you move the stem from her mouth to yours. She keeps a close eye on you while you concentrate on your task, stretching your tongue upward and trapping it against the roof of your mouth.

You stick your tongue out after pushing the end through the loop, revealing the knotted cherry stem to Shuri. She removes her glasses, folds them, and sets them next to her cherry-free drink. Eyes filled with fire. “Stop looking at me like that.” You could sense a level of hesitation from the woman. Behave wasn't a no; it simply indicated she was attempting to get you to back off since her resolve was slipping.

You roll your eyes as you remove the stem from your tongue and place it on a napkin. “You know you’re practically undressing me with your eyes.” You could see a glimmer of hunger in her features, and you knew you had her right there.

“Mmm, I’m not the one showing off tongue tricks,” Shuri smirks, sipping her drink.

Before you can say anything, a breathless voice breaks the tension between you. “Shuri!” your sister and two of the girls had returned from the dancefloor. “Scoot over. I’m taking a five-minute break.” Izara says. You can see the sweat on her forehead. You start to shift over to make room for everyone, and you’re forced to be pressed against Shuri, depleting the distance.

Upon their arrival, Shuri redirects her attention to her best friend, “Hey, Zar. I was just asking your sister why she wasn’t dancing.” Glancing at you with a smug look, she was enjoying this.

Izara nods, “I told her she needed to get down there and have fun. It’s been five weeks, and the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.”

As you drum your fingers across the glass table top, a sigh escapes your lips. I’m trying, you think. "I'm not keen on hooking up with strangers," you answer instead. You were discrete with your words. Sneaking a quick look over at Shuri when you say it, you find her already staring back at you. Her expression has now become unreadable.

Izara sighs. Her sole motive for inviting you was for you to have fun; she probably believed you weren't having a great time, but your attention was attracted to something you didn't need to search for. You wouldn’t tell her that, though. "Oh, Bast, you need more liquor." She approaches a waiter and orders a round of shots.

As soon as the waiter places the shot glasses on the table, all eyes turn to you. You reached forward, grabbed one shot, pinched the lime, and tossed back the tequila, promptly sucking the lime between your teeth and dropping it into the empty shot glass. "That's my girl," Izara says, clapping.

The five-minute breaks last a lot longer than five minutes. Your poor sister was utterly unaware that she was cock-blocking. She and Shuri were having a casual conversation about who knows. You weren't paying attention. Maybe she senses you getting restless beside her, but you feel a hand rest on your leg. Shuri continues to converse with Izara while her fingertips brush your left thigh. You let out a sharp, deep breath before composing yourself. The soft touch riles you up. Shuri taunts you by not moving her hand any higher. She rests it there, stroking your skin, knowing it’s driving you crazy.

Shuri is winning this game you're playing together, but you have a plan.

When your sister returns to the main level, she attempts to get you to accompany her, and you make up an excuse, promising to do so after you use the restroom. When you and Shuri are alone again, you slap her hand and glare at her. “You should move your hand if you’re going to start something you can’t finish. I’m not in the mood to be teased.”

As you get up to leave, you grab a second shot, downing it before smiling. It's a mind-numbing high that blocks all of your feelings except lust. "I'll be really upset if this night doesn't end with me in your bed." You whisper, walking away, not bothering to wait for Shuri’s reaction. There was no point in playing games when you wanted her, and she clearly wanted you. That’s why you knew she would follow you.

The bathroom is located down a dim corridor with purple fluorescent lights. You're walking down the hall when you hear quick footsteps behind you. A hand catches your waist, pressing you against a solid body. Away from prying eyes, Shuri holds you against her, moving your hair to expose the side of your neck, “Do you want to dance with me after?” She speaks with hushed tones.

Mission completed.

You shook your head and turned to face her. "I wasn't here to dance." Dancing was a waste of time because neither of you wanted to do it. Every second more you spent in this club was a moment wasted when she could be inside of you.

Shuri paused for a moment, her eyes clouded with longing. "You realize what you're asking of me." Your mind wanders to Izara. All the red flags were flying in your head. This was your sister's closest friend and her most recent boss. Shuri felt off-limits for some reason. But you swiftly block out all of that.

“Don’t complicate things. I wouldn’t be here asking you to bring me home and fuck me in the middle of a club if I didn’t,” you said. You've teased and flirted with the Queen all night, and now nothing stops you from ending the night in bed with her. “No kissing, no intimacy, it’s just sex.” You assure her.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” You gasp as Shuri thrusts back inside, making your body tremble in response. It’s one of the many compliments you’ve given her through the night as she takes you further into euphoric bliss.

Maybe it's because you haven't had sex in what seems like an eternity, but the slide in feels like heaven. The first thrust has you seeing stars, and every move since then has you letting out an endless stream of moans. You were on your knees, Shuri kneeling behind you, going at unrelenting speed.

You're both high on adrenaline and lust, making your body hum and your head spin—sweaty bodies work together as your heartbeats syncopate in a rhythmic acceleration. You can't recall the last time you felt so attuned to another person, so alive.

Her hands are all over you, one of her arms reaching from behind to support your upper body, cupping your chest while her fingers tease your nipple. You figure the mind of a genius is used to focusing on multiple things at once because despite her fast thrust, the fingers on Shuri’s other hand stroke along your clit, gently knowing what you need, where to touch you, and how to touch you.

“Harder, harder- fuck, don’t stop.” You reach around to find Shuri’s hips and hold them, following her movements in an attempt to feel her closer. “Such a bossy girl.” Shuri pants but drives into you with more force.

She eventually removes the arm that has been holding you up and pushing you forward. At this angle, she's hitting the spot inside you that has you unable to speak, trapped in an endless repeat of pleasure as the sensation causes your skin to prickle.

Collapsing onto the bed, you cushion your head on the pillow, and your back arches beautifully. “Fuck Shuri. C-close,” you stutter, your voice weakly coming out between your pants. The way Shuri was easily manipulating your body to take her deeper made you want to scream. "I can't wait to see you come looking for me." Shuri breathes and snaps her hips.

"You're going to look gorgeous." She goes on, talking you through it. "Should take a picture and put it on the front cover of every magazine. Everyone can see how pretty you are when you’re getting fucked so good.”

Shuri's comments fill your head with filthy thoughts, even though you've never considered yourself an exhibitionist. Imagine one of the world's most famous models being railed by the Queen of Wakanda on a magazine cover. You two are certainly an obscene sight. “Should I let everybody see what a good girl you are, or is this only for me?”

"Only you," you answer thoughtlessly. Your mind was only centered on pleasure now. As you inhale sharply, the heat inside of you grows, and your body is frozen in ecstasy. Your eyes slip back as your stomach muscles contract in anticipation of eventually feeling that relief. Your eyes widen, your brows rise, your breath stutters, and your eyes close tightly. So tight, and you’re coming. It's quiet for a few moments, and then you're screaming Shuri's name, your voice breaking, your nails sinking into the covers.

As you move your hips back, little gasps escape your lips. “You’re perfect. It feels so good. Want to keep fucking you.” Her words and tone are desperate as she pants, grinding into you, using the friction and pressure to reach her orgasm. You could get off just from the sound of her moans alone.

When Shuri pulls out, you fall into the satin sheets and turn over, sticky and satisfied, staring at the ceiling. You take a few moments to collect your breath and come down from your climax. You sense the bed shifting as Shuri fades from view.

On shaky legs, you stand up to scan the room for your belongings. There was no need for closeness or caressing. Both of you agreed to just sex, and you needed to get home as soon as possible. Your top is lying right in front of the door. That was the first thing to go.

“I’ll have a member of the Dora escort you home.” Shuri comes back into the room from the bathroom, a tee shirt and boxers on now while you’re still struggling to locate your underwear.

“Are you crazy?” You pull the straps of your top on your shoulders and try to situate your breast inside. “I’m not even supposed to be here.” You whisper-shout. The reality was settling in now that the fire inside you had been put out. Izara would most likely interrogate you in the morning, thinking you went home with someone and you had time to think of a lie once you were home.

“Imagine going to my mother's house with the Dora Milaje. - have you seen my panties?” Her head wanders sideways, and you follow her gaze to discover your underwear on top of the lampshade on the bedside table.

They undoubtedly landed there in her haste to strip you naked. Shuri takes them and hands them to you. "You're so messy," you mutter as you take them from her, leaning down to slip them on.

"You weren't complaining," Shuri chuckles. There goes that smug tone.

Before leaving, you get dressed, put on your heels, and turn to Shuri. “This never happened. I was never here." You're both consenting adults, but having your sister in the mix complicates the situation. It was acceptable for the one time you both received much-needed relief, but it couldn't happen again for the sake of preserving normalcy. The elder remains silent. "Did you hear what I said?"

A confused sound leaves her lips. “I can’t hear anything. I'm here by myself.”

You roll your eyes and walk out the door. That’s the end of that.

When you’re showered in bed and reflecting on tonight‘s activities, it's later when your kimoyo beads ring.

It’s Shuri.

“Yes?” you answer, ensuring not to disturb your mom. It was late.

“I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.” you knew her concern was genuine because Izara would never forgive her if something happened to you.

“Yes, I did. Thank you.”

She hesitates for a second, staring at you in contemplation before asking, “So, are we going to talk about it?” There’s humor in her voice.

Not this. “Didn’t we agree that I wasn’t with you?”

"I'm not addressing that," Shuri responds immediately. "There is something far more intriguing on your lower back," she taunts, winking.

Your lips form an unconscious gasp. “Shut up!” The first and only tattoo you’ve ever received was in Paris after your first fashion week. You and a few other models get tattoos while feeling celebratory and possibly under the influence of a bit too much champagne. A tribal butterfly is permanently affixed to the center of your lower back. "No, we can't discuss it since you've never seen it." You remind her of this, your face heated. You can't believe you overlooked that.

"I completely understand." She responds, but the way she looks at you and bites her lip suggests otherwise.

Everything about her was enticing. You decide to end the call, “Goodnight, Shuri.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You went to bed vowing never to do it again, a commitment tainted by dishonesty because it happened again.

#cai fics #re upload #shuri x black!reader #shuri x reader #shuri fanfiction #shuri black panther #black panther shuri #shuri fic #shuri smut #princess shuri #shuri udaku #shuri imagine #shuri x y/n #shuri x you #mcu shuri

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arachnoia · 1 year ago

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mode ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ | miguel o’hara

miguel o’hara x afab! reader

in which one of new york’s most famous models runs into an old acquaintance during a modeling gig.

had a lil drabble in mind so i wrote it!! thank you guys so so much for liking my last posts it means a lot!! tbh idk what this was but I was j writing. i’m open to write other characters but need ideas so pls drop some in my requests! formula 1 is also going to be continued v v soon!

thank you! 😪🙏🏼

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

You’ve always had aspirations of becoming a model, being on a billboard along with many celebrities you admired.

The posing, the glamour, the attention.

It was a dream you’ve always had, having an insatiable hunger for it.

You drank your chai in peace as you were just finished your Pilates class. You had a photoshoot later on to model some new brand that hit social media and exploded in popularity. It could help both your public images.

“Good morning, N/n!” Jess said, giving you a hug from behind.

Jess is your roommate and has been your best friend since your freshman year in high school. The both of you bonded over American pop culture, fashion, and the immense difficulty of your freshman physics class.

She had your back when you forgot the formula for net force and when you were having emotional turmoil over your crush on Miguel O’Hara.

Everyone knew about your crush on him because who would have a crush on the physics math geek?

You.

He was scrawny, quiet, a nerd, and no one knew who he was. Until people found out you liked him, which was obvious because you would get caught staring at him from across the lunchroom multiple times.

The two of you were polar opposites socially.

You weren’t popular, to say the least, but it’s not like people didn’t know who you are. There were a decent amount of people who liked you in high school, but you only had your eye on him.

Like Jess, he was also in your physics class freshman year and caught your eye.

He’s the reason why you wanted to do modeling.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was junior year in your AP Lang class and you two were doing peer reviews for an essay.

You two were in a library near your high school. It was quiet until he just blurted out: “You should consider modeling, Y/n.”

Your eyes widened at his sudden compliment, “What?”

He just shrugged and pushed up his square glasses. “I’m just saying that you’d look nice on a cover of a magazine. You look the type.”

“O-Oh…Thanks?”

You mentally slapped yourself for sounding so awkward.

His face stayed as nonchalant as always, “Mhm.”

It was safe to say that there wasn’t a single word spoken after that.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Jess tied up her hair and stretched. “Do you need a ride? Isn’t the studio in Manhattan?”

You shook your head and sipped your chai, “Nope, it’s in Brooklyn. And it’s okay! I have some errands to run after the shoot if it won’t take long.”

“Alright, girl. What’s the guy’s name again? The guy that owns the brand.”

“I think his name's Gabriel?” You shrugged and took a bite out of your açaí bowl. Jess took a spoon and ate some too.

“Wow! You just take my breakfast huh?”

Jess giggled and ran back to her room, “Good luckkkk!”

You scoffed and smiled, “You bitch!”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

You took the train to get to the studio and walked there.

It was a little apartment building that had some graffiti on the side of the wall. You liked how nice the graffiti was.

You went inside and knocked on the door for apartment 206.

You heard some clutter and a voice all of a sudden, “-Coming!”

The door opened to a young man, maybe in his 20s? Early 30s?

“Hi, my name is Gabriel! You’re Y/n Y/l/n? I’ve heard so much about you! You’re an amazing model. Your magazine shoot with Vogue was so nice!” he gushed.

His voice sounded really familiar but wasn’t at the same time.

“Oh thank you so much! Your brand is actually really nice! Thank you for reaching out! Can I come in?”

He rushed in and stood to the side of the door, “Of course! Come right in!”

The apartment was really nice and was a decent size. Not too big and small.

Some assistants were running around getting some clothes ready and preparing the violet backdrop with a silver desk that looked like something out of Star Wars.

You got into many different outfits which were really modern and motorsport-ish.

It reminded you of that futuristic streetwear style that’s growing these days, which was really fresh to see.

Gabriel popped in from the lounge area where you were already dressed to go home, “You did really good! Again thank you so much for coming! It’s going to do the brand so so well!”

You smiled and nodded, “Of course! It was nice meeting-“

You heard the door open and was interrupted by another voice, “Hey Gabri, you left your electronic watch at my place.”

Gabriel smiled and went over to claim his watch, punching the man in the arm, “Thanks Miggy!”

Your face twisted from a smile to a shocked expression.

“Oh! Y/n, meet my older brother, Miguel!” Gabriel said, pointing at his brother.

“Miggy, meet Y/n Y/l/n! She’s an awesome model who’s helping me promote my brand!”

He looked over to you and stared, “I’ve heard of who she is.”

You couldn’t help but have your jaw drop. Your eyes couldn’t believe it.

That scrawny, shy kid from high school was no more. He got replaced by a man with a body identical to a greek god’s, beautiful, luscious locks of chestnut hair, and gorgeous arms.

He still had his old square glasses which added charm to the rest of his outfit; a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants.

He made you feel like you were back in high school, crushing on him while he explained formulas to you.

“I said ‘hi’, Ms. Y/l/n,” he smiled, looking you up and down. You didn’t know if he was being judgmental or just observing.

“O-Oh! Hi!” You held at your hand to Miguel, who looked a slight bit amused and shook it.

“My brother here is a chemical engineer at this place, Alche-what?”

Miguel rolled his eyes and laughed, “Alchemax. And it’s nice to meet you, miss.”

Gabriel smiled and checked his phone due to it ringing loudly, “Shoot! I have to pick up some fabric I ordered. It’s the last one they have! Migs, please lock up! Good bye, Ms. Y/l/n!”

Gabriel ran out the studio and threw the keys at Miguel, who caught them quickly.

Miguel looked back at you and smiled sarcastically, “Y’know, it would’ve been nice if you weren’t eye fucking me in front of my own brother, Ms. Y/l/n.”

You felt shivers down your spine.

The way your last name rolled off his tongue was so sexy, especially with that slight accent he’s always had.

You tried to say something so you wouldn’t look like a complete idiot in front of your high school crush, “E-Excuse me…?“

“You heard me, Y/n.”

Oh fuck.

“I b-believe you’re mistaken. I would never do that in a professional setting with someone I work with.”

You mentally cheered yourself on. You weren’t sounding like an idiot anymore.

You don’t think.

He hummed and shrugged, “I didn’t think I would see you working with my brother, yet here we are. How’s life been?”

What the fuck?

How could he be so calm and asking ‘how’s life?’ after accusing you for eyefucking him.

He wasn’t wrong but it’s embarrassing.

“It’s fine. So you work at Alchemax?”

“Yeah. We’re working on something right now, but I can’t tell you.” He started chuckling and folded his arms

God, how much you loved that in high school.

Even then, he would make every single little thing so sexy.

In high school, he looked like he had never experienced a touch of a woman.

But now…

“Why not?”

He leaned down and whispered in your ear, “It’s top secret, nena.”

You looked at him from the side of your eye and he locked eyes with you.

You couldn’t deny the rough tension in the room.

His eyes were a beautiful shade of ruby red, accentuated thanks to the blinding glare of the studio lights still being on.

Then you locked your eyes to his lips. They were so full and beautiful and you wanted to kiss them.

He smiled at you and was going to pull back from his leaning position before you wrapped your arms around his neck and connected your lips to his.

You’ve been waiting since freshman year to kiss him. Who could blame you?

What you didn’t expect is for him to kiss you back, more rough and passionate.

You felt him smile a bit, making you kiss him even more.

It didn’t take long for you and Miguel to walk towards the desk, where he broke from the kiss and pushed you against the desk, ass facing him.

You were still in disbelief that you were making out with your high school crush so suddenly, making your heart pound.

You were wearing one of your favorite outfits; a black corset top and a white lace skirt you stole from Jess.

You felt him rub your ass before he spanked it under your skirt, hearing him growl a bit. “Fuck…”

He leaned towards to kiss your cheek, feeling his hard bulge from his sweatpants. “Let me make you feel good, cariño.”

Did you mention you loved it when he spoke in Spanish? You loved it when he spoke in general.

You turned around and sat on the desk as you took off your top and slid down your skirt, leaving you in your panties.

He looked at you up and down again, now with underlying lust and darkness in his eyes, “I’ve been waiting to do this since high school.”

He roughly took his shirt off and also slid down his pants, leaving you to gawk at his stunningly toned body.

“Like what you see? Careful, mi bélla, you have something aquí,” he smirked as he caressed your face.

He placed his hand on your hip and played with the string of your underwear before ripping it apart with his (abnormally?) long nails.

“That’s better,” he said as he pulled the piece of clothing off of you. He took off his boxers and as soon as he did that, you kneeled down and started rubbing on his length.

“Let me make you feel good first.” You started grazing your lips on it and kissed his swollen tip, already oozing with precum.

You put him inside your mouth and he started to gently thrust as you started to suck.

“Yeah baby, you feel so fucking good-"

You felt like gagging, taking him all, thick, long, and veiny.

It didn’t take long for him to ejaculate in your mouth, having you swallow and some of his cum spilling on the sides of your mouth.

“God, you look so sexy like this,” he whispered, brushing some of your hair away from your face. You smiled up at him as he bit his lip.

He sat you on top of the desk, legs wide open.

He started to play with your clit and inserted two fingers almost immediatly to your already wet core.

"M-Miguel...fuck."

You whimpered quietly as he started to fingerfuck you fastly.

He chuckled darkly, "If you can't handle my fingers, then I'd like to see you handle my cock."

You laughed dryly and cried out as he went even faster.

Right as you were going to come, he stopped.

"Why did you do that," you slurred, feeling high on the sexual tension.

"Don't worry, just wait."

He whispered as he kept teasing your poor clit and started to pump his dick.

"Shhhhh" he muttered as he started to insert himself inch by inch, “Estas haciendo bien, mi linda. AY DIOS-"

Your eyes widened at how much he stretched you out, and it was barely the tip. "Oh fuck, Miguel-"

"D-Don't worry, baby. You're doing good..."

You scratched at his back as you bounced again and again. "O-Oh my fucking god..."

You felt like you were in a porn movie with how loud your moans and how bright the studio lights were, accentuating every crease and muscle on Miguel’s hot body.

You couldn’t help but stare as he mindlessly rearranges your organs fucking you.

You started to hold on to his arms as he went at a violent pace.

“A-Alchemax must stress the living shit out of you, h-huh? F-FUCK!”

He smiled a bit as he went a little faster, “You can’t...imagine. Estos pinche- PUTA MADRÉ-"

You felt him twitch inside of you and release, filling you up to the brim as you released your high as well.

"Oh s-shit..."

You mumbled before covering your face, turning over to hide your face and just bent over.

He kissed your exhausted body on the desk, all sweaty and hot from your tiring activities from earlier.

As he dressed up again, he couldn’t help but stare at his masterpiece; having Y/n Y/l/n, one of New York’s most respected models, in such a slutted out position.

Bent over and trembling, filled up to the rim with his cum.

Although he was a chemical engineer at such a highly respected place such as Alchemax, he couldn't help but feel proud that he had you like this.

Just for him.

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