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throwaway-yandere · 6 months

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And The Sun Is Silent (Yandere!Wriothesley/Reader)

Unreliable Synopsis: You, a former writer, received a fan letter. Truly a curious thing, for the contents appear more personal than what it should be.

A/n: I am not back. I posted this cuz first off, I adore Joe Zieja and all his works and I was so hyped when I saw he voiced Wriothesley and second, mfer gave me C4 qiqi. i love my daughter but cmon wrio, I literally got the same haircut as you do now-

CW: nothing really. Just a lil mind frick ig

“When I saw his hands wrapped around his dearest new spouse, cutting that vile wedding cake together, I wanted nothing more than to take that knife and slit his throat.”

(Y/n) was a serialized author in Fontaine whose works were primarily geared towards detective novels. However, their words were less laced with objectivity and “irrefutable facts” as the heavy pockets do when spinning their tales. Unfortunately, they weren’t meant to fill their coffers with hit-release masterpieces. (Y/n)– pen name “Maestro Justiniano” – was more engrossed in the perpetrators' psychology like the barkeeps and magicians do. They were the main characters– the sung hero of the tale. The glorified violence thrived in each passing page for the only mystery to be solved was “who will they target next?”

If young fans of other authors were seen as aspiring detectives or law enforcers, those who were known as fans of the Maestro were unjustifiably labeled as “future degenerates.” For (Y/n), it was funny. Overhearing grandparents waste their already fleeting energy to scold their grandchild’s love for their sinful work was their source of joy.

But (Y/n) (L/n) was not Maestro Justiano in public.

They were Duke Wriothesley’s spouse. Maestro Justiano is but a shade and (Y/n) is a human. The maestro does not feed on earth nor mora, but (Y/n) is obliged to. He bought his title, and he bought his spouse.

Gone was their free fourth finger. With a golden shackle, they sealed their fate to a wealthy man for table scraps. Perhaps it is fortunate that he is generous with his pockets, but to (Y/n), they would rather starve themselves writing than sit through another seminar about the nation’s ever-changing laws.

The Maestro’s life used to be so full of thrill; the “pelf” they received for each writing commission was a life worth their breaths.

The Maestro’s life used to be coated in moonlight; sneaking out and running gigs was their bread and butter.

But now the sun is silent, and (Y/n) stands with a tail behind their legs.

“(Y/n), do you need anything?”

Wriothesley asked even when he could guess the answer. Lazily, (Y/n) shifted from the covers, peering over with half-closed eyes.

“Nothing, Your Grace.” (Y/n) yawned. “Close the door.”

The Duke nods, understanding their fatigue. He silently shuts the door, and nothing of interest is to be noted afterward.

This has been their canned script every Wednesday to Friday without fail for the past 3 years.

In (Y/n)’s eyes, Wriothesley is a mere animal with whom they mate for survival. Barely any true emotional trysts occurred in their first two years of marriage. They’re a “friend” of fortune. With him always away from home, (Y/n) is left with nothing but their thoughts.

The nights were warm, but the mornings were cold.

And the sun is silent.

Their husband has never been quite the same after an incident during their 2nd year of marriage.

On the night they were attacked in the comfort of their shared home, a gear in his head was stolen.

Wriothesley held them, audibly more alarmed and broken than (Y/n)– the victim– was. He shook, afraid of what you must’ve gone through in his absence. Robbery, that’s what the records say. An armed man entered their home with the intent to steal. Black were his gloves and hair. The perpetrator thought they had been away on a business trip and pulled the trigger by surprise when they emerged from the kitchen.

That thief had failed to steal material possessions, but their husband had lost his good of intellect. He cannot stand the notion of leaving them alone. What is a collector’s item if it’s not in great condition? Wriothesley has locked the gates and kept (Y/n) in, and he’ll continue to do so to preserve their value.

“I want to meet you somewhere someday, in a place where the sun is no longer silent. I want to crawl and bury myself under your skin where I can read through your mind. The house is too quiet. I want to trace your collarbones. I want to bite into your flesh, and I need you to look into my eyes as I tear myself apart. I am in love with you, (Y/n). It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. I live within these walls. I am what keeps you grounded with a golden ring. But why does the sun hide from me?”

Despite how much closer the couple are now, (Y/n) feels more distant than before. Not that they had the right to say "The duke was not the man I married" when they rarely talked— but it surely felt that way.

And in one Sunday night, the forcibly retired author used their words not to immerse readers, but to intimidate guards to grant entry to their "beloved" husband's office.

"You fucking bitch…"

"Lovely to see you too, honey."

"You made me lose my job!!!"

"Here I thought you refer to it as a side-line."

"Are you fucking for real right now?!" They screamed and slammed a fist down on the table. The pain hasn't hit them yet as their unbridled shock and rage hit overdrive. "Since when did you have the right to just take my–"

"Your hobbies away?" Wriothesley placed down his chamomile tea and shrugged. "Honey, I'm not doing anything like that. No, I'm only protecting you."

"Oh, great!" They waved a hand around dramatically before slapping it back to their thigh, rolling their eyes. "Let me guess, there's a biiiig explanation that fits into one giant puzzle."

"You know me too well for someone who never initiates conversation." He smiled mockingly.

"You're right. Court Dense Publishing House is being investigated for numerous allegations. Toxic working environment, which included stalking and superiors leveraging pay for sexual favors might I add, and tax fraud. The details of the latter will bore you." Wriothesley continued.

He sighed. "Can't you tell? I'm just being a decent husband. What if you were being harassed and you were afraid to tell me?"

"Like hell, I was–" They took a sharp deep breath in. "Listen. Let me get back to my work and we won't have any problems, Your Grace."

"No can do. You're an ex-Maestro now."

“And you're an ex-con.” They quickly retorted.

…

“... You're calling me an ex-con?" Wriothesley laughed dryly. The lone sound made them inch their heels slightly backward.

His eyelids lowered as his dull gray eyes peeked behind underneath his tilted glare.

They had never seen him this serious.

"Who do you think turned me into one?”

…

They blinked.

His words– though not making sense without context– carried a heavy weight they had unfortunately missed.

His gaze and words were accusingly pointed.

At them.

…

Wriothesley laughed.

"I'm kidding, of course. Don't be so tense."

(Y/n) didn't laugh.

He smiled. They can't tell if it was fake or not. He's been too good at pretending to be nice that they never knew when he genuinely dropped the act.

Like Maestro Justiniano, that argument is history now.

And maybe that's why (Y/n) first thought it would be a comforting experience to read a story written by an avid fan.

It was a long manuscript. Sigewinne claimed it came from a fellow Melusine who wanted her favorite author's thoughts on how to write a criminal male lead. When asked for the writer's name, she refused to say it. (Y/n) respected it since they too posted anonymously…

But this reading sounds less like a professional job and more like a stalker's confession…

“When I first finished a book of yours in two sittings, I had formed a vague fantasy on how you looked like. You were a tall man, thin, long-necked, sharp-nosed, with a body slightly bent forward. Needless to say, I was stoked to find that description failed to perfectly describe who you were in person. I hope that with my new appearance, my description perfectly describes how your husband used to look as well. These black gloves just don’t fit me right.”

These black gloves…?

"Honey, I'm home!!! Oh, and Sigewinne's here too."

As soon as they heard the door open, (Y/n) shoved the fan's manuscript inside their drawer. Wriothesley hates seeing any semblance of creative writing inside the house.

"Can you brew two cups of tea for us?" Wriothesley asked as he removed his jacket, placing it recklessly on the sofa. "We're exhausted."

(Y/n) nodded. They never tell him how they make his tea. For a bottle weighing 8 fl oz, they'd take a rounded scoop of sunsettia powder to the pitcher and pour steamed 2% milk to whatever was the appropriate line. Once aerated for 3 seconds, they fill it with their macha mix with ¼’’ foam and ¾’’ more below the rim for the aesthetic.

The process is not as difficult as it sounds, but they like withholding information. Why else won't friends and family know that they're a prolific writer, right?

"Sure. I'll be right back."

They left.

Their “husband” picked up the letter they hastily hid, a faint smile playing on his face.

Were you frightened after reading it?

How did his favorite author react?

He wished he knew. But he’s no detective– he’s a present “degenerate”. He won’t find clues just by looking at the parchment. "Wriothesley" placed it back to where it was earlier and adjusted his black gloves to fit just right.

“Wriothesley” glanced at Sigewinne with a giddy smile.

“So, do you think they liked my writing?”

"(P.S: I finally figured out how you make your coffee. It's 3 pumps of Fonta, 1 shot of espresso roast, chilled milk, and stirred with ice. This unique combination would've perplexed me if I didn't find out you made it out of spite.

But it does taste good. I promise. After all, in the cold solitude of your sunless prison, I'll be the one brewing you coffee. May each sip be a reminder of my affection. The sun may be silent too in the Fortress, but maybe in there, you'll finally appreciate my warmth.")

#ansy-writes #tw: yandere #yandere genshin #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere male #yandere wriothesley #yandere wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #genshin #yandere wriothesley x you #wriothesley x you #sigewinnie

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noirsofia · 10 months

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tony scott//bruce weber

'Director Tony Scott says he found inspiration in a book of black and white photographs by gay photographer Bruce Weber. Scott was taken by the haircuts and style of Weber’s models, as well as the “intent of their eyes,” and showed the book to Paramount execs to give them an indication of his aspired aesthetic. “Everyone was scared because it was infamous in terms of the gay community, this book,” said Scott, who died in 2012. “That’s where all these haircuts came from and this hard-edged military look".'

#top gun #tony scott #tom cruise #bruce weber #val kilmer #queer history #photography

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derekhighwaytf · 9 months

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Eli had sparked quite a reputation as a college sophomore. His infamous university-wide anti-military protests had piqued the attention of Professor Frank Marshall, an American History professor who was once a marine himself. When Eli's final essay, a biting, yet flawed case for slashing the American defense budget landed on Frank's desk, the professor felt compelled to bring him in for a heart-to-heart during office hours.

Eli, however, was as tenacious as he was stubborn. He sat across from Frank in the oak-lined office, launching into an impassioned tirade about banning military recruiters from all school campuses in America. Calmly, Frank handed Eli a faded photograph from his own youthful days in basic training at Parris Island.

Suddenly, Eli's art-trained eyes, usually tuned to distinguish the finest nuances in Van Gogh portraits, refocused into the unfiltered reality of a soldier's perspective. His delicate fingers, usually smeared with paint from making picket signs, hardened and darkened with dirt, pulsating with a strength he had never known. He tried to shake off the sensation, but it was no use; his body was being reformed, repurposed.

With each passing second, his scrawny physique began to shift, muscles emerging and hardening where there was none. His chest broadened, shoulders squared, and his twinkish form swelled into a formidable figure. He could feel his clothing tightening around him as he grew from a wiry 130 lbs to a solid, imposing 190 lbs of pure, hardened steel.

A savage hunger replaced his usual vegan diet, his body now craving meat and potatoes. His earring evaporated into thin air, and as his hand instinctively reached for it, he felt his free-flowing, untamed locks disappear too. His messy mane shrank into a sleek undercut, and then to a neat crew cut, and finally, a bare-bone induction cut, revealing a chiseled jawline and a gaze as sharp as an eagle’s. He reached up to feel his new haircut, rubbing his sandpaper head, his growing eight inch plank of wood grinding up against his camouflage uniform.

Eli tried to resist the transformation as best he could, his spirit rebelling against this sudden sense of discipline and masculinity. But every attempt was futile; he was no longer the one in control.

His memories of avant-garde performances and wine-soaked nights were replaced by grueling morning drills and punishing workout sessions. Deep down, he wanted to reach out for his paints, his brushes, but his hands instead found the photo of young Frank Marshall morphing into a snapshot of a young soldier, one of himself—no longer Eli, but Elijah. A proud American willing to do anything to protect his country. His artistic aspirations were relegated to the backburner, the space in his mind taken over by his new military identity.

Frank watched as Eli's rebellious spark was now smothered by the spirit of a Marine. Now, there was only Elijah—a paragon of strength, duty, and masculinity. Despite his desperate efforts, Eli had morphed into the one thing he had sworn never to be. His rebellious spirit was finally tamed, replaced by the steady, dutiful beat of a Marine.

#military tf #gay tf #tf story #bald #buzzcut #muscle tf #male transformation #mental change

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generic-anime-boy-bracket · 7 months

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Final Round

Shigeo Kageyama vs Tadano Hitohito

Reasons for being generic + Propaganda below

Mob/Shigeo Kageyama

Reasons:

Shigeo’s whole thing is being the most average boring middle schooler ever. He yearns desperately for a social life but he’s always been part of the crowd, so much so that his classmates and even his boss call him “Mob”. Also consider this post https://www.tumblr.com/codynaomiswire/190630281009/spot-the-main-character-amazing-mob-psycho-is?source=share

https://64.media.tumblr.com/15122b75c98b6a5978d892e284f5fe60/1c80e81d36417001-2f/s1280x1920/195aa0ce13b4bbea7fab38e3f930c250940fa9a2.jpg could someone who's never seen this anime pick him out as the main character

very plain face, and his hair is a simple black bowlcut. his design is intentionally as simple and generic as possible, mob appearing plain and unremarkable is a big part of his character.

The whole point of his character design is that he looks bland and blends into the background (hence his nickname "Mob"). There are characters with way more exciting designs, even including his brother who at least has Anime Hair™️, meanwhile Mob is just very plain with his bowlcut and monochrome design

a very obvious candidate. black hair, spends the majority of screentime in a school uniform, got his nickname (mob) literally bc of how generic and bland he is. a perfectly common face. no aspirations, no hobbies, no academic achievements, no sport talents. just a guy. regular dude. the only notable thing about him is his immensly powerful psychic abilities but he avoids using them in daily life, doesnt like to show them off and supresses them as well as his emotions

the point of mob's entire character is to be generic and plain. even his nickname "mob" was given to him by others to show that he is just part of the crowd and nothing special.

He's got a bowlcut, a very simply designed face, and usually is only seen in his school uniform.

He is designed to look like the most generic middle school boy with a plain unexpressive face and a bowl cut, and his nickname Mob comes from the fact that he doesn't stick out and everyone sees him as a background character. He spends most of his time going to school (he is bad at math) and reading manga and daydreaming/zoning out. He's socially awkward and gets nervous around girls. He started working out recently. He also has psychic powers but it's not a big deal it's just another trait someone can have like being charismatic or smelling bad

look at him. his literal entire point is that he is just some guy. his name (mob) was given to him because hes so bland and doesnt stand out that hes part of the mob / a background character in everyones life. it's also, in japanese, the equivalent to the english term "john doe."

Hair is a black bowl cut. Wears a school uniform, plain face. His whole thing is basically being completely average except for his insane psychic powers. He suppresses his emotions and powers because he just wants to live a normal life like everyone else.

bowl cut. standard school uniform. literally designed to look like a generic background character

classic bowlcut kid, literally designed to look generic and blend in

He's literally just a schoolboy with a black bowlcut and no distinguishing features. Look at he: https://mob-psycho-100.fandom.com/wiki/Shigeo_Kageyama?file=Mob+Fullbody.png Ofc, he's also an OP psychic, but he looks so entirely generic I think he fits perfectly

look at him. He checks every “how to look as generic as possible” box

Normal kid (appearance wise)

He is meant to look generic, he is this very powerful esper but he has black hair, a bowl haircut and mostly dresses in his school uniform. He looks like a background character even though he is the protagonist.

Propaganda:

i love him so much he's like a son to me

(Sorry to the person who submitted a Reddit img link it won't make me put the image there because i'm on phone since I probably won't get Access to my pc since I'll be outside 😭)

i love mob so much he is my boi

…but also, if it helps, mob's character is "boy with bowlcut, almost always seen wearing standard japanese middle school uniform, who speaks in a monotone voice and has no strong opinions of his own (for reasons but its not important)"

He's literally earned the nickname Mob for being so bland and generic looking (Mob being a term Japanese programers use for background NPCs). He also was purposefully designed by the creator to be as un-protagonist looking and plain as possible.

he is literally just some guy and that is the point of the entire show is that hes not special hes just a guy. this is a good thing :)

he has my exact autism :)

Look doesn't he seem like a very polite young man? With no distinguishing features whatsoever? Yeah. He's THE generic anime boy. Immense psychic power notwithstanding

He <3

Tadano Hitohito

Reasons:

Just a good bean. Like a kidney bean

his name is LITERALLY a play on the japanese equivalent of the phrase "just some guy". he is DESIGNED to be a generic-ass dude. everything about him is comically average.

Propaganda:

No propaganda submitted for this character

#generic anime boy bracket #shigeo kageyama #mp100 #mob psycho 100 #tadano hitohito #komi can't communicate #komi san wa komyushou desu

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oliversrarebooks · 27 days

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The Rare Bookseller, Part 45: Fitz's Reflection

Previous > Masterlist > Next

June 1905

tw: conditioning, branding aftermath

He was tangled hopelessly in the finest of silk sheets, and he woke up in a panic, because once again he thought he might be back in his childhood home. Waking up in the auction house, under the care of a vampire, was the coldest of comfort.

The events of the previous night washed over him in a blurry haze. The feeling of his body moving without his input, the deep burn on his chest. Alexander tending to his wounds and singing him to sleep. The blood running down Lily's chin.

And burned deep into his mind was the image of the terrifying vampire lord standing in front of the stage and handing him a single, perfect rose.

He groaned and doubled over, sick from stress and lingering pain. The burn on his chest still ached, even though it was covered in neat, clean bandages, and his limbs still felt wrong, violated from the Maestro's puppeteering.

It would be fine. Alexander would be different. He promised.

No -- Fitz tried to shake his head free of the thoughts that weren't his. That was the mesmerism talking, the influence of Alexander's alluring song and Miss Lily's skillful manipulation. That wasn't him. He didn't trust people easily, much less people who were actually monsters, and especially not monsters who bought him and kept him imprisoned and burned him.

And he seemed to be all alone in the lavish room. He was sure he was still in the auction house, but his quarters were a far cry from the cell he'd been confined to previously. The furnishings were every bit as fine as those in his father's house, albeit clearly much older, speaking to wealth and taste. A gilded cage, instead of an iron-barred one, but a cage nonetheless.

He would be foolish to not at least try the lock.

Fitz hauled himself out of the too-comfortable bed, still feeling dazed and groggy. He just had to try the door, that was all. And if it was locked, he could surely find a bit of wire and pick the lock. And then perhaps he could hide in plain sight, evading the vampires under the assumption that a free thrall must be running an errand for his vampire master. He'd find the exit and...

Find the exit, and he'd run...

A yawn escaped Fitz as he swayed on his feet in front of the door, his head feeling like it'd been stuffed full of cotton. Why was he so drowsy, when he'd just had an entire day of sleep? All he had to do was... try the... doorknob...

His eyelids fluttered as he sank down into the plush carpet, unable to keep himself awake.

Even half-asleep, he understood. This was part of his bindings. Thoughts of escape would sink him back into trance -- he could practically hear it in Miss Lily's voice, as his mind shut down.

He awoke with a mark on his face from the carpet. According to the clock, he'd only been out around ten minutes or so. The door was just a few feet away, but even looking at it made him feel dizzy.

Well, there was nothing for it but to fight. It was his mind, after all, and he still must have some hold on it.

It was only after nearly two hours and several forced naps had passed that the despair and helplessness really began to settle in. He rose from the carpet yet again, this time having failed to open the window, and went into the bathroom to splash water on his groggy face.

His own mind was being turned against him. That was the worst part of all of this. If he were chained in some dungeon, at least he'd have some hope of escaping as himself. As it was, he couldn't trust that he hadn't been lost already. How could he trust any of his own thoughts when trying to escape made him collapse, when his own mind was subtly coaxing him to stay, that being a vampire's servant and blood source was a higher calling to aspire to?

He gripped the sink and looked into the mirror. It was his same old self looking back at him, give or take a haircut he would never have chosen, and the bandage on his chest. He wished he looked more different, a reflection of how he felt, instead of outwardly looking the same as always and inwardly reeling.

As he looked into his own eyes, he knew, deep down inside, that he wasn't escaping this. Not really. Oh, he might escape the vampires physically someday -- he'd still hold out hope for that -- but he'd already been permanently changed. Even now, the whispers to simply accept it all were so strong.

He stared at the bandage. It was a terrible idea, but he had to see, had to know if it was real or not. Carefully, he peeled the tape holding the gauze in place, to see two angry, round welts, one atop the other. They were red and slightly swollen, and sore to the touch. Fitz couldn't tell exactly what the inner mark was supposed to be, apart from proof that he didn't own himself any more.

This grim thought was interrupted by a knock, followed by the door opening. Fitz quickly pressed the bandage to his chest again and left the bathroom to see Alexander carrying a tray laden with food while kicking the door closed with his foot.

"Oh, excellent, you're awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Apart from last night's violations of my mind and body, I'm feeling well enough, sir."

Alexander looked as if he didn't know how to respond to that, understandably so. "I suppose that's to be expected." He set the tray down on the table, revealing a smorgasbord of seemingly random foods: pot roast and gravy, a chicken leg, buttered potatoes, corn on the cob, a salad of leafy greens, a bowl of strawberries and cream, a slice of chocolate cake. "I thought you might be hungry, so I brought up some food from the kitchen. I wasn't sure what you'd like to eat, so I took a bit of everything."

Fitz's mouth watered and he realized that he actually was incredibly hungry. He hadn't eaten since his breakfast before the auction, a meal he'd barely been able to pick at. His swirling thoughts over his current situation could be pushed aside momentarily for a far more primal urge. "Thank you, sir," he said automatically, sitting down and tucking into the delicious food.

"I wanted to apologize again for what happened last night," said Alexander, sitting across from him. "My sire has certain ideas of how thralls should be treated, ideas I don't subscribe to. I won't harm you when you're in my care, and I have plans in motion to dispose of him. I'm sure, after last night, you can understand why."

Fitz swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and searched Alexander's face, looking for any hint of duplicity. He seemed frustratingly sincere, and Fitz liked to think he was a good judge of this sort of thing. After all, it was a vital skill for finding good marks.

But he'd wildly misjudged Miss Lily, hadn't he?

"I want to make sure you have a good life," Alexander insisted. "Whatever you'd like, if it's in my power to grant it, it's yours."

He managed to put down the fork and stop shoveling food into his mouth for a moment, favoring Alexander with his most ingratiating smile. His efforts to charm the Maestro had failed spectacularly, but Alexander was different. He'd been so obviously interested back in the auction house showroom. Perhaps his original plan to endear himself to his vampire master could be salvaged after all, at least enough for momentary safety.

"Well, sir, I feel that a life without the stage would be terribly empty. I'd like to return to doing my shows, if at all possible."

To Fitz's surprise, Alexander smiled warmly. "I'd like that as well. I would very much enjoy seeing one of your shows."

Fitz thought he'd have to work much harder for this concession. "You'll let me do magic shows? Vaudeville acts?"

"Certainly. Arrangements will have to be made, but I don't see why not," said Alexander, leaning forward. "You've been a prisoner here, I do realize that. And you'll still be something of an unwilling prisoner in my manor, no doubt. But I'm not interested in serving only as your jailer. All I truly require from you is your companionship and a bit of blood."

Those blue eyes were piercing into him, and Fitz felt his heart thump. Was he the one being manipulated here? This all sounded too good to be true. "I don't mind providing a bit of blood, sir," he said, that damned mesmerism filling his head once more with visions of him baring his neck to the unfairly handsome vampire sitting across from him.

"I'm glad to hear that," said Alexander, and his desire was thick in the air. Fitz was frozen in time, fully expecting Alexander to bite into him then and there, and welcoming it.

But then he pulled back, restraining himself, and Fitz had to hold back an undignified sound. Alexander glanced at the clock. "As much as I'd like to... I need to return downstairs. I'm performing many of Miss Lily's duties for the next two days while her wound heals, and there's much to do."

"What sort of duties, sir?" Fitz asked, trying to clear the fog of need from his head.

"Many of the auction house patrons request specialty conditioning, and few have the skills to perform that sort of fine-grained control. I'm helping to fulfill those orders."

"So you're an expert at... specialty conditioning, then, sir?"

"My skills are beyond the average vampire's, yes. There are only a few in the city who are superior in that regard, Lily among them, of course." Alexander stood up from the table. "When I next get a chance to return, I'll make sure to bring some entertainment. Magazines or a deck of cards at least. You must be dreadfully bored in this room."

Fitz had, so far, spent most of his time in the room asleep, partially due to his failed efforts at escape. But Alexander certainly wasn't wrong. He'd always been the sort to quickly be bored. "That would be appreciated, sir."

Alexander was looking at Fitz with intensity again. Fitz thought he was going to say something more, but instead there was an odd sensation and a faint sound of... music? He blinked, his head stuffed full of cobwebs again.

"I'm sorry, sir, what did you say just now?"

"Nothing," said Alexander. "I was just hoping you could forget last night's business, at least a bit, and relax tonight."

Fitz nodded. He wouldn't have expected he could ever forget what happened the night before, but now that he thought about it, it seemed more far away, like a story that had happened to someone else. He would like to relax, after all of that excitement. It wasn't as if his escape attempts were getting him anything apart from an embarrassing rug burn on his face. "Perhaps that would be for the best, sir."

Alexander seemed very pleased by this response as he took his leave and disappeared out of the door again.

It was only after Fitz had drawn himself a scalding hot bath, filled it with the high quality, rose scented soap he found in a cabinet, and sank himself into the water, that his head cleared enough to wonder if he'd been entranced again.

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Next time, Oliver and Alexander go to the ballet. I'm sure they'll have a swell time.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot @cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme @strawbearydreams

#ask #whump #whump writing #vampire #vampire whump #mind control #rare bookseller #alexander #fitz

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seyvia · 1 month

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for @wrixie cherishing cherry bc!

Nikolas Knight, the barista who brightens your mornings and the mixologist who spices up your parties! He may be a master of mischief, but he's now searching for that inner peace everyone raves about. Is it possible for this man of mayhem to change his ways and transition from mischief to meditation? Can he meet Cherry's expectations in a significant other, or will his prying get in their way?

More below:

Name: Nicholas Knight. Age 28 (he-him)

Aspiration: Innerpeace.

Traits: Goofball, Vegetarian, Nosey.

Likes: green, brown, mischief, gossip, wellness, mixology, guitar, boho fashion, feathers, sunrises and bike rides.

Extra: He believes scarves are an extremely underrated accessory. He grew up in Windenburg. He got a really bad haircut as a kid and has been styling his own hair eversince.

Dislikes: eating meat, "boring sims," sleeping in.

let me know if you want more info, hope yuh like him💕 (^///^)

#yall...Cherry is high maintenance. I set him up for failure. oh well🥲#cherrybc #sims 4 bachelor challenge #seyvia's sims #sims 4 #ts4 #simblr

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chemicalarospec · 2 months

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doing another search on same.energy for my ideal haircut (yes the 7-odd images I currently have are not enough. I need the perfect image) and have organically come across Light Yagami cosplays so I must be on the right track haha

#i said this #haircut aspirations

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icycoldninja · 2 months

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Hey it's me again, how are you?

So ....if you're free a request on how Dante/Vergil will react to their rather reserve and prude s/o saying that they meet a guy who she thinks is Dante/Vergil level attractive, as for s/o they were the epitome of handsomeness. And if even the guy tries to hit the reader under the guise of friendliness

I'm doing great, thanks, what about you? 😄 About your request, I chose to do a separate fic for each boy cause they deserve it. Vergil's will be out later--enjoy! 💜

Hot (Dante x Reader)

Warning: Light Yandere-ish behavior towards the end.

The one thing in the world that Dante aspired to obtain, more than anything else, was your admiration.

Getting it wasn't easy; you were very quiet and preferred not to make remarks on people's physical attributes. You liked to silently judge them from afar, noting everything about them and locking these observations away into the secure safebox that was your mind.

Only on incredibly rare occasions would you voice your opinions on someone's look aloud--and even then, you used your words sparingly.

So when you complimented Dante on his new haircut one day, he was absolutely flabbergasted. Finally, after all this time, he had earned your recognition.

From that point on, you were a little more open with him, and soon, chatting became more relaxed and natural. You began to disclose your true thoughts about him, which soon led to you admitting (though somewhat nervously) that you had a crush on him.

Dante was shocked, not expecting you of all people to be interested in him. He wasn't complaining though--this was great! He'd had hidden feelings for you as well; your reticent behavior was quite attractive to him, as he needed a stoic rock upon which he, the wild card goofball, could lean upon.

With confessions finally out of the way, you found it easier to inform Dante of just how highly you thought of him--something that sent his ego to the moon.

"You're hot, Dante."

"I'm hot?"

"Very hot."

"How hot?"

"The hottest."

"Well I'll be damned, you finally admitted it. I'm just kidding, thank you for your compliments. Love ya."

Though rare, compliments like that from you made Dante's day. There was nothing more meaningful to him than your praise and the knowledge that you considered him the greatest and most attractive person in the world.

Imagine the devil hunter's absolute astonishment when you came home one day and told him about this random guy you met who was supposedly as hot as him. He was unable to believe his ears--you, a normally quiet and reserved person, was now gushing about this man! Gushing! Praises were flowing from your mouth like water from the bathtub faucet, something that was not only rare, but unacceptable!

"He's really good looking," You continued, as you had been for the last hour or so, while toying with the hem of your top. Dante shifted boredom in his seat, resting his chin against his palm. It was obvious he didn't like this conversation, but you were too busy talking to notice. "I don't even have words to describe it...he's hot on your level. Yeah, that's it, he's Dante level hot."

At that moment, something within Dante snapped. It was like a light switch had been flipped on, except instead of turning on a light, it activated a quiet, hidden rage. Thankfully, you didn't notice; you were too busy rambling on about your newest obsession. "Say, babe, what's this dude's name?" Dante asked, careful to keep his tone casual. You replied without a second thought, not bothering to second guess Dante's reasons for wanting to know this.

Satisfied that he'd gotten the information he needed, Dante patiently endured the rest of your overly exuberant conversation, taking comfort in the fact that once you were tired of talking, he could go out, track this guy down, and make sure that he would never steal your attention ever again.

#Dmc #Dmc5 #Dmc dante #Dante #dante sparda #Dante x reader #dante devil may cry #devil may cry 5 #devil may cry #Devil may cry fanfic #Fanfic #Warning: yandere #tw yandere behavior #Light yandere #Dante x reader yandere #requested #thanks for requesting #icycoldninja writes

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nininikki · 11 months

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𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐌𝐑. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 | eren jaeger x black reader

III. nice enough

✧ summary! — as eren is faced with an obstacle regarding his fight for the office, all he can seem to think of is you. meanwhile, your dinner at the jaeger’s goes…interestingly.

✧ warnings! — alcohol consumption and mentions of it, mentions of sexual activity (piv), adultery (eren is an aspiring cheater again), age gap—reader is 29 and eren is 40

✧ author’s note! — hello all! part 3 is finally here after what felt like years 😓 hoping that you all love it! bit of exposition & lots of head hopping (aka pov switching) in this one so strap your seatbelts. lmk if i missed anything in the warnings! 🪽💘

✧ word count! — 3.6k

12 AUGUST, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

one could argue that there was nothing particularly nice about levi ackerman. he didn’t really like to shake people’s hands, evident by the well hidden grunts of distress under his breath whenever he had to do it and the prompt squirt of hand sanitizer into his palm immediately after.

he also had a not so great habit of dishing out ridiculous—or, in hindsight not so ridiculous—demands that he was certain would help eren in the polls. “go get a haircut, jaeger. you look fifteen.” or, “go change that tie. never mind, just change the whole damn suit. you look like a bachelor.”

and eren had an even worse habit of listening to everything he said, because the most frustrating thing of all about levi ackerman was that he was never wrong. there was a jump in his numbers after he got rid of that “juvenile haircut” and stopped “dressing like hugh hefner.”

so, when levi deadpanned, “you two need to start acting married.” eren could only assume it was for some reason or another that he’d eventually come to comprehend in about twenty minutes.

“acting married?”

eren had come to learn that levi’s ideas tended to be the most strategic the more asinine they sounded. this fact, however, did not help the ever nagging feeling that eren might as well have been blowing levi’s ten thousand dollar stipend into the wind every month.

levi swiftly maneuvered his way around their timelessly decorated living room, not bothering to hide the way he kept his hands from lingering too long on any furniture. “acting like you actually love each other. yes, challenging as that may sound, it could win you this election.”

however levi managed to clock the decaying spark in eren’s marriage was neither here nor there.

mikasa sprouted from her seat as though she were the timid stem of a plant. “levi, with all due respect—”

“i mean, like right now.” right now, eren and mikasa were standing no more than seven feet away from each other on opposite sides of their living room. their respective arms crossed, unionized in their waning tolerance for the current discussion. “you two look like coworkers at best. hold her hand, kiss her on the cheek. where’s the chemistry?”

eren breathed a scoff that weighed a thousand pounds. “chemistry? we have an election to win, and you’re worried about our chemistry?”

“the numbers speak for themselves, jaeger. voters under thirty-five love you. love your policies, your look. if it were up to just them, you’d be a shoo-in. but with voters forty and up—well, you just aren’t traditional enough.”

despite the nonchalance with which levi spoke, eren’s vigorously trained ear picked up on the irritation that lie just beneath. eren could practically hear into the bubbling, cynical cauldron of brilliance that was levi’s brain and pick out the individual remarks springing to the surface. am i gonna have to hire this fucker an intimacy coordinator? for his wife of all people?

never minding the question sounding almost rhetorical in his head, eren still asked, “well, how do we fix that?” he thought back longingly, bitterly to the conversation last night. and the one this morning. a fuzzy, warm, and sugar filled feeling that should’ve been guilt enraptured his chest and abdomen. the last intelligent parts of his brain were brutally kicking him for thinking of a you—a girl that was inconsequential and, for lack of a better word, trouble. you may as well have had a big, glowing red sign floating above your head that blared DANGER whenever he dared step too close.

but, oh, how he wanted to step closer! how he could feel the delicious vines of trouble you were sure to plant into his life and how he found himself longing to be wrapped in them anyway. how he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into the forbidden fruit of your skin and revel in whatever nectar you were willing to give him. how he wouldn’t have minded looking danger directly in the eyes if they just so happened to resemble yours.

***

AUGUST 23, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

eren could feel his fingers beginning to seize with a barely discernible tremor as they hesitated over his house phone. eleven long days had passed since the last phone call, and a part of him (lots of parts, actually) had started to miss your voice. it was novel that he had even found himself missing the sound of someone’s voice. their voice, of all things. but he guessed you had a knack for realizing the fantastical.

of course, he couldn’t call you just to call. he had to have some sort of reason. an, “oh, i was just wondering if you were still up for dinner” or, “i know you’ve got your premiere today. i was just calling to wish you good luck.”

he couldn’t have wanted to call for the sole purpose of hearing your voice, or wanting to know how your day was going. or for any of the simple pleasure he may have gotten from calling you, anyway.

calling you without a reason would change things. he’d toe the already vague enough line between checking up on a totally platonic (while also coincidentally drop dead gorgeous) woman in his life and indulging in the attraction that had become so potent within him he was afraid it’d fester if he didn’t act upon it.

eren dropped the house phone back into its holder with a pathetic clunk, and began the venture into his bathroom in pursuit of splashing some sense into his face. he couldn’t have, not for a second, thought it’d be a good idea to call you at three o’clock on a wednesday with mikasa and levi sitting perfectly conscious just downstairs.

a noticeable chunk of eren’s resolve crumbled to nothing as he promptly realized that yes, he had considered calling you in the face of the present circumstances. and no, he couldn’t say he cared all that much without willing himself to do so.

***

23 AUGUST, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

your relationship with jean kirschtein was something of an enigma. to the ever present and glaring public eye, to your own friends and family, hell, to yourself even. when he wasn’t pretending to be madly in love with you on a silver screen, he was sending you compliments that he didn’t even bother to deliver in a platonic tone. and when he wasn’t doing that, he was whisking you into the dimly lit area of whatever party you both happened to be attending and coating your lips in whiskey flavored kisses that lingered into the early morning.

it almost seemed inevitable the first time you slept with him. with every stolen glance or flirtatious remark, you’d find yourself thinking, any day now. any day now, i’m gonna jump his bones.

and soon enough, your desires were realized one night as he cruised down the hall from his hotel room to yours to wish you a well slumber and wash away the pre-premiere jitters with a bottle of champagne. it didn’t take long before he had your legs wrapped around the base of his spine while the two of you rutted your pleasure-drunken bodies into one another.

ironically enough, that had become your pre-premiere tradition, an arrangement that proved convenient for you last night when colorful thoughts of a certain presidential candidate ran rampant through your mind. you’d found yourself knocking on his hotel room door with your own bottle of champagne—knowing he’d be up for taking your mind off it. still, even with jean buried so deep inside you and your fingernails raking across his shoulders, you couldn’t quite seem to purge him from your mind.

that much is evident when you arrive at the cannes film festival. a steadying, custom-tailored arm snakes around your waist, and judging by the accompanying scent of bleu de chanel, your otherwise preoccupied mind can only assume it’s jean. “hey,” the sound of his voice sobers you just enough to grant him eye contact. “you okay in there?”

“always.” you reassure him with a smile and nod. “let’s go kick ass.”

***

30 AUGUST

just as your knuckles brushed against the front door, a fleeting blanket of tranquility washed over your body in the form of an evening summer breeze. briefly, you wondered if that could be a sign before knocking anyway. it was a timid graze of skin against wood that you weren’t even sure you’d heard. you were prepared to knock again—more confidently and less like you were about to vomit all over the jaeger’s doorstep—when the door swung open.

“and here i was, thinking you’d stood me up.”

you didn’t think you’d ever quite get used to eren’s beauty. this could’ve had something to do with the fact that he was simply (by some stroke of magic) becoming increasingly attractive each time you laid eyes on him. or with the fact that you were utterly enamored with a new part of him every single time.

on this particular occasion, it was the tiny beauty mark dotted under his left eye. one could hardly even call it noticeable in the dimmed lighting you two were standing in, but that didn’t stop you from yearning to stretch onto your tiptoes and run the pad of your thumb over it.

an utterly delighted exhale whistled through your nose as you remarked, “never.” with a newborn shyness coloring your tone, which may or may not have had something to do with the way eren’s shadow managed to eclipse your entire as he braved a footstep in your direction to close the front door behind you. it was in that particular moment that you realized mikasa wasn’t at his side. she’d have most likely greeted you with a hug, a glimmering smile, and all the guilt-inspiring kindness in the world. “where’s, uh, m—”

eren’s eyes, once entirely focused on you, became awkward and clumsy as the last syllable started to leave your lips. “she’s in th—”

“honey, is that (y/n)?” mikasa’s voice, erupting from somewhere further back in the house while still managing to sound composed and almost soft. “i’ll be up in a sec, hold on.”

as the distant echo of mikasa’s voice dwindled, what proceeded to settle over you and eren was an almost tangible bubble of guilt. and taking your eyes off one another would surely burst it right over your heads and drench you both in the sordid feelings you harbored for one another.

of course, you don’t count on eren to have that much concern for things like guilt. because just as the sound of his wife’s voice grew to a steady quiet, you felt his palms—lightly callused and comfortably warm—cup over the back of your arms as he murmured, “you’re so beautiful.”

“eren,” you squeaked his name, a weak attempt at protest. you should’ve known you stood no chance, especially not when the lively green of his eyes bored into yours so deeply you thought you’d feel them in your soul.

his hands grew a bit firmer over your arms, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to stay in his hold forever. “yeah?” eren answered, and you would’ve let him kiss you right there. you were so sure of the feeling that it wrapped around your bones. it was in the beating of your heart, the quickness of your breath, in the ribbons of want dripping into your underwear and effectively soiling them for the rest of the night. it was in you.

with no forewarning (although, why would there be) the tell-tale sound of heels came clicking against the same marble floor you were standing on. almost too luckily for you, eren moved into a less compromising position, and you were able to see that the heels were still clicking around the corner and not yet in the foyer. so, mikasa hadn’t seen her husband practically mounting the girl she believed to be their friend.

this was gonna be a long fucking night.

***

sitting before you was possibly the best plate of pasta you’d ever eaten and just a foot or two across from that was possibly the handsomest man you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. if you were deluded enough, this could’ve been a date. scarfing down a fattening amount of pasta and drinking thousand dollar wine with the man present in all your recent daydreams.

maybe if you drank enough wine, you’d slide your stiletto up the inside of his leg. back and forth and back and forth again until it wasn’t enough for you. maybe if both of you had enough wine, he’d take you up to his bedroom. or maybe he wouldn’t bother with all the extra walking and just let you have it right here on the dining room table.

but none of that would happen, seeing as just a foot away from him sat his wife, your friend.

“is the pasta any good, (y/n)?” mikasa asked, as she herself was only eating a salad drenched in avocado and quinoa.

mouth too full to speak, you simply raised a positive thumb as you waited for the food to go down. “amazing,” you were finally able to breathe out. “everything’s been just lovely.” and it had been. even walking through the jaeger’s home felt like something of an out of body experience for you. the ornate detailing covering the walls, marble floors smooth enough to slide across, and ceilings bejeweled with sparkling chandeliers. the place could’ve been a castle.

after a sip from his glass, eren remarked, “i think you just make lovely company.”

your neck twitched in the urge to bang your head against the table, unsure if it was rooted in being flustered or embarrassed that he would even utter those words out loud.

after a bout of awkward silence that filled the room with the intensity and speed of a rushing tide, mikasa spoke. “so, how was cannes?” you didn’t miss the way she stabbed at her lettuce, despite desperately wishing you had.

“uh, great, yeah. really great.” you answered, despite having to flinch whenever you closed your eyes due to the blinding camera flash that still lingered behind the lids. and despite last night being your first full eight hours of sleep after what seemed like months of preparation for this money-covered spectacle. “people liked the movie, that’s all i could really ask for.” a smile graced your features as you recalled the tumultuous, fourteen minute standing ovation. even now, through all the party noise still sticking to you, you remember the triumph burning through your veins as jean wrapped you in a spine-crushing hug.

mikasa smiled through an ear of lettuce. “that’s perfect.” seconds of chewing passed before she added, “y’know, that jean kirschtein guy seems to like you quite a bit.”

“jean?”

“yeah. i mean, the way he looks at you…” you briefly wondered how on earth she would know how jean looks at you (off-camera, at least) before remembering that cannes was a nationally publicized event, and she’d most likely seen bits and pieces of it somewhere at the very very least. “wouldn’t you say so, eren?”

you were actually kicking yourself. like, banging the heel of your stiletto repeatedly your shin and hoping to wake up from this night terror sooner than later. “i don’t know. kid seems nice enough.” eren murmured. you braved a glance at him, only to see that he was staring down into his plate of pasta as his knuckles whitened around his fork. he finally looked up at both of you to say, “let’s not jump down her throat about it.”

“ugh, i’m so glad we got to do this.” mikasa breathed, her arms wrapping around your neck as the three of you entered the foyer. “i’ve got that women’s conference in georgia in a few weeks, so this is about the only free time i’m getting before then.”

“if anyone can convince them to vote democrat, it’s you.”

her eyes brightened as if it was the first time she’d been complimented in ages. “you think so?”

you nodded, trying to ignore her husband’s shadow burning a hole in your back. “you got it in the bag. don’t even worry about it.”

just as her smile began to widen, a phone somewhere upstairs trilled noisily, and her eyes darted to eren as she headed towards the sound. “that might be levi. will you walk her out while i…” mikasa gestured upwards, and they shared a look of mutual understanding over your head that had envy coiling in your gut.

in a matter of seconds, mikasa had zipped from the foyer and ventured up the stairs before you could even blink a goodbye in her direction. you shot eren a questioning set of eyes, to which he only wearily answered, “campaign manager.”

as eren walked you out the door, you could feel a question—the question—sitting eagerly on his tongue, so it wasn’t at all a surprise when he remarked, “jean kirschtein, huh?”

pale ribbons of moonlight illuminated his features, brightening the coquettish smile stretched across his face. “problem?” you quickly and confidently answered his question with another, even as you could feel your legs buckling under the weight of his stare.

“no, not at all. he seems…” eren shook his head so unconvincingly that he may as well have said yes.

“‘nice enough.’ right?”

for a brief instant, something darkened behind his eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it scared you or turned you on. “i lied. not nice enough for you.”

“oh? and are you saying you know someone who is?” a giggle slipped from your lips as you let your heeled foot briefly glide against the hem of his pant leg.

even in the growing darkness, his cheeks lit aflame in a blush. “god, i don’t even know what i’m saying.”

just then, your limo smoothed up the driveway and came to a halt where you stood at the front entrance. “well, call me when you do.”

***

your house phone trills ecstatically at around midnight, and you weren’t at all surprised by the voice on the other end. “you know i don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

throwing a nightgown over your naked, freshly showered body, you simper, “and who are you to make that judgment?”

“i’m making this judgment as someone who might possibly be good enough for you.”

“‘might possibly’ yeah, if we just remove the wife and presidential candidacy.” you momentarily considered a world where there was no wife or presidential candidacy. where you and eren met at some country club near santa barbara and could be blissfully smitten without interruption. without the glaring eyes of guilt crawling over your back whenever you so much as thought about him. “i’d say you’re perfect.”

“perfect, huh?” the cocky lilt in his tone sobered you as much as it excited you.

“hey, grain of salt.” you teased as you threw your head back into the throng of pillows at the head of your bed and wished desperately that eren could see the way you were smiling. “very clear conditions were stated. conditions you obviously cannot meet.”

“stop that.” eren whispered, his voice half a notch sterner.

“stop what?”

“being so pessimistic.” at this, you laughed, because eren’s hopeless sense of optimism was nothing if not utterly amusing.

“no other choice.”

treacherously long beats of silence roll by, giving you no other choice than to think about what you just said. would it really be so foolish to think that this (whatever it was you two had going on) stood a chance in the face of all the present circumstances—his marriage, the election, your reputation and career. sitting here now, listening to the peaceful whistles of his breath between his lips and soaking up the utter peace it brought you, you almost could’ve been coaxed into believing the answer was no.

“(y/n),” eren’s voice wakes you. “can i ask something of you?”

“depends on what.” you breathe, checking the clock on your bedside table. 12:06.

“there’s this, uh, dinner we’re hosting at my family’s ballroom. try to garner support and that kinda thing. i don’t know, it was mainly mika’s idea. but anyway,” the distant sounds of ice rolling around in a scotch glass graced your ears. “i want you to be there.”

i want you to be there. “oh, eren, i—” you cut yourself off, heart hammering in your chest so fervently you thought it might explode. i want you to be there. “i don’t—” i want you to be there. “i don’t know if that’s really my scene.” you tried to keep the tremor out of your voice for long enough to get the sentence out.

“nonsense. america loves you. you’d be a huge help, if anything.” his voice was doing that thing again. that thing where it seeped from the receiver of the phone and sang to your senses in a way that made it feel like he was really there with you. “but that’s not why i want you there.”

“why do you want me there?”

“just to see you again.” it warmed your heart, and every other surface area of skin on your body, that he was already looking for a way to see you again despite having just left you today.

“is this my official invitation?”

“‘course it is. i’ll handle everything else. just put on the prettiest dress you own and show up.” you glanced over at your walk-in closet with its double doors still open ajar and briefly pondered over which dress—out of the hundreds—might be the prettiest one you own. “can you do that for me?”

“yeah,” the word left your lips as if someone had punched it and all the air from your lungs. eren had the power to do that to you, and if at some point down the line, you got any stupider than this, you’d give him the power to do so much more. “yeah, i can.”

tags ✧˖*°࿐ — @nyanglock @beyondsuki @westcinny @taylarxse @ittostan @rensbby @madsoncrack @shawtynoire @braxxinterlude @kai7911

#nikki writes ✶#happy birthday mr. president #eren jeager x you #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x black reader #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan au #aot smut #eren jaeger fanfiction #eren jaeger fanart #eren jaeger smut #snk #snk fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin eren

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