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cheralith · 3 months

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

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

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

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

word count ; 10.2k

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

now playing ; seven days in sunny june - jamiroquai

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(Y/N) (L/N)?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was inspired by your work.”

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

“Fashion is my absolute passion.”

“I want to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not without glancing at you one last time.

Much has changed in the past month for the better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is that…” Shigemo mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… somehow replicates your own face perfectly.

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

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

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

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zoekeating · 3 months

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Dear Listeners,

Happy 2024 to you, in all its weirdness.

I’m working on NEW MUSIC and will be sharing little bits of it and my process with you as I go along. For now, I’m putting the videos on Instagram and my Facebook Page and will link to them on my blog (sorry I let that lapse, somehow I managed to forget blogging existed). Here’s the first, a snippet of a song with the working title “Supernumerary”

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A post shared by Zoe Keating (@zoecello)

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What else? There are a few concerts in the immediate future:

March 15 - ArtYard - Frenchtown, NJ

March 16 - Underground Arts - Philadelphia, PA

March 17 - Le Poisson Rouge - NYC, NY

March 21 - Big Ears Festival - Knoxville, TN

The show in Philadelphia is opening up for my old friends, the Sleepytime Gorilla Museum. My connections to members of that band go back 20+ years to my 964 Natoma days. I first encountered Nils Frykdahl in the previous millennium while he was playing amplified flute in the rafters of the warehouse along with Dan Rathburn making noise and sparks with an arc welder that illuminated butoh performer Shinichi Moma Koga contorting himself on a metal grate. Anyway, Sleepytime is a delightful group of very talented avant garde art rockers and this year needs more of their unfiltered catharsis. I immediately said yes when they asked if I would play for one of their East Coast dates to support their new album.

The Big Ears festival is something I’ve wanted to play at for almost a decade, so I am beyond thrilled to be added this year. I’ll be sticking around for the festival to hear as many of the other artists as possible, it’s off the hook, check it out https://bigearsfestival.org/

More concerts dates are coming in the autumn. East, west, middle, as many as I can fit in ;-)

Thank you for listening!

celloly yours, Z

#big ears festival #cello music #sleepy time gorilla museum #zoecello

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bbc-trolls · 3 months

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But now I'm imagining Branch being approached by the twins again, now that he and Poppy are together. Satin and Chenille love him as a model for the clothes they make, and he's modeled for them before. So he thinks nothing of it when they ask him to pose for photos again for their new collection.

This time is preferable to the last, the style much less avante garde and much more wearable. They dress him up in cowboy garb and have him pose with his vest open. Then they smear soot on him and dress him like a firefighter. Then he's a pilot and they take pictures against the wind in the trees. At one point he's in a rocker outfit again, and they painstakingly apply make up tattoos on almost every spare inch of skin on his arms and torso. The pictures they take are methodical, and it's all done within a day.

They send him off praising him for being their model. Except they deflect when he asks what catalogue this is for. They say he'll thank them later.

A week later is Poppy's birthday, and Satin and Chenille win bragging rights for giving the Queen possibly the best personalized gift she'd ever recieved... a calandar - filled with a different saucily shot photo of her boyfriend for every month.

Everyone thinks this is the greatest and fricking the funniest thing ever, especially Poppy who hangs it on her wall immediately in front of everyone. And Branch can't even be mad because Poppy is screaming and shrieking and crying about how much she loves it, and she gives him lots of kisses.

He concedes that the twins deserve some thanks later.

#broppy #trolls poppy #dreamworks trolls #trolls #trolls branch #satin and chenille

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notcaycepollard · 1 year

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okay but something I think is so fascinating about goncharov that I haven't seen anyone else talk about is the way food (and consumption) is emblematic of one of the absolute core themes of the film: the way goncharov is so conflicted with his desire for freedom and non-conventional relationships and how that's fundamentally inconsistent with (both externally socially imposed and his own internal) expectations of what is acceptable. and you see that play out in a way that has to be deliberate because to me it's just too explicit to be accidental. when you go back and watch in detail it's obvious that goncharov is always eating, always consuming, when he's interacting with andrey compared to his denial of hunger in almost every interaction with katya. and then on top of that the casual and (what some might argue) inappropriate nature of the food goncharov chooses when it's andrey offering, compared to the rigid enforcement of domesticity as represented by the meals goncharov conspicuously fails to eat with katya, G O D. the way it's filmed? the precise and artificial symmetry of those tables and how she's framed by the candles, the silverware? and like, I know we're all obsessed with the anchovy scene and I get it, it makes me just as feral as everyone else and also we all get it, anchovy as stand in for going down on someone, it's not SUBTLE, but to me the fruit stall scene is just as important. it's the first time goncharov is offered something and takes it!! and I don't think it's coincidence either that what goncharov chooses - what andrey offers - is representative of naples, as opposed to the traditional russian food katya is always serving.

and like honestly, I know some people interpret the dinner scenes with katya as misogynistic, I'm not saying it's not a valid take, but again to me I think it speaks just as much about how trapped katya is by social expectations too. she tries so hard to perform the role of the good wife, polishing the fucking silverware and making blini when she deserves so much more than that, and then there's the parallel of sofia offering her a lick of her gelato and honestly can you really tell me the anchovy scene is still your favourite, katya/sofia is so fucking slept on, the tension!!!! L I K E come on how is everything in this film about fucking oral sex I mean

anyway the way that by the end of the film these conflicts are resolved with goncharov and katya at the table on the street, finally eating together but in a way that's not constrained by the trappings of domesticity or the expectation of remaining true to your roots, katya is finally seen by goncharov as a whole person with her own internal life and he's able to break bread with her, that final shot of them drinking wine with the church behind them, it's just, the catholicism in this film is a lot okay

and like I truly think that the way rusty in ocean's eleven is always eating is a deliberate homage to this film, we know soderbergh is influenced by avant-garde cinema and I don't think that's coincidence, and now I'm going to go write the katya-centric fic I want to see in the world with the title 'lay the table (with the fancy shit)' because I am inveterate taylor swift trash

#goncharov

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wordsnstuff · 3 months

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Why does screenwriting have such a weird format? I know it's standard for scripts of all kinds, but it's also alien? It almost looks like it's designed for someone to write quickly??

Why are screenplays the way they are?

Screenplays are interesting pieces of writing because while they can read very beautifully, and quality is apparent in some scripts more than others, it is a medium that is extremely purposeful. The script is not the final destination of the idea, and that is what you have to remember. The script is, more than anything, a map. It gives the cast, crew, and producers the necessary information to get a sense of the story so that it can be adapted effectively. Therefore, the quality of a script is judged by a completely different rubrick:

Adaptability: Scripts are naturally going to go through many changes to serve the filmmaking process. Filmmaking is a fundamentally collaborative process so other members of the group must be able to effectively interpret the script well enough to make strategic improvements. Scripts are definitely works of art in their own right, but the design must account for adaptation into a completely different medium and you will not always be the person making executive decisions on how that is to be done.

Clarity: Creative liberty is acceptable in a lot of forms of writing, and style is definitely apparent in a screenwriter's work, but that is primarily to be found in how they practically form the elements of the story, rather than how it is delivered in words. The clearer your meaning and intent in a script, the easier it will be for the other people you're collaborating with to interpret and translate into the next medium. Even if your work is meant to be experimental, abstract, or avant garde, the script is the place where you make sure everyone that is inside of the production understands the point, so that they can help you make sure everyone outside of it is confused in the desired way. Your talent and style can be showcased in the way you demonstrate the particular brand of humor or suspense or drama in the descriptions, dialogue, and dialogue cues.

Efficiency: Format is extremely strict in the industry because it is a collaborative medium that often brings together hundreds of crew members who are all from different backgrounds/experience. The one thing that must remain consistent and reliable is the legibility of the script. The gaffer and the producer alike must be able to pick up the script and find what they need to learn in order to fulfill their role. The format of the script denotes specific crew member's cues in specific places so they know how to find what's expected of them quickly and efficiently. While on larger productions, there's often many directorial positions who are coordinating and communicating with the crew members who handle more detail oriented jobs, that isn't always the case.

My advice, if you're looking to gain experience in writing scripts that are actually meant to be adapted is to practice self-discipline, pragmatism, and distance. Your script won't always belong to you. There isn't the autonomy in screenwriting that you have in prose. Learn the rules of screenwriting, then learn how to enhance them in your own way.

Best of luck,

x Kate

–

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#writing #writeblr #writespo #writing advice #screenwriting #script #screenplay #qna

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theendisneat · 3 months

Text

Arranged Marriage [pt.1.3 (The In-Between)]

Pairing: Zhongli x gn!reader

Warnings: Mild blood, mild sexual content, injury, semi-graphic depiction of illness

“Why is it so difficult for you to dodge?” You muttered, stitching another of your husband’s wounds. “I mean, you’re a martial god, your prowess is second to none, yet you couldn’t dodge the very visible spear heading your way?”

The stab wound on Morax’s side was already beginning to heal, you could tell, but your hands needed something to do to cover their shaking. You settled for cleaning and disinfecting the wound, stitching it up and slathering it in salve before wrapping gauze tightly around his abdomen.

“The spear was not entirely visible-”

At the sight of your unimpressed stare, Morax fell silent.

You sigh, finishing the bandages. You move to stand in front of him, tenderly cupping his face, bringing his forehead to your own. “Honestly, it’s almost like you go looking for fights that present a struggle. With how little you care about your own well-being you’d better be happy that I learned the medicinal arts. Just because you’re a powerful being does not mean you should be tanking damage!”

His hands fall to your waist. You felt his clawed fingernails dig into your sides. “I will abstain from being so careless next time-”

“Next time?!”

“And I will train proficiently in dodging to avoid this scenario from repeating.” He said it with such determined assurance you couldn’t help but sigh, your eye twitching from stress.

“I suppose that’s the best I can ask for. I’m not even going to bother with ‘be more careful’.” You poked his nose, his eyes crossing to focus on your finger. “But you’re not going into another battle until that wound is completely healed, and you better not try to speed it up! I’ll know.”

“That is acceptable.” His hands circle your waist bringing you into a hug, his head resting on your shoulder, nuzzling the crook of your neck.

You stood between his legs, arms crossed as you refused to hug him back. “I am still mildly annoyed at your recklessness, why do you think you get cuddles?”

“Because no matter how angry they are, my spouse always relents to cuddles.” Morax muttered, almost petulantly.

“You are very lucky this situation was not worse.” You grumble but relent, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and bringing him closer. With his chest squished to your own, your necklace tapped between, you could feel the slow thumps of his heartbeat.

It’s a quiet morning. The surrounding gardens of you and your husband’s abode sway with a pleasant, cool breeze. Flowers tremble, leaves dance. The water rustles ever so slightly, the little fish swimming in slow loops, playfully chasing after each other.

A blanket is spread beneath you, soft and thick, padding your knees and you kneel behind your sitting husband. Your fingers brush through his hair, detangling it from the top of his head to where it falls to his waist. Your hand goes to the pile of little flowers by your side, carefully, you chose one and braided it into Morax’s hair.

He sat still as you continued, flower after flower, until his head looked like an avant-garde mess of petals and intricately woven braids. Thin strands of hair you couldn’t tie back fell to frame his face, softening his sharp, draconic features.

“Very pretty.” You murmur absentmindedly from behind him, and he felt something swell within his chest. A light dust of pink coated his cheeks and didn’t restrain the smile on his lips.

“Stay away from me!” His voice was low, a shaking, snarling, timber. His lips were pulled back over his sharpened teeth, eyes slitted and bright gold. The small horns that normally rested on his head had branched out like antlers, the tips as pointed and deadly as a dagger.

He was crouched over, his hands pressed against the ground and legs behind him in a distinctly inhuman, animalistic position. Brown scales with a gold shimmer came in patches along his bare torso, a whipping tail of similar color with a puff of gold fur at the end sprouting from just over the waistband of his pants.

Something had happened out in the field, what, you didn’t know, but it left your husband stumbling home, unable to keep his cool, practically exploding with rage as he walked through the threshold. At first you were thoroughly startled, flinching when a bang echoed throughout the house and Morax fell to the ground in your living room, writing as if in pain.

Now you stood a few feet away from him, a tight curl in your chest. “Morax, just tell me what’s wrong, let me help you.”

“Get away!” He growled. “It’s an enhancer! It aggravates all my primal instincts as a dragon.” He groaned, his forehead falling to rest against the cool floor. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous Morax! If your primal instincts are being enhanced, don’t you think that as your spouse you’d feel protective towards me instead of angry? The fear of hurting me and the irritation towards the situation are clouding your mind. You need to calm down.” You sit on the ground, your legs crossed, and wave your hands. “Come on.”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes gleaming unsurely, but relents and crawls over, his claws making little indents in the floors. You hold your arms out and he slots himself in your lap. His head goes over your shoulder, something you’re glad about as it keeps the antlers out of your face, his arms around your waist, and his legs hanging over your thighs.

His breath is heavy, hands shaking, and you know he’s trying to keep any lingering anger under control, trying to funnel the emotion into protectiveness, joy, anything that would keep him from harming you.

You buried one hand in his hair, gently scratching his scalp, and the other went around his waist so you could hold him close. His chest rumbled with aggravated growls and his hands were tense from trying not to dig them into your delicate flesh. “I’ve got you.” You whispered soothingly. “I’ve got you.”

“Sing… for me.” He managed to choke out, his heavy breath hitting your neck. “Your voice… it helps.”

“Morax, you know I’m not a good singer.”

“Please.” You looked down to see his head resting limply against your shoulder, nose pressed to your neck, with wide, blown out eyes. He looked miserable, uncomfortable, and almost… scared.

“Alright, alright.” You tilted your head so it was leaning on his. “My love, my love, my fearless love…”

The dark night sky contrasted greatly with the warmth of your bedroom. Surrounded by dark browns and golds, the warm glow of the candles bouncing off the walls. You and your husbands were wrapped in the heavy blankets of your bed, winter chilling you to the bone.

You snuggled close to Morax, constricting yourself around him like a boa as you attempted to soak up his warmth. But his body was lukewarm at best and it seemed that any warmth that existed between the two of you was being given to him.

“Why are you not warm?” You groan. “You are a dragon.”

“I am a reptile, my love. That’s not how my body works.” Your husband mumbles. His eyes drooping and hair splayed across the pillows haphazardly was a wonderful sight and yet you couldn’t enjoy it as a shiver wracked your body.

Finally, having had enough you got out of bed. Going to the kitchen, you filled several cylindrical glass bottles full of warm water and wrapped each bottle of a thick towel. Carrying them all back to bed, you swiftly yanked all the pillows off. Your husband stayed perfectly still, his breath shallow but even, as you secured the bottles around the bed and then covered them in blankets. After tucking the blankets around the bottles and Morax, you shimmied into the bed yourself, sighing contently when you could feel the warmth from the bottles near your feet begin to sink into the sheets.

Snuggling into Morax, you brought one of the many fur blankets up to his shoulder. “Better?”

“Much.” He breathed out.

With that, the both of you were able to fall into a restful sleep.

A flash of green and black smoke interrupted your reading. Looking up from your book, you saw a man you knew wasn’t as young as he appeared. Green hair falling in feathered cuts, golden eyes sharp and attentive, and the stance of someone ready to fight at all times.

He was at your wedding, looking particularly indifferent about the circumstances, but you had never spoken to him directly. Now he stood in front of you.

“Where is Rex Lapis?” Despite being so small and young looking, his voice was fairly raspy.

“Ask nicely.” You closed your book and set it to the side, placing your hands in your lap and looking at him expectantly.

His cheeks fluttered as he clenched his teeth and his eyes narrowed. He gave a shallow bow and spoke, his tone more agreeable. “I’m looking for Rex Lapis, have you seen him?”

You smile. “He’s not here.” Seeing the Adeptus’ eyes flash you chuckled. “But he will be soon, so sit down. I’ll get you something nice.”

Not wanting to disobey orders from his master’s spouse, he kneeled down in front of the low table, his back stiff and face blank.

You went to the kitchen and grabbed a treat you had been saving for yourself, but didn’t mind sharing. You placed it in front of the Adeptus. “Here, it’s not too sweet. Very pleasant. My mother taught me how to make it when she was still alive.”

Hesitantly, he began to eat, his face still blank. “It is good.”

“Thank you. It’s called almond tofu. You can enjoy it while we wait for my husband to get here.” You kneeled down on the opposite side of the table and once again, picked up your book. The atmosphere was quiet, yet not oppressively silent. The both of you enjoyed the quiet time together until Morax came home and looked upon the scene with confusion.

You cried as your coughed up blood, the thick liquid plopping into the bucket that had been placed by the bed. Your body shook, covered in a thin sheen of sweat as your breath rattled horribly in your chest. You flopped back down on the bed, arms too weak to hold you up and the fuzz around your eyes only growing.

Morax was by your side. His fingers threaded through your hair in an attempt to comfort you. He could only watch as his lover fell apart, watch as their body slowly grew thinner, as they stopped eating or moving or smiling. It pained him greatly to see the state they had been brought to because of this illness. He was only lucky that his Adeptus body was not affected by human illnesses and thus could stay by your side with no fear of contracting it himself.

You rolled over, and even though it felt like it had taken too much energy, and draped yourself over Morax. Despite being sweaty, and at risk of coughing up blood again, your husband didn’t push you away, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close for you to soak up the coolness of his body.

“Morax… Morax… the medicine, when will it be ready?” Your muttering sounded almost delirious, breathy and disconnected. A glaze settled in your eyes.

“Soon, my love. The doctor is saying that this illness is rather difficult to deal with and has to create a new medicinal formula to aid you, but he’s positive that he’ll be able to do it. You’ll be just fine soon enough.”

Clawed hands slid up your trembling legs, slightly digging into the plump flesh. A long, slitted tongue infiltrated your mouth, filling your head with cotton as it explored from behind your teeth to the back of your throat.

Your gasps between kisses were heady and your hands were clingy, nails sinking into the hard contours of his back, his hips grinding against yours. His touch was intoxicating, filling your mind till all you could think of was him.

Even in his neediness, he was gentle, his claws not daring to rip off clothing as he slowly peeled you bare, until you laid before him like a newly bloomed flower. Your face was red, chest heaving with gasping breaths after you had just been kissed senseless. With no time to think, hot kisses, more akin to bites, trailed down your neck, sharp canines teasing you, and you couldn’t but wish they would clamp down and give you a pretty bruise to admire later.

You couldn’t take the slowness. Hooking your knee around his waist, you used all your body weight to flip the two of you over. Now, sitting on his stomach, hands pressing down on his chest, you got a good look at how debauched your husband was. Eyes blown so wide there was only a ring of amber around the pupil. His hair was messy, knotted from your tight grip, and there was a dark blush high on his cheeks.

Your hands trailed all over his body. From his face down to his neck, chest, arms, and pelvis. He was sensitive, you realized, as he shivered pleasantly with each graze of your fingertips, head tilted back, leaving his neck free.

Unlike Morax, you had no reservations about how much your husband could take. While he was constantly worried about harming you with his draconic features, you couldn’t share the same concerns. You sucked harsh kisses to his neck and left your husband mottled with red bruises slowly darkening and little indents from your teeth. A particular bite behind his ear had him moaning, his hands clenched around your waist.

Overcome with adoration, you nibbled on his ear, whispering praises and various forms of ‘I love you’ that had him melting into a pile of goo, a lovestruck smile on his face.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #zhongli x you #zhongli x reader #zhongli #rex lapis #genshin xiao #fanfic #injury #mild smut

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purriteen · 1 month

Text

Control - Coriolanus Snow, act i.

“Dulce puella malum est” / “Woman is a sweet poison" -Ovid

synopsis: A handsome young congressman catches your eye. After your one-night stand, your paths soon cross once more and it turns out he holds more power over your future than you thought.

warnings: smut, relatively vanilla, reader has mommy issues, somewhat ooc Coriolanus cause canon Snow has 0 rizz, a little misogyny if you squint (?), more to come in act ii. no use of y/n.

this can be read as a standalone.

author’s note: hopefully you guys don’t mind the difference in format compared to AdVS, I tried to make this less rushed and bare-bones 🫶🏻

I can’t believe I just used the word rizz. I’m so sorry.

(side note: I've no idea if there's any such thing as congress in Panem, but fuck it, I say he's gotta put in a little work before he becomes president)

red text - Snow's thoughts, pink text - reader's thoughts

act ii

He’d met you at some dull fundraiser gala. In your little pale pink dress, you’d immediately stood out from the crowd. There was something so innocent about your appearance, with your glossy pink lips and subtle eyeliner, the modest but luscious braid your hair had been done into. You looked ethereal - nothing like the other women of the Capitol, in their over-the-top vibrant coloured hair and their tacky avant-garde dresses.

Avantgarde - what a pretentious word. Trashy and conceited would be more accurate, although such taunts were better left to the districts.

Oh, and those striking eyes which he soon realised were looking right at him.

You weren’t ashamed to be caught staring, that much he could tell by the look on your face. He found himself intrigued by the contrast - your girlishly charming getup paired with the almost flirtatious hint in your eyes as you smiled at him. No, coquettish was more fitting a choice to describe the way you carried yourself - you were just demure enough to give off the impression that you simply didn’t realise the effect your presence must’ve had on most men you encountered.

You were delighted as you watched him make his way over to you, stretching out his hand and introducing himself. Like a moth to a flame. You eagerly accepted, your perfectly manicured hand so very soft and light in his. No ring on your finger - he counted that as a win.

He quickly recognised your last name. You were no one important, that much he knew, but there was something so enticing about you. Something so intoxicating about your presence.

You on the other hand instantly recognised him from your days back at the Academy. Coriolanus Snow, professor Click’s star pupil. He was two years older than you, but rumours of his academic prowess, and of course, what happened to him after graduation, still circulated around the school by the time you yourself had been a senior. He was quite the enigma - he’d disappeared for an entire summer and returned a changed man, one cold and hungring for power that, as the heir to the Plinth fortune and the protege of the terrifying doctor Gaul herself, was well within his reach. He’d already begun climbing the social ladder too - last year he’d been appointed a seat in congress.

Many of your friends had harboured a crush on him, but he’d never allowed anyone to get close enough to take the plunge. Not even girls his own age, as far as you knew.

Even after graduating, and his brief disappearance from high society, you would’ve recognised that head of majestic blonde hair anywhere. He was tall and lean, of which the former was rare among those who’d grown up during the dark days. In his perfectly fitted black suit, crisp white button-down and burgundy tie, he practically embodied power; the fresh ideals and ambitions of this generation personified.

After a few dances and drinks shared, you had ended up in the back of his car, making surprisingly casual conversation about a new policy he’d put forth the other week. You could care less, but the effect it could have on your taxes gave you reason enough to feign interest. Besides - he could be a good friend to have in the future, if he continued down his path towards becoming a prominent politician like he always wanted. It wouldn’t hurt for him to think you were actually interested in his line of work.

“Tell me, your last name - I don’t recognise it. What does your family do exactly?” He inquires.

You’re somewhat caught off guard by the question.

Was it that obvious that you didn’t care for or know anything beyond the basics about this topic? Was he trying to spare you the humiliation of continuing the conversation by changing the subject?

Trying to pull yourself back together, you swallow the lump in your throat and look up at him. No man or boy had affected you in this way since you were in middle school, and it both frightened and intrigued you.

Pull yourself together.

“Oh, my parents own one of the biggest shares in district 4’s fishing industry. But where we make the real money from is the pearls gathered from the clam digging. Naturally they’re shipped off to district 1 for jewellery production and the likes, but we earn a decent cut from it.” You explain, a smooth and nonchalant tone to your voice, despite the nervous wreck that you were under his scrutiny. It was a good thing you’d learned to conceal your emotions early on - but clearly, so had he. You could tell he wasn’t quite buying your indifferent-heiress act.

“My parents keep trying to groom my incompetent little brother to become the heir, though. Shame.” You sigh, wanting to take his mind off of your possible faux pas.

He gives an understanding nod, his hand caressing the skin just above your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, I must be boring you with all this talk of politics. Let’s not talk about that now.” His voice drops just the slightest bit lower, and the look on his face sends a jolt of excitement straight down your spine, before landing right between your legs.

“I may not be as knowledgeable as you, but don’t you think I’ve an interest in politics too, hm? It does concern my life and future as well. Especially all those bills and reforms being put forth as of late that’ll impact the family business.” You retort, although keeping your tone playful, which earns you a bemused glint in his icy blue eyes. He takes a couple seconds to consider his answer before he opens his mouth to speak again.

“Well I’m sure you do. But really, a sweet girl like you shouldn’t have to worry about that. At least, tonight you won’t have to, if you’ll let me.. take your mind off things.” He suggests, leaning closer as his gaze falls on your lips, thumb caressing your chin.

His playfully dismissive tone, the way he sabotages any attempt at proving yourself, everything about him is so very demeaning and arrogant. You want to hate it, you do hate it, the way he makes you feel like you’re no longer in control, but something about his attitude has you weak in the knees. Perhaps it’s the posca, or the way his slender thumb drags across your bottom lip that’s keeping you from thinking straight.

“I do, I do need to worry about that, I’ve a stake in our earnings too,” You say softly, close to a whisper, followed by a few moments of silence as the two of you gaze at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. You certainly don’t plan on blinking first. “But maybe, just for tonight..” You whisper almost inaudibly, allowing your voice to trail off.

Against your better judgement you find yourself leaning in, inviting him to kiss you. And so he does. His warm lips crash onto yours, smearing the remainders of your pink gloss even more, his knee nestling its way in between your thighs within a manner of minutes.

You gasp softly as he makes contact with your clothed mound, gently pushing him away. You flash him a kittenish grin, hand lingering on his chest.

“Shouldn’t we wait until we get to your apartment? It would be quite the scandal if you were caught getting it on with a stranger in the backseat of your vehicle..” You allow your hand to glide lower, keeping eye contact as it dips all the way down to his belt. You hear his breath hitch in his throat, and some of your usual confidence returns at the confirmation that he wants you just as bad.

“Well you’re not making it easy for me, dove.” He breathes out as he rests his forehead against yours, looking about as eager to rip your clothes off as you were his. “I’m very sorry then, congressman Snow. But surely a man of your standing ought to have some more self-control?” You tease, managing to elicit a breathy chuckle from him.

He soon pulls away, much to your disappointment. “I suppose so. We’re almost at my apartment, fortunately.” He wipes some smudged lipgloss from your chin with his thumb, before he presses a button on the inside of the car door right next to you to roll up the thick opaque partition previously separating the back from his driver, sat in the front seat.

After giving the man the rest of the night off, he quickly ushers you out of the car and towards the entrance of one of those flashy new apartment buildings in the city circle. Your flat on Scholars road, which you’d intended to sell ever since you graduated university last year, paled in comparison.

Even the foyer reeked of opulence and excess-everything. The marble stairs were lined with gilded railings, as was the elevator he so swiftly escorted you into. You obliged, and it didn’t take long for him to have you pressed against the wall whilst he trailed hot kisses down your neck.

You were only brought out of your daze when the elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal a lavish penthouse, somewhat resembling the apartment your parents had recently purchased in one of the remodelled Corso buildings.

You've only barely taken your coat off when he swoops you up, which causes you to let out a surprised squeal as he begins to carry you towards what you can only assume is the master bedroom. He courteously places you down on the ground again, starting to undo his waistcoat as you unzip your gown and let it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

He looks up at you through hazy eyes, blown wide with lust, stopping his efforts to unbutton his shirt when he sees your naked form.

Closing the gap between you, his hand delicately encircles your waist as the other caresses your cheek. "I wasn't expecting such an indecent choice of underwear paired with a pretty dress like that.." He murmurs onto your lips, ensnaring you in a cloud of lust and the nearly overwhelming scent of roses as his tongue slips past your lips, hands working behind your back to unclasp your lacy black and pink bra.

It doesn't take long until you're both on his bed, your back pressed against his chest and his hand down your flimsy panties. His mouth trails hickeys and love bites down your exposed neck as one of his long, slender fingers pumps in and out of your sopping wet cunt. "Dirty little thing aren't you? Spreading your legs so easily for me.." He rasps against the shell of your ear, relishing the way your walls clamp down on his lone digit. "Needy too, I see," He chuckles, easily adding a second finger although receiving only a whimper in response.

You whine at the stretch, thighs tremoring underneath him. With his fervent attacks on all the things that have you weak in the knees, you’re unable to focus on anything other than the pleasure. Just this once, you allow him to indulge you. Heat starts to build in your stomach as his pace quickens.

“Quite shameful of you to sleep with a man you just met, isn’t it?” He whispers in your ear, his voice husky and roguish. Your cheeks flush bright red at the thought, knowing your family would hardly approve, and neither would the public.

The last few months your father had been trying to set you up with the heir to a family who made their money manufacturing luxury furniture out of all things; truly second-rate. You’d always been ambitious, even if you’d never been particularly keen on pursuing a career - you knew you could do better, that you could truly marry up and attain the life of luxury and leisure your mother wanted for you, but he wouldn’t listen to either of you. If this got out though, he’d be both furious and humiliated, no matter how many times you’d already told him that you intended to do better for yourself.

Wasn’t that what you were doing anyways? This was a matter of securing a match, a potential betrothal to a man who could easily give you everything you wanted. Yes, that was it. This wasn’t just some shameful rendezvous - if Coriolanus himself saw it that way, you’d make sure he came around one way or another.

“Please, stop teasing,” you manage to mewl out, though it seems to have no effect other than to amuse him.

“What makes you think I’m teasing? Just be good for me and let me work this pretty pussy open.. Wouldn't want it to hurt for you later on, yeah?” He almost grunts in your ear when you clamp down tighter in response, his fingers coated in your slick as he pumps them in and out.

“Look at that sopping wet pussy, hmm? Must’ve been a long time since a man last made you feel this good.” He curses lowly under his breath, carefully sliding a third finger inside, hushing you as you whine at the intrusion.

(He was right- it had, but he didn’t need to know that. You already felt powerless enough as is.)

“Doing so good for me.” He tilts your head back to give you a gentle kiss, in stark contrast to his unrelenting ministrations, although his soft lips manage to soak up most of your muffled cries.

Finally he seems to decide it’s enough, just as you’re nearing your orgasm, making his sudden retreat particularly frustrating. Nevertheless you eagerly oblige him as he manoeuvres you onto your back, only pulling back to give himself space to fully undress.

You watch with anticipation as he undoes the rest of his shirt buttons, discarding the garment at the foot end of the bed before moving onto his pants. He gestures towards your pushed-aside panties as he undoes his trousers.

“You gonna take those off, dove? Or do I have to do everything myself?” He gibes, and your cheeks flush red as you hurry to lift your hips up and pull down your undies.

When you look back up your words get caught in your throat, eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of him palming his cock, already having discarded his dress pants and boxers on the ground. He’s bigger than you thought. The shaft is fairly girthy and just a little darker than the pale complexion on the rest of his body, the tip a reddish pink and beaded with precum. There’s a tidy patch of blonde hair at his base, just a shade or two darker than his platinum locks. You didn’t realise that was his natural hair colour.

“That’s better.” He groans softly at the sight of your now bare slit, still slick with your own juices and practically begging to be touched. “C’mon, spread your legs a little wider for me.” He taps at your thigh, and you swallow thickly as you do so. You’re certainly no virgin, but so far he’s the biggest you’ve seen. At least he didn’t ask me to suck it, you think to yourself.

His smug grin grows even wider when you wordlessly obey him, positioning himself on top of you and starting to rub the head of his cock slowly, teasingly up and down your puffy folds. One hand on his shaft, the other next to your head.

You let out a low moan as his tip catches on your swollen clit, which causes him to glance up at your flustered face. “Oh, I won’t tease you any more. I’m sorry baby.” He coos at you, voice dripping with faux empathy. You don’t get much time to think about it though, as he soon places his tip at your soaked entrance, giving a firm thrust that already manages to nestle his cock about half as deep as your body would allow. He groans at the feeling, followed by a nearly inaudible gasp as he feels the ring of muscle squeezing his cock.

He lets out a soft chuckle, leaning down to press his forehead against yours as he grabs your ankles and lifts your legs up to wrap around his waist. You humour him, heels digging into his back as you cling onto his muscled torso. His dominant hand reclaims its place beside your head whilst the other glides down lower to grasp at your hip, holding you in place so that he can continue without interruptions.

Already knowing it’ll be a tight fit, he goes slow in sliding himself all the way in, which you’re much grateful for. The stretch is already enough to make your eyes water. Finally he bottoms out, the two of you releasing a moan in unison when his tip collides with your cervix. Yours of relief, his of frustration.

There’s still another inch or two to go, but he’ll have to work on that over time.

Seeing that pitifully doe-eyed look on your face, your glassy eyes and wobbly bottom lip, he leans in to give you a gentle kiss, his hand leaving your waist to instead caress your rosy cheek, soothing you as best as he could. “Taking it so well for me, mkay? Just stay still and let me do the work, pretty girl.” He mumbles onto your lips, his mouth soaking up your moans as he slowly pulls out and pushes back in, staying true to his word and thoroughly working your pussy open.

Your hands relent their position clutching the bedsheets beneath you, instead taking their place at the back of his neck in a surprisingly intimate moment, which he in turn welcomes with initiating a more enthusiastic kiss. After a couple more thrusts he starts to grow impatient, and so he experimentally tries to coax himself deeper, but you only whine and press your hands to his pelvis in response, so he backs off.

You pull away slightly, giving yourself enough room to speak. “Too much, ‘s too deep,” you sniffle, internally scolding yourself for already allowing him to get you in such a sordid, outright pitiful state.

Coriolanus on the other hand seems pleased with himself, swiping at your tear-stained cheeks with his thumb. “I’m sorry, dove. I’ll go easy on you,” He lies, giving you a reassuring kiss on the forehead. Even in your fuzzy-headed, wrecked state, you think you can make out a sliver of empathy in his eyes. Perhaps even affection.

And yet it wasn't long before he was thrusting in and out of you again at a slowly but surely accelerating pace, just barely grazing your cervix with each thrust, enough to keep you on edge without explicitly breaking his promise. With the few brain cells left that aren't entirely consumed by him - his scent, the feeling of his hands on you, his dick pumping in and out so expertly, his arched brows furrowed in concentration, everything about him - you manage to preserve some semblance of dignity, biting back all the pleas you wanted to make. This small action is enough to give you the - albeit not very convincing - illusion of control.

You watch as his lips purse in dissatisfaction, immediately turning inwards to try and figure out what you've done wrong. But before you can dig any deeper, he's pulling back and straightening his back, his knees planted firmly on the mattress beneath you. His arms make quick work of untangling your legs from around his waist, instead pressing your knees to your chest and holding you in place with his large, pale hands.

The new position leaves you feeling so exposed and vulnerable in a way you'd never allowed yourself to before. Your mother's warnings not to let any man, especially no stranger, take control of you were always at the back of your head during your previous trysts, eating away at your already barren arousal. But with him, with this near stranger, everything was different. The foreignness of it all scared you, but not enough to fight off the nearly overwhelming pleasure that each of his unrelenting thrusts brought you. Each time the head of his cock brushes against that spongy spot deep inside of you, it sends a jolt of pleasure through you, more often than not accompanied by a raspy moan or a sharp inhale.

With this new angle, everything he does feels so much filthier, with that smug smile on his face as he stares down at you, observing your flustered, contorted form. All at his hands. You were entirely his to do with as he pleased, his in every sense of the word, even if just for tonight. You knew you'd regret this moment of treacherous pleasure and intimacy by sunrise, but in this very moment, you couldn't help but enjoy it. Being completely at his mercy.

Before you knew it you could feel your orgasm approaching. As if able to read your mind, Coriolanus repositioned his left forearm to stretch across the back of your knees, allowing him to use his free hand to fervently rub at your previously neglected clit. A gasp that quickly morphed into a throaty moan escaped your lips, although his mouth soon latched onto yours again, muffling the lewd sounds coming from your mouth.

Your hips buck up against his touch, walls clenching him tighter as you rapidly approach your climax. Your hands claw at his shoulder blades as he keeps pistoning in and out of you, groaning frequently into your mouth. You can tell he's getting closer too by the sudden lack of precision in his movements, which you take great delight in.

Thank god it's a safe day today.

Just a couple moments later you go over the edge, your cunt spasming and gripping at his member like a vice as you cum hard. In this moment you're grateful for his aggressive kiss, as it manages to stifle the guttural moan ripped from your throat somewhat.

He soon follows suit. Releasing an animalistic groan into your mouth he shoves himself in all the way to the hilt, where his spend spills from his throbbing tip, revelling in the way you squeeze him even tighter in response to the deep penetration.

Finally, as you're both slowly coming down from your highs, he breaks the kiss and retreats, his eyes fixed on your groin as he slowly pulls out, watching as your lips cling onto his shaft.

It's like you're trying to suck him back in.

He slumps back next to you on the bed, and you both lay there for a few minutes catching your breaths in awkward silence.

You're nothing short of exhausted. That was likely the most intense sex you've ever had, and consequently, one of the strongest orgasms you've ever had.

Then, finally, he informs you that he's gonna take a shower and gets up, quickly heading towards the en-suite bathroom. The last thing on your mind before you drift off to sleep is his pale, sculpted back and the fresh scratch marks you just left on it.

#banner credit: @benkeibear #tbosas fanfiction #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x female!reader #smut #smut with plot #eventually #young president snow #president snow

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