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adeathlessgod · 8 months

Text

Talking’s Overrated

featuring : Eren Yeager x fem!reader

content : MDNI, smut, Eren is whipped, he’s also a little shit, mean dom!eren if you squint, car sex, fingering, mutual masturbation, squirting, multiple orgasms, anal play, creampie, hair pulling, full nelson, friends with benefits to lovers sorta, reader is sort of a brat idk, Eren loves hair pulling, ddlg vibes if you use a magnifying glass, a little dumbification, reader has her ears pierced, Eren spits in reader’s mouth, slight degradation, DEFTONES MENTION!!!

word count : 5.7k

synopsis : After Eren ends your little fling, he asks to talk it out with you one late night. You find out he believes talking is overrated.

notes : Hi guys!!! I’m Angel, and this is my first ever fic and it took me weeks to work on, so notes, reblogs and constructive criticism are all welcomed! Hope you enjoy my loves<3

- Come outside

Your stomach flips as you read the notification on your screen, hesitantly swiping it away. It’s late on a Thursday night, it’s quiet. Your room is shrouded in darkness, only illuminated by the blaring brightness of your phone screen. You continue to scroll through Instagram, giggling at Hitch’s close friends, when another message comes through.

- Let’s talk

Talking. You chew your cheek. When was the last time you two had spoken?

“Friend, huh? Is that what I am to you?” His hands caged your head against the bathroom wall. He leaned closer, dropping his head to meet your gaze, his breath minty and warm. “Is fucking each other what friends do?”

“It was a-“

“A mistake? Is that what you think of us?” Eren was dangerously close to you now, his lips ghosting across yours.

“I never said it was a mistake,” You chewed your lip nervously as you drew in a shaky breath, “Just a one time thing.”

“There’s no fucking difference, you either want this or you don’t. You know how I feel about this,” his breath fanned over your face, your eyes flutter closed, “About you,” he pauses.

“Don’t deny me, please, let me know I’m not alone in this,” he was almost pleading now, his voice soft and strangled.

You let your head fall back, gently knocking against the wall. “Eren, I-“, you looked at him, how the sharp contours of his jaw had been softened into slopes by the low, luminescent lighting. Your eyes trailed over him slowly, like he was a wonder of the world.

Striking, green eyes, framed by long, dark lashes. A pointed Roman nose, above his plump, rosy lips and the set of shiny white teeth behind them. His smooth, olive skin, akin to sculpted sandstone. He was everything you could have asked for, everything you needed, and that was entirely too much to ask of him.

You shook your head at him, dropping his gaze ashamedly. The air in the room staled.

Eren scoffed, and his hands fell from their place on the wall. “Fine, you want to fuck Jean, go for it,” he runs a hand down his face frustratedly, “thanks for letting me know where I stand, and that this meant absolutely nothing to you.”

“Eren, that’s not-“

“Shut the fuck up, okay? You don’t get to have a say in this, you don’t get to fuck with my feelings and then tell me it’s okay. You don’t get to-“, he blows out a short breath, recollecting his thoughts. He starts again, slower, calmer, quieter, “You don’t get to break my heart and tell me that’s not what you meant, okay?”

He waits for a response, and you wait for him to shout again. You have a moment of silence, despite the muffled Deftones bleeding through the walls. Eren turns to leave, but his hand hesitates over the doorknob. Opening his mouth to speak, he casts you one more angry - no, pained - glance, and swallows.

“Do you regret this?”

You don’t respond.

The door slams behind Eren. You don’t follow him.

The door slams behind you as you step into the midnight chill, dressed in only a hoodie and shorts. The night air bites at your legs and you flex your hands at your sides routinely. The world outside is serene and caliginous - illuminated only by the spindly street lamps stationed on the sidewalk like nutcracker soldiers. Your heart sputters at the sight of Eren’s car, parked crookedly in your driveway - you can’t even see through his tinted windows. The low hum of his engine rattles his car gently, like a small, mobile refrigerator.

When you get to the passenger side, you swing the door open, slide into the plush leather seat, and close the door, all without sparing Eren a second glance. He is sitting in the driver’s seat, legs spread wide apart, in a black hoodie and grey sweats. He shifts his hips upwards as he readjusts his sitting position, his eyes never leaving your shivering figure.

He rakes over your oversized hoodie, your bare legs, your pretty, pretty face. He lingers on your face for a second too long, then he grins when he sees you press your thighs together.

“You cold?”

“Yeah, a little,” Eren hums in response as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel. His rings glint in the muted glare of the moonlight.

“Want me to turn on the heating?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” You watch as he cranks the dial up to max, and the warm air almost instantaneously rushes out of the AC vents. You slump back into your seat, revelling in the warmth. A thin film of condensation falls onto the windows, mottling the midnight scenery outside - your very own Starry Night.

“So,” Eren begins cooly, “how have you been?”

His voice was oddly impartial and you knew better than to trust Eren’s nonchalance. You look at him side-long, attempting to uncover any unkind inflections. You’re met with a lazy smile and a glint in his eyes that stokes the warmth between your legs, warmer than any heater can make you.

“I’ve been good.” A small, charged beat passes. “You?”

“I’ve been good too,” he hums. He licks his lips cockily when he asks, “Have you missed me?”

You’re a delicate instrument, and Eren wants to know if he can still remember how to play you, how to tune you to his liking.

You surrender to his disarming smile.

You breathe in. “Yeah, I did.”

Eren huffs out a quiet laugh and lets his head fall against the window. “I’ve missed you too.”

You breathe out. “Really?”

He grins. “Of course, I have.” He slowly leans across the console, “What,” he murmurs softly, “You don’t believe me?”

You squirm in your seat, flustered by his unwavering gaze. His eyes are low, and swimming with mirth. He cradles your face in his hand and your eyes flutter shut when he drags his nose along your jaw.

Your breaths are shallower now. You’re supposed to be talking, talking about you, talking about your relationship, talking about anything but how much you yearned for each other the past weeks.

You tilt your head sideways, facing him, and tentatively press your forehead to his. He’s rendered you breathless within minutes. You are drowning in him - his sight, his scent, his touch - you can’t talk, let alone breathe, not when he’s taking up all the space in the car.

All notions of reconciliation are abandoned when he presses a fleeting kiss to the shell of your ear, and then whispers, “Do I have to prove it?”

You draw in a shuddering breath.

“Please.”

His lips press into yours, hot and wet, as you lace your hands into his hair. He tastes of peppermint and marijuana. His hand trails from your cheek to your throat, squeezing gently, coaxing a small moan from you. Skimming his thumb over your pulse, his tongue slips into your mouth and you suck on it gently. Your hands tug at the hair interlocked between your fingers, and Eren releases a loud groan into your mouth.

“C’mere,” he mumbles against you. His hands slip under your thighs, and he gently manoeuvres you over the center console and into his lap. You shudder when you feel him beneath you, large and thick and impossibly hard. You roll your hips against the tent in his pants experimentally, and it pulls a moan from both of you.

He pulls away - his lips slick and swollen, still connected to yours by limp strings of saliva - to rasp, “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much, you know that?”

There is nothing other than reverence in his eyes as he surveys you. Your chest is already heaving, you’re flushed from your neck to your ears, and your lips are a dark, kiss-bitten red. An angel. My angel, Eren thinks. You hum in response and dip your head to capture his lips again. His cock is already dribbling precum, staining his sweats a dark grey. You run your tongue along his bottom lip, before sinking your teeth into it. His dick twitches.

Eren pulls away, again, to mutter huskily, “You’re so mean, baby, what am I gonna do with you?” before sliding his lips along your jaw. His lips leave a blazing trail behind them, and his hands are just as hot.

His fingers slip under the hem of your hoodie, pressing small circles into your skin that make you writhe in his lap. His lips stretch into a smirk as he descends down the column of your throat, pausing every now and again to suck bruises into your skin. His hands tug at your hoodie, with a muttered, “Off.”

You scramble to take off your oversized sweater in the confines of Eren’s car, and in your flurry of movements, you elbow the horn behind you. You jolt at the sudden squawk, but Eren’s grip on your waist keeps you grounded. He chuckles lightheartedly.

“Easy, we don’t want your neighbours knowing we’re out here, right?” he teases you. Pouting, you discard your hoodie into the passenger seat and watch Eren’s jaw go slack at the sight of your bare chest.

“No bra?” Eren immediately takes your left nipple into his hot, wet mouth and your back arches, “You’re so good to me, baby.”

You keen as he rolls the other nipple in his fingers, content with how they pebbled due to the chill of the night. He releases your nipple from his mouth with a wet pop and places sloppy, open-mouthed kisses in the valley between your breasts. His large, calloused hands fondle your breasts languidly, his cock twitching in his briefs. Moaning softly, you roll your hips against him, desperate for friction, and whimper out a needy, “Eren, please.”

He lazily grins up at you. He is so insufferable - “What do you need, baby?”

You attempt to roll your hips again, but Eren’s hands keep you stationary, “I need you.”

“Yeah? You want me to take these off for you?” He tugs at your skimpy shorts, and he chuckles when you nod enthusiastically, “Hips up, baby.” He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your thong, and he sweeps off your underwear and shorts, so you’re sitting bare in his lap. He wolf-whistles at the sight of you, pressing a few kisses to your collarbone.

Your tits, full, warm and round, your waist, melded to Eren’s touch, your thighs, plush and soft, either side of Eren’s lap, your pussy, glistening in the light, dripping onto his sweats - you’re so undeniably sexy, even more so in the moonlight painting you silver.

He runs his hands up and down your waist, enjoying the way you squirm under his touch. His lips are still swollen from your kisses, and his eyes are glazed with adoration. If you squint, you can see the hearts dancing in his eyes. Your heart flutters. You’re Eren’s, his to hold, his to fuck, his to love. He doesn’t deserve you - he knows that much - but he is willing to ruin your friendship if it meant being able to see you like this again. His eyes widen when he sees you palm your breasts, spilling out of the gaps between your fingers. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and warmth courses between your legs.

“Stop it.”

Eren is snapped out of his reverie by your voice. He clears his throat briefly. “Stop what?”

You wiggle on his lap, juggling your tits, smiling coyly, “Staring.”

He grins at you, brazen, “Never.”

His breath fans against your chest, hot, and his tongue slides across your sternum, hotter. He pulls you in for another kiss, a slower, softer one this time, and lets his hands roam around you freely. One hand rests on the small of your back, the other sliding down the plane of your stomach to where you need him most.

Your hips buck to meet him halfway. “Please, Eren-“

His fingers finally come into contact with your core, and you let out a strained whimper at his fleeting touch. He ghosts over your clit, chuckling at your displeasure. Just as you are about to whine again, he starts applying pressure to your swollen nub - just enough to make your head spin - as he clicks his tongue.

“Patience, baby. No more whining, you know I’ll give it to you good.“ He dips a finger between your folds, running it along your slit, before plunging it into you.

You gasp quietly as he begins thrusting it in and out of you. His fingers are long and thick, adorned with thick silver rings, nestled against that gummy spot that makes your knees weak. The stretch is delicious, something your fingers could never achieve. You can hear the squelch squelch squelch echo around the car before he even adds another finger. You’re mildly aware that you’re dripping down his wrist, but your mind is too foggy with pleasure to feel an inkling of shame. You’ve never been this wet for anyone before, and your heart hammers wildly in your chest.

“You hear that baby?” Eren teases you, “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you?” You whimper and bury your head into the crook of his neck. He slides in another finger, stretching you open, open, open. His rings graze your clit and you hum eagerly. You resort to bouncing on his hand, your gut beginning to tighten. Eren’s fingers still as he watches you. His voice is lowered to a husky drawl - “Go on, I want to see your cum on my fingers. Use me, baby.”

You begin to rock your hips faster, encouraged by his coos, the flames in your gut beginning to spread. Your gyrations become erratic and uneven. You pant into his ear wantonly, your breasts bouncing with your every move.

Gritting his teeth, Eren throws his head back. Moan by moan, you’re sending him closer to the edge. The hold you have on him is debilitating, and he’ll finish soon - untouched - if you don’t stop whining into his ear like a bitch in heat.

“Look at me,” Eren commands suddenly, tugging your hair. “I want to see you cum for me.”

Placing your hands on his shoulders, holding his gaze, you grind your clit against the heel of his palm. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your legs lock around his waist at this newfound degree of pleasure. Moans are tumbling out of you unrestrained now, your voice high, whiny and loud. You are on the brink of orgasm, painstakingly close, and as Eren tugs your hair again, you lose it.

Your vision blurs and your legs shake as the world stutters on its axis. You spasm and clench around Eren’s hand, dripping onto the seat below you. Pleasure washes over you in waves, each one less intense than the last. You fall into Eren’s chest, breathing heavily as you come down from your high.

Eren looks at the mess you’ve made, chews his lip - letting out a low fuuuuck - before asking if, “You’re okay?”

You hum in response, barely registering Eren’s question. He flips you swiftly, and your back is now flush with his chest. His hoodie is warm and scratchy against your skin. Eren tugs your hair again, lighter this time, and you look at up him, eyes wide and glazed over.

Eren sucks in a breath as he stares at you, basking in your post-orgasm glow. Your skin shimmers in the dim light filtered through his windscreen, casting your face half in shadow. Your eyes are low and your chest heaves with your sharp and fast inhales. He brings his hand up to your cheek, swiping his thumb under your eye, the other cupping your sex.

“I could cum just looking at you,” he murmurs.

You lean into his embrace, whispering, “I can cum just thinking about you.”

A hoarse groan spills from his throat, and a hard slap is landed to your clit. Your whole body lurches as you mewl loudly.

“Is that right?” he chuckled breathlessly, “Do you think about me when you touch this dirty little pussy of yours at night?” You nod avidly, and he rewards you with a few harsh circles to your clit.

“Show me,” he said, leaning forward to watch his fingers play with your pussy, “Show me how hard you cum when you think about me.” He hoists you up so he can shove his sweats halfway down his thighs - no underwear? God, he’s such a slut - and your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, bobbing between your legs.

It was long, and girthy, the head flushed to an angry red. Precum dribbled steadily from the tip, trickling down his shaft in translucent streams. A bulging vein runs down the underside of his cock, straight to where his balls sit, heavy and warm. Gripping his cock at the base, he smacks the bulbous head again your clit twice. Your legs spasm either side of him and he smirks before spitting, a fat glob of saliva landing onto your puffy clit.

He taps your clit again, gentler, encouraging, as he urges you, “Touch yourself, baby. I won’t ask again.” The shift in his tone is evident as his eyes darken, forest green now a deep viridian. You bite your bottoms lip as you slide a hand down your body, the other idly kneading your left breast.

Your fingers draw lazy circles around your entrance before dipping a finger between your folds. You sigh breathily, allowing your head to fall against his shoulder, and Eren begins pumping himself slowly. You slip a finger into yourself, before bringing it back up to your lips. Eren watches keenly as you suck your essence off your fingers, then dip them back between your legs. You purr as you thrust two fingers into yourself, massaging that gummy spot that makes you dizzy. You begin to go faster, synchronous to the pumps of Eren’s hands.

His grunts are low and heavy in your ears, goading you to, “Go faster, I want to see you cum all over your fingers like the slut you are.”

You throw your head back in ecstasy, your fingers now hammering into your little hole, coaxing little spurts of arousal out of you with every pump. Eren uses your cum as a lubricant, slicking his shaft as he fists his cock aggressively. His dick nearly glitters in the moonlight, lathered in a milky sheen of your arousal. He snakes his vacant hand up your body, briefly squeezing your throat, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream, and he takes the opportunity to shove his fingers into your mouth. He watches saliva pool in your mouth, before spitting in it. You hum delightedly, your face so vacant with pleasure it makes Eren curse. As Eren pulls his fingers out of your mouth, spit dribbles down your chin and into the concaves of your collarbone.

“Such a messy girl, aren’t you?” he coos. You blink slowly, and then nod blankly. “Bet you don’t even know what I said, huh? So cockdrunk already,” he tuts at you lovingly as he brings his free hand to your second entrance.

When he circles your puckered hole, you gasp quietly. He shushes you tenderly, and he feels you give way beneath his finger tips.

“Good girl, gonna let me have all of you, right?” you agree mindlessly, dazed in the pursuit of your orgasm. He chuckles at you, how dumb you are for him, before slipping a finger into you, knuckle deep. Your body contorts and you let out a sharp cry. Eren grips the base of his cock to prevent the orgasm threatening to crest at the sound of your cries.

Even with one finger down there, you feel so full, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You slam your free hand on the steamy window, plastering a hand-shaped spyhole onto it. Your fingers speed up and you begin to pant when you sense your core begin to twist.

“Eren- I’m so close, fuck,” Eren slides a second finger into your ass and you let out a loud, debauched, filthy moan. You lick your lips longingly, watching beads of precum drip over Eren’s hands as he smears it over his shaft.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Eren grunts against your neck, “Gonna make me cum.”

Knowing Eren was here, with you, being driven to the edge by your wanton cries and unabashed pleasure, sends you toppling headfirst into your second orgasm of the night.

Your back arches wildly and you wail out Eren’s name as you shake and convulse. You twitch violently around Eren’s fingers, simultaneously gushing onto yours. Your wrist is dripping with your arousal, as is Eren’s entire cock. As you thrash on his lap, he slowly retracts his fingers from your ass.

He slides his lips along your jaw, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat beaded along your face, before tilting your head with a large hand and kissing you. You suck on his bottom lip before sinking your teeth into it softly, just how he likes it.

With a throaty moan, Eren follows you and hot, thick ropes of cum shoot out from his cock. They drape over your thighs, the steering wheel and your stomach like silvery garlands of pearls. He lets out a small grunt as the last spurts fall limply onto his hand.

You whine breathily as he rubs his cock through your folds. He gently rolls his hips upwards, and his balls hit your round ass with a small plap. He pulls away from your heated kiss, and you chase his lips desperately - you’re pathetic.

The head of his massive cock aligns with your belly button and Eren, gripping his shaft by the base, taps his tip against your navel, admiring the thin strings of precum that linger.

His voice drips with sadistic enthusiasm when he drawls, “I’m gonna be in your stomach, baby. Can you take it?”

“Eren, please, I need you.” You roll your hips against the hard length of his member.

He chuckles at your wanton desperation. “You want it, baby?” You nod fervently. “How bad?”

“So, so, so bad, please fuck me, Eren.” Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and your eyes lock onto his with blind adoration. He presses a quick kiss to your hairline, and then your forehead.

“Since you asked so nicely.” He presses his cock against your entrance, slowly, slowly, slowly pushing past that tight ring of muscle. You sigh dreamily as Eren nibbles on your earlobe, occasionally tugging at your piercings.

He pauses briefly when he bottoms out. You squirm in his arms before he scolds you, slapping your inner thigh harshly. The eerie silence of the world around you fades into your ears ringing when he slowly - agonisingly - begins thrusting. His cock drags along your walls perfectly with every precise roll of his hips. His groans echo around the car. The joint sounds of your ecstasy nearly drown out the lewd squelches between your legs.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when Eren hammers your g-spot. You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel your release begin to crest. Eren’s breath is hot against your neck and his muttered praises cloud your brain.

One of your hands travels up to entangle itself in Eren’s hair. He turns and plants a wet kiss on your palm. His thrusts become more rapid and shallow as you clench around him. You feel the car rock in time with his thrusts and you sigh happily.

You want your neighbours to know you’re getting fucked senseless. You want the world to know how good you’re getting it right now. Though now, your world has you spread on his lap like a fuckdoll and is pounding you like an animal.

You hiccup as Eren sinks his teeth into your palm. “You okay, pretty girl? Been quiet for a while.” When you nod, he presses his wet lips to your cheek, plastering his smile on you. He slides a hand down to your clit and begins rubbing it in small, quick circles. “No worries, I’ll have you screamin’ my name in no time. Gonna turn you into my little rag-doll.”

Your back arches as his thrusts also pick up speed. Every thrust has your legs trembling and voice cracking.

“Eren- fuck, it’s so good,” you babble in your gut-wrenching pleasure.

“Yeah?” His smirk is hot against your neck. He whispers, “How good?”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he thrusts impossibly faster. Your hands dig into his biceps and when you feel blood bead at the skin, he hisses in pleasure.

“So good, no one does it like you, Eren.”

He throws his head back with a hearty groan. God, you don’t know what you do to him. Every time he thinks you’ve lured him in deep enough, he finds himself diving into you again, until he’s drowning in your wet, warm depths.

Your eyes meet his again. Your lashes flutter and Eren presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead after brushing away the hair plastered to it.

“Oh, yeah? It’s that good?” You nod lazily, your body jolting with the force of his thrusts. He takes one of your tits in his palm and squeezes hard. He lowers his mouth to yours, and you wet your lips in anticipation. “You gotta cum all over me then.”

You do. Ecstasy dances down your spine as you cry out his name. You squeeze your eyes shut as your clamp down on Eren’s cock. White flashes behind your eyelids like fireworks. You moan his name again and again and again and he tells you he knows, he knows, he knows. Your arousal drips down his shaft, leaving a glistening trail past his balls and onto the padded leather beneath you both.

“Good girl,” he coos. He brings the fingers circling your clit up to your lips, and you dart your tongue out to taste yourself.

His pace never relents, not even when you’re sobbing wildly. The aftershocks of your previous orgasm fade, and you’re already teetering on the edge of another. You wring your hands in the sweat-sodden material of his hoodie. You sob, “I’m gonna cum again.”

“Already?” he tuts and laughs, his voice husky and low. He hums in approval before pinching your nipple tightly. The pain elicits a sweet, little cry from you. His voice is strangled when he asks, “Tell me what you need.”

“More, I need more, I need it harder,” you whine into his neck. You nuzzle into his collarbone, deeply inhaling his warm, vanilla cologne.

“You want harder? I’ll give you harder, you little slut,” he grunts as he hooks his arms under your knees, pinning them to your chest. The change in position angles his cock so deep into you, you can feel him in your throat. When you feel the head of his cock ram into your cervix, you shriek - half pain, half pleasure - and Eren swallows your cries with a wet and sloppy kiss, much like the mess between your legs.

Incoherent moans tumble from your mouth, your eyes find sanctuary in the back of your head and your wetness floods the seat below you. The sharp pain makes you gasp, makes your toes curl. The pads of Eren’s fingers are warm against your knees and his breath is searing against your neck. He continues to split you open on his cock, intent on ruining you on his lap.

He lifts his head to observe you, to admire your undoing. Your skin is sweaty and flushed, your lashes beaded with tears, your lips swollen and bitten. You’re a sight for sore eyes, a glimpse of heaven in his arms. Your eyes snap to his and you whimper in shame, mustering up the scraps of dignity you had remaining, shying away from the ferocity in his eyes.

Eren chuckles dryly at you. He calls your name. Once. Twice. You shake your head and bury it into your chest.

“Oh, no, no, no.” His hands come to rest on the back of your head, arms still hooked under your knees, and he roughly yanks your head back to look at him.

You gasp, “Eren-“

“Look at me.” Your eyes lock onto his. “Look at this.” He tilts your head down, maintaining his ruthless pace, “Look at you, baby, getting so wet for me.”

You laugh and sob, surveying the mess you’ve created. Your arousal is spread between your thighs - thick, slimy strings connecting your thighs to Eren’s. Your lips are stretched around his width, suctioning him into you with a lewd squelch. It’s so wet and sloppy and messy and it’s so, so perfect.

“Feels so- so, so good, baby, fuck,” you babble this out to Eren and he belts out his handsome, disarming laugh.

“Yeah? Bet it does.” You melt even further into his touch when he places a kiss to the crown of your head.

Watching yourself get split open by Eren sends you hurtling towards your release, so you breathe out a quiet, “Cumming.”

Eren chuckles, drops his lips to your ear, and murmurs, “Are you asking or telling me?”

You shake your head weakly. “Don’t make me beg.”

He chuckles quietly, deciding to take mercy on you. Eren sinks his teeth into your earlobe before he gives you a deep, hard thrust, and then commands you to, “Cum.”

Your legs go limp as the world stutters on its axis. The pleasure is mind-numbingly intense and white-hot bursts of relief wrack your body rhythmically. Your mouth gapes in a silent scream as Eren slams himself into your cervix again and again. Hot tears roll down your cheeks, and your head kills back onto his shoulder, too weak to watch yourself cum around him.

Your arousal, clear and copious, sprays everywhere in his car : his seat, the steering wheel, the windscreen, even your body. Eren moans at the sight of you squirting all over his car, you marking your territory. You shudder helplessly in his grasp, succumbing to the heat dousing your limbs. If not for Eren’s tight grip on you, you would have collapsed.

He keeps going, keeps thrusting, desperate to join you in the pleasure of orgasm. His thrusts become sloppier, but no less deep. You mewl with every pump of his hips against yours, overly sensitive and stimulated.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he pants, strained and shaky, in your ear.

You moan at the thought of his hot, thick cum filling you up. “Inside, Eren, please, please, please-“

He cuts you off with a pained groan, “Fuck, you know I can’t do that.”

“Please, Eren, please,” you plead with him, your eyes wide and glassy, “Don’t I deserve it?”

His eyes snap shut and he lets out a shaky, ragged breath. “Shit, you’re making this really hard for me.” His hips pummel you faster, shallower, irregular, as if he’s losing his restraint.

Fuck it, he’s come this far, and he can’t say no to you. “You want it, baby? You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I need it Eren, please give it to me,” you whimper desperately.

“Fuck,” he whines as he thrusts into you a final time, unloading himself into you. Sighing happily, you press a kiss to his cheek as you feel the warm spurts of cum paint your insides. He only pulls out when he stops pulsing inside you, wincing slightly.

Eren slumps against your shoulder, his chest rattling with every breath. Your hands tangle into his thick, chestnut hair. He grunts in approval. Quick, fleeting kisses are pressed to your shoulders and you shudder. Your movement reminds you of the mess between your legs, and you suddenly feel filthy.

“Eren,” your voice is nothing more than a whisper.

Eren’s response is muffled by your neck. “Yes, baby?”

You sniffle. “I’m messy,” Eren jerks up, seemingly rejuvenated after remembering the importance of aftercare.

“Shit, sorry, I’ll clean you up now,” he reaches for your hoodie and starts wiping at your inner thighs. He grins up at you over your shoulder - “You really made a mess huh?”

You shuffle awkwardly in his lap. You had squirted on his skylight, a mess was an understatement.

The corners of his lips pull upwards into a smirk, “Don’t worry about it, ‘m getting my car detailed anyway.” Humming when he’s deemed you clean, he rotates you so you’re eye to eye. His eyes twinkle with undulating lust as he wipes away your tears. “You good?”

You nod meekly, nuzzling his calloused palm.

He pinches your thigh. “Don’t get all shy on me now, you were being real loud earlier.” He tosses the hoodie into the backseat before placing kisses to both of your breasts. His brows pinch at the slightly pensive expression plastered on your face.

He tugs your hair lightly. “Do you want me to get you a Plan B? We can-“

“We were supposed to be talking, Eren,” you wring his hoodie in your hands.

A cocky grin spread across Eren’s face. “Oh, she was definitely talking to me,” he moves to cup your sex, but you swat his hand away. His smile drops at the deflated look in your face.

Sighing, you ask, “Are we ever going to talk about this?”

He frowns, brushing your hair out of your face. “I thought we were gonna forget about it? One time thing, you know?”

You sigh softly and slip your hands under the hem of his hoodie. As you run your hands along the ridges of Eren’s abdomen, his cock bobs.

“We can’t keep using that as an excuse to-“

“Do you regret it?”

“Huh?” Your head snaps up to meet his gaze and his eyes are glinting mischievously.

Squeezing your face between his fingers, Eren pulls your face towards his. His tongue slides along your bottom lip before he reclines. “Do you regret this? Us?”

You swallow.

You don’t respond.

But this time, Eren knows better.

He captures you in a slow, sloppy kiss. His lips meld to yours as he murmurs, “I don’t think we have to talk about anything then.” He sucks your bottom lip slowly, letting it swell in his mouth, before smirking impishly as he rasps, “Talking’s overrated.”

#eren yeager #eren yeager x reader #eren smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger #eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader smut #this is my baby #pls be nice #very new to this so idk what happens next #i need him #angel’s fics

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a-lil-perspective · 3 years

Text

Nepenthe

Your chest fills with a soft gasp. You uncurl your sleep-infused joints, shifting on your back within the bed. Full, tranquil breaths usher you along. You flicker your gaze over to the chrono. Your lashes bat away a lingering bleariness as you acclimate to your obsidian-colored surroundings. You become acutely aware of a calloused hand nestled in your hairline, a thumb now smoothing away the furrow manifested between your brows.

In the pitch black, you feel his eyes cast heavily over you.

“Can’t sleep?” Your voice is still weak with slumber. You reach out a drowsy hand, intuitively finding his jawline and cradling it. There’s a pause, and then you feel his features rearrange with a smirk underneath your fingertips.

“Distracted by something beautiful is more like it.”

“At this hour?” You hum. “Must be a real work of art.”

“Mhm,” his hand slides down from your hair, tapping your nose on the way before ghosting over your now slightly part lips. “You certainly are.”

Something like a giggle escapes you, and you drape the back of your free hand across your face to hide the silly blush he can’t even see in the shadows inking the midnight room. His warm breaths grow closer, peppering across your skin. You gather yourself, hollowing your cheeks. “Well don’t stay awake on my account. You should rest.”

“Trust me...” his knuckles stroke along your cheekbone with a tenderness that nearly makes your heart give out. “It’s a good reason to be awake.”

“But not the only reason.” You scale his words footnoted by affection, bypassing directly to the underlying meaning while he proceeds to mouth your neck in lieu of an explanation.

“You had a nightmare,” you whisper after a moment, stifling a shiver and gliding your fingers through his hair unbound from its usual crimson accessory.

He shakes his head, forcing a reassuring smile. “They don’t visit me when I’m with you.”

“Lies,” you accuse gently, eyes softening as you unravel his plight. Your hand wanders from his jaw to the nape of his neck, in which you collect your evidence in the form of a cold and clingy sheen of sweat that’s clearly been settled for some time. You listen to his deep, burdened inhale that manifests from your discovery. If you squint hard enough you can make out his broad chest swelling with the intake. You mentally count the seconds his breath is held in stasis, and the heady silence that flanks. Four. And then his exhale billows heavily and he’s pressing his forehead to yours in defeat.

Your heart aches for him. You part the dark curtain of hair spilling over the both of you and imprint a sweet kiss to the corner of his lip. “It’s alright, Hunter; I’m here.”

He makes a pained sound against you.

“Was it the boys?”

His silence speaks for itself, waxing the anguish.

“Wake me next time.” It’s a useless plea, you know. You can never remove a soldier from the battlefield, nor stop the tape of death that rolls infinitely behind his closed lids.

From his glued position, he manages a fervent shake of his head. “Seeing you sleep peacefully... it’s soothing to me.”

You frown, fingers threading through his saturated scalp. You peel away from his face and crunch upward into a sitting position.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, loving lips tacking against his earlobe as you gently detangle. Hunter’s grip tightens in protest.

“I promise; right back,” you plant a chaste kiss to his cheek and roll out of his hold and off the bed, dashing to the refresher. The faucet shoots on, and you’re back seconds later with a wrung cloth monitored thoughtfully; not too hot or cold. You’ve long learned the extent of Hunter’s restlessness that flourishes in the wake of direct heat, and similarly, an unanticipated chill proves catastrophic to his sensitized nerves and he shoots into overload in no time flat. You, ever the attentive companion, fortunately discovered the most ideal temperatures to coat items before application.

You gingerly drape the rag over the back of his neck, and his shoulders slope at the contact. He nods his thanks and you take up your spot beside him on the edge of the bed.

His head remains cast downward, eyes presumably skimming the dark floor where he no doubt is attempting to shrug off all his troubles onto. You rub between his shoulder blades.

“Do you want to call them?” You ask.

He takes a shaky breath. “I think... that might help. Yes.”

You twist your body around, flopping ridiculously across the bed to reach the nightstand you could’ve just gotten up and walked around to. You fumble briefly for the comm seated there before straightening back up and activating a sequence. The light on the device blinks silently in working to establish a connection. A tremor burgeons from the mattress, a byproduct of Hunter’s bouncing knee. You still his disquiet with a reassuring squeeze. A voice finally crackles to life on the other end.

“Hello?” The greeting is interrupted by a seismic yawn.

“Hey Wrecker,” you greet gently. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Oh, hiya!” Sleep quickly disbands from the large man upon recognition of your voice as he inflates with something more peppy. “What’s up?”

“Oh you know, checking in,” you pause, glancing over at Hunter. “Sarge and I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hey vod!” Wrecker addresses his brother then. “Everything good?”

“Everything’s fine, Wrecker,” Hunter does his best to withhold the weariness lacing his words. “Just wanted to hear your voice. You can go back to sleep now, bud.”

Wrecker hums contemplatively. “Y’sure that’s all? Ain’t sounded like ya slept a wink.”

“I‘ll get there, don’t worry about me.”

“Need a good Wrecker cuddle?”

An unfiltered chuckle sounds through Hunter, and you relish the closest thing to at ease he’s sounded all night. “Maybe later, Wreck. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Ohhhh,” Wrecker drawls cheekily, his wicked grin palpable as he recalls that Sarge is already occupied with a warm body. “Well ‘f ya change your mind lemme know! Nighty night you two.”

“Goodnight, Wrecker.” You can’t help your own splitting grin.

Hunter snorts softly as the comm ends. “Feels like I’ve been caught in something scandalous.”

“Yeah, but he’s loyal,” you snicker, contacting the next member.

“Present.” It comes as no surprise that the engineer’s voice rings through with an unnerving level of chipper. Absolutely preposterous, this man. “Where am I needed?”

“In bed,” Hunter grumbles. “Get to sleep, Tech.”

“And yet you are the one who called me,” Tech glides right over the explicit command, the sound of his trinketing flooding the background. “Anyway, I look forward to showing you my newest creation—”

“Goodnight, Tech,” you sever his impending presentation with a snort. “Thanks for picking up. Puts Hunter’s mind at ease. He’s restless tonight.”

“Ah, yes. We will need to work on his subpar development regarding healthy sleep patterns.”

Hunter’s face twists with a frown that doesn’t hold that much weight. “If that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“Indeed. I just thought you might enjoy the humor in that.”

Hunter flashes a smirk he figures his younger brother is probably matching. “You know yours is my favorite, vod’ika.”

“That is good to hear.” A pause. “Goodnight, Hunter. Should you still find yourself restless in the coming hours, I’m happy to assist with my ‘useless trivia’ that inevitably puts you to sleep.”

“By that point you should find yourself asleep,” the ori’vod points out.

“Very well,” Tech relents. “I shall, for you.”

Hunter just shakes his head, unconvinced he won’t discover a sleepy genius slumped over the nearest workbench here within the next few hours.

Another round of brotherly charges are exchanged and then you’re left with one last call to make.

The last member acknowledges in a far less amiable manner.

“Crosshair.” You innately grow solemn with it. “Got a second?”

“Don’t really have a choice now,” he responds curtly, a lingering husk of sleep in his voice.

“Sorry Cross,” Hunter interjects. “My doing. Just wanted to check in on you boys.”

“At two in the morning.”

Hunter manages a wry smile. “Can’t say hi to my vode whenever?”

There’s silence on Crosshair’s end for a moment.

“What’s going on.” He’s returned bearing more sage.

You feel Hunter straighten beside you. “Nothin’, vod. Don’t worry about it.”

“That doesn’t work on me, Hunter. Try again.”

“I’m fine,” Hunter said rushingly. “Promise. Just gets a little stuffy in my head sometimes. But you boys always make it better, y’know?”

Crosshair quiets. “Get some rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Thanks vod. Appreciate it.”

You imagine Crosshair’s eyes searing into you through the comm as his attention shifts. “Keep me updated.”

“I will,” you assure. The connection ends. You eye Hunter, grazing your fingernails along the side of his head, tucking inky strands behind his ear. “Did that help at all?”

Hunter huffs a tired laugh. “Think it just made it worse. Now none of ‘em will sleep because of me.”

“They’ll be just fine,” you begin guiding him back under the covers. “Now to make sure you are.” He resists you for the briefest of moments.

“I am fine, honey.”

“You will be,” you agree, lying back. Hunter soon follows and sprawls out over top of you, wriggling until he’s positioned ideally with his head on your chest yet within proximity of your neck to plaster kisses with ease when the mood strikes.

Hunter makes a little choked sound, and you realize he’s clearing his throat. “Thank you... for doing that for me.”

You flatten his head to your chest with something fiercely protective. “I would do anything for you.”

“Which, by and large, is entirely unnecessary.”

He earns himself a long-suffering sigh at that.

“It is necessary. Because you are my everything.”

“I—”

“Shh,” you rebuke him. “Dammit, Hunter—just let someone take care of you.” You chew your lip. “Let me.”

He inhales deeply through his nose. It is entirely plausible for Sergeant Hunter to be bested in a battle-of-the-wills on the rarest of occasions; this being one of them. You spread your hands across his back and begin a deliberating massage. He groans lightly, his neglected aches and pains woven into the limelight by your touch. You quickly get caught up in your administration. When your breath suddenly hitches, Hunter lifts his head in curiosity.

“I’m just… you...” Words feel thick on your tongue. “You are a remarkable man, you know that?”

The corded muscles of his back tense. Anyone else would bask in such awestruck reverence but not Hunter, who makes haste to override his obvious discomfort with a thoughtful hum.

“I know that’s what you believe,” he answers neutrally.

“Because it’s true.” You reposition the wicking cloth at his neck. “Your brothers and I... we would all be lost without you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A pinch to his bicep. “Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.” Too damn stubborn, you nearly add.

His demeanor is colored with remiss. “All in a Sergeant’s work.”

One-hundred percent success rates and elite statuses aside: Hunter carries his tediously bashful disposition in total part.

“You don’t have to be Sergeant around me, you know,” you cup his face, tilting him up to meet yours. “You can just be Hunter.”

He can just be himself.

He shrugs with that pained, dutiful smile. The smile that follows him into adversity, the wry humor that is as much his shield as any. “Guess I don’t know how to separate the two.”

Your eyes well all of a sudden as you gaze upon this beautiful and troubled man with so much love in your heart it sends a keeling pang through you. Of course he doesn’t know how. He’s never known how to truly feel distinguished outside the focal point of soldiering. He’s always been so different, but never an individual. Never his own man. Preordained for responsibilities since before his decant, conducive in parental devices and sibling undertakings and leadership skills interchangeably. Always carrying others but who carries him?

You choke on a verklempt breath.

“I can help you.” You sound so small and desperate, sobbing quietly underneath him as your heart breaks alongside his. “Please let me help you…”

In the dark he captures your salty, stray tear with his lips—he always knows—before moving down and swallowing your mouth. Tenderness blooms from his textured lips, soft and sultry and seeping into every capillary. A soft love note pings from you against him when he’s got you like this, cast in a smelter of dire adoration and the overwhelming need to nurture. His touch, his kiss, is a burning ember that brands you even when he pulls away.

“You already do,” he murmurs sweetly against your lips.

#omg this ruined me #I’m so freaking emotional over him #this is entirely self indulgent #star wars #the bad batch #clone force 99 #sergeant hunter x reader #hunter x reader #sergeant hunter #hunter #clone trooper wrecker #wrecker #clone trooper tech #tech #clone trooper crosshair #crosshair #my writing #it’s a lil thing

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chrysalispen · 3 years

Text

pursuit/predation (zenoswol)

This was a lot of fun LMAO I hope you all enjoy reading as much as i did writing it! Commission for @noxi-lumi featuring their WoL, Raziela Undeni <3

NSFW under cut. CW for mildly violent imagery (it is Zenos, after all).

======

Two and a half fulms below the angled opening of his makeshift bolthole, Zenos yae Galvus peered up at the sky with a borrowed face to watch the storm that had raged for two days. The levin-aspected aether in the northern hinterlands of Gyr Abania often lent itself to violent thunderstorms, with static bursts that rendered the escarpment too hazardous to cross. There were waypoints in the mountains to seek shelter from the weather but he had eschewed them, thinking that the fewer encounters to detain (and bore) him, the better.

He had ever chafed at forced inactivity, but all in all, Zenos reasoned, this was but a temporary setback. Man was a beast bred for hunting, a pursuit predator, and he was nothing if not the pinnacle of that ideal. He would do as his ancient ancestors had done: bide his time and await his next opportunity. Once the storm had spent itself, he could go.

He whistled the opening bars of a parade ground march under his breath - a low and toneless sound like loch winds moaning around the corners of sandstone - and let his eyes fall shut.

Seconds and minutes passed as an age. Bereft of aught else to entertain him, his thoughts turned to his memories of the Eorzeans’ champion: that wild creature of sword and spell. Eikon-slayer. Saviour of the savages, so-called. Epithets overheard from idle barracks' chatter, although Zenos set little stock in the distinction between his own kind and the rest of the world as others did. Garleans bled the same, quailed in fear the same, and died screaming the same as any savage, and she had long since proven her mettle to his satisfaction. She strode the world as he did, towering above her fellows, a beast without peer.

He still recalled with crystal clarity the day they had met. Then he had barely paid mind to her paltry attempts to halt his advance; countless enemies had attacked him out of fear or desperation to stave off the inevitable, after all. Even so, he had seen neither of those things in their hero's magenta eyes. A grim sort of determination, to be sure; the steely resolve he would expect of one well-versed in the path he walked himself- but no fear.

There had been another emotion which he still couldn’t quite define, the faintest flicker of something. Curiosity, mayhap. His own exultation in the heat of the fight, mirrored in her mien. A reflection of himself, some alternate path he had never chanced to walk.

Whatever it was he had seen that day, it had moved him to spare her life.

And how right he had been to do it. She was worth a score of tribunes on her own-- fivescore, if the truth be told. Had she agreed to his proposal, or had he kept his word rather than indulge his lust for violence in that precise moment…

How very different things might have been.

Well, perhaps, he amended. They each had their parts to play. But upon the stage of his imaginings, anything was possible. There he could entertain to his heart’s content his fantasies of his friend returned to him, stronger still for her own tribulations.

He meant to duel her again and had no doubt she would oblige him. The prospect of it did not deter him; no, he yearned for the excitement of it. The surge of heat through the veins with each perfectly executed step, air burning the throat and whistling in the lungs, the ever-present specter of death looming over one’s shoulder-- what was violence, in truth, but a dance? Were not those dances with the most precarious, most intricate of steps best enjoyed with a partner of comparable skill?

In the end that was what he had seen in her: a worthy partner, at long last. Whether to stand at his side or to test her blade against his, he would accept both, but to fight his most precious friend once more, to recapture that kindled flame-- that would be a fine thing.

Oh yes, that would be quite fine indeed.

Remembered delight shuddered its way across the surface of his skin, a delicious and almost delicate frisson that bored its way down his spine to curl and tighten in the pit of his belly. Zenos was no stranger to lust; since his majority plenty of his lessers had used their bodies to curry his favor for some petty reason or other, with naught in their hearts save ambition and fear. Carnal knowledge was both prosaic and vulgar, rutting the sole province of mindless beasts, and it had not taken him long to decide that such matters held little of interest or value to him.

But this sweet and languorous warmth, like honey in a well-steeped tea-- he realized that he did not mind it so very much. It reminded him of the menagerie, and his last sight of her before he had opened his own throat and bled out into the flowers. Joy, pure and transcendent.

Yes, he decided; this pleased him.

With a soft grunt Zenos shifted his hips. The motion left him keenly aware of the physical evidence of his arousal against the mild rise below his navel, where it strained against twin cages of cloth and leather for freedom. That spreading ache was not a sensation entirely alien to him, but it did strike him strange how very aware it made him of this borrowed body on such a base level. Heat and hyperawareness punctured the fine invisible layers of his detachment with the pinpoint precision of a sewing needle through linen.

His eyes fell shut once more in a series of slow and lazy blinks: a contented feline drowsing atop a fresh kill.

He settled one hand over the seam of his breeches where the fabric was pulling taut and palmed himself, running his fingers lazily along the firm ridge his cock had formed beneath the thick weave. If he paid heed only to those slow and teasing strokes, he could convince himself that it was her, touching him so intimately---her hand dragging those sharp and immaculate nails he had glimpsed up and down his length. Scratching their points with calculated ease along the underside of his shaft, applying just enough pressure through the fabric to leave tiny trails of fire in their wake.

A soft groan rumbled deep in his chest, and Zenos tilted his chin back so as to rest his head against the rock, thighs spreading to accommodate his girth. What would she do, he mused, should she chance to see him caught in the web of his own desire? Driven to distraction by the mere thought of her, the very picture of the animal in full rut which he had so scorned?

The irony of it would amuse her, he had no doubt about that. Perhaps she might grin at the spectacle.

Perhaps she would even laugh. He presumed to imagine it, a sight and sound he had yet to experience. A wicked, throaty peal of mirth. The toss of short sable locks, the tilt and swivel of long tufted ears, the stretch of her long and graceful neck as she tossed her chin. Grinned at him, feral and dark, that smile he so loved to see before her inevitable riposte.

Savagery to rival his own, swathed in leather and crimson.

So thinking, Zenos’ fingers drifted upward of their own accord, straying from the insistent need betwixt his opened thighs to work at the waistband of his breeches instead.

Lashes fluttered like a courtesan’s fan at the edges of angular cheekbones, suffused with color and dewy with a light band of sweat despite the chill within his shelter. In his mind’s eye, she straddled him as her clever fingers worked the buttons and laces that bound him fast, impatient to pluck her prize from its confines. He fancied he could feel the contained heat of her core against his leg even through the barrier of her smalls, burning as though the sun itself had branded him.

When he raised himself to pull the offending fabric to his knees, it was she who closed her hand about his cock, grasping him just a touch too snugly. Her thumb stroked tiny circles over the foreskin as the shaft lunged eagerly within the cage of her palm; he could almost hear a hum of low-pitched approval. Each stroke she made eased the smooth, hot skin to retract and expose his crown: deeply flushed, its tip already glistening with precum. Zenos sighed, his borrowed body rocking upward to thrust into her hand, seeking friction to accompany that narrow squeeze. Anything would do, really. Except he needed--

Shallow breaths rasped unsteadily in the close space as he slicked his palm with his own saliva, grimaced, then took himself in hand once more.

Wet heat and resistance alone nearly undid him. His startled inhalation made a sharp and rasping echo that he barely heard, lost as he was in his fantasy. She had shed her duelist’s garb, laid herself bare to embrace him with long and powerful thighs, like velvet-wrapped steel. He shuddered at the effort it took to control himself, to let gravity carry her down to sheathe him in her depths, to let her move atop him to counter his thrusts with her own: a beautiful beast with lips for kissing and teeth for tearing. She laid both to work upon his throat and his shoulders with each upward snap of his hips-- drank deep of him, and he of her, until his stomach ached from ribcage to groin with unrelieved tension.

Violence in its own sense, he thought. A dance most intimate, and as real and as pure as the day they had parted.

“Yes, my beast,” he hissed aloud. The sibilant sound of his pleasure rose and reverberated around him, a chorus of empty whispers. “Just so.” His free hand fisted in a handful of loose gravel and his mouth fell slack and the spare limbs and lean angles of this unfamiliar vessel, all wrong, not his, arched like a bowstring. His heels dug into unyielding rock rather than bedsheets for purchase. Her fingers entwined with his, sharp nails grazing his knuckles, tiny cuts to blend with the myriad small scars left by

(hunting. a pale silver-white web of scar tissue in the center of his left palm - his true vessel's left palm - where his fourteen-year-old self pierced it with a crystal. a parting gift to the first man he ever killed. its tendrils radiate outward between each of his fingers like the cracks made in a pane of shattered glass)

arrows and fletching. She was close; he fancied he could hear the labored rattle of her breathing with each small moan she made. Bracing her weight against his torso and balancing upon his thighs to bounce, sounds only he could hear tumbling from imaginary lips parted and glistening, her cunt flexing about him like a silken vise as she approached the edge of release and swept him along like an incoming tide--

--and the pressure in his groin dropped, at last, and when he spilled, his seed splashing over his frantically moving fist and locked fingers and onto the muscled slope of his exposed belly, it was her name which fell from his lips, not hero or beast but Raziela, Raziela.

Long moments passed before he opened his eyes, chest heaving and fingers numb and loosely wrapped about his spent cock, still pulsing beneath his touch. The syllables of her name seemed to echo in his ears, a mantra to recite to himself until he had locked it into his memory to recall at a whim.

He waited in patient silence, willing his pulse to slow and his lungs to expand in an unhurried rise and fall. There was a low rumble from the opening of his shelter and after long moments, a flicker of lightning. The storm was passing and with it the levinstrikes. He would be able to move soon.

With movements as slow and languid as a sleepwalker’s, Zenos reached for the belt he had removed upon entering the cave and dug through its pockets until he found something that would serve as a washcloth. His gaze, as he wiped himself down and rearranged drab layers of linen and oilcloth into some semblance of order, was very far away, fixed upon the thinning clouds and the wheel of stars beyond. The moon hung low in the sky, bloated and orange.

I wonder where you are, my friend, he thought. If you have given thought to our meeting at all.

“Raziela,” he whispered once more, as if testing the sensation of her name on his tongue. In the darkness of the cavern, his eyes glittered like a hungry cat’s.

It was only a matter of time before they were reunited; he would make certain of it. Once he had regained his true form, they would have their dance. A grand reunion upon a great stage, two stars to burn bright, and oh, there would be such a burning. To capture this bliss and relive it with her-- he would give anything in his power, and the very star itself would tremble at their union.

When he emerged from the cavern at last to clear skies and a still night, the moon hid its face behind a passing cloudbank like prey that had caught his scent. And within the bounds of his stolen vessel, Zenos yae Galvus smiled to see it.

#zenos yae galvus #zenos/wol #spicy character studies

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love-and-monsters · 3 years

Text

Armon the Aqrabaumelu

Hey guys! Before I get into this, I’m just letting you know I won’t be posting writing for the next two weeks because it’s grad school final time and I have so much work. In the meantime, if you want to give me some prompts, I’m all ears!

M aqrabaumelu X F reader, 2,895 words

You’ve been hired to paint a portrait for a local rich family. What do you make of your irritated (and a little irritating) subject?

Fortune Falls was a small town, but it was surprisingly bustling. Perhaps it was the variety of species that kept it that way. Perhaps it was just the sort of people who came to a place like Fortune Falls, excited young people who were trying to start up new lives and careers. At least half of the shops in town had opened in the last couple of years and were run by young residents.

You weren’t one of the excited newcomers, although you could have easily been mistaken for one. Your family was one of the first to move to Fortune Falls, which meant you had some roots here, and had managed to snag an apartment toward the town center for relatively cheap. Your family was friends with the building owner, and you were handy enough to earn your low rent.

It also meant that your career as a struggling artist was at least somewhat feasible. Your family had connections with the other families in town, especially the well-off ones. The sort of families with the disposable income who could commission artists for portraits.

That was your newest job. A commission for one of the older money families, a portrait of their second-oldest son, since he had come of age. Portraits were, in your humble opinion, exceedingly boring. Trying to paint a face staring off into the distance while subtly tweaking their worst features to suit their vain attitudes wasn’t interesting. You were much more partial to landscapes and nature scenery. Much more beautiful. But you still had expenses and if painting rich people managed to pay them, so be it. You would.

The Aristota house was technically just outside of town, on an enormous plot of land. You gathered your supplies into the passenger’s seat of your ancient car and hobbled up their long, winding driveway.

It was a pretty mansion, you thought. But it was also just a little bit too rich for your taste. The chandeliers, the velvet carpets, the deep reds and golds and creams. It was all just a little too much, like they were more interested in showing off their money than creating a house that was nice to live in.

Fortunately, you knew the family well enough for them to dispense with the overly stuffy pleasantries. “Good to see you again,” Mrs. Aristota said when you entered the sunroom. She was settled on a long, red couch, deep orange carapace glinting in the sunlight. “You’ve met Armon before?”

You looked toward the person she was gesturing at. He looked quite similar to her- a rounded, but sharp-cheeked face, thick lashes, rich, black hair, and long, delicately fingered hands. Like the rest of his family, he was, from the waist down, an enormous scorpion. His carapace was a deep shade of orange and his tail was lifted, curling behind him with its stinging tip brandished outward. You knew enough about aqrabaumelu body language to read the discomfort in his posture.

“We’ve met before,” you said. It had admittedly been years ago, when you were both teenagers, and neither of you had wanted to be around each other. “Hello.”

He dipped his head to you, then went back to staring out the window. He was wearing a black coat with little gold stitches around the hems. His long nails worked at the hem, tearing the stitches out a little at a time.

“You have the specifications for the portrait?” Mrs. Aristota asked. She rose from her couch and skittered over you, looking critically at your supplies.

“Same as the last one I did, I assume,” you said.

“This one will be a little smaller,” she said. “But roughly similar, yes. Armon will give you any more details he desires.” She walked over to him and lifted his chin in her hand. “And smile, won’t you?”

With that, she turned and headed out of the room. You finished placing your canvas on the easel and organized your paints before looking at your subject.

He’d mostly turned his back on you, staring out the windows of the sunroom into the garden. You cleared your throat. No response. You cleared it again, louder this time. His gaze flicked to you, expression unchanging.

“Are you ready to begin?” you asked. “Pick a position you think you can comfortably hold for a bit. I’ll take pictures, but I like sketching in person. It helps me with proportions.”

Armon let out a long, heavy sigh and crept across the room until he was standing in front of you. He stared flatly ahead, tail still hooked and lifted in its defensive posture. His expression was flatly neutral, almost bored. You frowned at him. “Uh. You sure that’s the position you want to go for?”

His dark eyes slid to you for a moment. Then they returned to their staring-blankly-ahead position. You shrugged. “Whatever.” You could make some touch-ups to make the position a little more interesting, more stately instead of bored. After snapping a few photos, you sat down and got to work.

A silence fell over the room. You could hear your pencil scratching against the canvas, the soft noise of your breath. Every now and then, Armon would shift a little and the hard plates of his carapace scraped quietly together. After thirty minutes, you paused, flexing your wrist.

“Wanna move around a bit?” you asked. Armon shifted his head toward you.

“I thought that would be disallowed.” His voice was both deep and quiet.

“Nah. You can shift around a little bit. Just go back to the position when you’re done. I can tweak a little bit to fix any problems. And I need a break too.” You stood up, rolling your wrist and stretching your legs. “Want to take a look at what I have so far?”

He scuttled over to you and peered at the canvas. You saw his eyes move, roving over the image, then he leaned back. There was no change in his face. “What, nothing?” you said. “I thought it was pretty good. Anything you like, don’t like, want more of?”

Armon sighed, shifting his weight. “I don’t know. I’m not an artist.”

“Well, if I think it’s a bad idea, I just won’t do it. I’m just asking your opinion. It’s your portrait.”

Armon laughed. It was a bitter, cold laugh. “This is not me,” he said, pointing at the painting.

You frowned, feeling a flicker of insult. It wasn’t your best work ever, but it didn’t look that bad. It looked like him! “In what way?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral. You’d never had any of them, but you’d heard about clients who wouldn’t let their painters stop until the image looked like a god come to earth. If he was trying that angle, you weren’t sure how long you could bite your tongue for.

Armon looked at you for a moment, then sighed out his nose and waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter.” He walked back over to his position and held it again. This time, he looked even more stiff and uncomfortable. His tail tip twitched like he was threatening to strike.

You looked consideringly at the painting. Even with your careful alterations, he still looked a little stiff. His tail was arched over his back in a way that seemed unnatural, and his expression was severe. You couldn’t give an accurate depiction of his smile because you’d never seen him give one. His brother had been all grins and self-importance. Armon seemed to be sulking.

“I need a break.” You tossed down your pencil. Armon gave you a look.

“Weren’t we just taking a break?” he asked. You stretched, groaning as your joints popped. Armon blinked at you as your arm twisted around. “Humans aren’t supposed to bend that way,” he said. His expression was vaguely queasy.

“I’m double jointed,” you said. “And I need to walk around for a bit. Stretch my legs, you know? And my fingers, otherwise my hands will cramp.” You tilted your head, staring around the room with feigned interest. “Mind showing me around the place?”

Armon clicked his many legs against the ground. “Something you’re particularly interested in seeing?” he asked with little enthusiasm.

“Whatever you’re interested in is fine by me,” you said charitably. Perhaps you could get another emotion out of him that wasn’t sullen disappointment.

There was a moment of consideration, then Armon opened the glass door to the outside. Without checking to see if you were following, he stepped outside and into the sunshine.

You followed him to a small stand of trees around a pond. He settled by it, back pointed at you. “This is nice,” you said, looking around. Your fingers were itching for your supplies. It would be a lovely scene. In fact, Armon’s form seemed to fit well with it. His unfocused, serene gaze, the curl of his lowered tail, the sweep of his black hair over his brow. He seemed much more relaxed than he had in the house.

“I have an idea,” you said. Armon’s gaze became guarded as he looked up at you. “We can continue the painting out here.”

Armon gave you a bewildered look. “What?”

“It’s a nice day. And the sunroom’s really hot. We can keep going out here. Much nicer.” Armon frowned. His many legs shifted, sharp tips digging into the dirt. “Something wrong with that idea?”

“I thought Mother wanted it done in the sunroom.” His voice was stiff and his tail was starting to bristle again. You put on your easiest smile and clapped him on the shoulder. He started at the touch.

“I’ll tell her I thought it looked nicer out here. I’m sure she’ll be fine with it.” You turned and started to head back inside. After a moment, you heard the quiet scuttling of Armon following you.

He watched as you gathered your supplies up. It took some skill to juggle them. You carefully slid the easel under your arm and tried to gather as many paints as you could into your arms. Armon stared at you for a moment, then picked up your paint box from the floor. He held it still while you carefully dumped your paints into it. “Thanks,” you said.

“Just helps speed things up,” he mumbled. Before you could say anything else, he headed out the door ahead of you.

You followed him back to the small stand of trees and set your supplies up again. When you looked up, you clapped a hand over your mouth, barely preventing a giggle.

There were several birds around Armon. Three of them were crows, and one was a blue jay, which was perched happily on his tail, apparently unconcerned by the venom. A chipmunk was eying him from a short distance away, and a squirrel was sitting by one of his hands without concern. Armon seemed to consider this as relatively unimpressive. His expression was just as neutral as it had been before. But his tail, you noticed, was relaxed.

“Uh,” you said gently, “so how long have you been a Disney princess?”

His tail jerked reflexively and the animals scattered. “Oh,” you said, watching in disappointment. “That would have made a cool painting. Can you make them come back?”

“I don’t make them do anything,” Armon said. “They just know me.” He looked around, his gaze softening. “I come out here a lot. It’s nice. Better than inside the house.”

There was something peaceful in his gaze. Almost without thinking, you reached out and started sketching.

“No wonder you seem comfortable out here,” you said. You kept your tone low, trying to encourage his mood. One of the birds hopped cautiously closer. Armon stretched out a hand toward it.

“Mm. The animals are nice.” The bird, a crow, closed the distance between them. Armon let out a low whistle and it hopped onto his hand. “There are stray cats out here too, sometimes. I feed them. Can’t have them in the house, though. Father doesn’t like furry pets.”

“Allergic?”

“No. He just doesn’t like the fur.” Armon stroked a finger over the bird’s head. It let out a croaking note. His lips twitched.

For the first time, you saw the tiniest of smiles appear on his face. You sketched it into place. One of his cheeks dimpled. It was rather adorable.

He stayed still and silent for several moment, stroking absently over the bird’s head. You hurried to get the scene out onto paper. It was a much more relaxed picture than the one you’d been trying to paint inside.

“You seem to have a strong connection with them,” you said after a few minutes. “Can you speak to them?”

Armon looked at you. For a moment, you were pretty sure he wasn’t going to answer, then he shrugged. “Not like we’re speaking. They’re not that intelligent. But I’ve spent enough time with them that I understand their mannerisms.” He glanced at you. “People, not so much.”

“I feel that,” you said. “I’m better with paint than people.”

Armon turned his gaze back to the bird. “You’ve been doing well to me.”

“Yeah, that’s lots of practice. I’m not very naturally good at it.” Armon snorted and his tail lashed.

“I was never any good at it. Nothing like my brother.”

You gave an absent nod. “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?”

Armon closed his eyes. “He’s much better than I am.” There was a pause as he swallowed. The bird fluttered back to the ground and pecked at the soil. “I think my parents have quite given up on me.” He said it with a bit of a laugh, but his expression was twisting in a way that almost made him look like he was going to cry.

You lowered your pencil. “Given up?”

“You need to be good with people to be good at business. I’m awful with them. I’m just too unapproachable. They keep me around, add me to the collection of family portraits, but I am not what they want in a son.”

“Fuck your family,” you said. Armon blinked at you. “Your family’s too up their own ass. No offense. Why don’t you just leave? You’re old enough, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Armon said. “But I don’t really know how. I’ve never been on my own before.”

“You’ve got a lot of money. You’ve got some time. Why don’t you just figure out what you want to do? Not saying it’s going to be easy. It’ll be a lot different than what you’re used to, but it’ll be better. I mean, being an artist isn’t easy. But it’s more enjoyable than doing something easy that makes me miserable.”

The grass rustled as Armon made his way over to you. He sat down, looking at the drawing over your shoulder. There was a moment of silence, then Armon let out a low, shaky sigh.

“That’s me,” he said, reaching over to tap the painting. He traced the slight smile that twitched at his lips, the softness that gathered around his eyes. “That one is me.” He leaned into your side, letting his head rest on your shoulder. “Thank you.”

You didn’t get much more painting done that day. Armon showed you around the grounds a little bit before dropping you off at the front gate. “I’ll show you the painting when it’s done,” you said.

Armon smiled again. It was small, and it looked poorly practiced, but it was something. “I’ll look forward to it.”

It was a couple of weeks before you returned to the house. You met with Armon’s mother before going to the sun room, where Armon was waiting. He looked up as you entered.

“Here,” you said, holding it out toward him. He took it delicately, as if he was afraid his claws would tear the canvas. He stared at it for a long time, just taking in the artwork.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “It’s better than I thought it was going to be.” He gave a weak smile. “All those portraits in the halls are so stuffy. So formal. They’re never something I really wanted to be a part of. This one is much nicer.”

You shrugged. “You can keep that one, if you want. I’m not getting paid for it.”

Armon’s head snapped up. “Why not?”

“Didn’t meet the specifications your mother was looking for, apparently. She said it was too… um… casual, I think.”

Armon looked down at the painting. “I’m sorry. I should have-”

“Don’t sweat it. It wasn’t your idea, remember? I pushed you into it.” You shrugged. “Your mom’s giving me a second chance, though. I would have to do it right this time.” You perched on the side of a lounge, looking steadily at Armon. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

Armon gave a small smile. “I don’t think I’d mind sitting for another portrait,” he said. “As long as you’re the one doing it.”

“Hey, I’m not exactly mad about it either,” you said. Armon made to hand you back the painting, but you pushed it back toward him. “I did say you could keep that, right? It’s a gift.”

Armon looked down at it with a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said. You memorized that smile. It was going into his portrait no matter what.

#exophilia #aqrabaumelu #fortune falls #monster boyfriend #monster lover #OCxOC #MxF

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xiaoderys · 4 years

Text

❝ Saturated Sunrise ❞ (l.dh, n.jm)

DISCONTINUED

pairing: haechan x reader, jaemin x reader

genre: crack, fluff, angst, possible smut

soulmate!au, college!au, social media!au mixed with narrative (in future chapters)

warnings: swearing, slightly suggestive with possible smut in future chapters

word count: 1.2k (this is only the prologue so future chapters will definitely be much longer~)

parts: prologue character profile, I

synopsis: you gradually lose your ability to see colors as you fall out of love with donghyuck

you were red and you liked me because I was blue. but you touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky. then you decided purple just wasn’t for you.

A/N: <the italicized texts are y/n’s thoughts~> I highly suggest that you guys pay attention to the tiniest details because they can be much more meaningful in the future than you think. Feel free to ask questions if you’re confused about something🤗 this is my first proper au so constructive criticism is welcomed~

prologue

One month in uni, you’d think you’d know your way around the place by now, but unfortunately for you, this was the third time you’ve passed the equestrian statue that stood in front of the grand concert hall and you start to realize that you were probably going in circles

without giving it much thought, you started to walk towards the marble statue, admiring every edge and curve. you’ve always had the sense of interest in the classic aesthetics; looking at the golden plaque, it read ‘Lee Taeyong’— you observed his face, it looked so perfectly sculpted, no human could’ve possibly existed looking like that, right?

as you were lost in your thoughts and have completely forgotten about where you were headed, the mellow sound of a piano being played, softly rang through your ears and like a lost puppy that just got a sniff of some treats, you followed it into the building

you slowly opened one of the doors which lead you to the back of the stage and roamed a bit until you ended up on the main stage, you peeked from behind the curtains and there.. there he sat in all his glory; actually you didn’t really know who he was as his back was facing you but as far you could tell, his hair was dark? his broad shoulders stood tall and he was definitely well-built, he didn’t look like someone you knew though

you were dazed by every single note he played and even felt a bit nostalgic hearing the song yet you just couldn’t quite figure out where you’ve heard it before

you stayed there for a good couple of minutes, just listening to him play and admiring his physique. you couldn’t leave even if you wanted to— your legs wouldn’t move; he just had a way of playing that made you want to listen to him forever.

and then he stopped- “I know you’re there, you can come out now” your eyes widened at the sudden statement

is he talking to me ??? and out of panic, you blurted out a quick “no, I’m not!”

he sighed and turned around, arms crossed on his chest. “Come out now, stalker, those curtains haven’t been cleaned in years” okay, so that’s why I’ve been trying to suppress probably ten sneezes for the past few minutes now

“How’d you know I was here?!”

“Why were you stalking me?”

“I wasn’t stalking you!”

“Really now? You’ve been staring at me play for the past 10 minutes behind those curtains, I’m pretty sure that’s called stalking, babe”

“I wasn’t stalking you, I was just- I was picking up my-“ you looked around for something and- “saxophone!”

you walked over to the sax and as you were picking it up he leaned his back on the piano with one of his brows raised “play something for me then”

“hmm?”

“You watched me play the piano, isn’t it only fair that you play for me too?”

“uh, I can’t- I uh don’t have my lucky socks on”

“what’s that got to do with anything?”

“well you know how it is with us musicians and our lucky socks haha”

He raised his brows, not feeding into a single grain of your obvious lie. “Okay fine but I’m a little rusty today”

He wasn’t fond of the lying but he did find it rather amusing how committed you were so he just lightly smiled and waited.

You wiped the mouthpiece, silently praying that whoever owns it doesn’t have herpes or something but you were committed now so there’s no going back.

“Do you have any song request?”

“Not really, just play whatever you want”

You thought for a short moment and the only song you knew that’s played on the sax is— Careless Whisper. You put your handkerchief over the mouthpiece because- hygiene, and started to play more like tried to but as soon as you blew your first note, you both knew you were done for.

He didn’t even let you finish the first verse before cutting you off “figures”

“someone probably messed with it, I have to reshape the holes and all that” reshape the holes??? huhhh y/n, what is wrong with you?

“mhmm”

he stood up and walked over to you then picked up the saxophone case from beside you, revealing the name of the owner “okay then miss.. Mark Lee, you’re very committed to your lie, I applaud that but unfortunately you’re quite bad at it”

“Why? What’s wrong with my name? You’re sexist? You don’t think girls can be named Mark? Is that it? Wow I didn’t expect that from someone who looks so-”

“Woah calm down, babe, I never said any of those things but what I am saying is that I’m friends with a little someone called Mark Lee who owns the exact same sax as yours so you tell me”

“uhh common name?” you laughed nervously but he gave you a stern look, telling you to just give it up but you brought this upon yourself so you just— bolted.

but it really wasn’t your day because before you could run, he stopped you in your tracks by putting both his arms on the wall behind you, trapping you between his arms

you didn’t get the chance to actually take a good look at him before but now, he’s only a few inches away from your face and you swore you couldn’t breathe.

he wasn’t bad looking at all. his hair was a bit long and some even fall on his brows, his eye color was dark as far as you could tell and he had those really pretty lashes that fluttered every time he blinked. his lips weren’t the fullest nor the thinnest yet they were dry and chapped. his face looks so softly sculpted but his striking eyes and sharp eyebrows contradicted his soft features. it wasn’t only his way with the piano that made you stay, he had this charm and beauty that can hold anyone captive— “you’re already falling in love with me, aren’t you?”

“what the- no!” you snapped out of whatever that was “I was just looking at your chapped lips, they’re so dry, I thought I was in the Sahara desert for second there”

“ouch! hurtful but true” he chuckled “doesn’t excuse the fact that you were daydreaming of me though”

you just wanted to get out of there so you bumped his forehead with your own and when he winced in pain and let his arms fall, you quickly ran out of there

you ran as quick as possible with some guys saxophone in hand which you didn’t realize you were still holding.

as soon as the music hall was out of sight, you settled down and thought about what you’re gonna do with this stolen sax;

are they gonna conduct a search for it? am I gonna be known as the sexy saxophone thief ?? wait, that dude saw me! well now he knows the face of the culprit, dumbass! noooo I’m too pretty to be jailed😭😭

you sighed and decided to just return it tomorrow and proceeded to go to where you were headed earlier. you checked your phone for the time and that whole shenanigans apparently took about half an hour and you were late for your study date.

y/n, why do you get yourself into these kinds of situations?

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stellacolletore · 3 years

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title: you're so gorgeous (i can't say anything to your face) summary: the springtime of youth has finally caught up to Chihaya-chan

It was Chitose-neesan's fault. If she had just let Chihaya watch the movie in peace, not blurting any of the weird things she said last night, then maybe she wouldn't find it hard focusing in class today. The conversation started out casually enough.

“Say, Chihaya. I’ve been wondering,” Chitose uttered nonchalantly, eyes trained on the television.

Chihaya flinched when a zombie sprang onscreen. "Hm?"

"Mashima-kun's handsome, right?"

Chihaya blinked. Even though it was Chitose's habit to ask random things out of the blue, Chihaya still gets surprised sometimes. Deciding to think nothing more out of it, she replied, "Um, yeah. He's popular at school. Girls give him tons of chocolates for Valentine's Day."

"That's not what I meant." Chitose interjected. "I'm asking you. Do you find your boyfriend attractive?"

Chihaya's eyes trailed off from the movie, connecting with her sister's. "W - what?"

Chitose was looking at her with curiosity. "I don't know if it's because you guys know each other since you were kids, but I think you're seeing Mashima-kun as if he's still your classmate in grade school. Or your karuta playmate."

Chihaya blanked. What is she getting at? Chitose sighed for the second time. Despite sounding resigned, her sister suggested, "All I'm saying is—you may want to take a good look at him." She proceeded to take a sip from her mug, attention returning to the film.

"Wouldn't want to waste all that beauty in vain."

"—haya-chan," Kanade's waving hand pulled Chihaya from her thoughts. "Is everything all right?"

Chihaya surveyed the room, finding only a few of her classmates loitering around. She must’ve been lost in thought for quite a while. Turning to her concerned friend, she gave a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Kana-chan. What brings you here?"

Kanade tilted her head. "Did you forget? We're having a group study in the library today. Everyone's already there."

“Ah,” Chihaya remarked lamely. She really should snap out of this confusion as soon as possible. It was exam week—the absolutely worst time to be worrying about anything else besides upcoming tests.

After cramming her notebooks and pens in her bag, Chihaya proceeded to move. “Let’s go, Kana-chan.”

Maybe she should just try to figure out what Chitose meant right away. It shouldn’t be that hard to do, right?

"Quit it, Chihaya. People are staring," Taichi grumbled beside her, pretending to be absorbed in his review materials.

"One minute." Chihaya insisted.

Of course, Chihaya has enough self-awareness to know how silly she must've looked to others, sitting beside Taichi with her chin propped on one arm above the long table, eyes gazing intently on his side profile. She's heard whispers from the students seated at the other tables, collectively wondering whether Ayase Chihaya was seriously flirting in front of public eye. She knew her friends have already placed various bets among themselves, attempting to decipher what's suddenly gotten in the mind of their resident airhead captain.

But Chihaya can't afford to be flustered. She has yet to understand what Chitose meant.

Having no clue how to go about it, or what it was she should even be seeking, Chihaya decided to begin her inspection by listing out the changes that existed between grade school Taichi and high school Taichi.

There was the hair, of course. He kept it longer now, the just enough for the tips of the strands to reach past his eyebrows. It still looked well put and silky, though, and if Chihaya would extend her hand to rest on the mop of his head, she’s sure to find it soft, too. She was about to ask for his permission to do just that when she caught herself. That was a weird thing to ask, wasn’t it?

Discarding the thought, Chihaya focused again at the task at hand, taking meticulous notice of Taichi’s stature—his sharp features and porcelain skin, the trademark long lashes, striking amber eyes…

Do you find your boyfriend attractive?

As soon as her sister’s words echoed unbidden in her mind, Chihaya’s world shifted.

Literally and figuratively. “Chihaya!” She instantly registered concern in Taichi’s voice as her head struck against the table, having slipped unceremoniously off her arm. Heat pooled at her cheeks as the temperature in the room spiked, making her feel like she was suddenly shoved inside a microwave. Every pair of eyes in their table was directed at her, equal parts worried and confused. “Are you—” Taichi was about to place a hand on her forehead, meaning to check if she was running a fever, when Chihaya shrunk back, yelping, “Water!”

A beat later she leapt to her feet, following through the first excuse she could think of, “I—I’m gonna drink some water.” Without further ado, Chihaya rushed out of the library and sprinted through the hallway, leaving everybody in the room dumbfounded in her wake.

“Never again,” Chihaya vowed, wiping off the water that dripped on her chin. “I won’t listen to Onee-chan ever again.” She pressed the one-liter bottle on her cheek, cooling her skin. How was she supposed to face Taichi now? It would be practically impossible to look into his eyes without bursting into flames.

Chitose-neechan must know how to deal with this, Chihaya hoped. She should head home at once and demand answers. With a newfound resolve Chihaya stood up from her crouching position—before smacking a palm on her forehead. "Ah! My bag—"

"—is here," a familiar voice cut from behind her. Spinning on her heels, she saw Taichi heading towards her next to the vending machine, both their bags slung on his shoulder. "T - Taichi," she said helplessly, her eyes instantly latching on his shoes. She gingerly inched closer. "G - give me that. I'm going home."

He turned away from her, then started walking. "Let's go."

Chihaya panicked. "Wait! I - I can go by myself. You should go back to the others. I'm fine, really."

Taichi resumed walking. "No, you're not. You look like you're bound to walk into a pole, and Ayase-san would be mad at me if I let you."

With you, I might do just that, Chihaya retorted. Having no other choice, she followed him towards the school gate.

Chihaya has always been grateful for her exceptional hearing, but today proved to be day unlike any other, and so she wasn't surprised upon finding herself annoyed with how her ears easily picked up the chatter around them. The train cart was packed with students, many of them being girls who were spending the better part of the ride gushing about her boyfriend. As unsettling as it was for her, she had to admit that the sight of Taichi studying his notes with a calm look on his face was nothing short of eye-catching. Although it had only taken a second to glance at him, Chihaya felt her cheeks flush nonetheless. In utter embarrassment, she covered them with her palms.

She was determined to shield her vision for the rest of the trip when her phone buzzed.

from: Mashima Taichi to: Ayase Chihaya Do you feel dizzy?

Chihaya's breath caught. Her fingers typed in a reply.

from: Ayase Chihaya to: Mashima Taichi No I'm ok

She heard Taichi tapping on his phone.

from: Mashima Taichi to: Ayase Chihaya Were exams hard?

from: Ayase Chihaya to: Mashima Taichi Of course You didn't need to ask

Chihaya was beginning to wonder why they're suddenly conversing through their phones when a new message stilled her thoughts.

from: Mashima Taichi to: Ayase Chihaya Why aren't you looking at me?

The next stop was still a few minutes away. There was no way she could sprint away from him again in this compartment. Taichi would easily see through her lies. She had no choice but to come clean.

Since it was more mortifying to type it out than to simply voice her concerns, she tucked away her phone on her skirt pocket. After clearing her throat a bit, Chihaya declared with a slightly shaky voice, "B - because you look like that."

"Like what?" Genuine cluelessness was evident in Taichi's tone.

Chihaya buried her face in her hands again as she whispered, "Handsome. Too handsome."

Silence stretched between them so much that Chihaya wasn't sure if Taichi had heard her. She risked taking a peek at his expression when she noticed him beet red, staring past the train window.

Chihaya wanted to cry. Chitose-neechan better know how to fix this mess she's gotten them in.

In the end, Chitose wasn’t of any help. After laughing at her sister to her heart’s content, she merely commented, “My, what a problem you have there, Chihaya.” She threatened to boycott her sister’s next magazine release as payback.

Grasping at straws, Chihaya then dialed Kanade’s and Sumire’s numbers. As soon as all the amused reactions winded down, Kanade stated, “Although I don’t have any useful advice to deal with what you’re experiencing, I think avoiding Mashima-kun is the last thing you should be doing right now. We’ll be entering university soon, and it’ll be harder to meet each other then. You wouldn’t want to regret that, ne, Chihaya-chan?”

Chihaya sighed. “I don’t.”

“Ayase-senpai,” Sumire chimed in. In a tone reminiscent of the time she guided them confidently through making Valentine’s chocolates to cheer up Taichi, Sumire announced, “There’s only one way to fix this. You have to build immunity.”

‘Building immunity’ apparently meant weathering through all the blushing and the rapid heartbeats until she got used to them. It may be a tall order, but there weren’t any alternatives and Chihaya had been worried about making Taichi worry about her. Putting her faith on Sumire’s reputation on matters concerning love, Chihaya found herself waiting anxiously on the train platform the next morning.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you this early.” Taichi stood next to her and she grounded her feet, desperately willing her face not to redden. Glancing at him, she stuttered, “O - ohayou, Taichi.”

Small talk passed between them until their train arrived. Settling on the empty seats, Taichi regarded her with mild surprise. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ll be seeing you at all for the rest of the week.” Chihaya clasped her hands. “W - well, Kana-chan said hiding isn’t a good idea.” She struggled to make eye contact, “A - and I want to be immune as soon as possible.”

Taichi looked at her blankly for a full three seconds. Then he broke into laughter, face lighting up so brilliantly that Chihaya had to avert her eyes.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.

Chihaya can’t find it in herself to sincerely complain, though.

#Chihayafuru #ayase chihaya #mashima taichi #taichihaya #let me know if you liked the fic!

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yandererubix · 3 years

Text

Yandere ABC’S

featuring keith and yan pico :D

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Believe it or not, all this boy would do is just snuggle, or maybe watch a movie. You bet your ass it can and will get very intense, and it makes them both thankful of the lack of neighbors.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Jesus christ, Pico went through enough trauma to not be affected by blood anymore. He would blast that fucker through the head quicker then you can hide, yet if its with his friends he’ll be a bit more hesitant, choosing instead to have a little ‘talk’ with them. He would kill them if he felt he had to, though. edit: poor gf would definitely be the first to die

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

He might try and dehumanize Keith a tiny bit, if not just to make sure he doesn’t escape. He does it all in a teasing manner, of course, because why on earth would he try to hurt him? At least, that’s the excuse he uses every time.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

That’s a big yes, and sometimes not even knowing. Probably mainly for punishments, say Keith tried to escape? There’s no way he’d take that without some form of lecturing.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

About average, enough to feel ‘safe’ around him but not everything, such as the shooting. Keith’s aware of the incident because news exists, but he doesn’t know what really happened that day, like most.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Oh, he’d take the challenge heads on, ‘teasing’ back with a dangerous glint in his eye. However, if he wasn’t in the mood, he would definitely tie him down, or simply hold Keith closer, tighter. He doesn’t want to break him, after all.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

You can bet your right arm it is. More often then not he gets a thrill from playing their little game of cat and mouse, and its even more rewarding when he finally catches/

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

When his darling tries to strike back when he’s vulnerable. etc. after sex, sleeping, things like that. There would probably be the tiniest bit of blood drawn, often ending with a sobbing Keith ‘snuggling’ up with him.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

He hasn’t really thought about that. He’s content with how things are now, so, go figure.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Is this even a question? For coping he’d probably go on a weed massacre or beat the shit out of whoever held Keith’s attention, until said person is nothing but a bloody piece of rotting meat.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Can get very affectionate, which could be quite dangerous varying on the levels. Otherwise, he’s just Keith’s usual flirty boyfriend.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Okay, lets be honest. After a while of waiting he would just pin him to the wall then drag him away to the ✨cold hard future✨™

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else? For sure. Around his darling, he’s flirtatious and very hands-on, but in public he’s quite cold to anyone who so much acknowledges him. Around him friends, although similar, he does genuinely try. God knows what for.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Sexual, dehumanizing, or neglect. There is no in-between. Sorry, Keith. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

As mentioned in many other letters, he can be quite patronizing and take away quite a few rights. (name-calling, sometimes he won’t clean up the cuts after punishment if he’s really angry, so on.)

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Impatient most of the time, but that’s neither of their faults, its just in Pico’s nature. He does make an effort most of the time, but no judging if he snaps.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Let’s be honest, he would just shoot himself and they’d be together again. Next one, please.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

First question, a very small percent of the time. He’s definitely delusional, so even though he’s painfully aware of everything, it’s fine. Their together now. Keith’s only pretending to hate him and call him all those horrible things because he’s too shy to admit he loves him back, right?

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

do with this question what you will. its 10:40pm, people, give me a break.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

He’d obviously feel bad, but try not to let it show. Keith won’t acknowledge his presence? Fine. Then he won’t be in his presence for lets say, five days? The problem is, both of them are stubborn as a mule, and that just might be the reason K dies one day.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

gun gun gun gun gun gun gun gun gun gun gun

also the fact he can get reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllly jealous. All of the goddamn time.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

im 👏pa 👏tient 👏 also, the jealousy. If Keith suddenly pays super extra affectionate randomly back, it might soften up restrictions.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

how many times have i wrote about the blood tho

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Very far lengths, mental wise. Such as killing someone Keith was talking to while he was talking to them, just as a teensy reminder of his love.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

As mentioned this boy is pretty impatient, so I imaging some time after week three he would finally snap. He was just so excited from finally being able to duel him like that, don’t scold him!

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

He might accidentally, depending on how strong K’s will is. Pico obviously doesn’t want him to become despondent, he loves him too much, and besides, it’s so much fun for them both when they play their little games of tag or hide and seek.

uurrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhn its now 10:50pm, enjoy i guess and expect more, gremlins.

(sorry if any mistakes, too lazy and tired to care. adios! ✌️

#keithxpico #picoxkeith #fnf #fridaynightfunkin #picoxbf #bfxpico #boyfriendxpico #picoxboyfriend #yandererubix #yanderepico #yandereau #yanderefnfau #yanderefnf #signoff

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emeraldtawny · 4 years

Text

IkeVam Headcanons: Crying Headcanons (Angst)

...I apologise for nothing. This was spawned by some filthy enablers in the IkeVamp Discord server (you all know who you are....love u guys uwu).

Vague structure is as follows: how they would cry and what made them cry. Full steam angst ahead. Enjoy~ ^w^

Napoleon

Life as an Emperor made him establish a stone face; show no weakness or emotion and let no one see you struggling. This led to Napo always bottling up his emotions whenever he felt the need to cry. And he was too good at doing so, people being none the wiser when he bottled up his frustration, his anger, his despair. However, there was a limit, even for him. When his mentality is withered down to nothing and he can’t hold back the tears any longer, his breath will leave him with a choke and a single tear will squeeze out despite itself. He’d hastily wipe it away and attempt to recollect himself, but he’s too tired, too burdened, the faint cacophony of war echoing within his brain like an inescapable terror. Perhaps that’s another reason why he sleeps so much...

Mozart

He would be physical to stop himself from crying when he feels it bubbling up. He'd punch walls, door frames, even his dear piano if there was nothing else close by. But the pain from his punches would only fuel his tears, his face tight with rage and a snarl on his lips, but his eyes sparkling with tears and his eyebrows desperately pulled together. He’d be cursing at himself as he felt the first tear fall, his self-berating words only growing into a crescendo in his ears as he fights with - and loses to - himself. He’ll probably clench his fists enough to cut his palms with his nails. His reason for crying? Simply put, he feels worthless, he doesn't feel improvement in his music despite others' praise.

Leonardo

None would consider the Renaissance genius an emotional man, even in private. And he is well aware of this stigma people have crafted for him and has since molded to it himself. Leo would be able to school his features perfectly so no one knows he's upset (except Comte of course). When MC falls asleep cuddled up sweetly against his chest and he knows she's out, he lets a soft, choked sigh escape and finally lets a few tears out, stroking her hair softly as he does so. He lies there just....dwelling on her existence, knowing her not being as long for this world as him and it weighs on him so much that sometimes he just needs to cry. But he'll only do it in front of MC when she sleeps, so she won’t see him at his weakest. He doesn’t think he could bear it.

Arthur

He would try to smile and play it off that he’s fine when he cries, even though the smile would be shaky at the edges as his lips tremble and he tries to blink back his tears. MC would just watch the collapsing of his smile, his mental state, his resilience; she would be watching a man fall apart. Tears collect in his eyes, but they wouldn’t fall until he does first, his knees collapsing and him hunching over himself as he digs the heels of his palms directly into his eyes. His breaths would be shaky, shallow and he’d be whispering countless choked apologies and baseless self-deprecating remarks of himself. He’s sinking into the black, inky depths of his own mind and even when he wails, even when he screams for release, it all feels hopeless. How he survived without MC there to pull him back from the brink of himself, he does not know. But he’s thankful for it every time, without fail.

Vincent

He may be akin to a doll and when he cries it's with the same beauty, but more in the way of if you saw an actual doll crying; unsettling and spine-chilling. For him, it'd feel like his blood stopped pumping, his body stopped responding to him. He knows that he's crying, but he can't wipe away his tears, can't lift his hands to cover his eyes, can't open his mouth to wail; nothing. His mind is screaming though, and it screams so loud that it drowns out everything else. His baby blue eyes are more striking with a thick ring of red outlining them and his bottom lip quivering like a frail fallen leaf, the faint taste of salt on his tongue from the tears streaming without obstacle down his face and past his open lips. Years of repressed and unknown emotions mean that when he cries, he cries until he physically can't anymore and needs to sleep it off. And when he wakes up? He doesn't remember a thing.

Theodorus

Theo would be pretty physical like Mozart, but just in a more violent yet shorter outburst. He might have thrown a vase to the ground with a groaned yell and shattered it into pieces, his fists clenched tight and his chest heaving with heavy breaths, as if the air was viscous and unyielding in its oxygen. The adrenaline subsides and he just sees the room around him submerge in water. When MC runs in frantically and worriedly asks what's wrong, he pulls her into a death grip embrace and rasps out to stay still and not look at him. She'll comfort him until he loosens his grip enough for her to hug him back and he'll keep his head buried in her shoulder. His cries are shaky exhales and the rogue tear that seeps into her blouse goes purposefully unnoticed by her for his own sake. His reason? The art world is shit, obstacles at every turn, and even Theo ain't strong enough to deal with that every day without fail.

Dazai

He would keep smiling through his crying until his face basically collapses into one big sob...and then, silent crying. Not a whisper of sound; no sudden intake of breath or rasped exhale. Just a man standing there with his head hung low and his mauve bangs masking the glassy, lifeless expression of long-established despair on his face. Tear streaks run down his cheeks and tears hang off of his lashes with his gold irises accentuated by his reddened eyes, yet not one ounce of emotion can be seen - can be felt - emanating from him. He just feels overwhelming moments of despair and nothingness at very frequent times. Most times, he can handle it; it’s what he knows, daresay what he’s comfortable with. But sometimes the stress of...life is just too much. Oddly fitting for a man who wants to die but can't.

Isaac

Despite his best efforts, when Isaac gets too upset to handle, he becomes extremely volatile. He would collapse to his knees and hold his chest with a pained expression. His eyes would be open, wide with fear, as he physically feels the sob bubbling within his chest and rising into his throat like a lump of lead. Moments pass in agony until he lets out a strained sob that rips from his throat and sends a dull yet prevalent pump of blood to his head, a moment of dizziness passing over him. After that, he quietly cries, curled into himself and resting his head atop his clenched hands, letting the tears soak into his skin, hoping - praying - that the pain will stop. If he happens to be in a public space when he gets overwhelmed with emotion, he’ll be quick to extrapolate himself and hide away in a secluded spot, crying with short, almost hyperventilating breaths and whispering “I’m okay, I’m okay” over and over.

Jean

The type to have the most guttural sobs where his throat is ragged and dry, and his breaths heave with effort. He would bottle it up until his vision physically blurs, his tears lining his eyes and obscuring his vision, and he would run to an isolated place if he wasn’t there already. Every time he cries, he hears swords clashing, groans of pain; every drop of blood, sweat and tears of Jean’s falls for those who have fallen for him. A growl of pain wretches from his throat and his fist collides with the nearest wall. He rests his back against the same wall and lets his feet slip out from under him as he sinks to the floor, glaring with frustration at the ceiling until the storm clouds clear from his conscience.

Shakespeare

Shakes would seem to be the type that doesn't realise he's crying until he feels it or until someone points it out. But what if he was well aware that he was crying? But his smile would look so natural and out of place to his blood and gold eyes shimmering with tears that no one would know whether to approach him over the situation or not. It’s like the boy who cried wolf; no one would know he’s actually in pain because all they see is deceit. So when he feels his heart finally begin to pump with pain, he wears a smile even when his own eyes betray him. When he has a moment to himself, he'll dab his eyes calmly with his handkerchief, all the while biting on his tongue - hard enough to bleed - to stop any unbecoming sounds escaping him. He'll massage his closed eyelids to recollect himself and return to business as usual. Sometimes, even Shakes doesn’t know why he has these moments, his memories too repressed to remember the reason for his own tragedy.

Comte de Saint-Germaine

Like the other immortal, he presents himself in a way to suggest crying being a foreign sensation to him and, when he does cry, tries to repress it where he can. He at least has more of his head on to know when it's safe to cry; alone or in front of MC. He won't sob, he won't wail. If anything, it'll look like he's the one comforting MC, him holding her head against his chest so she can't see the strain on his face as he desperately holds back his tears. A few will fall - glistening scarlet, tears of immortal blood - and he’ll catch them on the back of his hand to prevent them from staining her hair red. But she won't say a word, simply embrace him back and let him cry in complete silence. Being an immortal vampire with responsibilities and obligations weighing on you every second of your endless life? It’s a miracle that the Comte hasn't broken down more.

Sebastian

Surrounded by his work and with hardly a moment to let his thoughts get the better of them, when Sebas does let his walls down, it will be controlled. He would let out a shuddering breath, his eyelids closing and his breaths forced into and out of his lungs in a controlled manner. Attempting to control his quickly spiraling thoughts, his brows furrow and his hands at work pause. The tightness and anxiety in his chest grows and he allows himself a quiet sob over the sink, before-- Tick tock tick tock. Only a few seconds passed, but they felt too long to Sebastian, his head hanging over the sink. Splashing his face with water and with a few good slaps to his cheeks, he reassures himself that he has no time for this - that if he has time to cry, then he has time to work. With a couple of sniffles to fully rid his body of its lasting bout of sadness, his hands begin to move again to finish preparing dinner. Even the perfect butler needs a moment of reprieve sometimes.

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mordoriscalling · 3 years

Text

48 Weeks (3/4)

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Throughout the 48 weeks that Geralt and Jaskier spend apart, their relationship develops.

Aka, part 3 of the Singer and the Sailor AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway. The events of this story happen after Stay or Sail Away but before Homecoming. Warnigns: some sexual content ahead!

Weeks 25-36

Week 25

“There seems to be something special about the sea, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

“You know, Tolkien once wrote that there was a special melody in between the sound of waves and seabirds’ song. Music that elves were susceptible to and, once they heard it, they couldn’t be satisfied by anything else but life at sea.”

There does seem to be something to it. Geralt hums again and asks, “Are you calling me an elf?”

Jaskier laughs. “You certainly are beautiful like one.”

Geralt scowls, thankful to all the gods that he can hardly blush. “You look more like an elf, with the ears."

Jaskier grins. “Ah, yes, that and my dashing good looks! And the fact that I love singing, and I don’t look my age and... wait.” Jaskier blinks. “Tell you what, maybe I am an elf.”

Geralt chuckles.

“And you, sir, you could be an elf too. You look like a legendary warrior from the First Age who would talk to dragons and outwit them.”

He rolls his eyes but lets Jaskier ramble on about his "warrior-ness".

Week 26

“You fucking what?!”

“You tried to teach chickens how to fly.”

“How is that worse than trying to school a bumblebee?” Jaskier shrieks. “What the fuck, Geralt?! How would you even attempt to do that?”

“We first trapped it in a jar –”

“Oh no.”

“– and then we would tap on the glass to make it fly in the opposite direction. In the end, it would fly away if it noticed our fingers getting close to the jar. That was our idea of schooling it.”

“The poor thing had to be terrified.”

“It was Eskel’s idea,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier sighs dramatically. “I can’t believe I love such a cruel man!”

Geralt freezes. “You what?”

“Shit."

Week 27

When Jaskier picks up, Geralt takes him in and his beauty is even more striking than usual. His features, both soft and sharp, his bright eyes, his charm and wit. Jaskier’s a talented, successful man, and Geralt can’t wrap his head around it.

“You love me?” he blurts out, still disbelieving.

“I’ve been serenading you for the past six months but thanks for noticing.”

Geralt snorts. “No, it’s... it’s you, and I am... me.”

He almost growls in frustration because words fail him yet again when he needs them most. Jaskier’s gaze softens with understanding anyway.

“Oh, my heart,” he replies quietly, “I know you think yourself broken and undeserving of good things because of your past but... you haven’t had an easy life and yet, you’re kind and willing to do so much for the ones you care about. You’re witty, sharp, capable and reliable. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner, really,” Jaskier says, his smile almost shy.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to any of that. Three decades ago, he was living in an orphanage, just a kid with anger management issues and shitty, shitty prospects for the future. Now, he has a fucking celebrity confess his love to him.

“I...” he begins, then trails off. He knows he has to say something. ‘Love’ refuses to pass through his throat but there’s no mistaking about the warmth Geralt feels whenever he even thinks about Jaskier and all the ways in which he’s ridiculous. “I,” he starts again, “I... feel the same.”

For once, Jaskier is silent, his eyes glistening.

Week 28

“The tour was a success! Minus all the expenses od renting venues and everything else, we still made some decent money, which is great news. And the fans!” Jaskier gushes, “oh, Geralt, the fans! It feels fantastic to be appreciated by so many.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s good to be home, though. It’d be even better if you were here, you know? I... I wish you were.”

Geralt swallows hard. “Me too.”

There’s the heavy silence between them again as they look at each other helplessly. This time, it’s Geralt who breaks it.

“Now that you’re back,” he says, “could you see how’s Ciri doing? You could... drop by Yen’s place sometime.”

Jaskier’s grin is blinding. “Sweetheart, I’d be honoured! But only if Yennefer allows it too, of course.”

Now that, that part’s going to be the hardest.

Week 29

“I can so imagine you in lingerie.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows in surprise. Jaskier takes it as a clue to go on.

“The lingerie would be black of course and oh, it’d look magnificent on your body. I’d just watch you touch yourself, sprawled on the bed. Darling, what a sight you’d make. I could come just from looking at you but I’d try not to because I’d want to take the lingerie off of you, piece by piece. Slowly.”

Geralt’s breathing is already harsh and laboured, and he’s undoing his trousers with his free hand. “Jaskier,” he grits out.

“Yes, dear?”

“Keep fucking talking.”

Jaskier smiles dangerously.

Week 30

Earlier this week, he received a message with another recording from Jaskier. The song is slow, gentle and loving, because there’s no other word for it. It makes Geralt feel abashed.

When Jaskier picks up the video call, Geralt asks, referring to the lyrics, “you really think you see me?”

“I think I do,” Jaskier replies, his voice warm.

It’s a lie. Jaskier has no idea about Blaviken, he doesn’t know the whole of Geralt’s story. Still, it’s a nice lie to believe in.

Jaskier tells him he loves him once again. Geralt says it back. He wants to have this as long as he can.

Week 31

On Saturday that week, it’s Ciri’s fifteenth birthday. Geralt’s call interrupts the birthday party.

“Happy birthday, Cub.”

Ciri grimaces a bit at the old nickname, making him chuckle. She starts growing into a proper lioness, not a cub any longer. Cirilla is their pride and joy – a clever, talented, headstrong girl. Geralt could’ve never raised such a child alone. When he found out he was supposed to be her legal guardian just a week before he turned thirty – that he’d have to take in a traumatised four-year-old with vague memories of her family she lost in a car crash – he needed help. He contacted Yennefer for the first time in years. Caring for Ciri brought their love back to life. Before he knew it, he proposed, and then the three of them made a proper family Geralt never knew he would have. Whenever he was away, Yen had help from her brothers, and if they were deployed too, she could always count on Vesemir.

His marriage to Yen turned out to be a disaster in the long run and really, all of them – him, Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir – are just different shades of fucked-up. Ciri is their collective effort, though, and it often feels like she’s one of the few things they’ve ever done right.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” Geralt tells her.

“It’s all right, dad.”

It’s not, he knows it isn’t. Geralt should be there with her. He’s missed out on so much of her life already, and yet the Navy took almost another year away from them. Geralt fears that when he finally returns for good, he’ll seem like a stranger to her because of all the time they’ve spent apart. He's afraid that she’ll not even want him to make up for it.

“I love you, Ciri,” he says, desperate for her to know it all of the sudden.

She smiles slightly. “I love you too, dad.”

He smiles too and wants to apologize again but then Jaskier appears. Ciri starts talking about taking piano lessons from him and then Jaskier joins in, chattering about what they’ll work on first. Geralt simply sits back and lets their words wash over him in warm waves.

Week 32

There seems to be some development in the relationship dynamics back at home.

“Your ex-wife is very sexy and very scary,” Jaskier says, all casual, “I wish I could hate her but her fashion sense is impeccable. Is sexy and scary your type, by the way? Because if so, I only fall in within the sexy category.”

“Hmm.”

“Geralt, you wound me–”

Week 33

“I hate him.”

Geralt sighs. “You two are getting along, then?”

“He will do,” Yennefer answers. “You downgraded, of course, but you could’ve done worse.”

“Yen.”

“Fine. I’ll say this: I think he’ll be good for you.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “He is.”

“I’m glad to see you happy.”

Her voice is gentle like it almost never is and there’s an ache in his chest. In moments like this, the old regret that they didn’t work out burns bright. They’re too different and alike for it to be anything but damaging, though; similarly scarred and scared, knowing exactly where to bite on the raw. They lash out when they’re hurt, and they’re not good people, not exactly. All of this does not mix well. The good days, when they soared, could not compensate for all the pain.

The divorce two years ago was one of their best decisions, but they’re there for each other still, in a way no one really understands.

“I want to see you happy too, Yen,” he says.

“I have Ciri.” He doesn’t reply and she lets out a heavy breath. “I’m getting there. I think I really am.”

“That’s good. You... deserve it.”

“Aw, Geralt, Jaskier’s turned you all soft.”

Week 34

The past week, there have been three storms, two damages to the ship and one conflict among the crew. Geralt is just grateful that his job pays as well as it does.

He does miss home but the heaviness in his chest at the thought of his loved ones is not crushing anymore. Most days, he doesn’t think about them as much as he used to. When he focuses on work at hand, it seems like the ship, the crew and the waves around are the only things existing in the world. They’re supposed to get from one point to another, one task after another, and it’s fulfilling when they achieve it. He’s at home in the simplicity of it.

But then, there’re moments when he remembers that there’s another home, right where his family is, a whole world away. His weekly calls with Ciri, Yennefer and Jaskier only serve to aggravate him, showing him that there’s a different life for him out there. The sea pales in comparison to it.

This week, Geralt doesn’t like the reminder especially. He sees Jaskier on the screen and hates that he’s so far away, that it’s been like this for so long.

They don’t do much talking. Jakier strums his guitar idly and Geralt listens.

Week 35

“Your older brother is so nice!”

Jaskier angles the camera so that it shows Eskel next to him. Eskel raises his hand in greeting with a smile. Ciri is there too, focused on cutting vegetables.

They’re standing by the kitchen island in Yennefer’s apartment. Eskel returned from a deployment a few days ago and, being a good brother and uncle, he’s started taking care of their cub right away.

“He’s the devil incarnate,” Geralt grunts in reply.

Eskel makes a rude gesture at him.

“I refuse to believe it, darling!” Jaskier answers, “Such a sweet man cannot be evil.”

Eskel and Jaskier smile at each other. Something in Geralt goes dead cold.

He’s very well aware that his older brother is more attractive than him, particularly when it comes to character traits. Eskel’s gentler, more articulate and charming; a much better match for Jaskier, in truth.

Geralt secretly dreaded Eskel and Jaskier finally meeting and now as he watches the two joke and talk, it appears that he was right.

Week 36

“Just three more months!” Jaskier exclaims in greeting.

Geralt brushes his hand over his face because there’s nothing “just” about it. It’s been eight months at sea and the memories from before the deployment are like a distant dream.

“I wrote you a song, by the way. It’s about you coming home.” Jaskier smiles. “I know I’m getting a bit ahead of myself but it’s a nice thought. You being back.”

The song is by far the shortest and simplest Jaskier wrote for him but Jaskier voice has the haunting quality like it always does. Geralt, as always, can’t stop thinking it.

That day, he stands at the side of the ship and listens to the waves. He can almost hear the sea’s music and he already knows he’s going to miss it but at the same time, he can’t wait to be back on land; to return to the other home.

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU

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hydrangeasimagination · 4 years

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Loosely, Gently

Pairing(s): Todoroki Enji / Endeavor X Gender Neutral! Reader

Summary: It was something he hadn't considered before, even the years of being so close to you all the time. How easily you were able to push past him defenses, step into line with him without being deterred by his arrogance or pride. Before the fall of All Might, you were nothing more than someone in passing... Afterwards, he wasn't sure what you were...

Warnings: Slight manga spoilers! Mentions of Abuse. Blood Mention?

A/N: I’ve never actually written for him until now since I wanted to get the anime to get caught up with the manga and some of ya’ll aren’t believers in Endeavor’s redemption. I hated him too at one point. Only to become neutral after seeing how he behaved after Toshinori’s retirement. Which again changed to akin to understanding as the manga progressed. Horikoshi handles this issue well and I commemorate how he tackles everything.

I can only hope I can attempt and handle such issues with as much grace as he does.

You do not have to read this. Nor do you have to come in and begin an argument, just remain civil and move along.

I do not condone what Enji has done.

But I think he’s beginning to make up for it.

By showing his remorse, by reflecting that he is sorry based upon his actions as opposed to his words because we know how bad he is with those.

Drawing on my experience and the experience I’ve seen own loved ones go through. I stand by what I’ve said; no one has to forgive their abuser.

Written with TBT in mind and by association and an original character specifically... IDK if Beacon can float tho since this was supposed to be a little bit of a surprise. But it coincidentally also happened to be their creator’s birthday!

So birthday wishes to @starchaser-the-prophet !

Happy day of birth fam ❤️

Images were something that had always appealed to Todoroki Enji, something he's held onto tightly, like a vice.

Whether it be his own or the thoughts floating in his head.

There was always a plan after he became number two.

"Surpass the number one, surpass All Might!"

It consumed him in the end.

Wrapped him and his...

Family...

He didn't deserve to call them as such.

Wrapped them all in an entangled web of pain, of trauma....

Of abuse.

Everything that he had done, was all for naught.

The shattering of those that he should have loved, should have protected!

Cherished.

But what is he to do now?

The overwhelming pressure in his chest never lessened.

Even after the scar on his face healed, after he had given Rei and his children a new home as he lived in the cold residence of the Todoroki manor.

Even while he signed the divorce papers.

It just grew.

Tighter.

Flooding his mind with the images — the godforsaken images — of the sobbing and terrified faces of his family.

The feeling of guilt was never so stifling.

But he deserved this.

He did this to them.

So many horrible and awful things.

So many deplorable and...

His thoughts were screaming.

... He didn't expect their forgiveness.

He shouldn't expect their forgiveness

His pain is nothing compared to their's.

The dried stains of their blood on his hands is a testament to that.

These images will never stop, the images of the damage inflicted on his family.

... But as of late, something else had been occupying his mind.

"Oh, Enji, it's nice to see you again!"

Baked pastries and sugary treats suddenly flooded his senses, the warmth he felt was unmatched to his flames.

A pair of glimmering gems peered at him betwixt snow caught lashes, a sunny smile close to melting it all away.

Close, but not too close, floating on the chilled air.

You.

He really shouldn't have been staring, your radiance was something unimportant not too long ago. It was unfair of him to believe that it was appropriate in any shape or form as he’d treated you not too differently from the other heroes that had attempted to strike up a friendship with him.

He’d recently made you cry too, over the scar on his face no less.

It was truly hard not to allow his gaze to linger as you were nothing short of breath-taking, you always had been.

Enji was unfortunately just blind to it for the longest time.

Distracted by chasing titles and old flames.

Since you were starting out.

He spoke your last name with hesitation, head bowed in respect.

It makes the words of his youngest son’s significant other ring in his ears.

"Oh, come on, I've told you already!" The huff of vapor from your mouth dissipated quickly, timed with the downturn of your lips. "Just call me by my given name, we've known each other for nearly a decade now."

His mouth tightening into a thin line, the flames licking up the sides of his face doing well in covering the color flooding his cheeks, eyes narrowing as his back tensed.

He didn’t deserve this either.

Any bystander watching would have assumed that you’d upset him, that you had incurred the wrath of Endeavor. That you'd soon be someone that'd be losing their job and credibility.

The ruthlessness of his reputation plagued him, the eyes on his back never stopped.

So he was thankful when the smile returned to your features, thankful that you could read him. Even if he was to deny everything you had ever told him about himself in the past, a habit that also came in the present.

These thoughts in the back of his head became less glaring, though lingered in the reaches of his skull.

"Like I said, it's fine."

Quieter still at the sound of your sweet voice.

Soundlessly, your feet touched the floor and you held up the bag, steaming and smelling divinely despite the sour taste that lodged itself in the back of his throat.

"Cream bread?"

He felt his shoulders slowly fall, even if it is just slightly.

His expression changed.

Crystals of snow melted into drops before they had the chance to reach him, his warmth unchanged to the weather.

Sapphires hues gazed at you, a softness that was seen to few.

The curl of his lips, stretching of his scar nearly unseen...

It was such a serene expression.

Your heart gently beats against your sternum, only quickening as his impossibly warm, large hand dropped low.

Lower.

Images were something that had always appealed to Todoroki Enji, something he's held onto tightly, like a vice...

He no longer wants to be suffocating.

So he holds this new image as though it’s able to slip through his fingers.

As you look at him, with wonder and flushed features, he feels like he's doing something right.

Delicate fingers lock his in place, the pressure in his chest lessens.

While that same smile that had been unnoticed for nearly 10 years catches his attention again.

"Lead the way." His voice is low.

The squeeze of pressure around his palm in his wipes his doubts in this, tugging him along the snowy sidewalk.

All the while, your hands never part, holding one another's.

Loosely, gently.

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ichor-and-symbiosis · 5 years

Note

Can I have a fic of yandere!Shiggy killing his Darling's (me) abuser? Could Shiggy cuddle me when he is done? There doesn't have to be sex, but I would like some protective Yandere Shiggy or protective and avenging Shiggy in general.

(i’m sorry this took a bit, life got in the way ;-; i hope this is okay!)

warning: violence and gore

Blood.

Blood rushing through your veins, blood pounding in your ears, blood flowing like a river through the cracked cement, blood blooming through the vicious wounds etched into the torso of your abuser.

And Tomura standing amongst it all, barely a fleck of the crimson fluid staining his shoes. Knife poised at his side with a delicate hold on the handle, an easygoing smile stretched out across his face, posture relaxed yet ready to uncoil and strike at a moment’s notice.

He always did look his best after a fresh kill.

Not that the job was finished quite yet. He was not done playing.

“Dusting you would be too kind.”

The man gurgled up bile and blood as he struggled to cover his wounds. Tomura laughed and dug his heel into the meat of the man’s shoulder to topple him over like a ragdoll. “I guess you should take it easy. Don’t wanna work yourself up before I’m done with you.” As though in afterthought, Tomura glanced over his shoulder to look at you, his expression sobering up as he examined you. “You doing okay, babe?”

Were you?

You knew that man once. Yes, you knew him well. All the pain, the repercussions of dealing with trauma, the long-lasting effects of abuse …

The cacophony of emotions roiling within rooted you to the spot. You sucked in a shuttering breath and nodded briskly, not trusting yourself to speak just yet.

Tomura eyed you for a moment. A pathetic, unintelligible groan diverted his attention – the man had rolled onto his stomach, reaching out towards you as he struggled to crawl. Tomura stomped down onto the man’s hand with a sneer, relishing the pained moan.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Tomura kicked him onto his back and rested his full weight on his bloodied chest. The man howled in pain, weakly digging his fingers into Tomura’s shoe. “Don’t even look at her. I’ll gouge your damn eyes out.”

As your abuser sobbed out half-assed apologies, Tomura tilted his head and stared down at the man with childlike glee. “Guys like you … “ He twirled his blade in thought, dragging a fingertip over the sharp tip. “Guys like you really love to hide shit, don’t you?” He frowned. “Always trying to hide the fact that you’re rotten to the fucking core. But I know the truth.”

Tomura kicked the man’s hands away and knelt over him, pressing the blade to his throat firmly enough to draw a hint of blood. The man froze in fear, staring up at Tomura with wide, pleading eyes. You knew the smirk crossing Tomura’s features – he was enjoying this far more than you imagined, that feeling of complete and utter domination over someone’s life.

Your abuser had looked at you that way, during your weakest, darkest moments.

Not Tomura. Not once had he hurt you the way that man did.

Your lover was a violent criminal. Your lover was the best damn thing that ever happened to you.

“You’re a coward.”

Your insides twisted in anticipation.

Tomura’s eyes gleamed with euphoria, hand shaking from self-restraint. “How does it feel, knowing that I’ll dust your corpse after I’m done with you? No one will know where you’ve gone. You’re nothing, and you will always be nothing. Oh!” He let out a sharp laugh and mockingly continued, “This is the sort of shit you’d say to her, right? Something about her not being good enough, then forcing her to pretend everything was fine. Gotta keep up pretenses, right?”

The blade dug further into the man’s throat. He released a reedy gurgle, choking on his words as snot and bile streamed down his bruised face.

Tomura bared his teeth and tightened his hold on the knife’s handle.

“I’ll take good care of my girl. She’s going to ride my cock and tell me how much she loves me, and I’ll treat her better than she’s ever been treated. It’s great, man! Everyone gets their proper ending.” The tip of the knife tore into the man’s skin in preparation. “So why don’t you fucking smile.”

In one smooth motion, Tomura dragged the blade across the man’s throat, wincing slightly as flecks of blood splattered on his chest. The man kicked and flailed and gasped for breath with a sickening sound, and Tomura watched him all the while, watched your abuser draw his last breath, watched the blood trickle out of a lifeless corpse in grotesque fascination, watched the muscles twitch and spasm and come to a full stop.

You did not realize you had stopped breathing. Not until Tomura pressed his hand flatly against the man’s face to disintegrate him, not until he wordlessly stood up to dust off his pants, not until he finally looked at you.

Yearning. That’s what you saw in him. Did I do it right, his expression called out to you. Did I make you happy?

You ran. Tomura threw his blade aside and caught you in his arms as you barreled into him, holding you tightly as you hid your face in his chest and released everything. All of your pain and anger and fear, your relief and happiness and love for him, all of it came pouring out in a flood of tears and hiccuping breaths as you struggled to speak.

He shushed you, nuzzling his face into your hair as he smiled. “You’re mine now,” he softly said, stroking his hand down your back.

The statement was so utterly ridiculous that it shocked you into momentary decency. “Wh – what do you m – mean?” you weakly stuttered, blinking up at him through teary lashes. “I’ve always been y – yours.”

Tomura caressed your cheek and wiped away a stray tear. “Not while he was still alive. I don’t want you to think about him ever again. He doesn’t exist anymore, so he shouldn’t exist in your mind either.” He eyed your quivering lips. “It’s just you and me. Nothing else matters.”

“Yes.” You nodded, furrowing your brows. “Yes. Yes.” It felt right. Whole. Yes. You gripped him tightly, as tight as you possibly could, and it might have even been a bit painful for Tomura, but nothing could compare to the pleasure of your desperate need for him. You tilted your face up in open invitation as he captured your lips, your heart growing lighter and lighter with each I love you murmured against your mouth.

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki/reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura/reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #kinda nsft #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: violence #tw: abuse

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maviemesregles · 4 years

Text

Twas two days before Christmas

This one-shot fic was written for @thelallybrochlibrary Holiday exchange.

A prompt from @maryooch : "How about Jamie meets Claire while she’s trying to skate (badly) at Rockefeller center during the Christmas season. Both are unattached and in the city for different reasons."

Special thanks to Anne @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur for always getting my messy ideas and improving them. For once again for making sure it's nice and readable for you guys.

Hope you enjoy and feel a wee bit festive! ❄️

AO3

New York, New York Frank Sinatra sang. The Big Apple stretched out all the way to the horizon in a milky white blanket of snow. The skyline pierced with gleaming structures of steel, glass, and concrete.

Claire stared out of the window where snow became even thicker than an hour ago and turned the buildings into giant ice cream cones.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Yes, Mum.” Beauchamp pressed her ear to her iPhone and climbed onto the high hotel bed. “I’m listening.”

“Baby, what did they tell you about the flight? Father has been calling British Airways at least a hundred times today. You know what he’s like.” Julia Beauchamp rattled around in the kitchen cupboards.

Claire dropped her head into the mass of pillows crispy scented of fresh laundry.

Of course, something like this could have happened only to her. After the three-day medical conference in New York, with bags full of gifts, sweets, booze for Dad, and cosmetics for Mum, Claire was ready to go back home for the holidays.

But this year the family tradition wasn’t going to happen because Claire got stuck in this city for God knows how long. The heavy blizzard came upon New York, forcing all the transatlantic flights to be cancelled. Red-faced, hands full of bags, and sweaty in her jumper, the English surgeon hissed “Fucking morons” when she was told she’s not flying today. And most likely not for the next three days. Her cell-phone kindly reminded her today is the 22nd day of December. Only two days left before Christmas. If not for being scared to be without a means of contact, Claire surely would have smashed the device on the white airport tiles.

“They put me into the hotel. It’s all paid.” She glanced at her suitcase, surrounded by shopping bags. “All flights to London cancelled.”

Reaching into one of the bags, Claire grabbed a chocolate bar, not caring about a proper lunch at the moment.

“What about Bristol? Manchester? Anything at all?” Her mother sighed, looking at the shopping list for Christmas dinner. “Dad could pick you up. Lamb just got the car back, all fixed.”

Chewing on the mint chocolate, Claire flicked through the menu on the side table.

“Nothing. I even checked flights to Edinburgh and Dublin. It looks like I’m stuck here.”

There was silence for a while. Claire could hear their dog Pop, an old pug, snoring in the background. All she wants to do is cry. Is it so much to ask? To be home for Christmas time?

“Oh, darling.” Her mother’s voice is soft and reassuring. She knows. “It’ll be fine. I’m certain that you will get home right in time for Christmas.”

After a brief goodbye, Claire checks the flight schedules again. Her frustration mounts and she begins to pace a circular path for at least ten minutes. Her nerves begin to fail her and she decides a cup of chamomile tea would be just the thing.

“Or better yet, a bottle of red," she speaks out loud filling the void for the room. She may as well take advantage of all this suite has to offer.

Her body relaxes into the lavender-scented bath foam, warming her chilly flesh as the fruity Sauvignon Blanc infuses her mouth. Later spurred by the TV forecast (damn the winter) Claire gets into leggings and oversized, knitted horridness of a sweater (decorated with mistletoes and festive ornaments all over it). She shortly video chats with Geillis who is hugely disappointed Claire won’t get to the annual work party at the hospital.

“I do hope ye willna waste yer time in New York, a thasgaidh,*” hummed her ginger colleague. “Go to Time Square, Central Park or… Oh, weeeel, ye can go skating! Mebbe ye’ll find some attractive American who’d lay an eye on ye.” Geillis smirked.

Checking the explosion of hair on her head in the mirror, Claire sighed.

“If that attractive American is a pilot that takes me home, I would not mind, just tell me where to find him.” She tried to secure the naughty curls into something that could resemble a bun but eventually giving up. “I feel like bloody Kevin McCallister,” Claire said as she slid into her boots.

“Weel, just dinna get in trouble with burglars.” Edgars barked a laugh and wished Beauchamp to have fun.

🎄 🎄 🎄

Claire surely could say that Christmas time in New York must be wonderful. Even though her mood sunk to the lowest level, she became determined to raise her spirits. God, all those books about positivity and visualization her Mum reads out loud to her should have a hint of truth to them. Right?

The streets were decked with glimmering lights and dazzling displays. The chill in the air burned her cheeks and Claire was swept up into the herd of people like a fluffy sheep in her soft white woolly coat.

Roads were covered in a sparkling powder that made a nostalgic crunchy sound under feet. People were dressed in layers of scarves, cardigans, and warm winter coats. Some held onto hot beverages to warm their hands as well as their bodies. Some brave tourists were sporting red noses just like the one of Rudolph the reindeer Claire had seen in a Macy’s display. Everything was bright and festive. All the Christmas lights twinkled and the colourful signboards reflected off the snow. Christmassy music played from the shops displaying their wares touting them as the perfect gifts. The sounds of Christmas could be heard coming from phones and the passing cars. It was everywhere. Claire softly hummed a tune as her feet followed the crowd leading her to Rockefeller Center. When Claire lifted her head, her heart grew tender with childhood memories. She stood right in front of the huge Christmas tree, adorned with all its lights, the star on top causing Claire to get teary-eyed. She literally felt like a movie character standing here now. Glancing at rosy-cheeked, laughing people on the ice rink, she joined the queue.

“To hell with it.” She could make her own Christmas memories here, alone in NYC.

Claire had to admit she underestimated herself, thinking that skating is like riding a bike. But, she found that it most assuredly wasn't. She tried to keep her legs as steady as possible, trying to get used to gliding on the ice. Holding onto the rail, she wobbled around before she braced herself to finally go into the middle, and actually skate.

She surely thought that she looked like a penguin trying to find its friends, as she awkwardly moved around in the crowd. Occasionally, she squealed and even closed her eyes when particularly fast skaters passed her by. The moment Beauchamp thought she had got it, she pushed harder and began to glide on her skates. Before she knew it, she crashed into someone else. Clenching her fists and closing her eyes before her body hit the ice.

“Jesus. H. Roosevelt Christ!”

Falling down on her bottom, surgeon hissed at the burning feeling of her palms meeting the ice.

“Here, let me help ye.”

After no needed pause, Claire opened her eyes, glancing at the owner of the soft burr. The stranger whose hand was stretched out to help, smiled, a pair of blue eyes studying her intently.

“Thanks.” Giving a faint nod, Claire accepted the man’s hand. A swift pull and she was back on her feet, trapped between the arms of this bloody good looking man.

He was handsome from the depth of his cobalt blue eyes to the gentle tilt in his voice. A face with striking features Claire was sure she likely won’t forget. The strong jaw with a shadow of stubble and lips that took the soft shape of a smile. A scent of expensive cologne swirled around him. And the hair of the brightest red she’d ever seen.

“Yer didna hurt yerself, lass?” The man steadied her with both of his hands firmly on her waist.

Claire’s cheeks turned into a lovely shade of pink and she could feel the heat of his touch growing on her skin. Beauchamp dropped her gaze down her feet, mumbling.

“I’m fine. Though it takes some time for the pain to settle in and I can only hope I will be able to walk tomorrow.” She waved her hand in no particular direction but rather in frustration.

The stranger smiled as they awkwardly skated to the rail. Claire glanced at him through her lashes smiling back.

“So yer a Sassenach then.”

“Excuse me?” Claire furrowed her eyebrows, unable to stop looking at him. Damn him, he was attractive.

Her saviour let out a soft laugh.

“Yer English, no?” Besides his remark about her Englishness (Claire figured he was a Scot in mere seconds), his tone was kind. “It means an English person or an outlander.”

“How lovely.” Claire snorted examining her palms.

“I didna mean to offend ye.” He leaned to touch her shoulder gently. It took Claire longer then it should to speak up, the words burning against her dry throat.

“You didn’t.” The surgeon gave him a lopsided smile, stretching out her hand. “I’m Claire. Thanks for saving my arse.”

The Scot barked a laugh and took her hand in his. Claire wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not, but the way his skin felt upon hers gave her the rush of goosebumps all over it. Did he feel it too?

“I’m Jamie. And I’m more than glad to save such a lovely arse.”

What an eejit, he thought to himself. Who says that to a lass ten minutes after meeting her?

He already opened his mouth to give her a stream of apologies but she bit her lip and the bell of laughter warmed his heart. A Dhia, she was lovely.

Jamie had noticed her almost immediately when she entered the rink. That mass of curls that made her look like a fairy that stepped out the Scottish legends. He had to smile at the lass when she tried to skate (and very badly to his own good luck). Jamie watched her for a while when he could catch a glimpse of her absolutely horrid Christmas jumper and her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her arse did not escape his attention either, perfectly round in those leggings.

As they made their way toward the lockers to gather their belongings, he learned she was from London. A surgeon visiting here for a medical conference. And no, she has never been to Edinburgh.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the window, Claire mentally admitted there were times when she had looked better when a man approached her. She could feel Jamie’s eyes on her back as she did her shoelaces, slowly she brought her head up, eyes locking with his.

The blue oceans met the whisky rivers. Claire wanted to say that she should go, it’s getting dark, and this day had got the better out of her. But instead, she took a step as if an invisible magnet was pulling her towards him. There was a silence that drowned them both into the abyss of unknown but much-needed connection.

“Jamie, I -” Her tongue, feeling like sandpaper, moved ever so slowly.

She felt hypnotized, barely registering that she started to walk the opposite way to the exit. But the next second, she found herself staring at their linked hands and his eyes travelling to her face.

“Wait, Claire.” Jamie wet his lips, the corners curl into an almost apologetic-like smile. “I ken it might be daft as we just met, but would ye do me the honor of joining me for dinner?"

She glanced at him, with eyes warm like a fine aged scotch.

“I would not mind a company.”

“I ken a perfect spot.” His hand on the small of her back, leading out of the crowd.

🎄 🎄 🎄

Claire was sure the air crackled with electricity or chemistry (or whatever they call it) as she and Jamie walked through the snowy streets of New York. The roads have been only partially plowed and cleaned. Beauchamp found her legs drowned up to the ankles in the fluffy mass. Jamie carried her over the asphalt where the snow began to turn into mushy puddles from the trampling of an endless stream of pedestrian traffic. Claire giggled as he carried her across each puddle, and felt the tips of her ears turn scarlet red.

The distance between them grew closer and closer until eventually, their shoulders were brushing against each other. She had learned that Jamie was born in the area of Inverness. He had a huge family, a sister and a brother which included many nieces and nephews as well. Claire smiled when she noticed his proud tone when he spoke about his father and the particular tenderness when he mentioned his older sister Jenny. Jamie had worked for the last three years in the US and at 34 years old he was a successful entrepreneur.

Claire mentioned the nomadic lifestyle she lived when she was a child. Her parents worked a lot and she had spent two years travelling with her uncle Lamb. She had a best friend, a Scottish lass named Geillis. Beauchamp liked to read and spend time in the garden with her mum. She sadly recounted that she had made the mistake of getting married only to find herself divorced after four months of the young marriage. Her ex-husband’s name was Frank. The memories made her uncomfortable and she did not want to remember more. Jamie did not ask further, only stating he never married.

“And yer telling me ye have no boyfriend?” Fraser’s hand curled over her delicate shoulder, encouraging Claire (to her own delight) to nestle closer against him. It was such a casual move that she had thought she knew Jamie for ages already. The warmth that was radiating from him rooted deep in her belly and was rising up and up, making her ache at the very core of her being.

“Seeing no one.” Claire shook her head, peeking at him through her lashes. “And how is that my fellow Brit is not with a lassie? ”

Jamie made a sound deep from his chest, something typically Scottish she’d gathered.

“I am with a lassie, and a verra bonnie one, I must say, am I not?” He smirked, though his voice was painted with seriousness.

“Flatterer.” Claire dropped her head, pretending her boots were much more interesting than anything else she’d seen. In truth, it was to hide a smile.

Later their hands merged together, fingers entwining. The strangeness and absolute familiarity of their palms fitting together was something neither of them could explain. Everything seemed to be suspended around them causing the time to become disjointed. Finally, they arrived at their destination.

“Highlands NYC?” Claire read out loud the name of the place Jamie had brought her. “Really? Out of all places in New York, you brought me to Highlander bar?”

The tips of Jamie's ears burned, the red matching his hair. Letting a shaky breath, his lips leaned over to her ear.

“Sassenach, ye should experience Scotland to its fullest.”

That moment Beauchamp went weak in her knees. The raspiness in his voice and… God damn, all of him almost forced her to drag Jamie to the nearest toilet and indeed enjoy one of Scotland's sons to his fullest. She did not.

They sat at the bar since all the tables were booked. The barstools migrated as close as possible for Jamie’s fingers to run freely at the expense on her back, sending goosebumps all over the skin. Her knees accidentally touched his. She laughed, loud and infectious at his stories. Throwing her head all the way back, exposing the pale skin on her neck, placing the blue of her veins in full view. The sight made his cock twitch. She laughed heartily, smacking her palm on his thigh when she found his joke particularly funny. Jamie's breath hitched becoming shallow and broken. She licked her lips. Claire slid her hand over the cold glass containing her cocktail. Her movements were deliberate, slow, down and up over the patterned glass mimicking... What did Geillis say about the unconscious signs?

Fraser shifted in his seat, more than ready to suggest they go somewhere where they find their way to each other. The hot air inside the pub and between them made both ache for each other.

But the food arrived distracting them from their lustful thought. They dined on Haggis dressed in whisky butter, and warm quinoa with crispy spiced chickpeas. They laughed and joked, speaking of this and that learning about each other. As the evening wore on, Claire found her heart beating its way out of her ribcage. She leaned in planting a soft kiss on Jamie's cheek fearful of having to whisper words of parting lying on the tip of her tongue. But she found she was not yet ready to say goodbye yet.

“Would ye like me to walk ye to yer hotel?” His voice was hoarse, scented with the whisky he had drunk. Claire leaned into him whispering:

“Yes.”

They hadn’t said goodbye in front of the hotel. Not in the foyer, either. Certainly not in the lift. As they stood in front of each other surrounded by glass cubicle she moved first.

Before he knew it Jamie’s mouth was claimed by hers. Chest heaving and gasping for air, both parted and stared at each other until the lift announced their destination with a soft Ding.

Claire’s hands shook, the room card almost slipping out of her sweaty palms. The second her feet entered the room, Jamie had pulled her closer by the waist. The lengths of the bodies pressing, Claire’s cheeks flaming hot. He breathed heavily as he left a trail of burning kisses down the column of her neck.

“Christ, I want ye.”

Cupping her arse Jamie’s lips traveled up, taking her bottom lip between his. She smiled against his mouth, hands pulling at his nape, closer and closer, until the kiss could actually hurt. She could feel the length of him, hard and ready through his jeans and it made her almost blind with animal-like want.

“Take this off,” Claire whispered pulling at the hem of his shirt. Aching for him became powerful to the point where she could not bother unbuttoning his shirt, Claire just yanked the soft material over his head.

She could swear she heard him growl when her sweater followed the same destination as Jamie’s shirt and landed into the fabric puddle on the floor. No bra in the way, Jamie did not hesitate to kiss his way down Claire’s cleavage, stopping for the thorough exploration of each breast. Her mouth dropped open in a silent plea when his lips captured the nipple. Almost burning with the heat that grew between her thighs and made her belly ache, Claire reached down, to unbuckle his jeans. Tongues danced, lips bitten surely to swell come the morning, teeth raking over the soft skin of the neck. Pulling the leggings with underwear to her ankles Jamie definitely left blueish trails where his fingers pressed. But it was a delicious feeling that bordered with painful pleasure. They stumbled upon the bed, falling into it, a suppressed laugh emerging between their mouths. Gently but firmly Jamie had pushed Claire flat on her back, letting his hand trace the invisible paths all the way from the high hills of her neck, down to the valley between her breasts, the plain expanses of her belly, all the way down to the hidden secrets between her thighs.

She moaned into his lips when his fingers had found her apex between her thighs. His bold caresses drew sighs, moans, and keening that he longed to hear. With the right pace and rhythm he drew those sounds out of her. Claire’s curls flew all over the white pillow. Air! She needed air and began to take deep lungfuls. Writhing as the sweet torture continued, Claire took large fistfuls of linens as an anchor. Arching into his hand, she had lost all the train of coherent thoughts.

“Jamie…” Gasping for air burning hot in her throat, she finally broke into the million atoms finding herself thousands of light-years later, breathing heavily, the sweat trickling down her nape.

“Ye’re so beautiful when ye become undone.” Jamie murmured, lips pressing a soft kiss at her brow.

Still shaking Claire reached between them finding a condom and gladly placed it on him. She’d found herself again in Jamie’s embrace. Still, she kissed him hungrily with the remnants of her own satisfaction yet to fade, asking for more. Jamie did not need much encouragement and with the slightest nod of her head, guided himself into her. The sudden, hot sensation of him made Claire throw her head back. Seized lungs could not produce any coherent sound. As Jamie’s hips moved fast into her, reaching that right spot, again and again, she could only cling to him for dear life. When Jamie’s own breathing became slow and shuddering, it wasn't clear where he began and she ended. The world expanded beyond itself. It grew into a million colourful stars shining brightly around them.

Well into the night, as Claire slept, he drew tender paths with his fingers mapping the lines and valleys of her body.

Later she awoke from her sweet slumber by the quiet rustle next to her. Jamie sat upright, hands roaming on the floor in the search of his underwear and jeans. For some reason, it bitterly stung. Claire slowly brought her hand up, gently touching his back.

“Please stay.”

🎄 🎄 🎄

Claire was sure it’s all had been a dream. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and in ten minutes her mother will call her downstairs to help start making dinner preparations. The brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes are not going to cook themselves. Her still sleepy mind started registering unusual noisy traffic outside, quite the opposite of the calm London neighbourhood where her parents lived. She turned to her side, eyes still tightly shut. Claire wasn’t sure now if she wanted to open her eyes and find herself home (where she so desperately wanted to be just twenty-four hours ago) or to wake up to the reality of finding one particular Scot next to her?

The mattress felt unfamiliar and too comfy. Her old bed in Beauchamps house surely did not feel that way. Moreover, the heat radiating from her left side was more likely from a person than the furnace. Claire’s eyes snapped open and she had to blink several times to get used to the bright sun, bouncing off the snowy scenery outside.

“Weel, hello to ye, sleeping beauty. I was afraid ye’d been cursed and would never wake.” Jamie rolled onto his belly, propping himself on the elbow. “Though it’s rather a nice sight to observe”

He ran his fingers down the line of Claire’s jaw before leaning in to kiss her.

“So you’re not a dream.” She smiled and pulled the blanket up higher than her waist, suddenly feeling shy. “What’s this?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion as Jamie fished his phone out, nodding to the screen.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ye’re going home, Sassenach.” He chuckled, feeling quite proud that he’d managed to find them both tickets to Edinburgh this evening. Jamie rather never did say out loud the price he paid but the look on Claire’s face was worth much more than that.

“Bloody hell!” She squealed, not believing her eyes. “How can I ever repay you?”

Jamie smiled when her hands wrapped around his neck.

"Love me some more, Sassenach.”

#Outlander #outlander fanfiction #oneshot #llholidayexchange #the lallybroch library #christmas smut #modern au #wee babies meet up in NYC #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #maviemesregles #LLholidayexchange #a holiday there is

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starjeno · 4 years

Text

destined | l.mh | 3

genre: fluff | soulmate!au, genderswap!au pairing: student!mark x female!reader warnings: bad words? word count: 1973 summary: it’s a fact of life that soulmates swap bodies. when mark wakes up in a bed that isn’t his, he’s delighted. you, on the other hand, absolutely despise it. a/n: filler chapter, sorry! and i know it’s been a while since i’ve posted. also, i gave the roommate a name finally.

the sunset filtering through your curtains fills the room with hazy light. it’s soft and golden and comforting, but it does little to placate your roommate. her arms remain crossed over her chest as you pace by the mini-fridge nervously, waiting for this interrogation to end.

“okay, but what did yuta say?” she’s already somehow familiarized herself with the names of the people involved, and while it took some time for her to get used to your new appearance, she currently seems to have grown accustomed to it. you groan, “i told you, yuta likes this whole thing. he just ignored me and then said that i should take mark into consideration.”

“why can’t mark take you into consideration instead?” she retorts. you huff, “i told you this too! mark also thinks i like this whole thing!”

“well? do you?”

you can’t help the hesitation that bubbles up in your throat when you think about the events of earlier. the rapid beating of your heart and the heat in the tips of your ears and the strange familiarity that accompanied each of mark’s words — he felt like a missing puzzle piece, like someone you loved in a past life, and you didn’t like how you unconsciously gravitated towards him as he spoke.

then again, you only saw him for a few hours, so maybe you’re overexaggerating. you shake your head firmly, “i don’t! you know that! i don’t want any of this!”

she gives you an unplaceable look, her eyes filled with contemplation, before groaning and sitting up, “let’s go out to eat. you’ve had a rough day.”

“you’ll pay?”

“yeah,” she sighs, running a hand through her hair, “i don’t want you to confuse the cashier with your credit card info. let’s get out of here.”

it’s a blessing that your roommate has kun. she’s accumulated enough of his clothing that your new body has a decent selection to choose from. though the clothes all fit loosely, you figure tucking your dress shirt into your pants and looping a belt tightly through should make sure your outfit is secure. she stands in the doorway as she watches you change, blushing feverishly when she associates your initial meeting with yuta with the boxers that now hug you snugly.

“where do you feel like eating?”

you hum in thought as you grab a cap, “honestly? kun’s place. he makes such good food.”

she rolls her eyes before dialing her boyfriend’s number on the phone. it rings for a few seconds until the line clicks and you hear a deep voice fill the speaker, “what’s up? you only call at this time when you’re hungry. or horny. or both. please don’t be both.”

“uh, just hungry. also, ____ and i have something we should tell you,” she mumbles, “i’ll be over in five.”

she hangs up before looking over to me and sighing, "i'll do your hair."

as you sit down in front of a mirror and watch your roommate squeeze out a frightening amount of gel onto her palm, you can't help but think about mark again. it's hard not to since his face is the reflection and it shines with a bright optimism that you currently lack. you attempt a half-hearted smile to make his features seem pleasant; it feels wrong when his face frowns.

meanwhile, the girl behind the chair slicks your hair in a neat quiff, sparing a few strands to fall onto your forehead casually. you look handsome, and you're somewhat pleased that kun's first impression of your soulmate will be great on terms of looks.

not that you cared particularly. you don't. you aren't even sure you know what a mark is, much less feel as if others should approve of him.

"there, let's go," she hums, wiping her hands off with a towel and spritzing some floral scent on the two of you before walking out. you follow reluctantly.

kun's apartment is cute and filled with small plants that are groomed to perfection. little canvases with a dramatic ink strokes line the walls above the television and couches, and pens are littered in the corners of every room. there's even a pen tucked into the pocket of the man himself, who is still in the ironed dress shirt he went to work in.

his smile radiates as the two of you walk into the hall, but you can sense the air tension rise, “mina and . . . a friend?”

“ha ha, very funny, kun. you won’t believe who this is,” your roommate grins as you two sit down. kun pauses for a bit before backing into his kitchen, grabbing a spare pan to add on top of the stove, thinking, “uh, a cousin? your long-lost brother? i thought ____ was coming over.”

“exactly,” she huffs before motioning over to you, “meet mark, or better known as ____ in mark’s body.”

kun gasps and points the pan at you accusingly, laughter lacing his voice, “oh my god, you fucking swapped?”

you grin and place a hand to drag the pot down, “i know, it’s crazy.”

“at least he’s cute,” the dimpled boy chuckles, sighing in disbelief. he definitely knew you well.

“agreed,” you smile a bit and your roommate shoots you a short-lived glare before looking at kun, “so we came here to destress from such a horrific event by eating your food.”

“that sounds like a plan . . . ,” he muses, a small smile growing on his face as he takes out cooking oil, “you guys can just chill, and i’ll have something cooked up in ten.”

as soon as you pull your phone out, a notification slides onto a screen. you bite your lip as the social messaging app displays the message of a new follower, and when you hold down for more details, you instantly recognize the handle.

mark. he must've searched you up, and if he's managed to follow you on here, he's probably found all your socials by now. as if on cue, you see three more notifs slide gracefully on your phone, beaming with a new friend request. you aren’t sure if you’re happy or annoyed, or a bit of both, but you hold down and open the app to find a new direct message awaiting your approval.

mark1ee (online): hi! sorry if this is creepy but i figured we’re friends now, so...

good lord. you bite your lips to keep from laughing at his shyness, finding it adorable, and avert your eyes from your phone. mina glares at you quizzically, raising a brow as if to ask what you’re amused at, but you simply shake your head emphatically and begin to type back.

you: how’d you know my last name? there’s probably more than one ____ out there. mark1ee is typing . . .

"here, some cheesy ass lasagna. i put, like, five different kinds of cheese in there, or just whatever was in my fridge.” kun slides two plates to you and your roommate and grabs the nearest chair to sit. he looks at you as you tentatively poke at the stuffing, “i didn’t poison it, you know.”

“shut up, i’m critiquing it!” you laugh as you place a food-filled fork in your mouth, smiling at the instant flavor, “whoa, i forgot how good you are at this.”

he lowers his brows as he smiles, “you mean you forgot my job is in the culinary arts?”

you face downwards as kun strikes up a conversation with your roommate and glance at the notification on your phone. it doesn’t take a moment of hesitation for you to swipe and check mark’s message.

mark1ee (online): i checked the profile pictures. it would be a lot easier to make sure i’m contacting the right person if i had your number ;) you: how smooth. how do i know this is the mark i met earlier today? mark1ee (online): already asking for pics? damn. mark1ee sent a photo mark1ee (online): i forgot that it’s basically just a pic of you lmao :/ now pls send #

you snort and look up to find your roommate and kun staring at you intently. you wave your hand dismissively, "funny meme, sorry."

they give you a strange look before resuming the conversation, and you hide your phone under your leg before digging into the meal before you.

"so, what's going on?"

at the question, yuta sighs as mark walks in, his hand rubbing a towel through his wet hair, "winwin is coming back early. a week early."

"are you not excited?" mark quips. the older male tiredly grins, "i'm excited, believe me. but i'm worried that i won't pay enough attention to your switch."

mark frowns, the wrinkles ruining the feminine face, "i'll be fine. she just sent me her number!"

he takes a seat by yuta and faces the flatscreen in front, his glossy eyes reflecting the bright lights of the video game. yuta glances at his long lashes and soft brows for a moment before resuming the screen, "damn, good job. maybe you have enough game to survive without me."

"wha- fuck you! and you'll still be here!" mark laughs, picking up the other controller.

"i'm running away with winwin, by the way," yuta jokes. he lets mark join the round before pressing the buttons again, "now that you have her number, what are you going to do? ask her on a date?"

mark freezes. he hadn't even thought of what to do, and right now, yuta feels like a personal certified love guru. what a great fucking idea! before he could spend more time admiring yuta's genius, mark drops the controller and sends a new text to you, hoping for a stroke of luck.

he didn't really need luck though. he had literally found his soulmate that morning.

you: wanna go on a date? nctzn (online): how would i get clothes, doof? i'm wearing my roomie's bf's shit now :/ you: well, keep wearing them and i'll buy myself a dress? i don't care what you wear though, i'm not a great dresser.

mark is lying to his new form. he had always considered himself as someone with a good eye for outfits and color coordination. he sighs as the green dot by your profile that signifies your online presence fades away, and he figures he should probably find another way to pass the time while you’re offline. yuta waits expectantly, “well?”

“clothing’s an issue. and i don’t even know where i should take her,” mark grins, “it’s going to feel so weird, like going on a date with myself? trippy.”

“you’ll survive, it’s not like you’re ugly,” yuta sighs as he rolls his eyes with exasperation. mark doesn’t respond. he’s too preoccupied with the idea of you to even process yuta’s words. he’s never felt so giddy about a girl before — even his middle school crushes never got him feeling this jittery. conversation with you flowed so smoothly, and even mark knew how strange it was to feel this way after one conversation.

he’s glad you reciprocate his feelings. everything’s he heard about soulmates seems to be true: you fit him well. mark knows he should be a little more hesitant, but this is finally a dream come true. you’re a dream come true.

you: let’s go on a date tmrw then? nctzn (online): ok why not

mark glances up at the bright orange sky. the sun has only just started to set and the evening barely grazes the warm colors. are you just as happy as he is now? is your head filled with thoughts of him, the same way he can’t stop thinking about you?

mark’s pauses, not sure if he should dare to think his next question, but the idea floats in his head anyway and he turns pink with embarrassment.

yuta turns away, silent.

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#neowritingsnet #cznnet #neocaratnet #ncitynetwork #mark lee #lee minhyung #nct mark #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct u #mark x reader #sexswap au #genderswap au #destined #starjeno

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purrincess-chat · 4 years

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Will You Be My (Fake) Lover? CH7

Here it is! The most tooth rotting fluff to have ever fluffed! Call your dentist now! And get ready for the whirlwind that is next chapter.

Read on AO3

Chapter 7

Adrien smoothed his suit coat for the dozenth time as he made his way up the stairs to Marinette's living room door. Usually he didn't fret so much over these galas, but tonight he felt strangely conscious of every small detail. Every hair out of place, every tiny clump of lint on his pants. He wanted to look perfect which struck him as odd seeing as it's never something he had really worried about. Others, sure, but he himself had never bothered much with the way he looked and left most of the concern to his parents or photographers.

But tonight was different. Tonight, he was going with Marinette, and although he knew that Marinette was only his fake girlfriend, he was still driven by this innate desire to appeal to her. He wasn't sure why because he had never felt anything like it before, but as he straightened his tie again, he imagined the smile Marinette would give him upon seeing him and felt his face warm a little. More often lately he found himself chasing those smiles, and more than anything he just wanted her to look at him.

He rang the doorbell and shoved his hands in his pockets, but feeling as though that were improper, he fumbled with how to place them before awkwardly clasping them together behind his back as Mr. Dupain opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Dupain," Adrien greeted politely, and Tom offered him a wide grin.

"You look very nice all dressed up, Adrien," Tom said, shaking his hand.

"Thank you. My father always makes sure of it," he chuckled.

"Well, Marinette is just about ready. Why don't you come in?" Tom stepped aside, and Adrien entered with a nod, running his hands along his coat again. "She was really excited to be invited tonight. I don't think she has ever gotten to dress up like this before."

"I'm glad she's coming. Usually these events are pretty boring, so it will be nice to have someone my age to spend time with," Adrien said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Do you go to events like this often?" Tom asked, and Adrien nodded with a sigh.

"My father doesn't like crowds, and my mother used to go, but now I'm the face of the brand, so I end up going in his place," he said, lowering his gaze.

"That's so much pressure for someone your age," Tom said, eyebrows furrowing, and Adrien shrugged again.

"My father has taken the loss of my mom pretty hard, so I try to do anything I can for him. It's not so bad all the time, and mostly I just have to greet people. Nathalie is the one who talks business with everyone," he said as if it couldn't be helped.

"Grief certainly makes you grow up fast. You're very mature for 14," Tom said, and Adrien offered him a reassuring smile.

"It's been hard, but my mother would have wanted us to be happy, so I try to live each day in a way that would make her proud," he said, and Tom's face softened. Adrien was used to receiving sympathetic looks from people, but this was different. Instead of sadness or pity, Tom looked at him with love and understanding, and Adrien felt his chest swell a little as Marinette's door opened at the top of the stairs.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. We wanted to make sure not a single hair was out of place," Sabine said, coming down first, and Adrien felt his heart jolt as pink frills gave way to striking blue eyes framed with flowing dark hair, and her glossy pink lips curled into a timid smile.

He felt his jaw drop as she descended, and he was so utterly awestruck that all he could do was stare. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and he momentarily forgot where he was or what they were doing. He was no stranger to girls and makeup, but Marinette was already beautiful without it every day. Perhaps he was just used to Chloe and her questionable tastes and experiments, but Marinette's makeup accentuated all of her most beautiful features. Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes sparkled against soft shadow, covered by dark fluttering lashes with every blink, and her lips glistened with light pink gloss that made him long to know how they tasted.

"Um," she said, tugging at her skirt awkwardly, and he blinked out of his trance, snapping his jaw shut as Tom and Sabine exchanged amused looks. "Do I look weird?"

"I- no! You look...wow. I mean I've never seen you- I just...You look amazing, Marinette. Really," he said, rubbing the back of his neck as heat crept up to his cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to the ground with a shy smile.

"You look really nice too," she said, and he felt his heart skip a beat. It was a simple declaration, but it made him really happy for some reason.

"Can we get a picture before you two go?" Sabine requested, and Marinette shot her a glare.

"Mom!"

"Oh, you both just look so cute. Please?" Sabine pleaded, and Adrien gave Marinette a reassuring smile.

"I don't mind," he said with a shrug, and Marinette let out a sigh but stepped into his arms nonetheless.

"Smile!" Sabine said, snapping several pictures with her phone, and Marinette took the liberty of sticking her tongue out for a few.

Adrien took a few of his own, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and touching his nose to hers. She even smelled amazing, and Adrien could have breathed her in all night.

"Have fun you two. We'll see you later tonight," Tom said, wrapping an arm around his wife.

"My father usually has me leave early, so I'll have her back by 10," Adrien said, offering her an arm. "Shall we go?"

Marinette smiled, linking her arm through his elbow and allowing him to lead her down to the car. He kept hold of her hand the whole ride over, stealing frequent glances at her and admiring how beautiful she looked. Adrien had always thought Marinette was cute, but tonight he truly couldn't keep his eyes off her. Maybe it was the fact that he'd never seen her with her hair down or with makeup on, or perhaps it was a combination of the two. Whatever hypnotic spell she had him under, he didn't want it to wear off.

"So," she started, and he jumped a little, shifting his gaze away from her as if to pretend he hadn't been staring for an inordinate amount of time. "Do I need to do anything special tonight?"

"No, I'll handle everything. I mean, you'll likely be in a lot of pictures with me, but you don't need to worry about that. You look incredible," he said, and he curled his shoulders a little, cheeks warming by how easily that had slipped out.

"Thank you. The dress your dad made is really beautiful," she said, running her hands over the ruffles in the skirt.

"You're the one who designed it," Adrien said with a smile, giving her hand a squeeze. "And personally, I think it's only half as beautiful as you."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, biting back a smile, and he found himself lost in her again. Why was everything about her suddenly so adorable, and why did it make his heart beat so fast?

A hoard of photographers was waiting for them when they arrived, and Marinette seemed to stiffen as they climbed out of the limo. Adrien wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Just stay by me and smile. You’ll be fine,” he said before leading her down the long line of flashing cameras and up the stairs into the gala. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“How do you put up with that all the time? I feel like I can’t see through all the spots in my vision now,” she said, blinking several times.

“You get used to it.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, we have to get all of the boring stuff out of the way first. I have to greet all the guests as they arrive, but as soon as we’re done, we can go dance.”

“No worries. I’m happy just being here with you,” she said, and he felt his cheeks warm, feeling rather pleased by that response.

Having her by his side made all of the formality go by a lot faster. He barely even paid attention as each guest entered and shook his hand for his brain had traveled far away leaving him to operate on autopilot. Though he wasn’t quite sure why Marinette enjoying his company made him so happy, he couldn’t deny that it did. It felt like a great accomplishment and far more rewarding than any medal or trophy he’d ever won.

Maybe it was because it made him think that she liked him even a little. Granted, he knew that she liked him seeing as they were friends, and she’d agreed to do this for him; however, he found himself longing to know whether her feelings ended at the line of friendship, or if perhaps they had wandered a little bit past. The thought made his heart skip. Did Marinette like him like him, or did she only just like him? These were the questions that haunted him with increasing frequency as of late, and to his surprise, he actually hoped that the answer was yes.

“Good evening, Adrien.” His happiness plummeted considerably when Lila walked into the foyer and waltzed up to plant a kiss on each of his cheeks. “I see you brought along your fake girlfriend. How nice.”

“The only thing fake in the room is you,” Marinette grumbled with an eye roll.

“Lila, Marinette and I are really dating, so please be kind this evening,” Adrien said with a wince, and Lila flicked her gaze over to Marinette before flashing him a disingenuous smile.

“Aren’t I always?” She said, running her fingers through his hair before joining the other guests in the ballroom, and Marinette groaned beside him.

“Relax, don’t let her get to you,” Adrien soothed, rubbing her shoulders and touching his nose to hers. “Just focus on me tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before turning back to his post.

Once the last of the guests were greeted, Adrien led Marinette into the ballroom where everyone mingled, and she glanced around in awe. Adrien bit back a smirk and nudged her with his elbow.

“Daunting, isn’t it?” He chuckled.

“How do you even begin to navigate?” Marinette asked.

“Usually I just walk around and let people approach me. A lot of them are really here to speak to Nathalie to relay messages to my father, so mostly I just get to eat a lot of free food and drink wine,” he said.

“Your father lets you have wine?” Marinette quirked a brow, and he shrugged a little.

“Certain servers have it specifically for me. It’s so watered down that the alcohol content is negligible, and it’s basically just grape juice,” he explained. “But they limit me to two glasses anyway.”

“That sounds right.” Marinette nodded, and Adrien moved in front of her, offering her a hand with a bow.

“Would the lady honor me with a dance?” He asked, and she touched a hand to her lips with a giggle.

“She absolutely would, and she’ll do her best not to step on your toes,” she said, placing her hand in his before he whisked her away to the dancefloor.

They waltzed in circles, and Marinette truly did feel like Cinderella at the grand ball as her skirt kissed the floor with each turn. Adrien was so calm and confident, holding her close, those green eyes never straying from her for a moment. How badly she wanted him to be her prince, but the clock hadn’t struck midnight yet. For now she would just enjoy the ball until all of the glamor faded, and their relationship came to an end. They weren’t pumpkins yet, so she could relax just a little bit. At least, relax as much as she was able to with the whole room looking at them. She felt hundreds of eyes on her back as partygoers whispered about them from the sidelines, and her spine stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” Adrien asked.

“Everyone’s staring at me,” she said, glancing around self-consciously.

“Can you blame them?” Adrien asked with a laugh, and she curled her shoulders a little. “You look beautiful, Marinette. Everyone is just admiring you.”

“I guess, but I feel like they’re all judging me. I mean, I’ve seen what some people say about us. You’re rich and famous, and I’m just a baker’s daughter,” she said, lowering her gaze, and Adrien tightened his grip around her waist.

“And?” He cocked a brow. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

“You’re just saying that.” She rolled her eyes, blinking in surprise when he stopped dancing abruptly.

“I’m not,” he said firmly, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek. “I work with a lot of girls who are pretty, but they’re all self-absorbed and only interested in me because I’m famous and good-looking. Sure, they take good photos, but their hearts are ugly and dull, and I can barely stand to be around them for longer than I have to be. And then there’s you.”

He leaned down to touch his forehead to hers, green eyes bearing into her.

“You give so much of yourself to others, and you care about people. When I look at you, I see someone so vibrant who polishes other people so they can shine too. You are beautiful inside and out, Marinette, and I mean that sincerely,” he said with a smile. “And honestly, for what it’s worth, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all night.”

Marinette seemed to falter at that, her cheeks glowing red as she attempted to assemble a coherent reply, but her efforts were cut short when Nathalie interrupted.

“Adrien, I have a lot of guests with business inquiries for your father. Can you mingle with a few of the more casual guests so they don’t feel shunned?” She asked, and Adrien breathed a reluctant sigh before letting his hands fall to his sides.

“Of course, Nathalie,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be back, I promise. Just enjoy yourself, okay?”

“Kay,” she said with a smile as he kissed her hand before he was forced away.

She let out a breath as she glanced around the room, finding every face unfamiliar and alien. Every face that is, except for one, and the moment Marinette laid eyes on her, she found their gazes locked as it seemed she’d had been watching her from the very moment they entered the room.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Lila said, cocking a hip as Marinette approached with a cutting glare.

"What poor soul did you lie to in order to be let in?" Marinette asked, crossing her arms over her chest, and Lila's lips curled into a smirk.

"I was invited actually. Same as you," she said, swirling her drink before taking a sip.

"Only because you've convinced everyone you're someone important when in reality you're just as fake as those shoes you're wearing." Marinette rolled her eyes.

"You mean as fake as your relationship with Adrien?" Lila quirked a brow, and Marinette shot her another glare.

"Sounds to me like you're just mad because Adrien asked me out before you could go through with your own little scheme. The timing was coincidental, but it worked out so well for us," Marinette said, and Lila's jaw clenched. "Gabriel has even given us his blessing, and he had this beautiful dress made for me to show his approval. It's my design, and he insisted on me getting credit for it."

"That explains why it's so ugly," Lila said with a grunt. "Gabriel only gave you credit because he didn't want his name on something so hideous."

"Is that why everyone keeps complimenting me?" Marinette tapped a finger to her chin, a smirk curling on her lips as Lila tensed. "Face it, Lila. Your lies didn't get you what you wanted this time."

"Oh, Marinette, someday you'll learn that I always get exactly what I want," Lila said, squaring her shoulders, and with a careless flick of her wrist, she splashed red wine down the front of Marinette's dress. "Oops."

Marinette's jaw dropped as Lila sauntered away, pawing at the stains forming in the fabric. Tears welled in her eyes as she glanced between the other guests, her dress, and the smug look on Lila's face before she stormed from the room.

Lila watched her go with a triumphant beam before she slipped over to where Adrien was chatting with a few other models. He examined her smirk before his eyes narrowed into a glare.

"It's really a shame, you know," Lila sighed, examining her nails. "All of this could have been avoided if you weren't such a coward."

"What are you talking about?" Adrien asked, shoulders tensing when Lila shot him another taunting grin. "What did you do?"

"Nothing either of you will be able to prove." She shrugged, and Adrien visibly bristled.

"Where's Marinette?" He demanded, and Lila averted her gaze with a chuckle.

"Probably crying in the bathroom. It's your fault really. You dragged her into this," she said, and Adrien shot off in an instant.

Playing the concerned boyfriend for everyone to see. They were so careful when they thought someone was watching, but Lila had a feeling things were different behind closed doors. She clasped her hands behind her back and paced over to where Nathalie stood in the corner between business inquiries.

"If you want your proof, just go listen to the two of them talk in private. When no one's around, they're sure to drop the act," Lila said, and Nathalie glanced around at all the guests before slinking off after Adrien.

Popping a tiny quiche into her mouth, Lila casually moved among the other guests, awaiting the end of their foolish little game. Marinette picked the wrong opponent to challenge, and she really hoped that this would ruin her chances with Adrien for good.

Marinette dabbed at the stains with a towel, heart hammering in her chest as they only smeared. They were never coming out, and she knew as much. Why did Lila always have to ruin everything? She couldn't go back out there now. What would Gabriel think if he found out she ruined the dress he had made for her? He would probably think she was careless and that she didn't respect him then he would probably decide that she didn't respect Adrien either and force them to break up then she would never be able to see Adrien again, her fashion career would be over before it started, and she would die alone in an apartment with 15 cats and a hamster named-

"Marinette?" It was Adrien knocking at the door, and she sank onto the ottoman in defeat. "Are you okay? Can I come in?"

"Yeah," she said after a moment, dabbing at her dress again as he opened the door.

He observed her tear streaked cheeks, the purple stains on the front of her dress, and the dull emptiness of her expression with a frown before kneeling in front of her.

"What happened?" He asked, and she covered her face as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"It's Lila. She threw wine on me and ruined my dress, and now I can't do anything and it's all ruined and-" she sobbed, and Adrien reached a hand up to brush her hair from her face.

"I'm sorry, Marinette. I should have been there to protect you," he said with a wince.

"It's not your fault," Marinette said with a sniffle, but he shook his head.

"I've let Lila roam free for far too long, and she always finds a way to attack you. I'm so sorry, Marinette," he said, and she reached out to cup his cheek, trailing her thumb along his jaw.

"Lila is a vile person, and that's no one's fault but hers. You are always more than kind to me, Adrien," she said, and he leaned his cheek against her palm before stretching up to kiss her cheek.

"What can I do to help?" He asked, shifting his gaze down to the stains on her skirt, and she shrugged her shoulders.

"There's nothing that can be done. It's never going to come out," she said with a sigh. "I can't go back out there. Not like this."

"I'll go talk to Nathalie, and maybe we can-"

"No, Adrien. I just...I was really proud of this design, and when your dad made it for me, I felt really special. Someone whose skill I admire liked something I designed and told me it was good, and now...now it's ruined, and if I go back out there, people will all talk about how I didn't care about Gabriel giving me something so important and special," she said, pressing her lips into a firm line. "I'm just gonna call my mom and ask her to come pick me up."

"No, Marinette," Adrien pleaded, placing a hand over hers. "Don't go. I want you to stay."

"But-"

"Who cares what anyone says? If anyone gives you grief, we can tell them it was my fault," he said, and she flicked her gaze up to his. "Lila ruined your dress, but that doesn't mean you have to let her ruin your night."

"Adrien…"

"I don't want you to leave. Not yet," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. "Stay. Please?"

She searched his expression before lowering her gaze back to her lap with a sigh. She couldn't say no to him.

"Okay," she said, picking at the fabric, and Adrien pulled her against his chest. "But what am I gonna do?"

"Don't worry. I'll handle everything," Adrien said with a wink, lifting her hand to his lips, and a smile curled on her lips as he pulled her back to her feet. "Come on let's go back together."

Nathalie ducked behind the corner as they left hand-in-hand, and she lifted her phone back to her ear.

"Did you find any incriminating evidence as per Miss Rossi's suggestion?" Gabriel asked.

"No. Their affection for one another seems genuine," she said.

"Keep an eye on them and keep me posted. One of those girls is going to become my masterpiece no matter the outcome," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Nathalie said then added, "for Adrien's sake, I hope that it ends up being Lila."

"I do too. Be sure to push her if this blows up in her face. Rub salt in the wound. You have my full permission to do whatever you see fit to accomplish that," Gabriel said before hanging up, and Nathalie paced back to the ballroom.

"Everyone is staring at me," Marinette said with a frown as she and Adrien moved back through the room, and Adrien glanced around, pursing his lips.

He hailed a server over and retrieved a glass of wine from the tray, swirling it gently before dumping it onto the front of his tux.

"Adrien!" Marinette gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as he rubbed in the purple stain with his sleeve.

"Wow, I'm so clumsy, but hey, at least now we match," he said with a shrug before flashing her a wink, and she covered her face to suppress a giggle that brought a smile to his own lips. "Now everyone will be talking about me, so don't worry, okay?"

Marinette lowered her hands, bright blue eyes twinkling with gratitude and relief before she stepped forward to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, and he offered her a hand.

"Would the lovely lady accompany me while I mingle with my father’s clients?" He quirked a brow, and she placed her hand in his with another laugh.

"She would love to," she said with a curtsey before Adrien led her to a group across the room.

Lila watched from across the room with a scowl, arms crossed over her chest and nail tapping in annoyance. Nathalie strolled up behind her with a sly smirk and leaned down to her ear.

"I overheard something interesting, alright," she said, and Lila's eyebrows raised with excitement. "I heard you ruined the dress that Mr. Agreste had made for Marinette."

"I did what I had to," she said with a shrug.

"Marinette was quite upset over it, and Adrien was very protective of her. They seem to care for each other a great deal," Nathalie said.

“Then I’ll just have to try something else to get them to talk. I promise you-” Lila started, but Nathalie cut her off.

“Need I remind you what’s at stake if you cannot provide evidence for your claims? Mr. Agreste is not a patient man,” Nathalie said, and Lila folded her arms over her chest, puffing out her cheeks. “You have until the end of the gala.”

“I understand, and you will get your proof. One way or another.”

***

“You doing okay?” Adrien asked pacing out onto the balcony later where Marinette stood looking out over the garden. “I brought you some cake.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, but upon seeing her sullen expression, he leaned against the railing beside her.

“You still upset about Lila?” She averted her gaze at that, so he nodded in understanding.

“She just always ruins everything! Your dad had this beautiful dress made, and she poured wine all over it,” Marinette said, hands curling into fists. “She’s just always out to ruin my life.”

Adrien eyed her a moment as she crossed her arms over her chest with a huff before reaching out to pull her into his arms. She leaned into his embrace as he rubbed her back and kissed her hair, nuzzling against his shoulder with a pout.

It was strange, but having her in his arms in that moment filled him with a sense of warmth like a small flame was burning in his chest. More than anything he wanted to protect that flame from harm at all cost to preserve that feeling. Marinette was someone precious to him, increasingly more so since all of this had started. She was willing to help him after he’d dragged her into a mess he’d created. She listened to him and made him laugh, but more than anything she made him feel safe.

When he pulled back slightly, she tilted her chin to look up at him, fluttery lashes hooding over bright blue eyes as he leaned down to touch his lips to hers, and the flame in his chest flickered and burned brighter. Kissing her had always stirred up such reactions in him since the very first time, and he was finally starting to understand them for what they were. So often now when he saw her, he found himself breathless and flushed, and whether she was dressed in pink pajamas with her hair in a sloppy bun over video chat or gliding across the ballroom floor in a flowing gown, she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. And Adrien was starting to understand the feelings that had been patiently bubbling inside him all this time, and he realized that he would give Marinette Dupain-Cheng the world if she asked.

“I could tell Nathalie what happened and have her escorted out,” he said after a moment when they pulled away, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I could tell everyone that she’s a liar, so no one would ever believe her again. Then she wouldn’t both you anymore.”

“You’d really do that for me?” Marinette glanced up at him, and his face softened.

“I’d do anything for you. All you have to do is ask,” he said gently, and she lowered her gaze again.

“No. I couldn’t ask you to do that. As awful as she is, I don’t want you to resort to that.” She shook her head, and Adrien hugged her closer, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s only one of the many things I love about you.”

And he meant it. It had taken him a long time to realize the root of his fascination with Marinette, but now it seemed so painfully obvious. Standing on the balcony with her in his arms, exchanging such delicate affections in soft whispers. Kissing her cheeks, her chin, her eyes, her nose until soft giggles curled her lips into a smile, and she trained those warm blue eyes on him again.

There was no one around to see the adoring gazes shared between them. No one to witness the way he pulled her close and kissed her slowly. Not a soul to see how she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. They were alone, but Adrien liked it that way. These feelings were his, and he only wanted to share them with the girl in his arms. Feelings he finally understood.

He was in love with Marinette.

“Cake?” He asked when they pulled away, and she smiled up at him and opened her mouth as he offered her a forkful.

The two giggled, affectionately feeding each other bites before deciding to head back inside, and Lila ducked behind a plant, clutching her phone with shaking hands. She couldn’t believe how careful they were being. Did they know she was watching? No. They couldn’t have. So how then had they not slipped up? None of it made sense.

She locked eyes with Nathalie across the room then quickly averted her gaze as she approached, turning her back as soon as Nathalie got close.

“I just need a little more time,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It’s time for Adrien and Marinette to leave, so your time is up,” Nathalie said calmly. "The two are in love, and the only obstacle in their relationship seems to be you, so Mr. Agreste has requested that I inform you that all negotiations are hereby terminated."

"What?" Lila spun around. "But I-"

"Mr. Agreste doesn't appreciate when his hard work is ruined or when people threaten his son's happiness," Nathalie said coldly. "He was quite clear when he told you that you were to prove your claims or be removed from your agreement, and seeing as Adrien has a girlfriend to look after him now, we no longer require your services."

"But I can prove it, Ms. Nathalie, I swear!" Lila pleaded. "Please, just give me one more chance."

"You failed to provide evidence of your claims, so your involvement in our affairs is over. Goodbye," Nathalie said before turning and walking away, leaving Lila to seethe as a little black butterfly landed on her phone, and a familiar voice brought a sly grin to her lips.

Gabriel wanted proof? Oh she'd get him proof.

#miraculous ladybug #adrinette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain-cheng #fake dating au #my writing

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baekchelor · 4 years

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𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

pairings: George Mackay x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13 synopsis: on the set of his new film, golden boy George Mackay learns a basic human truth: that the heart is deceitful above all things.

❝ i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.❞ —pablo neruda

THREE | HEARTACHE & FAREWELLS ◄ ᴘʀᴇᴠ

Daisy (against Geo's wishes) flies to Mumbai a little over a month into the shoot. Dharma is extending its filming period to six weeks, just as Alma predicted, so although George's left scenes are few, Daisy still gets to see him in action when —without an invitation, she arrives on set.

"I said I'd meet you at the hotel," he says as he greets her once Greta wrapped George’s last take for the day.

It's him and two other actors for this particular scene, in which Edmund reveals amidst the chaos of the Indian rebellion, he's well aware of James' feelings towards his wife.

Y/N is back at The Taj, probably still asleep. It is her free day, and George has come to learn the girl cherishes snooze above all things good. She'd rather stay in her Pj's and dreamland instead of strolling across Mumbai's beaches.

Daisy pecks George on the cheek, and a few of the staff members milling around them exchange curious glances. As far as George knows, no one but Dean and his sister, know about the friends-with-benefits situation with Daisy. And as far as he's concerned, everyone on the crew (except maybe Dev Patel. George suspects he's got a crush on Y/N too) were rooting and gossiping about Geo and Y/N's potential to become an item. So of course, they all seem taken aback with the unknown blonde wrapping her arms around George’s shoulder blades.

"I wanted to surprise you," Daisy whispers into his ear, standing on her tiptoes.

She's smiling up at him now, a complexion like peaches and cream, and George can make out signals of uncertainty in her expression. Daisy still looks as lovely as he remembers, yet not as beautiful as his lovely one. It hits him just then, how easily Y/N's smile can melt him down —and how, at this moment, Daisy's smile only makes him feel guilty.

"We're okay, aren't we, Georgie?" There it is again: the minimal furrowing of her brow, the vulnerable pull in her mouth. "You've just been busy, haven't you?"

He smiles back as tenderly as he can to reassure her. It seems to work because her features illuminate.

"Yeah," He puts his arm around her, the protectiveness of it a habit. Might this be how Y/N feels with Henry? "Come on. Let's go to The Taj."

Daisy's booked a separate room, of course. She even checked in at a completely different floor. George knows she's here on a mission, and she's going to try to spend at least one night in the same bed as he; but for some reason, it feels wrong to have a girl in the same mattress Y/N has fallen asleep, read books and talk to him about everything and nothing.

"Let's go out to dinner tonight," Daisy is wearing her hair down today, the way George likes it best. "Tell Y/N/N to come too. With a date, if she likes." Her expression slides into something conspiratorial. "She shouldn't have any trouble finding one by seven, right?"

"I don't see why she would," George manages to say, feeling the weight of it sink into his chest.

Things haven't been strange between him and Y/N. Not at all. Not if George ignores the razor-sharp awareness that prickles over his skin every time Y/N sits a little too close, so their thighs touch, or looks at her for a moment too long, so he catches that question Y/N never asked still lingering in her gaze.

Daisy is waiting expectantly, so against his inner-self will, and in an effort to prove God-knows-what to himself, George takes his phone and types out a message:

Two hours later, Y/N replies, and George realises he didn't clarify the fact that the Daisy in the matter isn't his sister but his friend. He doesn't want to let her know he has a physical relationship with a girl via text, so he opts to break the news before they walk into the restaurant.

George wipes off his lips with the corner of a table napkin. He keys in the name of the establishment, the time of their reservation and puts his phone away. Daisy sips her white wine, lashes thick and eyes reserved for him, and the likeness George would generally feel is overpowered by unease.

Much to George's dismay, Dev Patel —the other man in the crew who's also from London and can be referred to as London Boy (yes, George is still investigating if the nickname is reserved for him and if Y/N likes Taylor Swift)— is whom she brings as a date. He's much taller than her, the height difference more pronounced since Y/N is wearing flat sandals. The dress on Daisy is similar to the cobalt mini-dress loosely falling from Y/N's shoulders. Yet Daisy only manages to look almost —almost— as beautiful in George's eyes.

When Dev and Y/N walk into the restaurant together, her hand tucked around his arm, George experiences the tell-tale clench of disappointment. However, his inner self knows better, disappointment might be one of the many symptoms, but the most prominent is jealousy.

<< So there's a new London Boy. >>

"Y/N Y/L/N!" Daisy trills. "I'm so glad to finally meet you."

"Hello... Daisy?" Y/N replies with a discreet smile. She looks over at George, wondering why this Daisy is not the one she expected to encounter, this Daisy doesn't smile in the exact same way George does, and this Daisy is one Y/N hasn't ever heard about. George wants to apologize, entwine their hands and explain the long thread of misconceptions that took place since that one call in George's suite, but he knows this is not the place nor the right time to do it.

"Dev," London Boy #2 greets, extending his palm to shake Daisy's. George is grateful. "Are you George's girlfriend?

George is not grateful anymore.

Dev's eyes shine, he directs to George, "She's gorgeous, man."

"We're not a couple, actually."

"Oh."

"Yeah, we're complicated," Daisy ripostes.

George smiles at him half-heartedly, his gaze drifting immediately to Y/N's face. The studied neutrality on it, which every movie star learns to uphold in front of a press line —only to drop the facade when they're out with friends—, is what makes every trace of that half-smile disappear completely.

"What is it?" Daisy whispers as George pulls out her seat for her. No matter the situation, he is a gentleman.

George bends, so her lips are at the level of his ear. "What is what?"

Y/N catches the movement, and their eyes meet from across the table.

Daisy puts her little hand on George's bicep. "Why do you look so..." Y/N is staring at him, "...so sad?"

George's answer is stolen when charming Dev pulls out Y/N's chair for her. George has shared enough time with Dev on set, howbeit, he didn't realise how...touchy he is when he expresses his attention. The moment he is seated and Y/N smiles next to him, he brushes his fingers over her cheek and the corner of her mouth, with careful attention. Y/N isn't looking at George anymore.

On cue, George tears his eyes away too. "I don't know what you mean," he tells Daisy breezily, pressing his lips to her temple and sliding into his seat in one smooth movement. It's a dick move, he knows, but he has never felt so jealous in his whole life; thus, he cannot get a proper hold of his emotions.

Daisy is smart, intuitive, George is sure she doesn't buy his excuse when her hand cautiously removes itself from his arm and comes to fidget in her lap.

"Georgie..." she tries again, under her breath. Dev taps Y/N on the chin, and she responds with a tiny smirk.

Fuck it. George swallows harshly. There is a bitter taste in his mouth he can't seem to get rid of, not even after his second sip of scotch. "Everything is fine, Daisy."

But Daisy won't stop eyeing him after that. Long, searching looks from behind her menu and wine glass; quick, puzzled glances she tries to play off when Dev draws her into the conversation. When she reaches for it, George permits her to wrap her little hand around him under the table, but he doesn't squeeze back.

Y/N focuses her attention on Dev, letting her feed things to her off his plate with his fork and placing her hand between his shoulder blades when he murmurs a question into her waiting ear. It might be due to the same reason as George allows Daisy to hold his hand, or it might be because she is as angry as George suspects.

Dinner runs long, even though George can't remember anything that was discussed from the arrival of the breadbasket to the departure of the dessert plates. Only the cut of Y/N's lips, the bump of her chest when she breathes, her entire face in perpetual profile.

After picking at her food and swilling way too much chardonnay for her unlined stomach to handle, Daisy gets drunk. You've got to be kidding me, crosses George's mind before he's practically forced to piggyback Daisy out of the restaurant, into Tha Taj's elevator and to his room. She hooks her chin over his shoulder.

"Have fun tomorrow," Y/N susurrates. Dev has his palm at the small of her back, and George wants to slap it away.

"I'm sorry," George starts to say, but drunk Daisy surprises him by biting down gently on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. If he were not a good boy, a good London Boy, George would have dropped Daisy off his back. He wants her gone, now, yet he understands Daisy is at an awkward position, and he hasn't helped at all. George should be honest with her, how come, though? If he hasn't been honest with himself.

As an answer, Y/N shakes her head, dismissing the matter. She forces a smile, George can tell, it's the same expression he writes on his face when he's tired and annoyed and still has to stop to take photos at an Award Show. "Good night, heartbreak prince," Y/N murmurs.

That strikes a chord. George whips his face around, baffled. First London Boy, now Heartbreak Prince. He can't remember it as clear, but his sister repeatedly plays a particular album when she bakes, it is the same record London Boy belongs too, and a certain song, phrase, quote, lyric, contains those two words Y/N just told him: Heartbreak Prince.

Greta gives George the day off. The rumour has spread that a beautiful and clingy visitor surprised him on set yesterday. George hadn't asked for special treatment, but Gerwig insists.

"Show your girl around," the director says over the phone, in the sage tone of a mother. He can't help but correct her, Daisy is not his girl, merely a friend. Greta laughs, maintaining her position, "I'll film the scenes you aren't in. Marina and Edmund (George frowns at it, he doesn't want Michael Fassbender kissing his girl. But at least it is not Dev Patel), falling in love. I had their scenes programmed in two days, I'm just going to advance it. We'll survive without you for a day, prince."

Prince?

And again, he tortures himself with his endless theories about London Boy and Heartbreak Prince. He tells Daisy he's tired, so they reclude on his suite. To show Daisy around feels like betraying Y/N, he visited every landmark on the city with her, and he doesn't want to corrupt the memories by bringing a girl who's not her.

George pours Daisy a cup of coffee. She slept in his bed last night after he'd gently unzipped her dress and slipped one of his sleeping shirts over her head. George fell asleep in a chair by the bed, watching her breathe and feeling like a terrible person.

"Are you sure you don't want to go out? You shouldn't miss Mumbai's wonders because of me..." George comes to her side, handing her the cup, which she sets down on the nightstand. Then she holds out her arms, so he knows to crawl back into bed with her.

"I came here to be with you," she says, pulling him down until he's half on top of her. Her fingers thread through his hair on cue, but now the gesture lacks the confidence it used to have behind it. George doesn't know what makes him kiss her on the collarbone, almost like he's asking for forgiveness, but he does it once, twice, before resting his cheek against her chest.

They only have sex towards the end of the day, after George has texted his sister concerning a Taylor Swift song —he thinks is— about a Heartbreak Prince. As the other Daisy dips a teaspoon in each of the tarts and cakes available on the in-room dining menu, his sister sends him a youtube link to a song called Ms Americana & The Heartbreak Prince. George doesn't play it, it would be weird if he pulled out his AirPods with Daisy in the room. Instead, he reads the lyrics.

Scrolling through the words, he comes to terms that the nicknames might be nothing but a coincidence. He is indeed from London, and if anybody saw the way Daisy' stared at him at yesterday's dinner, they would have called him Heartbreak Prince as well. But another part of him, really wants it to be premeditated. He wants to be the London Boy, and he wants to be the boy Y/N thinks of when —if— she listens to Taylor Swift sing: you know I adore you, I’m crazier for you.

At dusk, when Daisy slides her hand up the back of his shirt, scratching lightly down his spine, George knows what she wants. She keeps her eyes open like she wants to memorise the expression on his face as he divests her of her underwear and pulls her body against his. Her mouth tastes like strawberries.

Daisy was never very vocal in bed. Whenever they get together, which is often because who's George kidding, that's basically the purpose of a no-strings-attached relationship, she muffles her moans into his shoulder or trades them for delicate gasps. The look of pure, unadulterated pleasure on her face expresses more than any sound could. Tonight, on the contrary, as he moves over her, she cries out uninhibitedly, like she doesn't care if anybody hears. Like she would just keep going even if someone came knocking on the door demanding her to shut the fuck up.

"Daisy," George forces out in the heat of it all, brows furrowed. "Am I hurting you?" And even as he says it, he hopes, so fervently, that Y/N is still out filming, not alone in her room next door, privy to their noise. It makes him sick to his stomach. The fact that he's thinking about someone else —another girl— when Daisy is wet and naked beneath him. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"Not like this," Daisy mumbles.

The cryptic nicknames are still running through George's mind when he's led to a chair and simultaneously seen to by hair and makeup. Daisy left this morning, much to George's relief. The feeling doesn't last long. He knows he should expect it by now (They shoot ninety per cent of their scenes together, for god's sake) but that doesn't stop him from jerking in surprise at the sweet sound of Y/N's voice. It sends his stomach into knots, and he swears he can feel something fluttering around.

"Hello," is all she says as she climbs into the makeup chair opposite George's. The stylists enveloped her in a white lace ruffle gown. Her dyed black, long hair has been placed into two victory rolls at either side of her head. It makes her look like a fucking angel and there, right there, is that wretched question in her eyes.

George folds his lips to wet them. "Long time no see, Gorgeous." He ventures, because his research told him it is also a Taylor Swift song, and maybe she'll take the sign that he has discovered her little riddle —if it even exists.

"It's only been a day," Y/N giggles. "But I know what you mean."The tinge of longing behind it does not go unnoticed.

"I didn't know about you and Dev," George ventures, because he can't help himself. "I guess it really is off this time with Henry."

"It's been over for a while, Geo." Y/N looks over, and the heat of her innocent gaze sets every single bump on George's spine on fire. "And Dev is just–"

"Are you sleeping with him?" George butts in.

Y/N's eyes darken. She’s clearly mad, and with the right to, what the fuck is wrong with him? "No. I'm not sleeping with him and its none of your business." Her voice is sharp and hollow, and George can only think about how even though he just screwed up, he can still get the girl. That, until Y/N continues, "Only one of us has bedded someone since we got to Mumbai, and it isn't me."

George flushes, swift as a sea swell. "You heard us?"

"I didn't have to," Y/N replies dryly.

Then, just like the first day they'd met, at the read-through in London, she seems to sense that she's said too much, and her mouth —that perfect, kissable mouth, stills over the last word. She shifts in her seat.

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "That was inappropriate of me."

"I'm sorry, too," George offers in return. Everything about the apology is melancholic.

"For what?"

"Thinking you were sleeping with him." After a pause, he continues, “And telling you about it. That was really disrespectful.”

But that's a lie. George is sorry for so many other things. He apologizes because he feels like he's just cheated on someone, and worse, on someone who's not even with him. Call him coward, George doesn't want to ruin what they have. What if she isn't over Henry? What if things don't work between them and they can never go back to this?

He doesn't know how long they sit in silence; it could be three minutes, it could be thirty. The hairstylists and makeup artists have long finished their work and proceeded to the craft service table. The crew is having technical difficulties today, something about the street’s uncooperative lighting. From behind them, George can make out an intense discussion on veganism between two of their co-stars (one plays Marina's maid, and the other plays Clint, a soldier who's close friends with James). Tomorrow, the girl and two other actors who portray Marina's parents will fly back to London, having completed their scenes in Mumbai.

George and Y/N, along with the rest of the actors who interpret Marina's love interests and Clint, will stay on for another six days to complete theirs.

"When I was dating Henry," Y/N says out of the blue, her voice stumpy but clear over the din of production. George smiles at the past tense she employs. "Someone else tried to confess his feelings for me."

"Just one person?" George is not in the teasing mood, so his smirk is lukewarm. He wants to thin the heavy sensation in the air around them. "I find that hard to believe."

"So did I," Y/N continues, "because we were really close friends."

That's not what George had meant, nor what he had been expecting. He wanted her to giggle, laugh even, not to feel like she's speaking to him. Maybe she suspects George fancies her, and this is her way to prevent him from going further.

"Oh." It takes a little time for him to formulate a better response. Y/N waits, or at least, that's what it feels like. "How did it happen?"

She picks at her fingernails, "He told me at a dinner party."

“What's a dinner without a little drama," George says, referring to their dinner with Daisy and Dev, just to fill in the static.

"After dinner, the cast was supposed to head to a bar and him, Booboo, said he wanted to drive with me."

"Booboo…” The name is too singular not to recognize. "Booboo Stewart?"

"Yes," she confirms. Y/N's fingers curl in the lacey fabric of her dress. "We walked to the parking lot together. And just like that, he began to tell me."

A chill treads lightly over George's nape. "What did he say?"

"Nothing," Y/N takes a deep, deep breath and releases it, like something in it has pained her. "I shut him down so fast. " Y/N's mouth sets in a grim line. "I asked him if he enjoyed the dinner, and all in a rush changed the subject to Henry and how good our relationship was at the moment...'"

"And what did he say?" George whispers. His heart is pounding out a hazardous beat.

"He didn't say a word," she tells him. "His face just crumpled, right there in front of me, and I felt so terrible." Y/N tugs at the snug, starched silver necklace she’s wearing as if it's part of the problem. "He was pretty much my best friend among the cast, you know? So I just pretended it never happen. I wanted him to know I still considered him a friend."

George can already see where this is going.

"But after that night, things just turned so weird between us," Y/N says. She's not looking at George, it only adds to his unease. "We couldn't rescue our friendship."

"It ruined it..." George murmurs.

The girl exhales, and it's as pained as it had been earlier. Her eyes have mellow considerably, and finally, she stares right into George's blue eyes. They don't exchange words for a while, their gazes seem to hold enough meaning. George is scared, frightened really, but he still manages to ask what intrigues him.

"Why," his throat works. "Why are you telling me this story?"

"I don't know." Y/N's voice falters, and George waits for the worst. Instead, she says something George didn't expect: "I guess because, recently, I feel like I'm Booboo, trying to say something and getting cut off before I can."

"If you're Booboo," George says, with a twinge, "then who is you?"

The look on Y/N's face is bewildered; soft and yielding too, like overheated butter.

There is a fifty per cent chance —George thinks to himself—, that she won't say what he wants her to say; rather, she will name the London Boy whose hair is black and eyes are brown. That leaves a fifty per cent chance —he continues thinking—, that Y/N will say what George wants her to say. And that is his name.

It is you, George.

"All right!" Greta bellows from the centre of the car park. Y/N snaps to attention, and the spell binding them together is broken. "Lighting issue addressed. We're ready for you!"

Inside, George's organs have turned to quicksand, caving into themselves speck by speck.

"That's us," Y/N says, hopping out of her chair. "Thanks for letting me ramble over my ridiculous stories," she laughs, and it rings with nerves.

George gets up too. "I like your stories," he mutters, suddenly thinking about closure and the different definitions it would hold for him, for Daisy, for Y/N and for, now happy (he hopes), Booboo Stewart.

"Excuse me?"

George didn't realize he wanted to tell someone so severely until Dean called and asked him about his time in Mumbai, his scenes for Dharma, and if he had won the bet. "You did. I liked it. Kissing Y/N."

"Are you telling me?”

"I want her." No filter. "I think I'm infatuated with her."

"Wow." Nothing is masking Dean's shock. "Wow. All this time, I was having a blast teasing you about it, because you're not the kind of man that falls for his co-star, but...wow." He chokes out a laugh. "You won't be a bachelor anymore, huh?"

"Won't I?" George says miserably. "Nothing is going to happen, Dean."

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"No." He and Y/N only talk in riddles. "It doesn't matter, either way, because I won't ruin our friendship."

"I understand," Dean puts in. For the first time in many months, George can tell his friend is being wholly serious. "But can things really go back to the way they were now that you know?"

"Now that I know...what?" A question for a question. It's always been a bad habit of George.

Dean spells it out for him with impatience. George can imagine him rolling his eyes, sick of him, "That you have these feelings for her." He exhales. "I hate to be the one to break this out for you, but if you don't tell her how you feel and she goes back to Henry or dates someone else, do you know how will that make you feel?" Dean barrels on, not bothering to stop for breath. "Ridiculous! Full of regrets! Like you lost her when you had the opportunity to be with her, right there in front of you. Idiot."

George grips his phone a little tighter. "I won't get hurt. And I have Daisy." He's gritting his teeth, molars digging into each other as he speaks. "She's a good girl, and she loves me, might give her a chance."

The silence is back, but only for a moment. "I understand you, Geo." It feels like their stations have been reversed, and Dean is age, and George is beauty. "Daisy is everything good." It's sad the way Dean says it, pitiful, even. "But you can't stay with people just because they're good. You stay with them because they are everything."

George tries to form a rebuttal to that, the leather case of his phone squeaking in his hand from how tightly he's grasping it. But he comes up empty, and he and Dean huff into the receiver at the same time.

The final scene of Marina and James is ironically, filmed on their last day in Mumbai. It is their reunion, where a wounded James comes back from England, unaware that Clint informed Marina about the injuries he suffered while fighting the rebellion, and that at the same fire in which Colonel Edmund lost his life, James lost his sight. Marina loves him and is finally able to be with him, even if Edmund is ashamed of the way his face, and body looks.

They're filming the whole thing at the Gateway of India. George remembers it well from the time they went to Elephanta and Y/N held onto his arm as if her life depended on it. George will remember it for another reason now: the end of a brief, bewitching chapter.

Greta Gerwig pulls his two leading stars into a meeting before she starts rolling. "I want to work with you two again," she says warmly. "I knew this movie was going to be a success when you both signed on."

They smile in turn, murmuring their thanks.

The director gets down to business, looking pleased as punch. "What I need you to do for me in this last scene is making me feel the longing." She squeezes her fists together with gusto. Then she looks at them with a smile painted on her thin lips. "I want it to feel like you're the only two people left in the world. Forget about the extras, and Aakesh looking at the scene. You don't see anybody else —George quite literally—, or hear anybody else, except the person in front of you, and how much you missed them while you were separated." Greta breathes in. "You think you can do that?"

"I'll try my best, Boss," Daniella says in earnest. George nods along, watching her. He wonders if Greta Gerwig, the screenwriter and the vastness of the universe are all conspiring against him.

George repasses his lines on his head, it's supposed to be a sign to the last time James and Marina saw each other —when they made love. The lines are the same, only said different, and George knows every single sentence James will speak to the woman he loves when he hears Greta Gerwig's "Action!"

George can hear the sound of his own breathing crisp in his ears. If he cuts his eyes, just so, to the right, he can make out the rosy swell of Y/N's lip.

"Can you love me like this?" he murmurs, chest heaving. The force of his real-life emotion slams into him like a concrete wall.

"Always" Y/N —no, it's Marina, Marina— thumbs over the still open scar that cuts from his right eye to his chin. Then, so slowly it aches, she kisses him.

There's a celebration party that evening at an Italian Restaurant. It's on the eighth floor of a midrise commercial building. From the window, George observes the rows and columns of flashy lights that crowd the horizon, blinding and unapologetic.

He and Y/N stick close together, preceding conversation for a silence that teems with unsaid things.

As the night winds down, and the people around them begin to file out in a wine-induced haze, George is emboldened enough to ask, "Can I sleep in your room tonight?" He knows how close he is to reveal himself (if George hasn't done it already), how inappropriate it is to ask that to a girl, and he doesn't give a shit. "For old time's sake."

"Uhm…yeah, no problem," Y/N answers. "Whatever you want." It's so simple, yet so loaded, and it makes George curl his toes inside his sneakers.

They take turns in the shower. George's brought his sleeping clothes and his toothbrush, the way he does when he goes over to Daisy's...but George stops the thought right there because he's decided to be selfish this final night. He's not going to think about her at all, neither about Henry or Dev Patel. Not even about the potential, this night has to ruin their friendship.

In the morning, when he flies back to London, everything will go back to normal anyway.

Y/N is already in bed when George emerges from the in-suite bathroom. She props himself up on her elbows when he shuts the bathroom door. Then she smiles, and she pats the space beside her, just like a friend would. It's the same side George had slept on when they'd taken that nap together.

"Did I wake you?" George asks, feeling warm and wistful.

"I wasn’t asleep" is Y/N's reply. "But I should be. Come on."

George feels the dip of the mattress under his backside. The linens guard fragrance of the detergent, and he senses the stillness of the air between his arm and Y/N's, under the covers, where they do not touch.

The girl turns over on her side. "We had a good time, didn't we?" Her breath fans over George's cheeks, toothpaste-fresh.

"I had a blast." George stares at one of the switched-off ceiling lights. "I had so much fun working with you. And even when we weren't working," he adds in haste. "Every second of it."

Y/N is heavy-lidded, but not in a way that suggests lethargy. "The feeling," she says, "is mutual."

One, two, three, four, breathe. George tries to resist, tries to keep his head above water, but it's as if his body is on autopilot. He turns over on his side too, so he and Y/N can see each other's faces.

He lets the words breach his lips before he can change his mind. "Did Henry ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

It's enough to disrupt the assembly line of Y/N's slow, steady blinks. George loves the way her eyelids flutter, completely surprised. He files it away for the future when he can no longer see it up close.

Y/N's lips part. "Not recently."

"Take it from another man, then," he says with conviction. "You are beautiful."

"You’re very handsome yourself," his companion mumbles.

George's heart pulses painfully. All right, George, it seems to chide. That's enough. That should be enough to last you.

It's like Y/N has read his mind: "We should get some sleep." She presses her lips together; they're moist at the centre from where she's darted out her tongue. "Early flight tomorrow."

"You're right," the boy agrees. And at that very moment, he feels impossibly reckless.

There's a surge of something potent behind his ribcage, and then he's leaning over and pecking Y/N's bottom lip —so softly, it could almost pass as innocent.

"Good night, Gorgeous," he whispers, bravado slipping a mile and minute. He doesn't look her in the eye. He only turns his body in the opposite direction and switches off the lamp on his nightstand.

The room falls dark.

When Y/N cautiously hooks an arm over his waist and keeps it there, it liquefies George's bones.

"Sweet dreams, Geo," she whispers into his nape. Her voice is defenceless, and it seems to suggest that Y/N isn't holding him to any promises. "Thank you for Mumbai," she tells him, and it breaks George's heart.

ɴᴇxᴛ ►

A/N: The next chapter is the last one, loves. xx

#George mackay #George mackay x reader #1917 #william schofield #schofield #Thomas blake #blake #dean charles chapman #Henry cavill

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