#also i have some fabric still in my stash that should be enough for it :)

[butchniqabi]

got my sewing machine out....yall not ready for me

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (2)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Two: Strain Curve (see previous or series)

IMPORTANT: I forgot to mention and link that this started with an anon ask, so I should give them credit for the idea. Here's where this all started! Additionally, Richard Fisk is an actual Marvel character and the son of Kingpin. All that is straight out of the comics (and animated shows), down to the horrible color choices.

Summary: Steve shelters you from Fisk while attempting to hide the truth from Tony. He's not a great liar...but how much of this is really fake?

Warnings for fluffy fluff of the 21st-fluffery with a teeny bit of angst, 100% idiots in love! Also a quick disclaimer about me knowing exactly diddlysquat about fashion design. I binged 'Next In Fashion' and so this is the best I got lol... WC 4066

You watch Steve blush at your attempted smile. He paws at the back of his head before gathering another confession.

“Actually, I do have—I mean, yes, I wanted to see you, but uh—“ he rushes over to fetch a paper bag he must have stashed as he snuck in behind the cops “—I did have a reason to come.”

In the bag, you find three shirts, and your smile turns more genuine.

“Of course, you did. How romantic.”

You’re still awash with adrenaline; there’s no filter to keep your teasing at bay. You can barely pick up that you said anything anyway.

Steve shrugs, looking down to take back the shirts as Abby returns with a glass of water for you. “Not my best move.”

You chug the water, loudly, unable to regulate how desperately you need it. Abby gently pries Steve’s shirts from his tense arms.

“Right.” Steve rolls his shoulders out, straightening and clearly falling into Captain mode. “We need to get you somewhere safe. I just have to make a few calls and—“

“Don’t tell Stark,” you blurt, hand instinctively grabbing the wrist that holds his phone ready. “I’m sorry. That sounded like an order, just…please don’t tell Mr. Stark.” Tony can’t know that Fisk has been using you as a tailor as well. He can’t. 

Alarm and curiosity flicker behind Steve’s blue eyes, but he hides it well immediately. “Ok. I’ll—” he makes no move to take his arm back “—think of something.”

“And I have three clients left…for the day.”

Abby tsks you from behind though it’s the truth. The empty glass rattles on the tabletop with your faint tremor.

Steve thinks for a prolonged, squinting moment. “After work then. I’ll pick you up.”

You run off adrenaline and butterflies the rest of the day, and yes, whatever liquids or snacks Abby and Dominica (when she returns from her errand) put into your hand along the way, but mostly it’s the fluttering anticipation of Steve that floats you through.

And then he’s back and it’s already dark outside.

“Oh shit,” you burst, politely showing Mr. Chen out while Steve waits his turn to get in the door. He says nothing, but Captain America lowers his head in disapproval at your curse. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. Let me grab some things.”

You race up the stairs to the apartment over the shop. Your clientele and brand used to be small enough that you could keep those two sides of life separate, but slowly, your work has crept into your living space. Now you survive from a dresser, a hanging rack, and a Murphy bed that doubles as a small desk when it’s upright against the wall.

Not much of an existence, but it’s very practical.

You’re shuffling around with an overnight bag and a dump tote to grab mostly work things and two changes of clothes. One of your assistants can bring you more stuff if/when necessary, but it feels presumptive to think you’ll live out of a safe house for long.

“So…working to live or living to work?”

You jump at Steve’s deep voice from the open doorway. He looks around at the hodgepodge of work benches and mannequins lining the walls.

“It’s a fluid and evolving situation,” you admit, sweeping several binders of fabric swatches and sketch pads into the tote. You eye a work-in-progress on one of the dummies and decide against trying to take it. Too bulky.

In order not to keep Steve waiting, you hand over the tote and head to the car, texting Abby and Dominica instructions the whole drive. Steve assures you that you’ll still have wifi and freedom to communicate, so you don’t have to clear fittings and consults off the books. It simply won’t be wise to invite welcome clients into where you’re staying.

Admittedly, that’s very generous considering you could have been looking at a blackout, witness-protection level of hiding.

You’re still on your phone when Steve opens your car door, and you shuffle with your duffel, his feet at the edge of your periphery to follow. It doesn’t register that you walk down a long hall. It doesn’t register that there’s an elevator ride and another voice. It doesn’t register that you’re looking at a kind of hostel-esque apartment inside another building until you ask if there’s a space you’ll be able to spread out for work.

Steve glows with pride that he thought of that and walks you to a conference room…surrounded by glass…overlooking a 30-story high view of the city.

You’re in the Avengers Tower, formerly Stark Tower.

“Wait, he’s not supposed to know.”

Steve gets your confusion right away. “Tony doesn’t, but without filing paperwork stating the reason you need a safe house, this was the best—“

“Sheers!” the booming voice of one Tony Stark reverberates across 360 degrees of windows. “I thought it might be you.”

“Might be me for what?” you ask as innocently as possible.

“As Capsicles’ first, of course.”

Steve hangs his head while his pal claps him on the back.

“First use of his guest pass that is. Granted, I’ve been saying for years we need an in-house tailor, but no takers…” Stark fake-punches Steve’s shoulder. “Way to break the ice, buddy. I’m proud of you. What happened? You noticed you’re both workaholics and needed your girl…closer to get closer, did you? Good call.”

Steve shoots wary eyes your way, silently praying you ignore that remark or maybe checking you’re okay with the implication. The way Stark says ‘your girl’ as if he’s heard it several times before though…

“Something like that,” you shrug. 

“At least he finally asked you. I kept telling him to shit or get off the pot.”

“Language,” you hiss quietly.

The men look a little shocked for a split second before slowly turning to each other, a silent conversation passed in the empty space over your head. Whatever just happened seems to have really convinced Tony because a wry smile flickers beneath his sinking, pale sunglasses. Yes, of course, Tony Stark is wearing sunglasses at night, just as, of course, Captain America is willingly deceiving Stark to be your fake boyfriend. 

“Romeo,” the building’s namesake coos. “Training them young, I see.”

Steve’s jaw and neck tighten, a raging flush creeping up his pale skin, but he doesn’t argue. Stark buys the ploy, which is great, but in reality, Steve doesn’t even have your personal number.

Tony lifts his hands in surrender and starts retreating to the door. “Look, I hate to take credit—“

“No, you don’t.”

Incredulous, sagging eyebrows dip below his frames. “—but I am very, very good.” He points a finger back and forth between you and Steve. “You’re welcome.”

He tries to peek under a pile of sketches atop your work tote, and you rush to slap your hand down. Stark might see the other designs you’re working on, and just like he can’t know about Fisk, he can’t know about those.

“Fine.” Tony puts his hands up again. “I’m going.”

Steve steps to your side, apology loud in his eyes, and asks if he can make you tea or something stronger, ya know, because Tony has that effect on people.

“Yeah—“ you stare off toward the elevators where Stark remains lurking “—he’s still there,” you whisper.

Steve huffs a laugh and shifts to bridge the mere inches left between you, his hand gently landing on your upper arm and planting a kiss on your forehead like a breeze.

“Better make it look good then.”

Turns out you need tea and food.

You’d been so reliant on your assistants for nourishment that you forgot dinner. Steve sees; he has it covered. Instead of winding down after a trying day, however, you get a rush of energy, and you can’t squander the chance to make crucial adjustments. Every minute counts in the lead-up to Fashion Week.

“May I join you?” Steve asks, ready to walk away with his meal in hand should you prefer. “I won’t take up much space.” He looks down at his shoes and up the two inches above his head to the top of the doorframe. “Ok, much more space,” he corrects.

“You wanted to leave me alone?”

He bites back a smile and shakes his head, settling into the least cluttered corner.

He chats excitedly as you both eat, but after failing to pry some answers about Fisk from you,—‘are you often threatened by clients?’ and ‘can you steer him in another designer’s direction?’—Steve slips away to grab his own art supplies.

You’ve barely looked up until you get a surge of inspiration and search for your colored pencils under the pile of templates. How did they get all the way over there? Since when are red and grey so worn down? Weren’t you needing to replace both blues soon?

“Those in your way? I can move them?”

Steve stops sketching, holding a yellow pencil, the only color missing from the tin. That’s when you realize. He uses the same brand of pencils you do—tools made of quality materials but nothing overly fancy.

“No need,” you marvel. “I just mistook them for my own.”

Steve sweeps a large hand out in offering. “Mistake away.”

You can’t help it. You chew your lip to calm your grin. He’s simply a very giving man who enjoys simple things. It’s refreshing.

“Or we could trade? We seem to use the opposite colors the most.”

“Right,” Steve laughs, “I went on a tear trying for Sam’s suit in-flight. Never turned out.” Shaking his head dislodges a lock of hair, so he runs his fingers through the strategic coif.

“Hmm,” you hum absently, engrossed by his picturesque appearance, “my drawings are more like guidelines for my imagination. No need to be precise.”

“A sentiment I’ve heard many times before.” He slides the tin closer to the midway point between you. “I just want to do beauty justice, which sounds pretentious but…

“Point is—“ Steve lifts his gaze to you with a soft shrug “—use whatever you like.”

You thought your work habits were grueling, but poor Steve flits around at all hours of the day and night with workouts, training, meetings, and missions. He mostly gets to do drive-by waves of ‘hello’ as he travels the building past your glass bubble, always with a smile, always with a tinge of something else. He’s an easy man to read: you can tell when he’s fatigued (in spirit though, not body), you can tell when he’s irritated from stress, and you can tell when he wants to linger but has to go.

It’s incredibly cute. Steve Rogers is just so damn cute.

You continue with business as usual as best you can, video calling during consults and the most critical fittings. Clients aren’t exactly happy with your absence, but they don’t dare complain when the alternative is waiting another month for you to schedule in person. Besides, there are oftentimes you step away from routine appointments to focus on creating new lines.

Dominica is allowed to walk right in with any of your requested supplies since she’s delivered to Stark several times before. She stays for a few hours to touch base. She assures you that Tarik is no longer unnerved by the police car that sits at the curb outside the atélier’s front door. Apparently, Abby takes the cops coffee a couple times a day.

All in all, it’s going well.

One day, you think Steve is showing up for one of your ‘sketch sessions’—where he sits in his own chair somewhere around the huge oval table and quietly works alongside you—but not today.

“They…it’s…” Steve plants his feet on the carpet across from you and looks behind him nervously. Anytime other people are near the room, he walks right over to you to kiss your cheek, a show to keep up the appearance of actually being a couple, but it’s late enough that no one is around. “We do movie night—we’re doing movie ni—we’re watching a movie if you’d like to join?”

You’re tempted to tease him, ask ‘where’s my kiss’ or something that makes that fiery blush creep up Steve’s face, but you grin back. “Sure. I could use the break.”

Honestly, no, you should be hammering out some details for the lapels of this blazer, but ehh, you’re also tired of staring at the same damn jacket.

Of course, this means the lot of them save you and Steve seats beside each other on a couch. You two have only ever sat in chairs in front of or separated by a table, so figuring out how to curl up next to the man you are not dating is an adventure in micro-expressions. You share a look that lasts about two seconds but contains a forty-five-minute discussion of how far is okay to take this and agree that you want to keep up the charade.

Thus, Steve lifts his arm to drape across your shoulders, and you lean into his chest.

It’s a good fit, good enough that you wake up two hours later not knowing what the movie was about and starting to sweat from being so close to his very warm body.

Maybe it’s the eye convo or maybe napping directly on him tells Steve how comfortable you are with him, but either way, he changes to giving a kiss on the cheek or forehead every instance he sees you, no exceptions.

After a week of remaining on the same floor of the same skyscraper and doing nothing but working, sleeping, and movie-sleeping, you’re at your wit’s end, longingly staring out the window at the city below.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asks as he enters the conference room. Forehead kiss this time. His lips feel soft and warm as they ghost over your skin.

“Stuck,” you mutter.

His hand smooths across your back. “Well, how do you normally get unstuck?”

“I go for a walk through the park.” You know you can’t go outside, but it’s difficult to wrangle every bit of bitterness at your captivity. You appreciate all Steve is doing to make it so Fisk can’t get to you, but you need fresh air.

Steve sighs like he’s mad at himself before spinning around the room. “Right.” He grabs your hand. “Come with me.”

In the elevator, Steve explains that in keeping with the eco-friendly intent of the new clean energy tower, Tony made half of the rooftop a greenhouse and the other half a garden. The walking paths are all moss-covered, but there are no benches. Just outside the elevator doors are folding chairs, and Steve grabs two.

On separate chairs with no table in sight, you two watch the sunset on the other side of the building from your work room. You take in a big breath of the chilly air and shiver, completely content to experience freedom away from climate control, but Steve rushes back into the greenhouse to retrieve a blanket from the stack beside the chairs.

“Here ya go,” he stumbles, leaning to tuck the fabric around you. “I should have brought us tea or something,” but when he makes to leave this time, you take his hand.

“You’ll miss it.” He’s probably seen the view from here a million times before, but you don’t want him to go. “Stay,” you say in a whisper.

Steve visibly softens, shoulders dropping, eyes alight. “Yeah?” He sits again and looks at the nearly cloudless sky. “Yeah.” He slouches to get comfy in the small and unsupportive chair, but he looks so at home bathed in the warm pink light. “Each time’s a bit different but—“ he turns to you, smiling “—this one’s better.”

Since the sunset sit-down, Steve makes a point to pry you away from the work area when he has time to hang out with you. The couch isn’t actually far away from the conference room, but it does mean you get to sit together, your feet in his lap while he reads a book, listening to his commentary on the author’s points or sketching aimlessly for fun.

The whole thing feels like a bizarre vacation, some alternate reality where your home life intersects with superheroes. Tony Stark may have been a sometimes-client, but he never let you attempt anything more custom than a three-piece suit. 

You’re not complaining; it’s just weird that Captain America is so average when his uniform comes off. He sinks his face into his palm when he’s sleepy. His yawn is outrageously adorable for how big the man is. He absently holds your ankles steady in his lap when he shifts on the cushions. His eyelids droop, and he repeats paragraphs when he can no longer keep his place on the page.

Steve Rogers could not be more normal, and for this reason, you find him extraordinary.

He gets dressed every morning while you’re there, no sweatpants, no workout wear—or, what did Sam call it? Athleisure? That’s not a word, right?—except for when Steve is actively working out. He thinks it’s too on-the-nose to wear your designs in front of you for days on end, but that limits his options significantly, considering how much of his wardrobe sports a Tovarich label. Good jeans and a black sweater will have to do because today he’s playing model.

It seems the mannequin Dominica hauled in for you isn’t close to the right proportions for your client so Steve volunteered, rewarded immediately with a gorgeous, toothy smile that made his heart thump against his ribcage.

Steve’s chatty but can’t help it.

There was one conversation a few days ago that unlocked so many memories he thought he’d lost.

While he peeked at a few of your sketches, you asked him about clothing in the 40s, and he took your notepad to doodle a bit. Steve drew a common dress from memory to show you girls he grew up with, the pleats and cinches in their exact spots because—now that he has your full and rapt attention—he thinks it’s important.

He’s had to recall maps, battle maneuvers, building layouts, and evil plans more times than he can count; no one’s ever asked him how his mother styled her hair or which shoes she wore to work at the hospital.

They’re just shoes, but Steve sat misty-eyed describing how Ma tied her laces a very specific way, the way she taught him to, the way he still ties them to this very day. He hadn’t thought of why in so long, and ever since, little details keep flooding back.

“Buck used to never tuck in his shirts,” Steve laughs as you nudge his arms higher to check his range of motion in the shoulders. “He’d fix the front half and leave a tail out in the back.”

You chuckle at that. “Unacceptable for proper ol’ Stevie,” you muse.

“No, it was not—“ he drops his head in shame “—and I’d remind him every time.” Steve spins, prompted by the pull of your hands at his waist. His face is on fire, but he promised to help you. He just has to ’suffer’ through your touch, he supposes.

How horrible…

“Sharp dresser, were you? Not a hair out of place?”

“Yes, ma’am, or…at least for my size I was.”

You’re deep in thought, pulling the bottom hem to check how it lays at his hips, checking the lining before buttoning him up. “These might be too flashy,” you mumble. “Gosh, I hope he likes this color.”

“Why not? It’s stunning,” Steve jumps too eagerly at the chance to praise the barely purple fabric. It’s that kind of illusion hue that might look black, navy, or its true shade in different lights.

“And the buttons?” you prod.

He tilts one of the stamped, dark nickel rounds to see the embellishment. “I’d consider that a signature touch of the Tovarich brand,” he beams.

Your elation is contagious until an ear-splitting alarm sounds overhead. You’re so startled you spring backward into a rolling chair and topple to the floor.

Steve scrambles to help you right yourself while the wailing screech continues, but he knows that noise.

Emergency.

He has to go.

You’re holding your elbow, flashing him a thumbs up, and Steve feels terrible yelling to ensure you’re okay.

Agents race past the glass walls, and he really has to run so off he goes, jacket still on.

An incredibly long seventeen hours later, Steve is returning to his room only to notice you’ve fallen asleep at the conference table. He’s pleased there is no bandage on your elbow, so the fall was no worse than bruising, but he refuses to leave you there.

Slowly peeling your face and hands from your drafting paper, Steve wrestles your flopping arms and limp legs into a solid hold to carry you to your own room.

You don’t wake up, not fully, only enough to grip the shoulder strap of his shield harness as he gently lowers you onto the unmade bed. Luckily, your MO is to kick off your shoes when concentrating on work, so once you release the leather attached to him, he pulls the covers over you.

He kisses your temple. “Night, Button,” he whispers like a secret, and for now, it is.

You simply sigh and turn deeper into the pillow.

Steve purposefully finds you at breakfast to ask if you’d want to get lunch with him. Yes, it would just be in the cafeteria on the lower levels, and yes, you two have already shared many meals, but in his mind, this is the actual ask, the question of ‘will you go out with me’ instead of just ‘are you hungry at this reasonable time and may I be hungry in your vicinity.’

It’s stupid, he knows. He’s anxious for your answer anyway.

Steve has a very love/hate relationship with having you essentially trapped in the Tower. On the one hand, you’re starved for interaction and the choice of your surroundings. On the other hand, he gets you all to himself. He’s ashamed of how much he enjoys that perk. Somewhere deep inside, he hopes whatever Fisk is after is never resolved, but that’s wishful—and terribly selfish—thinking.

Just in case going on a deliberate date with him isn’t offer enough, Steve can return your client’s jacket. He hung it in his locker when changing into the tactical suit. It’s safe, but he’ll get it after his debrief. That’s a good excuse. That’ll work.

You’re happy and excited, only making him more nervous, but it’s progress. He’s done ‘round noon after the long meeting scheduled to start in, yikes, fifteen minutes, and you quickly agree. Steve floats on cloud nine, bouncing his foot until dismissed so he can rush back up to you.

He isn’t expecting to see Tony in your bubble.

“You don’t know me, Stark. How dare you!” Your face twists in fury. “Screw this,” you shout, frantic in grabbing your essentials from the table. “I don’t answer to you. I don't need this. Someone else will get my things.”

Steve doesn’t understand why you won’t meet his eye or speak to him as you barrel past. He’s too stunned to follow you to the elevator, it feels imposing to race down and corner you in the lobby, but he marches up to Tony with wide eyes.

“What the hell happened?”

Tony waves him off, cagy and dismissive, rushing off upstairs to his lab, and Steve almost asks if this is about Fisk. If it’s not and he blabs, then you’ll definitely be angry at him. If he grills Tony too much, there might be something that gives away that Steve lied about having a significant other as his guest for two weeks. If Steve admits that he doesn’t even have your number, the jig is 100% up.

But he knows you have his number, he knows he still has a jacket you’ll want back, and he knows one thing he’s incredibly good at.

So Steve waits, ready to apologize, ready to grovel, ready to yell at Tony for whatever. He is just ready and waiting.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @darsynia

[Next Part]

[Light Masterlist; Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[glassbxttless]

[CLOSE] from the smut prompts okay? But stay with me for this one.

Paterson x Pregnant!Reader

Also maybe some lactation kink in there somewhere

Chapters

Paterson x f!Reader

summary: You delight Paterson with some very shocking news not too long after the birth of your first child.

word count: 2k+

warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, smut, postpartum, new pregnancy, pregnant reader, female reader, pinv, vaginal sex, a bit of fingering, lactation kink

You feel sick to your stomach as you hold Olive close to your chest, patting her back as she scrunches close. Her skin is clean, new, fresh, only eight weeks old. Your eyes are fixated on that little test strip on the counter. You press a kiss to the top of Olive’s head full of dark hair as you sigh. Two lines making tears prick the corner of your eyes. You knew it shouldn’t have happened then, that the two of you were just too focused on how your bodies felt— not your minds. Ten minutes of the sleepiest sex you’ve ever had, set you onto a path of two babies within the year.

You remember Paterson asking if you were okay afterwards, how he ran a bath and promised he’d take care of Olive. He brushed your hair and kissed your head and apologized for letting it get as far as it did. But you were just as much to blame, you apologized too and it hasn’t happened again. But here you are now. You take a deep breath and walk out of the bathroom, placing Olive into her swing just as Paterson walks through the door. Your heart stops as your eyes meet.

He starts to unzip his jacket and hang it on the hook. “There are my girls.” He has a smile on his face, leaning down to give you the softest kiss and a squeeze on your arm. He presses a kiss to the top of Olive’s head before ducking into your shared bedroom to change from his work clothes into something comfortable to wear around the house. Unbuttoning his shirt, he turns the corner into the bathroom. Letting the fabric roll off of his shoulders and then he’s tossing into the hamper, catching sight of the test on the counter. His heart stops as he steps closer, lifting the strip close enough to see the two pink lines clearly. He sucks in a breath, trying to calm those racing thoughts: Olive, your newborn is only eight weeks old. He places the strip back down on the counter, just like he found it. He doesn’t want you to know he’s seen it. You’ll come to him when you’re ready.

When he steps back out of the bedroom, sweatpants hanging low on his waist— white t-shirt covering his chest— you’re sitting on the couch, Olive tucked close to your chest as she nurses. Paterson’s quick to make sure your water cup is full and you’ve got a snack next to you before he’s heating up two portions of lasagna from your stash of premade dinners. He watches you, noting how unusually quiet you’ve been since he’s come in. You’ve never gone a day without asking him how work was.

But you’re lost in your own thoughts, something that you’ve grown used to since Olive’s birth. “Pat?” your voice is quiet, shaky, a quiet trill that seeps in like you’re about to cry. Paterson is quick to notice, walking over to sit down with you.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” He asks softly, reaching over to take Olive when you’re handing her over. He burps her and places her in her swing before he’s gathering you up into his arms.

“Think I’m pregnant.” You whisper and hide your face against his chest. He just rubs your back, holding you comfortingly as you continue to talk. “Olive is still so small and I don’t know what to do… I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” he says softly, sitting you up to wipe a stray tear off your cheek. He smiles softly as he meets your eyes— hand cradling your cheek. “If anything I should be apologizing. I did it.” he says softly, searching your face for that little crack of a smile you indulge him with. He kisses your forehead, pulling you back against his chest. Your knees are placed on each side of his hips. “I love you and you’re a fantastic mother. You’ve done amazing with Olive. If this is something you want, you’re going to do amazing with them too,” he says softly.

“I… I do want this.” You nod. You think of Olive and how much you love her. How much Paterson loves her. How good he is with her. How you both have begun to find yourselves within parenthood. “I want everything with you.” you whisper, thumbs brushing along his jaw as you pull him into a kiss. His eyes begin to flutter closed, one hand tightening on your hip and the other planting itself on the back of your neck to pull you closer. Your mouths part, heads tipping into each other. Paterson’s tongue chasing yours as you feel like every vein in your body is on fire. Your hips begin digging into his. The thin fabric of the sweatpants he was wearing is doing nothing to mask the erection growing underneath.

He’s not shy about it, dragging your hips against him as he scoots to the edge of the sofa. Hand moving from your neck to wrap around your waist as he stands. “Gotta take my girl to bed, huh?” He whispers, lips pressing a kiss underneath your ear as he begins to carry you to the hall— a quiet squeal of Olive’s name leaving your lips halts him in his tracks. “Go sit in bed for me, yeah? I’ll get her.” He kisses the top of your head, as your feet hit the ground. He steadies you with a hand on your waist, waiting for you to turn and disappear into your bedroom.

You make quick work of stripping down to just your t-shirt. The one that’s hanging on your shoulders by just a thread. It’s old and worn, stained by your breastmilk and dried tears from your eight week old baby. You flip on the lamp, dim light filling your room. You give Tessa, the Afghan hound/Rough collie mix you and Pat had adopted at the beginning of your relationship— who takes up residency at the end of your bed each night, a few little gentle pats on her back ushering her away, promising she can have her spot back later. She stands and stretches, wagging her tail before hopping off the edge of the bed and trotting out to the living room. No doubt to drink some water and lounge on the couch. And just as she’s leaving, Paterson is appearing in the doorframe. “Look at you.” Pat mumbles, kicking the door closed as he steps into the room. He admires the expanse of your thighs, the way your hips have gotten wider since the beginning of your pregnancy. He’s stepping closer, settling one knee on the bed as his eyes dip downward. They rake up over the fabric covering your chest, a hand settling on your hip to pull you closer to him as he settles into place in the middle of the bed. His lips close the gap between the two of you, legs placed out in front of him after he sits against the mattress. His heart is beating so fast in his chest, but the second your hands settle on his shoulders— legs wrapped around his waist— he starts to settle down. He gets comfortable, lets himself relax into the kiss you share. “Sweet girl.” he whispers, hands toying with the hem of your t-shirt. “I love you. Nothing will ever change that, okay?” he says softly, fabric raising and exposing more and more of the skin of your back before he’s tugging the shirt off completely.

You shiver, tugging Paterson’s own t-shirt off of his body. Smiling when it ruffles his hair up. His hands find your chest, cupping your tits gently and he gently brushes his thumbs over your nipples. Your fingers are threading through his hair as he dips his head down, taking your nipple into his mouth. His other hand cups and kneads at your tit, his eyes fluttering closed. He’s so lost in you, so enamored. Your hips are rutting closer to him. Your bare cunt brushing against the growing hard on in his sweatpants. Paterson lets a bit of milk drip down from his chin as he pulls away, rolling down his neck and chest. Your fingers bunch up his hair a bit, bringing him into a kiss. You taste the lingering flavor of sweet sweet almond on his lips, his breathing rapidly increasing as you pull your legs back to raise to your knees just to get his sweatpants off.

And he’s quick to discard them, throwing them towards the floor as your legs settle back down around his waist. His cock standing red and angry between your bodies, he’s pulling you close by your waist. Lifting you just a bit against his chest to slip his free hand under you, teasing at your cunt. His fingers are sliding through your folds, brushing ever so gently against your clit. “So lucky you’re my wife.” he mumbles into the skin of your shoulder, two fingers plunging deep into you for just a second before he’s retracting them and replacing them with his cock. You take him greedily. He can feel your cunt fluttering around him and fuck if it isn’t the sweetest thing he’s ever felt. Every time he gets you in bed like this, he revels in the feeling. Truly loving and present in every single moment. His eyes are closed now, head tilting back just that little bit. He swallows hard. Adam's apple bobbing as he does. And your hips rock with his, clinging to each other's bodies as your arms wrap around his shoulders.

You can’t keep your sounds at bay. The moans, the squeals, the hums. Paterson’s just too big. Settled fully inside of you, he stretches you wide, just the right amount of burning pressure to set your nerves on fire. The ache settled deep in your belly starts to fade away into a building sense of pleasure as your hips begin to move in time with one another. The way he keeps his arm tightly locked around your waist as your ankles stay wrapped around his waist, starts to make you feel hot all over. Paterson’s face buries into the soft space between your neck and shoulder, lips pressed against the skin there— leaving a dark bruise in their wake. His tongue darts out to soothe the skin he’s damaged, his cock settled deeper and deeper inside of you, hitting that spongy spot that starts to make your eyes roll back. “Pat…” your breath comes out in little pants, quiet into Pat’s ear. “I’m gonna cum.”

He’s just about there, feels that coil in his belly begin to wind tighter and tighter. He knows he’ll only last a few more minutes— and not even that long if you keep talking to him like that. When your hands leave his shoulders to press against his chest, trying to find anywhere you can grip. You settle on his biceps as your body begins to shake, thighs convulsing as your head leans against his shoulder. Flashes of white light blind your vision as a pleasurable warmth floods through your veins. And Paterson is right behind you, lifting your hips just a bit to thrust his into you as deeply as he can, painting the inside of your pussy with his spend. His heart is racing just as fast as yours. Chests heaving opposite one another. The sound of your breathing matching the other’s breathing patterns. You look him over, that fucked-dumb smile playing at his lips. You’re so in love with him. You take a deep breath, sucking in enough air to try and regain your strength. You’re pushing him flat against his back on the mattress, laying on his chest with a laugh. Your hand nestled right up against his tummy.

And then he’s laughing, kissing the top of your head. His cock still nestled deep into you. “We’re gonna be alright, mama. Another one’s nothing we can’t handle.”

tags ;;

[darkandstormydolls]

My newest costume: the Snork Maiden! I hadn’t really considered myself that big of a Moomin fan, but on my second costume of the series, I feel like maybe I should think about revising that opinion

Of course, this one is a lot less of a direct recreation than my Snufkin outfit, most notably because the Snorkmaiden looks like this (IE does not wear clothes, and sort of resembles a stuffed hippo. Side note: we know that Moomins are a type of house troll, but has the jury come to a consensus on if Snorks are also a type of troll or are they something else?)

Resultingly, a great deal of creativity was called for, and so I ended up creating what was more of “what would the Snorkmaiden wear is she were a human, or at least a little more humanoid?”

The results: mostly white (since she’s pretty much always shown as white) with pink and gold trim, an excessive of bows and ribbons, a flower crown, fluffy skirts, and all sorts of fun things. This was definitely a “more is more” costume.

There’s a lot of decoration: trim on the underskirt, trim on the overskirt, bows and beads over top of that trim, trim, bow, and beads on the sleeve… basically, if it stood still long enough, I added bows

Closer looks at the overskirt and sleeve trims:

It doesn’t come across well in the pictures, but the bodice isn’t just pink, it’s like a holographic rainbow sort of fabric (which was hell to work with, by the way. It stretched and slid and refused pins and was just miserable. I had to both interface and flatline it to make it workable). I’m also really proud of how I managed to get it to look really seamless (it took an unholy amount of handsewing, but hey it looks cool and I totally didn’t do it because my thread didn’t match perfectly)

I also made a big, dramatic flower crown and a pair of little ears on hair clips, to finish off the outfit (and you get to enjoy my amazing photo editing skills, which is a pity because my makeup looks really cute in these pictures but alas having one’s face on the internet seems more trouble than it’s worth)

There’s a ton of little details in this costume that help tie it to the original Snorkmaiden design: the rainbow fabric of the bodice to mimic how Snorks change color, the pearl beads and necklace because in Comet in Moominland, Moomintroll gives her some of the pearls he found to turn into jewelry, and a gold bangle I had in my costume jewelry stash for her anklet

I’m really happy with the costume! It’s very cute and fairly comfy, and while there are some things that technically could be improved there isn’t really anything that I want to change

[balkanradfem]

So, you've all probably seen my tablecloth, it's orange and old-timey and looks very homesteady and I like it a lot, I got it from a roommate who was throwing stuff out and immediately liked the vibe of it.

(My old tablecloth 2 years ago when it was still somewhat clean, with my foraged stuff and rose water on it.)

However, that thing has been sitting on my table for 3 years now, and I'm bored with it and I want a green tablecloth. I've been vaguely considering getting one at a second-hand shop, but now with the change of currency to euro, they've increased all their prices, so I've decided against it.

Instead, I'm going to make a patchwork tablecloth.

I've rumbled thru my stash of 'clothes that is to be used for sewing material' and dragged out all of the green fabrics that weren't stretchy or transparent, I also decided to add in a bit of red for contrast, and white because I'm suspecting that I don't have enough green to make a purely green one. Then I sampled all of the colors and made a design in Excel (because I've seen that one post saying excel is good for pattern making; it is!):

I've spent the first day of making it mostly just cutting out the rectangles and figuring out how much of each do I have, and how big I can make it. I decided I hate cutting fabric and this was the most boring part of the process. I also proved not to be very handy with scissors, I've accidentally cut thru a rectangle while cutting out another one. I thought it was funny, then I quickly mended the damaged one, and added a little yellow circle and did something embroidery-like, that made it a special rectangle:

It even got a prominent spot in the tablecloth!

Here's how it looked when I was done cutting and arranging the bits:

Sewing the rectangles to each other was way more exciting! I was doing it by hand because I do not own a sewing machine and I'm not particularly interested in getting one, I've became pretty fast with hand sewing, and was able to put it all together within like, afternoon and a half. Here's some of the process:

I've also realized in the process, that my table is not a square, and that it was unclear why I made the design square, so I changed it into a rectangle while sewing it together:

And you can see the end of my sewing process – it's complete!

So I knew if I made it this way, the patches would make the fabric bulk up at the edges, I've seen in tutorials that people can make patchwork smooth only if they're sewing it on another piece of cloth, but. I figured I would borrow an iron and iron down all of the seams on the other side, so they would lie flat against the cloth.

However, as soon as I've started on that mission, I realized, that ironing seams is actual hell on earth that nobody should go thru for any kind of reason, it was taking me full 5 minutes to straighten just one seam because it kept falling out of place and wrinkling, and that's when I threw the entire idea into the garbage and just ironed the tablecloth on the right side and called it a day.

And it's so pretty! I love it on the table! See without ironing vs clumsily ironed:

Oh and I am NOT hemming this thing. Unless I'm like, really bored one day and don't have any food to forage or process. Which is unlikely. That's for the people with the sewing machine. I'm okay with the messy edges.

I think it's super pretty though! It reminds me of abstract art for some reason, I think I accidentally used a lot of colors that were used in that style, but that's fine. It would be prettier if it had more green but I'm already cheered up every time I enter the kitchen and see that my table is 70% green! It's also completely clean and crisp and it feels incredibly fancy after having a stained one that could no longer be washed.

[moongothic]

So amongst my mom's fabric stash I found this awkward roll of cowprint plushie fabric. It was like 140cm long, but only 40 wide, and I just. I had no idea what the hell I should do with it. Like I don't want to throw it away or anything, that'd be a waste, but because it was such an awkward quantity, what could you even do with it..?

And then the idea of "what if I tried to make plushies out of it?" wriggled its way into my mind and. I dunno man, I dunno, I couldn't think of anything else, and to be fair, trying to make a plushie sounded like fun in theory, a refreshing experiment, I'd get to try doing something new and different.

So I bullshitted a shark pattern together and go going

Also I did buy some basic white fleece so the tummy wouldn't have the cow pattern on it. Did make the mistake of buying stark white fleece instead of natural white so it kinda contrasts in a bad-ish way but, it is what it is

But, uh, yeah. I vaguely studied my Ikea Shark for a little bit and made up a pattern, which I then traced onto my fabrics and cut out.

Pinned the two cow print pieces together first and sewed them together on the top

Pinned the tummy piece on next and sewed that on, leaving a hole in the lower tummy so I could turn the thing inside out and stuff it through there

Now, I dunno if you're actually supposed to do this, but I was worried about the fabric bulking up on the inside and the seams not laying nicely, so I made small cuts in the fabric around the edges (mainly around curves and corners)

Now since this was my first plushie I just wanted to use what I had on hand, so I went through my button collection looking for large buttons I could use as eyes for the shark. I ended up using the two on the bottom right, since they're mismatched anyways and didn't have pairs (and they looked the same on the reverse side, which I ended up using). My only regred was waiting until this point to sew the buttons on, it ended up being a lot more difficult than I had expected and, naturally, the eyes turned out wonky (and I didn't even notice until it was too late lmao)

For stuffing I figured I could use my jar of yarn scraps, as well as shredded fabric scraps (I had gone through my fabric stash a little while ago to get rid of awkward fabric pieces/trim ones into a more usable state, and I had shredded the scraps in anticipaton for this). I did end up having to go through some of my ancient practice granny squares that I ripped apart to also use as stuffing, just so I'd have enough, but honestly that was fine with me (wasn't gonna do anything with those anyways)

Now I do regret leaving the opening right there. My logic was that if I sewed it shut a little wonky it'd be a less noticable spot, and I wasn't wrong about that, but sewing that flipper did end up being quite tricky and frustrating. And it did turn out really wonky

But, with that, my first plushie project was completed.

Behold, a cowprint shark

It's wonky, it's wrinkly, the tail ended up smaller than I expect and the eyes aren't symmetrical at all. But considdering I think I last made a plushie in elementary school, and I bullshitted this thing together from scratch, it turned out decent enough for me. Also the fabric and yarn scraps made it really heavy but in a good way, I love the heft of this thing, it's so comfy

But, I still had more of the cowprint fabric

So I made more

(Sidenote I adjusted the pattern a bit, the tummy piece wasn't symmetrical so I redid that and I adjusted the tailfin to make it bigger)

Three big cowprint sharks, three mini sharks from scrap pieces, and this cat head thing from even smaller scrap pieces. Was gonna try making even more of the cat heads, but honestly sewing that fucking thing togetehr sucked ass and I don't want to, even if I have a few more scrap pieces left. I'm done, I'm tired, no more please

(I did buy actual plushie stuffing for these though because yeah, I went through all my yarn scraps and wasn't gonna have ANYTHING to stuff these with otherwise)

(For the record, no, I have no use for a Cow Print Shark Army (a Sharmy), I did make the rest of these with the intent of selling them at my next convention. They're all still wonky as hell so if I can get like 10-15 bucks for the big ones I'll be more than happy, that'll cover the cost of the stuffing and the fleece. I get to have a wonky cow shark for myself and all it cost me was time and patience making it)

Oh I also made this fucking thing from the leftover fleece

It turned out like shit lmao

(I just wanted a cute ghostie pillow/plushie, how the fuck did it turn out so wonky) (How the fuck were the fucking sharks easier to put together than this overglorified rectangle) (What the fuck)

[ooops-i-arted]

Maintaining a sleep schedule is for LEWZERS so I went ahead and cut out the pattern pieces and put them on the mannequin to see how it's gonna come together. I'm not going to do a mockup famous last words due to the time crunch so I'm gonna do due diligence now and still curse later, I know how this works.

I've used the skirt pattern a lot and it's a winner so I'm not as worried about that part. I'll extend the zipper past my butt so the dress will still fit without elastic. I'm planning to add panels like those of Cara's pants to the side and can use the pants pattern for that. Possibly some black trim on the hem? I'm also thinking about wearing a black petticoat underneath but that would have to be bought because time or lack thereof.

For styling I have a mini Republic Marshal pin I'll add somewhere, and the black boots I wear with Cara. I might see if my sister has some turquoise bracelet(s) I could borrow and try and find some black fingerless gloves, because I don't want my lower arms bare but I don't wanna wear the gauntlets either. I also might add on one or both of the belts from my Cara cosplay.

I should have enough fabric for the top but I'll have to buy more turquoise fabric for the skirt. Hopefully I wrote down what I bought somewhere! I also can't find the chest ribbon I used but I may have borrowed that from my mom so I may see if I can scavenge her stash again lol. I'm really trying to be better about using what I have!

[sheliesshattered]

Top third or so of the pleated panel is sewn down!

I tried out a couple of different methods for handsewing this to the shoulder and sleeve, but after a few inches of each, the 'stitch in the ditch' method was the clear winner. It's basically invisible, and lets the piping stand up as it ought to. I'm doing a stitch about every 1/8th inch, and keeping most of the distance on the top so that the stitches inside the sleeve are as small as possible, and won't get caught on things. I'm getting faster with the technique, so I'm hoping to buzz through the rest of this sleeve and the other one over the next few days.

But I'm also going to be interspersing this sewing with starting on my vest scratch build. I was able to find the pattern I made for my vest for The Moment way back in 2014 (it was exactly where I thought it would be, hurrah for keeping old patterns), and I spent some time staring at the existing vest in the mirror and pin-marking the changes I would like to make.

There are enough small changes that I'm going to just draft a new version of the pattern using the old one as a guide. But there are only the four main body pieces that really need re-drafting, and once it's something I can try on then I'll figure out how I'm doing the new collar (so it doesn't look so much like a motorcycle jacket), and I might just drape the new collar on me while I'm wearing the in-progress vest.

Over the weekend I also went though my stash looking for fabrics that have enough yardage (or at least big pieces) to cut out the body of the vest, and after comparing all those to the pieces I know I'll definitely be wearing as part of my Batuu Bound -- gray hooded wrap, brown leather belt/bag/gloves, and black leather-look leggings -- with Jack's help I decided on some lovely dark navy linen that I've had in my stash for years, left over from a dress project. It's on the heavier side for linens, but not quite as stiff as the canvas the Moment vest is made from, but I think it'll work nicely.

I'm going to stick with the basic lines from the Moment vest, including the diagonal cross-body closure. After noodling on this for a week or more, what I've decided to do is a shorter zipper that ends around underbust level or just slightly higher, and then a flap over that with either no visible closures, or some cool looking Star Wars-y buckles or something. I have a few ideas for that, but I won't make any decisions until I can try the new vest on. The separating zipper and the thread for this project have been ordered and should arrive before I'm anywhere close to needing them. Pics on this whole vest project as it develops.

Beyond that, I need to add a tiny dot of glue to a pendant that I made (in the upper left of the photo -- it looks a bit like Jyn Erso's kyber crystal necklace, but smaller with more of a blue tone to it) to make sure the wrappings stay attached. I still want to figure out something to cover the lacings of my big Doc Martens, either wraps over the whole boot or a suede panel that snaps onto the lacings or something of that sort. I've started to gather other accessories, and there are a couple of things I want to order (in particular my Captain's License, once I can settle on a name and spelling for my OC, lol).

I have a long sleeve shirt to go under the vest that works with my color pallet, and an idea (and fabric) for another shirt I could sew, but the weather has been so all over the place lately (80 degrees and sunny! no wait, 60 degrees and rainy!) that I don't want to put too much effort into the shirt until I've got a better idea of the weather we'll have 4 weeks from now. Finishing Jack's jacket and making my vest are definitely the priorities.

4 weeks to go! Hokay, I've got a pile of linen scraps to go iron.

[74daysofsewing]

McCalls M7734

I made everything in the pattern pack and took images. The pack consists of a plain tee, a polo shirt, a pair of shorts, trousers, a hoodie and a baseball cap and bag.

It's a pretty decent pattern pack - the shorts and trousers are basic and make a nice set. I had mine in the style of board shorts and then grey work trousers. I did add in a little pocket to the trousers as I had a scrap of black satin that was the right size.

The little fake fly is really nice and makes for some nice interest if you plan on tucking in the tops, and if you have a small metal button these would also look nice in a denim as jeans.

The two tshirt options are really high necked - it's nice as it covers the dolls soft body totally, but can also look a little suffocating in the plain tee - although that might just be me and getting my seam allowances messed up.

I shortened the sleeves and waist a little in the polo shirt to make it look a little more different from the other plain tee and I will 100% be using that option for the future as I think it looks really stinking cute - despite the fact the colour I picked made April look like she was working for UPS.

The shirt in this back is a winner in my books. I had this adorable remnant in my stash and if I had enough I'd make myself a version out of this too. The pattern calls for snaps and not real buttons but I figured if you were going to sew buttons on the thing you might as well put button holes on it too.

April is wearing a pair of jeans I made her from the trouser pattern in this set, with a couple of modifications (nice deep pockets, coin pocket, back pockets, top stitching etc) and the shirt from this packet. Isn't the shirt super cute? I'd call this particular pattern a winner.

I had some issues with the hoodie. Firstly, the hood needs to be SO BIG to cover the dolls head and with all her hair it's just not practical - she's got a super high ponytail in so it doesn't cover up the collars of things she wears, and trying to find an open ended 8 inch zipper was a nightmare! I have the zip NOW, but at the time I ended up just photographing it without it on.

I added a little collar and honestly... I think it looks like the cutest little bomber jacket for summer! it's got little pockets (very little) and fits really nice over other clothes - she's got a tee and the shirt on under this and it's still not too bulky.

The hat and bag... sigh.

I messed these up a bit and it's got nothing to do with the patterns. For some reason, the art of bag making is lost on me so much. I've honestly tried so often to make a bag and I fail every time. No idea why!!

I made a couple of little books and comics for April to put in her bag, and that was that!

I highly rate this pattern and think with a few tiny alterations you could make a very varied looking wardrobe with this packet - the lack of 'boys' clothes and over saturation of dresses and skirts make this a really nice addition to anyones collection.

You could use some really nice alternative fabrics to really change the look of these items - like making jeans, swim shorts, or combats from the trousers, or a little leather bomber or jean jacket with a patch on the back out of the hoodie pattern. It might be really cool to combine them both and make one of those really popular jackets with the jean body and jersey sleeves.

If you have a boy doll, or just like a little variation in the patterns, i would pick this one up for sure.

Items needed: knits and woven fabric, thin elastic, velcro, interfacing, 7 buttons and an 8" open ended zipper. That should cover each item on the packet cover.

Here is April wearing everything in the packet:

April is an Our Generation Doll and has (mostly) the same measurements as a typical American Girl doll, although I think her movement is more limited as her joints are only back and forward, with no ball rotation. She's had no modifications or changes other than her hair being up in a high ponytail.

I am NOT a doll collector or an accomplished sewist, I do this for fun and mostly give the end results to the littles in my family.

[whennnow]

2025 Goals

January 2, 2025

2025? That's not a real year! Except it is now.

Barring the total collapse of the US as we know it, here are my sewing (and sewing-adjacent) goals for this year.

Goal 1: Stashbusting

You know her! You love her! You're bad at her! She's stashbusting!

I've got fabric for 1890s dress padding. I've got a lot of lingerie fabric. I think I still have enough linen for some medieval headwear. I've got upholstery fabric that would make cute decorative pillow covers (and maybe a curtain panel?). I've got to get through this stuff.

I should also go through my sewing patterns and clear out anything I don't expect to use. I don't need to collect them.

Goal 2: Dyeing

I have a few things I want to dye and I have the dye to do it.

My two medieval t-tunics will be getting dyed different colors, along with the leftover fabric from those (NYE Alex here - I actually dyed one of the tunics just after Christmas! It turned out a lovely orange brown shade). I have a pair of corduroy pants that I want to be more of a neutral-to-orange brown and less of a purple brown.

If I'm really crazy, I'll disassemble my green Regency dress, hit it with dye remover, and re-dye it brown. I have big plans for that dress.

Goal 3: SCA Stuff

This is where "sewing-adjacent" comes into play. I mean, yes, I do still want to work on medieval veils, or a barbette and fillet, or an apron. Oh, and I need to finish my coif. But I also want to register a name!

I've been going for almost two years, I ought to have a name. Then maybe next year I can register a device?

I already have two local SCA events on my calendar for this year, one of which is later this month. I'd love to have one of my tunics dyed then! Probably I'll prioritize dyeing the pink one a tawny orange so I can wear it with my yellow cyclas. (NYE Alex again - it is indeed dyed, if slightly more brown and less orange that I intended. It'll still look good with the yellow cyclas, though!)

The second event is in the summer, so I might just wear my Greco-Roman stuff for that one.

Goal 4: Ren Faire Stuff

Ok, this is not the low-bar, easy to accomplish, vague goal I meant to set, but I want to get some somewhat-vaguely-historical ren faire pieces done this year.

I have that one lace-up bodice pattern everyone and their uncle owns and plenty of stash fabric. I can easily thrift a sheet to make a skirt/petticoat from. I could get linen and make an 18th century shirt or an Italian Renaissance camica. There are options.

Goal 5: Something 1890s

How's that for vague?

I have a corset and combinations already. Bust and bum padding should be next, and should not be difficult.

Goal 6: One Big Project

Ok, this one is definitely not vague, but I want to sew one dress this year and I've got two options.

Option One is McCalls 8507, which is nearly identical to a Target dress I obsessed over two springs ago, but the sleeves were weird so I never bought it. I have the pattern, but I'd have to buy fabric and elastic. This could be nice to wear to my friend's wedding in the spring!

Option Two is McCalls 8177, a princess-seamed fit and flare dress that would also be cute as a wedding guest dress. I would also need to buy fabric for this option.

Of course, if I made an 18th century shirt or an Italian Renaissance camica for the ren faire, I would be willing to accept that as my "big project."

Ok, ok, I should stop setting goals now. We'll see what the year brings us! (Please be good things, please be good things, please be good things...)

Stay warm. Stay safe. Stay healthy.

[karlachismylife]

You and me both, comrade. Okay but since you all keep encouraging my brainrot insted of smacking me to get back into math (i love you all), I am back with more fem!ghoap. I wanna write some more full-fleshed out things about them, but I just have thoughts I cannot keep to myself rn.

Once they find themselves on leave together... wait, since when did it become so normal for them to head straight to Ghost's after they get dismissed? Since when does her flat have enough of Soap's crap so that there's no need for Soap to pop in and grab some clothes or other things for an overnight? Since when do they so overnights every night? No they're not living together, no one lives together with Ghost, Soap is just... a very welcomed guest... with her assigned towels and her fucking snacks stuffed all over the place and the bed smells like her too and- oh shit they're living together aren't they?

Soap just kinda gradually moves in - she's a mess, so it doesn't raise any alarm in Ghost when she finds forgotten hoodies, left socks, Soap's fucking hair products (all that shite and ya still look like a plucked cock), snacks that she never throws away, because well maybe Soap will come visit on their next leave too, right? And if Ghost finds herself munching on some of those horrible overly sweet things, she just restocks... just cuz she doesn't want the mutt to get all whiny if she visits and finds her little stash from half a year ago eaten.

Which is weird, because Ghost has trained herself to treat every visit like it's the last one. No expectations means no shattered hopes.

Soap is more like shattered teeth, when she barges through the entrance door after knocking for ten minutes and waking the whole neighbourhood up, duffel bag landing in the corridor before Ghost has any chance to ask wot the fuk - and then there follow her dumb punk boots, her denim vest with patches, tank top...

"Mactavish. The fock ya're doing undressing in me bloody apartment."

"Read yer messages ye bampot, Ah told ye Ah got water shut off fer three weeks."

"Tha' means ya can jus' barge in and make yourself at home?"

"Ye wouldnae leave me in time of need, would ye, m'am?"

Sweaty sports bra hits Ghost nearly in the face. Shouldn't have followed that hurricane Jenny up to the bathroom, probably, but does she really need to undress with such dramatics? Ghost squeezes the drenched fabric. Reeks of men's deodorant and Soap's body.

"Ya stink." Grumbles Ghost, picking up the rest of the clothes scattered in the hall. Grunts, because this leave was partially due to her fucking up her spine.

"Ye sniffing on mah undies already?" Bloody hell. Should've kept quiet. "Oi, LT, can ye bring me mah shampoo? Yers is shite. It's in mah bag. Dinnae want me drippin' all over yer floor, aye?"

"Didn't hear ya turning the water on. Just came to me and already drippin'?" At least she gets a comeback. Throwing Soap's clothes over her arm, Ghost actually goes and rummges in her bag. There's too much shit for someone who just came for a quick shower. There's also a stupid rubber duck with a Scottish flag on its chest. Ghost brings it too.

"Think ya forgot this one too. Can't bathe a puppy without its chewing toy, eh?"

"Och, away and bile yer heid. At least Ah'm nae washing mah hair with pure piss." Soap scoffs, ripping the duck and the shampoo from Ghost's hand, and gets back into the tub, gloriously naked and hairy as fuck, wet footprints on the floor mat. "Nae wonder ye cannae grow yer hair oot."

Ghost folds her arms on her chest and leans on the doorframe with a lazy look in her eyes - if Soap is shameless, why should she be bashful about this meat feast snorting and sneezing in her shower like a real pup?

"Did it cross your mind that maybe I just don't want to grow me hair out?" Her skeptically raised eyebrow is missed by Soap, who already shuts her eyes childlishly tight to massage her shampoo in what little hair she has herself. So much fussing for a bloody crest of fluff.

"Never seen ye even with an inch of length, LT. Ye wanntae tell me ye shave every day?" Her already incoherent accent-laden speech gets distorted by water splashing onto the flushed - from the heat, Ghost figures - face, spat out by too happily grinning mouth, running down her heavy chin, over the tan skin and chest that doesn't register as flat only because of the flexing muscles. With some effort, Ghost stops herself from looking lower, and runs a hand over her buzzcut.

Is it really that weird that she shaves her hair so often?

Long hair has been a privilege her whole life. Something for people who didn't need to think of it as a liability - as something that can be used against them so easily. Grabbed, yanked, twisted, torn out painfully. Something you'll need a lot of time to brush out dried blood and mutted from neglect knots. Something that will always give away your lack of proper sleep or food.

Her therapist said she had a long way back to her femininity - no wonder after it had been robbed of her. Ghost wasn't really suffering without it.

As she watches Soap blissfully humming off-tune some Scottish bullshit (in her very British apartment, bloody rebel), Ghost feels a pang of something. Apart from obvious want to run her hand up that fat thigh and make Jenny choke on her stupid singing by feeling up her slit through that bush. Damn, is she really thinking about that girl's pubic hair being longer that what she has on her head?

Once they find themselves on leave together, Ghost lets her hair go. It grows slowly, even with Soap's enthusiastic care (Ghost still shivers as she remembers all the shite she had smeared all over her head, some of those nearly sending her into sensory overload and earning her a tearful, guilty apology from panicked Soap), it's thin and barely wavy.

It's barely a couple inches when Soap, cradling Ghost's head in her lap on late movie night, braids a little braid, ugly as fuck, starting under a weird angle above Ghost's temple with a pale scar - that's what happens after you get repeatedly slammed into a table's corner - and held with a teeny tiny clear tie (where did Soap even get it from? Ghost doesn't ask - otherwise she would learn that it's from one of Soap's niece's Barbie dolls).

"Wha's that for?" Ghost grumbles, wrinkling her nose as if she hates the braid. Liar.

"Just felt like it. Suits ye too, LT," Soap knows she's a liar, too.

Because once it's time for them to come back from leave and Soap walks out of the bathroom with freshly buzzed mohawk, she catches a glimpse of the braid getting tucked under Ghost's mask - everything shaven off apart that little thing.

"If ya left your fuckin' dog fur all over me sink, I'll drown ya in it, ya hear me, Jenny?"

Suddenly Soap remembers she forgot something important in their (Ghost's?) bathroom. Hey, Ghost leaves her shavings too, they're just so damn blond ye cannae see 'em!

Me: scrambling to finish homework before my linear algebra class

My brain: can you imagine fem!ghoap tho?

I can't, I'm my biggest fucking enemy. BUT CAN YOU IMAGINE FEM!GHOAP THO?

Fem!Soap has absolutely Harley Quinn vibes, batshit crazy with a sprinkle of pyromania and several decades of unmedicated ADHD. If Soap got his haircut inspiration from some local punk band in his hometown, fem!Soap was the leader of said band, adding to Mam's grey hair every time she returned with new tattoos. Was playing football, when a new kid tried outcasting her cuz she's a girl, went on to beat the shit out of him.

That story about a higher ranking officer Soap punched? Sleazy motherfucker was harassing other women on the base and was unfortunate enough to choose fem!Soap as a target.

Walks around in tank tops and sport bras, all muscle no boobs, probably has a couple fake teeth, always is the one fellow female soldiers turn to when they need to get rid of assholes in the pubs they go for drinks to. Absolutely relishes in being called a "fucking butch" and whatever else those pathetic men try to throw at her, quickly fizzling out when they realize her biceps is the size of their thighs. She worked hard to be better than them, no matter how much some of her family wanted her to be a bit more... traditional. Not her Maw, though, Maw always said if her little Jenny wanted to be a soldier, she could be a damn good one.

Regularly participates in armrestling matches (banned in several pubs where she got carried away and broke someone's wrist) and pays for the round whenever she wins.

All those girls (and some guys) hanging off her elbows, and everyone assumes she's going home with one (or several) of them every time.

And fem!Ghost? She might have a horrible reputation, people spreading disgusting rumors about her past and what's under that mask (doesn't bother her, truth is so much more gruesome). Keeps to herself, grim sense of humour doing nothing to make her seem more approachable. A looming shadow, the personification of horrors they tell about what war and captivity do to women - and that's for those who actually know she's a woman. Most people just assume she's a big fucking guy, loose hoodies helping pass, deep, hoarse voice - never came back as it was from the time with Roba, broken by her screams with an ugly scar on her throat on top - only adding to confusion.

Too much baggage to unpack, all those things done to her easier to cut off with the dirty blond hair she buzzes to avoid the fuss. Every chance of having a family robbed of her in horrific ways, loneliness feels safer. Easier. Everyone's better off without needing to bear all those tons of crap she hoards on her broad shoulders.

Sits apart from the main company on those outings, nursing her bourbon and freaking people out- if she gets hit on, she sends everyone off with a few words. Even Soap, the blasting (sometimes too bloody brightly) sunshine, seems to fail with illuminating that shadow, all her attempts to get closer shut down. Maybe not as harsh as the others, but Ghost thinks - everything she touches is destroyed in torturous ways.

Soap shouldn't suffer because of her.

Until one day the chair in front of her lone table gets dragged back with a disgusting screeching sound, a heavy thump signaling of a huge (drunk) body plopping down across. Ghost doesn't need to look up - she can detect Soap by the stupid mutt's loud breathing, for fuck's sake. How many did she have?

Too many, thinks Ghost when a tanned arm lands on the table, resting on the elbow in a ready to wrestle stand. Must've been some kind of bet, no one else brave enough to challange big Scottish butch - so bored Soap, naturally, comes to one person she probably deems a worthy opponent.

"Not gonna let me back out, are ya?" Ghost shakes her head with a chuckle and finishes her bourbon, putting the glass down lazily and forgetting to pull the mask back down.

Soap's arm hits the table so hard it hearly cracks the wood - mere seconds.

Disarmed by a crooked, scarred smirk her big blue eyes are so obviously glued to.

"What now? Buy me a drink?" Ghost tilts her head. There's a shocked crowd around them, someone collecting a hefty win.

"Buy ye two and ye owe me a rematch."

Stupid mutt with blue eyes. Ghost wonders if she'll whine like a puppy riding her burly thigh.

[cynicalone94]

Outside Income Ch. 7

When Intelligence gets pulled in to solve a case that another unit can't seem to close, evidence quickly begins to suggest that the gang they're investigating has man on the inside. But what shouldn't be a big deal, Intelligence is known for rooting out corruption, quickly becomes a very big deal when something goes very, very wrong.

Read on AO3 here.

Jay shifts uncomfortably, trying to relieve the pressure on his knees. His legs are starting to lose feeling but the path to numbness has been painful in and of itself. 

His shoulders are also complaining about being pulled back as his hands are kept behind his back. 

The muscles across his chest are also protesting the position but he’s starting to wonder if there might be more than that behind the tight, burning sensation.

Especially since as helpless as he feels, he’s not to the point of crying just yet but there is moisture running down his face from both his eyes and nose. His throat is burning almost as much as the burns on his torso. 

He swallows hard, knocking his head back against the wall behind him. 

He’s probably breathing in some kind of toxic fumes, who knows what could be in an old abandoned warehouse like this, just waiting to wreck havoc on anyone who dares to hang around long enough?

He remembers the asshole setting the drop for noon the following day but has no idea what time it is. Doesn’t know how long he’s been here or how much longer he might have to wait.

The team is looking for him but with the gang throwing up one roadblock after another and the mole possibly still on the loose to interfere he doesn’t know how successful they’ll be. 

He shifts again, pulling against the cuffs as he tries to find a position that’s even a little bit more comfortable. The attempt just seems to make it worse. 

Maybe he should just lie down. The twisting of his limbs from the cuffs might be painful but it might be worth it to take the pressure off his knees. 

But he doesn’t want to leave himself in such a vulnerable position should any of the gang members return. 

He twists to sit on the ground, pushing his legs off to the side and grimacing as the handcuff chain pulls on his ankles as both legs end up on the right side of the column. 

He can feel the cold metal of the cuffs digging into his legs even through the jeans he’s wearing. The fabric is riding up on his left ankle, pulled out of place by the angle of the cuff locked around it. 

He leans back against the wall, focusing on his knees. 

Feeling is starting to come back already but the pain is increasing as it does. 

How long had he been kneeling on them to cause this much discomfort?

He coughs weakly, the sound muffled by the tape still over his mouth. The irritation in his throat is only made worse as the forceful flow of air is prevented from exiting and pushed back to his throat, some of it finding it’s way out through his nose. 

It’s getting hard to breathe and he can feel a tightness in his throat. The feeling of wrongness only increases as he realizes that the tissue is swelling, his throat closing off. 

He needs his team. 

“Hank.” Marston says. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about how this went down.”

“I’d like to hear more about that.” Voight says. 

“I told Detective Upton everything I could remember about what happened at that house.” Marston says, glancing back at Hailey in confusion. “Nothing else has come back to me.”

“I’m more interested in where the lead on the stash house came from.” Voight says. “If it was a trap, whoever gave you the address was setting you up. Maybe it helps us find our mole.”

“Yeah.” Marston agrees. “Yeah I guess that makes sense. My team hasn’t really had an easy time letting this go. Two years of investigation, passed on to another team for the wrap up just didn’t feel right.”

“So one of your guys found the stash house?” Voight presses, unimpressed by the stalling. 

“Yeah but I trust him, all the way.” Marston says. “Whoever’s been feeding information to the Riders must have found out that we got the address somehow and decided to set us up. Or they got wind of the warrant application.”

His mind is racing. 

Voight is going to push this issue and he doesn’t know what to say. Whether he likes Halstead or not, selling one brother in blue up the river already doesn’t sit right with him. Naming a source requires doing it again even if the circumstances are different. 

“And I will be looking into that.” Voight promises, his tone deadly as he turns to accept a file from Kevin Atwater.. “But I want that name, Marston. I’ll assess whether or not this guy is clean for myself.”

His guys are clean. If he gives Voight one of their names, they’ll come back clean even if the heat is unpleasant. But he’ll have to get in touch with them before Voight can; warn them that they came up with the address and prep them with an investigative pathway for when the sergeant shows up asking questions. 

“Voight.” he says, shaking his head and rambling in an attempt to buy some time. “Your guys took thirty kilos of street ready drugs. These guys were angry and desperate. With a mole in the CPD somewhere they would have gotten their fingers in everywhere.

Voight whirls on him. 

“What did you just say?” he hisses, voice deadly. 

“I- I just.” Marston stammers and Voight takes a step forward, backing him against the wall.

“How do you know how much dope was seized during that rip?” Voight presses, “You weren’t involved. Intentionally so. Did one of your partners tell you? When they ordered you to get it back?”

“I never meant for it to go this far. I swear.” the man says, “I just… they offered me money. And my dad’s treatments are so expensive. I… I couldn’t refuse.”

“So you sell out another cop? Halstead gave himself up to keep them from shooting you. But you were never in any danger, were you?”

“I swear I only agreed to it because they promised not to hurt him.”

“Where. Is he?”

“There’s a warehouse. Out in Burnside.”

[jadednightwing]

A Year of Making - Week 20

after.... more than 2 months (my last post was on week 9), I'm finally back into a maker headspace again. I wasn't idle during that time, but a lot of what I did was ephemeral - which is not something you can photograph.

it's not all that interesting, so the TLDR: did a lot of reading, did some organizing, got sick, got better, and took time to reassess.

the picture is of a tissue holder... I have made one before, but this one was in a different style and....I mean... the other style I made in the past was easier but I wanted to use some of the fashion fabric I had in my stash. it breaks my heart that the beauty and the beat stained glass fabric is a discontinued design, so I'm trying to be careful with how and where I use it.

it's a bit too small, but it should still be useable. it was very much a "that looks simple enough... oh.... oh no..." type project

.......

for those who are actually interested in what I've been up to; the head cold lingered for the majority of March (not COVID thankfully, just a nasty bug), and then I had a case of the sads - which really stifles the creativity - and that started the shame spiral that took a while to bring myself back out of.

In April, my sister and I went to a local anime convention - the first we've been to in... at least a year, if not more. I'd forgotten about it until a few days before, and with the sads, there was no way I was gonna be able to get a cosplay together. I thought I might be able to pull an older cosplay out of storage, but none of them fit for various reasons. (body dysmorphia doesn't help either). Regardless, we had a good time and I became aquatinted with a couple cosplayers I didn't now l know before.

Finally, over the course of both April and May, I've been futzing with the Silhouette Cameo I had gotten second hand over a year ago... boy oh boy was that an exercise in frustration. Lesson learned was to read carefully and don't assume that just because a machine is new doesn't mean it has wifi connectivity. I won't go into the ranting details, but it's making me look at my 3d printer and consider attempting making a stamp for fabric prints instead of using a die-cut design to make a screen print.... it makes sense in my head, but I'm not sure how to explain the differences in processes in layman's terms...

Throughout all that I worked through my TBR list, and tried to keep up with adding books I finish into my Libib app to track what I've read this year. My mother got me three box set of my favorite YA book series "Into the land of Unicorns" - and she ordered it from the author, and he signed them as well. 😍 I still need to read them again, but that was very exciting.

I also finally gave into the BookTok influence and read "A Court of Thorns and Roses" - and I can understand the hype. Debatably problematic author aside, the story of the series is compelling and... I can't say it's well written, as there are some very overused terms and phrases... I enjoyed it. It is an entertaining story that sucks you in.

it also introduced me to the fabulous world of Graphic Audiobooks - fully voiced cast, background sounds, music - I'm addicted. To the point that it has sparked the desire to write again if only to have my stories given the same treatment.

I won't be sharing any information about any writing I do as an experiment with working around the ADHD gremlin and it's inability to finish projects, but if/when I manage to finish a complete draft, I will be shouting it from the rooftops.

[eruden-writes]

Room & Board - Part 13 (Vampire x Reader)

Anon submitted this prompt: For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?

Part 1 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

x x x x x

Comments, tags, and reblogs are real motivators for me, too! (●ˇ∀ˇ●)

Also, my inbox is always open for asks, so don’t be shy!

x x x x x

The three of you decide to meet up at a Penny's diner - a quaint eatery, dressed up in greens and yellows, that never quite shook the 'corporate franchise' air - for dinner before heading to the theater. Tabaeus and you take the bus together, planning to carpool with Ewan later.

Inside the Penny's, it is pleasantly warm and only slightly busy, with plenty of empty tables between patrons. The scent of their trademark pies wafts through the air, along with the syrup and sweetness of their 24-hour breakfast specials.

From one of the waiting benches, Ewan stands up upon seeing you. Immediately, he's all smiles, in spite of Tabaeus's appearance. Awkwardly, you wave to him, knowing the outfit Tabaeus chose for you is... uncharacteristic.

Your little party of three is led to a corner booth near the back and, after you slip in on one side, you find yourself flanked by your companions. Which only intensifies the stares.

All through the bus ride and into the restaurant, you felt eyes following you and Tabaeus. Perhaps Tabaeus a little more than you, considering their state of dress.

They wore an above-the-knee pink-white-brown plaid skirt with dark brown stockings and a sleeveless brown turtleneck halter, over which Tabaeus wore an oversized soft milk-chocolate brown cardigan. The clothes and shoes - chunky brown platform mary janes - are totally foreign to you. Vaguely, you wonder if Tabaeus has been shopping when you were at work or if they'd figured out the trap of Online Shopping.

Either way, you think they look adorable and well put-together. Especially with the little brown beret, pink tie, and retro round sunglasses with brown-gold frames.

You can't say the same for yourself. Tabaeus fished out that bat onesie from wherever it had been stashed.

It turns out the vampire was very well acquainted with the idea of karma.

"So, what's with the get-up?" Ewan laughs, turning to you after the waitstaff has taken your drink orders.

Even though he's dressed casually, he still puts you to shame. The dark denim vest, with lighter colored sleeves roughly sewn on to make it a jacket, and tee-shirt are ones you've seen before. You even helped to sew some of the patches on the jacket. Though his jeans appear new and without holes, even if his sneakers are the same-old same-old.

Slumping further into the seat, you press your hands to your face. The wings of the blasted pajamas catches on the table's edge and you huff, "Tabaeus chose it."

"I do not know why you are complaining," Tabaeus chuckles and, when you look at them, they give you a vicious, teasing smile. They reach over, pinching your cheek with cold their cold fingers. "You look cute enough to eat."

Moodily, you swat Tabaeus's hand away, your own lips puckering further into a pout. You had hoped they'd dress you up snazzily or sexily. Something that would make it so both you and Tabaeus could taunt and tease Ewan. You should have known better, in retrospect. Why would they help you look tantalizing, just to dangle you in front of their potential natural enemy?

"Well, we should un-cute-ify you enough so no one eats you, hm?" Ewan leans over to you, nearly touching his forehead to yours. Before you can answer, he has shrugs off his jacket and offers it to you.

"My hero," you dryly say as you grin and accept the jacket. It takes you a moment to struggle into the jacket, folding the sewn-to-sleeve wings into the arms of the coat. The scent of Ewan and pine envelops you, his sinfully warm body heat still lingering in the fabric.

You hope this will keep people from staring at the pajamas. Though you doubt it.

From the corner of your eye, you see Tabaeus roll their eyes in an exaggerated fashion. Childishly, you stuck your tongue out at them, having beat their little revenge plot. But Ewan isn't done. From his pocket, he fishes out a collar. He holds it out to you, an eyebrow cocked and a goading, wolfish smile on his lips.

You smooth the hood of the pajamas over the collar of the jacket, before reaching for the dog collar. The snort of laughter you make isn't stifled as you ask, "Why do you have a dog collar?"

If you're going to dress ridiculously, might as well go all out, you decide. Without thinking of the potential implications, you slip the collar on, fastening it at a comfortable setting. Like the jacket, it weighs warmly against you.

Before Ewan can respond, Tabaeus sniffs loudly. "I told you, he's a dog."

They don't even look up from the menu they're suddenly so interested in. Amusement in Ewan stills, his gaze jerking to Tabaeus. Danger prickles across your skin and suddenly the air is heavy, like an angry predator stalked into the room. "What's that supposed to mean?"

If Ewan had fur, you have no doubt it'd be bristling in an agitated fashion. You think you can see his lips twitch, as if wanting to bare his teeth in a snarl.

Tabaeus's red eyes lazily side up to Ewan and they flash him a pointed and pointy smile. "Just that you are a rapscallion. A scoundrel. Need I go on?"

While you hoped Tabaeus could have acted civil for the whole night, what little they gave you was probably all they could do. Other than vampires and werewolves being at each other's throats - and your suspicion that Tabaeus is jealous of Ewan - you also try to account for the out-of-character vibes. Those uncharacteristic mannerisms have something to do with the missing pieces of the Tabaeus puzzle, you think.

The air between the two of them is sparking and agitated now, though. You briefly consider spilling the beans to Ewan, before remembering the other patrons around you. It would probably be better to be discreet. Even if these two aren't being as careful.

Pulling out your phone, you text Ewan, explaining Tabaeus had told you of their alleged lycanthropy. Ewan's phone chimes and, once he pulls it from his pocket, he shoots you a curious look before reading the text in full.

If there was a question to the claim, it dissipated as green eyes shot angrily to Tabaeus. A quiet growl - one that you felt more than heard - started deep in Ewan's chest. Under his breath, you hear him mutter, "Blood-sucking asswipe."

A pretty mild insult, you thought, especially as Tabaeus simply smiles and shrugs carelessly.

"Look, I don't want you two to fight," you sigh as you put your phone away. Your hands land on the table, feeling the icy coldness of the laminated top. "The last couple days have been heavy and I just want to have fun."

Your words instantly draw Ewan's attention. He shifts toward you a bit, and you can't help but wonder if he's already imagining all sorts of awful things happening from sharing a roof with Tabaeus. Blood meals and enthrallment and who-knew-what-else. Ewan's hand brushes yours on the table and you're torn between comfort and dread. "Heavy how?"

"It's... Ugh, just a lot." You sigh and lean your head against the table, not wanting to put Tabaeus in a difficult spot. How Ewan would take the news of the journal and what it detailed could only be imagined. It likely wouldn't help foster any friendship between vampire and werewolf.

Besides, the memory of those words makes your head hurt. Like an icepick lodged into your grey matter.

To your surprise, Tabaeus fields the question with a solemn tone. "They've been reading a journal from a box of vampire hunting supplies I provided them."

You glance up at Tabaeus just as Ewan utters a surprised, "What?"

The chatter of the diner suddenly feels louder, pressing in on you. The clink of plates, the swish of water pouring into glasses, the muffled delight of people getting their food. It all feels far off. Perhaps it is, considering this conversation almost feels like an entire world away.

"It's a long story." Now, it's Tabaeus's turn to look conflicted. They refuse to look up at Ewan or you and turn one of the pages of the menu. You can tell Tabaeus isn't looking at the words or pictures.

"Tabaeus has amnesia. Maybe." Buoyed by Tabaeus's willingness to let Ewan into the situation, you prop yourself up on your elbows on the table. Cradling your face in your hands, you sigh before going on. "And the journal detailed experiments done to them in the 1880s by some people who caught them."

"Ah," Ewan says, obviously struggling to find something to say. He blinks, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his own menu. "Okay."

"Just okay?" Your attention swings to him, your eyebrows raised. You expected more from him, especially since his werewolf nature was confirmed. The moment he heard of Tabaeus's alleged amnesia or the vampire hunting book or just the heavy atmosphere, you thought Ewan would be fervent in trying to separate you from Tabaeus.

"They're lucky to still be alive, if they got caught at one point." Ewan shrugs, his eyebrows lowering and lips contorting with conflicting feelings. For the first time, you wonder about his connection to other lycans. Was he turned? Or did he grow up with a werewolf family? A pack? Your lips thin, considering what sort of horrors might befall any supernatural being living in this world, populated by unforgiving humans.

He runs a hand through his messy curls, his nose wrinkling a bit. "As for the memory thing, I've heard of any long-lived people having a hard time with memories. The human brain isn't built for it."

A thoughtful sort of silence blankets the table. The fact Ewan didn't jump on shitting on Tabaeus resonates at the back of your head, your thoughts more focused on what he said.

It's true, isn't it? Even if a vampire was a creature of the night, they started as a human. Didn't they? And wasn't the same true for werewolves, as well? Even if it was a trait bred into their being, there was a point when werewolves were just human.

As you consider this almost obvious point of view, Tabaeus cuts in from your other side. "Strangely poignant. For a mutt."

"Thank you. I do try." Ewan flashes Tabaeus a smile and inclines his head in a gracious nod. You're thankful he's not rising to Tabaeus's bait this time. The vampire frowns, obviously hoping to bother the other.

"Anyway," you cut in, before yet another round of bickering can be ignited. You tap your own menu against the table, flipping it open. "What are you going to order?"

"They got a good plant-based selection here." Eagerness takes over Ewan's expression as he points out to the particular section he's talking about. The print is done up in greens, to highlight the 'plant' centric theming. His finger slides down to the fourth option, which has a photo of a tasty looking burger beside it. "Was going to go for the Inconceivable Burger. Has a tofu-based aioli on it that slaps."

"Well, that is a shocker," muses Tabaeus as they, too, lean over your menu. Their tone tells you they aren't going to be so easily dissuaded from their shit-stirring. You frown at the vampire, knocking your foot gently against their ankle. They pointedly ignore your attempt to get their attention and your displeased expression, which annoys you further.

"What?" Ewan tilts his head slightly to Tabaeus, his eyebrows raised.

Tabaeus meets Ewan's confused look with a smile and synthetically sweet tone. "Most mongrels want it rare and bloody."

"Yeah, well, I'm vegan." Ewan doesn't miss a beat, rolling his eyes. Once more, you're thankful he's not rising to Tabaeus's taunts, even if he sounds annoyed now. "Get off my ass about it."

"You wish I was on your ass." A pout puckers at Tabaeus's lips, further frustrated by the lack of response from Ewan.

"I can't tell if you two are fighting or flirting." You snort and ignore the look they both shoot your way. Though the intensity and heat of their looks make your insides squirm. Instead, you focus on the menu before you, trying to steer the conversation to a safer topic. "The plant-based chicken tenders sound good."

When the waitstaff comes around to take orders, you're not surprised Tabaeus orders a plant-based meal, as well. You have a feeling they don't like the idea of being left out of the pattern.

Once the waiter bustles off to the kitchen, you look back over to Ewan. "So, what movie are we seeing?"

It's been awhile since you've gone to see a movie, if you're being honest. You don't even know what's playing in theaters at the moment. Streaming services have spoiled you, when you were able to afford them.

"There's a few I kinda want to see, but I'm really up for anything," Ewan shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck.

It's obvious he doesn't want to lock the three of you into any movie in particular. Still, he can at least give you a starting point as to what he's hoping for. "What're you interested in?"

"Well, the Unexpected Human Problem looked good for a sci-fi. Heard it involves time travel, too." Ewan pulls out his cellphone, pulling up the movie listings for the nearby theater. You peer over to his screen as he sets it on the table, without realizing just how close you're getting to him. "There's also Desperation's Summit, a romantic drama involving a troll and human lady. Honestly, seeing the trailers, she acts pretty awful. I'm just curious how they redeem her."

Brief memories of the unskippable trailers playing before your TubeYou viewings skims through your thoughts. With an agreeing nod, you laugh, "Yeah, she seemed pretty bad, honestly."

"Oh! And there's Plague Butcher, which takes place in Victorian England and it's about a butcher using plague corpses for their meat." Excitedly, he points to another option. The poster for it depicts an old-timey butcher's storefront done up to make it look like the meats hanging in the window form a screaming, human face. "Ends up with a zombie apocalypse sort of vibe, which I thought was interesti-"

"Ah, there it is." On the other side of the table, Tabaeus cuts in again. Ewan and you look over to the vampire, who is leaning their chin in their hand, elbow braced on the table. Tension threads through your shoulder as you frown at them. That disdainful tone is starting to aggravate you.

There's a knowing, sly grin on their lips at your questioning gazes. "Horror. Is it not a common trope of people who seek to get close to whom-so-ever they invited out?"

With a frown, you're about to tell Tabaeus to lay off. Ewan had mentioned two other genres, before talking about the last one. Obviously, he wasn't using anything to get closer to you.

"That's the plan." Ewan surprises you with his words. Your attention flickers to him, finding a shameless grin on his lips as he leans back into his seat. Both of his arms extend along the back of the booth, looping you under his arm while also showing off his arm span. There's a taunting edge to his words as he says, "No worries, I'll sit between you both. Optimal position."

It doesn't escape your knowledge that Ewan's plan literally puts him between yourself and Tabaeus. However, you're not sure if he means to be an obstacle or is just being nice to include the vampire.

Tabaeus snorts, their tone taking on a disgusted lilt. "I am not going to cling to you of all people."

"I don't know. You dressed our dear friend in adorable footie jammers, while you got all gussied up." Ewan winks down at you, which makes you hunch your shoulders. The fluttery sensations in your stomach jump as the werewolf gives your shoulders a squeeze. Thankfully, he doesn't stare at you longer as he lobs a question back at Tabaeus, "Didn't you want attention?"

"Not from you," Tabaeus spits out, their nose wrinkling further. From under the table, you feel their foot brush against your leg. Heat flares up your spine, understanding the unspoken words in Tabaeus's actions.

Unaware of the footsie beneath the table, Ewan's grin is easy, toothy, and roguish. You feel his eyes slip from Tabaeus to you as he speaks, "Aw, that's a pity, because I find both of you ravishing."

Outrage paints itself across Tabaeus's features. However, you're fairly certain they'd be blushing if they had any blood in them. You are feeling the heat yourself, if you're being honest.

Before Tabaeus lobs another insult Ewan's way, you sigh and hum in a singsong voice, "Fighting or flirting?"

You regret the taunt as soon as it leaves your lips. Tabaeus's gaze shoots to you, their red eyes intense, especially as they catch onto Ewan's arm still lazily around your shoulders.

"Why are you so intent on asserting we're flirting?" Their eyes narrow and you still as that pout on their lips shifts into a grin. A sharp light suddenly shines in their gaze. They lean closer to you, dropping their voice to a soft decibel that sends tingling goosebumps along your body. "If I did not know better, I would think you wanted us to be flirting."

Ewan shifts, peering down at you while his arm remains firmly in place. A bit of teasing surprise filters into his voice. "Are they trying to get a two-for-one deal?"

"Oh, I did not think of that." Tabaeus's words are smooth, tinged with a spark of curiosity as their gaze stays glued to your face.

Shocked, your mouth has dropped open, but you have no words to blather out. Your mouth snaps shut, the heat on your cheeks becoming too warm. A little frantically, you look from Tabaeus to Ewan. You're offered little solace from the werewolf, though. His green eyes are just as glinty as Tabaeus's, with a broad crooked grin on his lips.

In your chest, your heart pounds. Something akin to fear edges into your thoughts, though it's more pleasant, if no less anxiety-inducing.

Briefly, you consider pressing your hands to your face, hiding the growing blush. That would only amuse the two further, though. Which, again, makes that warm embarrassment sift through your body.

You just couldn't win. Especially while Tabaeus and Ewan look at you like that.

"Nevermind, go back to fighting each other," you mumble, shoving both of them away and scooting smack in the middle of them again. Albeit, this time, with a safe distance between them and you.

You hope the space will help to disperse the images your imagination is suddenly feeding you. Alas, it doesn't. But you still feel better with both of them being further away. Any closer, and they might sense the inappropriateness bleeding from your thoughts.

"No, no, I'm curious now, myself." Ewan leaned close again, his body heat licking up the side of your body, despite the denim jacket acting as a barrier. His voice dips low, a playful growl faintly tinging the edges, "Are you hoping to be sandwiched between us, in more ways than one?"

For once, Tabaeus doesn't snipe at Ewan. Miserably, you realize why. The two of them have found common ground in teasing you.

Of course, that would be what they bonded over.

"Alright, alright. Enough you two." Despite the obvious pink on your cheeks, you wave the two of them away. Thankfully, your eye catches on the waiter bringing out your meals. "Behave. Food's here."

As the waiter comes up to the table, laying out the meals, you can feel Ewan and Tabaeus exchange a look. A delighted smug air shoots between the two.

With steely determination, you keep your eyes on the waiter, shaking your head when asked if anything else was needed. Your companions mirror your need for anything else. A sigh of relief almost escapes you as they turn and leave. However, you are immediately aware of Ewan and Tabaeus.

They're both smiling at you, unspoken plots swimming in the air around them. If you focus, you wonder if you could sus out what is going on in both of their heads. However, you really don't want to know. You're willing to bet it would just make your mortifying flush intensify.

You shoot them both dirty looks as you unwrap your utensils from its napkin. "Don't make me regret tonight, you two."

"I would never!" Tabaeus presses a long-fingered hand to their chest, their scandalized expression comical.

Ewan reaches for his burger and, faintly, you realize his fingernails are long, well-kept, and sharp. Have they always been that way? He chuckles so deeply it makes your stomach quiver. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Valiantly, you try to ignore them and dig into your meal, as they share yet another look. From the corner of your eye, you see both of them grin at each other again.

A truce has been made.

At your expense.

[crimson-lilith]

———glowing gold

mammon x gn!mc

「and yet there you were, staring at a demon from the depths of the underearth—a living, breathing example of all things perfect.」

「now playing: everybody talks - neon trees」

that's him. the one everyone talks about. he sets all the trends and calls all the shots. some say he's the nicest guy you'll ever meet. some say he's the last guy you'll ever meet. all the best seats are reserved for him in the top restaurants; he wears only the finest clothes; and it's not music if he doesn't listen to it.

he gets all the girls; he gets all the guys, too.

mammon, the avatar of greed.

huh, a demon lord.

that sounds cool.

it really does.

"what d'ya think about my new shirt?" mammon asks as you're standing inside that newly-opened shop right at the heart of the devildom. it had been the talk of the town the past few days; even asmo had been gushing all about it nonstop since he raided it during its opening. you were also supposed to have went with him that day, if it weren't for solomon needing your urgent help.

much to mammon's delight, but he'll never tell you that.

he was wearing the same blue jeans he wore before you left the house, though this time his shirt and jacket have been swapped out for some kind of fancy-looking polo. it looks like something straight out of devil vogue, which probably makes sense considering he had been modeling for them for a while now.

you raise an eyebrow at him. "...it's nice."

" 'course it looks nice! it's the great mammon who's wearin' it, after all!" he puffs up his chest proudly and lets out a hearty chuckle. he then turns to the counter. "this should be good enough."

he was just about to take out his wallet—uncharacteristically filled to the brim with grimm he says were the product of his modeling gigs plus a particularly lucky night at the casino—when he looks over to where you had been standing. "oi, why don't ya have anything with ya?"

you look back at him. "am i supposed to?"

"stupid human, i brought ya here 'coz i got a few extra grimm i could splurge on," he averts his gaze. "totally not because i wanted to spoil ya or anythin', i just didn't know exactly where ta use these."

you stare at him. he was still trying to avoid eye contact, but that tinge of red creeping up to his cheeks seems to tell you something he's not willing to let out of his mouth. "well then..."

"just run and get somethin' for yaself!" he suddenly blurts out loudly. "i'm serious. this ain't charity."

"uh... thanks, i guess."

he gives you a nod before he walks toward the cashier. when he sits down, you head off to purchase something. you walk through the shop trying to find something that would catch your interest. as you were skimming through the racks and shelves of clothes that all seemed to have been ripped right off magazine pages, all with ridiculous prices that made you wonder if you could ever manage to afford them back in the human world— how much is one grimm worth in human world currency, anyway?— there behind the countless fabrics sat him. the one everyone talks about. mammon, the incarnation of greed itself.

untouchable to many, especially to those in the human world who spend their time carving pentagrams on to the wooden floors of their basements, lighting expensive candles and laying out whatever amount of money they managed to stash in their piggy banks and chanting some random incantation, praying to the devil for the mere presence of the avatar of greed himself. probably going to ask for a lifetime's worth of silver coins or lottery luck. as if mammon's going to grant them that without a valuable sacrifice.

a powerful, influential figure. the source of horror stories passed around the campfire.

right there, in the very flesh.

accompanying someone while shopping.

it's almost unreal to see such beauty being within reach.

almost.

and it seems like he can feel your gaze on him.

because when he looks at you, he smiles. and it's beautiful. his teeth glisten underneath the fluorescent lights; his eyes light up in joy; and his skin is glowing gold.

gold.

he suits that color so much. makes him look ethereal, like he never fell from grace. like he's still an angel, only adorned with jet black wings and twisted horns emerging right out of his scalp instead of a halo floating over his head.

he has no doubt been blessed. by God himself, as well as the seraphs and the cherubs. maybe even by his older brother lucifer, too.

you know you wouldn't want to go against such great odds if you were him.

and yet there you were, staring at a demon from the depths of the underearth—a living, breathing example of all things perfect.

——from sky: reblogs and feedback are highly appreciated!

[xjoonchildx]

snapshot | jhs x reader

summary: after a day at the beach, hoseok has some surprises in store for his longtime love

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: fluff, smut, fluff OH MY GOD SO MUCH FLUFF y'all i apologize

word count: 4.7K

notes: this fic is a commission fic for the lovely @wwilloww as part of the @armyadvocates fundraising initiative to stop hate crimes against AAPI. miss willow asked for an old house, candles and soft smut as well as a mystery box. i did my best to deliver on all counts because willow is amazing and deserves all good things.

thanks go to @hobi-gif @ladyartemesia and @btsarmy9593 for beta reading parts of this story, thanks so much for keeping me on track ladies! a very special shoutout to @sahmfanficbts who helped me come up with a very *key* part of this plot.

warnings: no one dies? no one is in danger of dying? who am i? standard smut, unprotected sex. liberal sunscreen use. low air quality due to paint fumes and sawdust. references to yoongi, who we can assume is cranky offscreen, references to @untaemedqueen first suggestion of what was in the box.

Warm.

Hoseok is so warm right now, inside and out. He stretches his long body out on the length of his beach lounger, enjoying the feeling of the sun beating down on his skin. His buzz is mellow and pleasant. He lets his eyes drift shut, lulled into a lazy calm by the sounds he can hear all around him.

The steady lap of the waves against the shore. Kids laughing as they run around on the sand. Off in the distance, a bluetooth speaker thumps out a song that’s too far away for him to recognize. And after a few minutes, another sound.

Your bright laughter, carried to him on the breeze.

God, he loves that sound.

“You are such a lightweight,” you tease. Hoseok can hear the smile in your voice. “Two beers and you pass out on me.”

He cracks one eye open to find you standing beside his lounger. The early evening sunlight streams through the strands of your dark hair and warms your bronzed skin, bathing you in a kind of golden halo. He gazes up at you, languid and content.

“I’m not passed out,” he argues with a slow grin. “I’m relaxing. Come relax with me.”

Hoseok doesn’t give you a chance to accept his offer, leaning up to grab your hand and pull you down into the narrow space beside him. You laugh when he wraps his arms and legs around you like a starfish, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“I’m just enjoying the perfect day,” he murmurs, nosing at the back of your ear, “With my perfect girl.”

“Flatterer.”

Hoseok can’t see you rolling your eyes, but he knows you’re doing it anyway. Just like he can’t see the way you flush and he knows you’re doing that, too.

“We should eat,” you say after a while, shivering when he strokes the pads of his fingers up the soft skin of one bare leg. “Grab something before we have to take the bikes back.”

Hoseok hums under his breath as he slides his palm up the curve of your thigh, boldly searching for trouble under the hem of your sundress. You bat his hand away and he laughs, hugging you tighter.

“Alright,” he agrees in a whisper, ghosting his lips down the nape of your neck. You jolt in his arms when he sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, nipping playfully. “Just a quick bite.”

There’s not much difference between a sundress and a négligée is there?

Certainly not from where Hoseok is sitting, anyway.

He studies you as he rides close behind, watching the way your hair whips in the breeze as you pedal. One delicate sundress strap slips down your sun-warmed shoulder, exposing just a bit more of your back. Then the wind grabs a hold of your sheer skirt, lifting it just long enough for Hoseok to get a glimpse of the pretty white panties underneath.

God, he loves those panties.

Could stare at them all day, really.

But instead he forces himself to pedal faster and take the lead, grinning when you take note of his advance and glare. It’s for the best because while you think this is just some meandering evening ride, he’s the only one who knows where you’re really headed. For the best because if he falls off his bike and breaks his face because he’s too busy staring at your ass, the entire night will be ruined before it has the chance to start.

It’s quiet on this street just a few blocks from the shore.

Dolmeori Beach is rockier, more wooded than the beaches preferred by most tourists and that’s always suited Hoseok just fine. When he was a kid, he’d steal away when the weather was warm and hop the train here from Gwangju any chance he got.

It’s always felt like his place, his personal piece of sea and sand.

Pine trees loom high over the pavement, canopies so dense they block out much of the waning sunlight streaming down from above. The shade beneath the leaves makes the heat bearable, but it also makes it hard to judge the time. Hoseok steals a quick look at his watch.

Right on schedule. He hopes Yoongi followed his instructions to the letter.

“Hurry up, slowpoke,” he teases over his shoulder, and he chuckles at the sound of frustration you make as you pedal faster to catch up. It takes a few seconds for you to coast into position at his side.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” you fuss, “Wanna clue me in?”

Hoseok turns his head to smile at you, sly like a fox.

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

The realtor had said the place would need a little love.

Turns out, it needs a lot more than a little. But Hoseok was able to see right past the weathered wooden porch and salt air-worn paint right away. When he found this place online, he knew it was the one.

He slows his bike to a stop as the two of you make your approach, taking note of the warm light that glows just behind the frosted glass pane in the front door. Looks like Yoongi came through.

“What is this place?” you ask, skidding to a stop beside him. You stand over your bike on tiptoes as you survey the house, brow knit in confusion.

“It’s a surprise,” Hoseok grins, hopping off his bike. He shoves the kickstand into place and offers you his hand, which you accept with a suspicious smile. “Wanna go in?”

“Yeah sure,” you shrug. “We’ve probably already stolen these bikes. What’s a little breaking and entering on top of that?”

Hoseok laughs, leading the way to the front door.

He cringes when the porch floorboards creak loudly beneath his feet, making a mental note to put that project next on his to-do list. You stand with arms crossed, watching silently as he crouches down to lift the mat at the front door, fingers feeling beneath for the concealed key.

You stop him with fingers wrapped around his forearm when he gets to his feet.

“Wait,” you whisper frantically. “We can’t just walk into someone’s house, Hoseok.”

He chuckles before leaning down to kiss the adorable confusion right off your face. Then he slides his key into the lock and pushes the door wide open.

“Not someone’s house,” he corrects, watching you peer skeptically inside.

You step slowly through the threshold and scan the candle-lit front room before turning to him with wide eyes.

“Our house.”

“You bought a beach house.”

It’s the third time you’ve said it by now, and not once has the hushed observation been directed at Hoseok. You said it when you brushed your fingertips over the freshly-dried spackle on the living room wall, said it again as you passed your hand over the base coat of stain on the mantle over the fireplace.

You say it again as you turn to him, jaw slack with disbelief.

“You bought a beach house.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok admits sheepishly, uncertain of your reaction. He tries to see the room the way you must see it now, candles and tools scattered across the tables, floors covered in drop cloths, cans of paint and plaster stacked up in the corners.

Yoongi had done a decent job of clearing up most of the clutter before he left, but judging by the astonishment on your face, he’s probably been romanticizing the mess in here.

He’d really hoped to have a lot more done the first time he brought you here, but he’s learned the hard way that some home renovation projects don’t go as smoothly in real life as they do on YouTube. The process has been a bit of trial and error, with a lot more error than he’d originally counted on.

“I know it doesn’t look like a whole lot right now,” he says, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, “But it’s going to look great when I’m done. Yoongi helped me sand all week.”

You shake your head like you’re coming out of a daze.

“Oh my god Hoseok, no -- ” you vow with a shaky laugh, “ -- no, this is incredible. This is amazing. I’m in shock.”

“Yeah?” Hoseok grins, relief melting over him. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted -- ”

“ -- Wait,” you interrupt, one brow quirked high as you step closer. “You said… you said something important. You said this was our house.”

“Did I?”

You narrow your dark eyes at him and he chuckles uncomfortably, nerves kicking in for the first time tonight. The feeling -- and the occasion both call for more booze. Which he’s prepared for.

“Are you going to give me a tour?” you ask.

“Later,” he says. “After.”

“After what, Hoseok? You’re killing me slowly with all this suspense.”

“Hang out here for a second,” he instructs, ducking into the small kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

It takes him no time at all to find the bottle of Moet he’s stashed in the fridge and the clean champagne flutes tucked away into the corner of his dutifully-dusted kitchen cabinet. He double-checks the contents of the box on the counter, making sure everything is in place.

Then he takes a deep breath.

Your brows lift in surprise when he walks back into the room with that box in his hands. You watch him set it down on the floor, saying nothing when he turns back to retrieve the champagne and glasses.

When he finally returns, you’re on your knees -- examining the package. Lips pursed thoughtfully as you press your fingers to the gold flecks on the fabric lid.

“Hoseok,” you whisper, flicking your gaze up to find his. “I have so many questions right now.”

You look so damned beautiful in this candlelight -- like you brought your golden glow from the beach indoors. Like you absorbed the sun’s rays and you’re emitting them now like some kind of superpower.

“Have a drink with me,” he murmurs, “And I’ll answer them.”

Something in the room shifts then; the temperature changes. The silly fun of the afternoon evaporates, leaving behind something heavy and heady. Hoseok knows you feel it too, when your half-smile slowly drops and you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

“Okay,” you agree softly, “Let’s have a drink.”

You watch him with those focused dark eyes as he pops the champagne. The drink bubbles over the lip of both flutes as he pours, on account of his haste and shaky hands. Then you take one of the glasses in hand and offer him the other, which he quickly accepts.

“To this surprise housewarming,” you declare, raising your flute for a toast.

Hoseok clinks his glass against yours, taking note of the way you watch him carefully over the lip of your glass as you’re tilting back the flute to take a sip. He decides he can’t keep you -- or himself -- in suspense any longer.

“You know how special you are to me, right?”

You make a face.

“Did you bring me to your new house to break up with me?”

Hoseok’s startled laugh turns into a cough and tears prick his eyes as champagne bubbles blaze a path up his sinuses.

“Yes,” he says dryly, once he’s managed to collect himself. “I figured dumping you by candlelight sounded like the most romantic option.”

You tip your head back when you laugh, light playing off the curve of your neck, your collarbones, the tiny gold pendant that sits in the pretty dip at the base of your throat.

God, he loves your skin.

Hoseok looks at you long and hard before lifting his flute to take a long drink.

“This is for you,” he says quietly, acknowledging the box out loud for the first time.

“What’s in it?”

“A human head,” Hoseok snorts, flinching when you reach over to pinch his leg. “Don’t be a pain. Just open it.”

Your eyes light with excitement as you smooth your hands over the lid and Hoseok can’t help but smile. But your excitement turns into confusion the moment you open the box and find the neat row of plain white envelopes inside.

“What is this?”

“Quit asking me questions,” Hoseok deadpans, pouring himself another drink. He tops off your glass, too. “And start at the front.”

You shake your head with a wry smile as you work the first envelope open, slipping your fingers in between the paper folds to fish out the contents inside. Hoseok sips his champagne as you produce the polaroid photo, head cocked to the side as you study it.

It was cold that day, he remembers that. You’d been bundled up in a pretty scarf and matching belted coat. In the photo, the mid-morning sun flares behind you, illuminating your profile as you squint up at a display of laminated menus.

“This is me,” you murmur, mouth quirking into a disbelieving smile, “At the coffee truck outside of work.”

“Yup.”

“We’d just started dating.”

“Yup.”

“How did you take this without me noticing?”

“Easy,” Hoseok laughs. “You stared at that menu for five minutes straight. I’ve never seen someone take coffee selection so seriously. Thought you were gonna order the most complicated drink in history.”

You roll your eyes but you laugh. So does he.

“Turn it over.”

You flip the polaroid over in your hands, eyes moving over the neat block handwriting on the back.

coolest girl i ever met

“This is the day I knew I liked you,” Hoseok murmurs, “Like, really liked you.”

Your eyes are a bit glassy when you look up at him now, the corner of your mouth tugging into a soft smile.

“You were that sure that fast, huh?” “Yeah,” he admits, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was.”

You move onto the next envelope, this time prepared when you pull out yet another polaroid picture. This one is harder to place, taken in the dark, mostly black but for a few splashes of vivid light.

“I don’t know this one,” you frown, ghosting your finger across one particularly colorful blur of red and gold. “I can’t make it out.”

You turn the polaroid over, looking once again for Hoseok’s neat block letters.

she’s into me

You laugh out loud.

“That was the lantern festival in Cheonggyecheon,” Hoseok explains. “I’d invited you, but you’d had plans, remember? And I was just going to get Yoongi to go with me but you called me last minute to say you’d decided to come.”

“I remember,” you say with a smile. “Yeri invited me to a movie, but I cancelled on her. I wanted to hang out with you instead.”

“Yeah, well that’s the night I knew you really liked me.”

“Cocky,” you smirk, reaching for another envelope. “But warranted.”

Your eyes light with recognition the moment you pull the next picture out. You’re crouched down at the edge of his mother’s koi pond, one finger making ripples on the surface of the water.

“First time we ever went to Gwangju together,” you muse quietly. “First time I met your parents.”

You flip the polaroid over.

pretty sure my mom loves her more than she loves me

“Okay, this might actually be true,” you tease, taking a sip of your champagne. “Your mom and dad love me.”

“Yeah, well that was the day I decided I loved you, too,” Hoseok chuckles. “The point where I kind of knew there was no turning back.”

You look up from the photograph then, eyes glassy with emotion when they find his. Candlelight flickering across your face as you look at him fondly.

“You still feel that way?”

“Hell yeah, I do,” he laughs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Keep going.”

The next polaroid is a selfie of Hoseok in bed but it’s by no means sexual. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin has a sallow tint. Next to his pillow, the bedside table is littered with cold medicine and empty cups.

“Is this when you had the flu?” you ask, flipping the polaroid over. The neat block lettering on the back confirms your theory.

she took care of me

“You were so pitiful,” you laugh, shaking your head at the memory. “Wrapped up in your blankets like a burrito. I swear, men have zero tolerance for discomfort.”

“I nearly died,” Hoseok protests dramatically. “But you dropped everything to come take care of me. That’s the day I knew you loved me, too.”

Your smile is brilliant now, open and sweet as you reach for the last remaining envelope. Hoseok takes another swig of champagne, slugging it down as you pull out the polaroid and study the image.

You are wearing your delicate sundress, leaned up against the wooden railing that separates the sand and rocks. Standing just next to your bike, nose in the air as you breathe in the salt carried on the wind.

“This is today,” you murmur, brows knitting together when you flip the picture over and find the back side blank. “And you haven’t written anything here.”

“Yeah, well,” Hoseok starts and stops, clearing his throat. “I haven’t had a chance to write it in yet.”

“Oh.”

“That’s the day I asked you to marry me.”

“Oh.”

You blink. Once, then again. Hoseok can hear the shaky breath you take in when your mouth parts in surprise. He sets his champagne flute down, sufficiently bolstered by the booze.

“So that’s what I’m doing right now. I’m asking you to marry me.”

You’re still mute with shock, eyes wide as they go from Hoseok to the picture and back to Hoseok again.

“But uh, the longer you don’t say anything, the less confident I feel about this entire plan,” he chuckles awkwardly.

You take him off balance when you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and your thighs around his waist. He keeps you both from toppling over with a palm flat to the floor, laughing as you pepper his face with kisses.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes,” you sigh, pressing your lips to his temple, his neck, his jaw. “Yes. To you and to these amazing pictures and to this beach house. Yes to all of it.”

You pull away from him to grab the champagne, eyes flashing mischievously as you take a drink straight from the bottle. “Yes to champagne, too.”

Hoseok feigns shock. “Naughty.”

You kiss him deeply then, thoroughly, enough for him to feel the remnants of the carbonation on your tongue. You tease him with a barely there roll of your hips and his cock responds instantaneously, at the mercy of the warm friction he can feel straight through the thin material of his board shorts.

“You know what I’m thinking?” you murmur against his mouth.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah,” Hoseok chuckles, sucking a breath between his teeth when you bite the skin just below his ear.

“We have a lot to celebrate, right?” you reason, tone light. “But we came here for a housewarming.”

You lean back just far enough to pull your sundress over your head, tossing it carelessly aside, leaving you in nothing but those pretty white panties he loves so much.

“So we should warm it.”

Hoseok grins, pulling the champagne bottle out of your grip. He turns it up just like you did, finishing what’s left before setting it back down.

“I like the way you think.”

The only bedroom in this house is buried beneath a two-inch thick layer of sawdust right now.

Not that making it to a bedroom seems high on your list of priorities.

The fact that you’re both sitting on top of a drop cloth on Hoseok’s living room floor isn’t stopping you from threading your fingers into his hair, slipping your tongue into his mouth, grinding against his lap.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” you laugh, pressing your bare breasts to his chest once he’s managed to untangle himself from your limbs long enough to shrug out of his shirt. Your pebbled nipples drag across the lithe planes of his chest and his cock jumps in his shorts.

“Clever.”

“That’s me,” Hoseok murmurs against your lips, deft fingers slipping beneath the damp cotton between your thighs. He slides the pad of one long finger across your wet slit and you gasp, rocking against it.

“Gotta get you out of these panties,” he laments, pulling one nipple into his mouth and working it with his teeth. You shudder in his hold. “Quick.”

“What are you in such a hurry for?” you tease, circling your hips to chase the perfect pressure of his fingertips. “We have all night.”

“We have about three more minutes if you keep grinding on me like this,” Hoseok laughs, shifting your bodies to lean you back onto the floor. “So give me a break because I want to enjoy this.”

You lie back for him dutifully, dark hair spilling onto the drop cloth around you, skin gleaming in the candlelight. Your gold pendant twinkles at the base of your neck.

God, he loves the way you look like this.

Flushed with excitement and anticipation. Like a feast laid out just for him. He rids himself of those pesky board shorts as fast as he can, leaning over you on hands and knees.

“You’re gonna marry me,” he muses, burying his face into the soft skin under your jaw. “You already said yes, can’t take it back now.”

Your laughter is echoing in his ears as he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, across the bronzed planes of your shoulder. He can taste the day on your skin; the ocean salt and sunscreen mixed with that flavor that’s so uniquely you.

“I don’t want to take it back,” you sigh, whimpering when Hoseok kisses a path down the velvety skin between your breasts. He travels lower, kissing just below your bellybutton as he starts working your panties off with one hand. “I’m gonna keep you.”

Hoseok chuckles as he tosses your panties away, off to somewhere unimportant. What’s important is the way you take a deep breath and hold it when his mouth hovers coyly over your cunt.

“Look at me,” he directs, peering up at you from beneath heavy eyelids. You open your eyes to meet his gaze, candlelight dancing over your pretty face.

“I love you,” he breathes, lowering his mouth to make contact with your clit. The air leaves your lungs in that moment, a soft exhalation of air that makes the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end.

“I love you too,” you sigh, hips jerking at the contact, fingers digging hard into his hair. “So much.”

He knows you by now, knows how you like to be touched. Your rhythmic panting goes a bit ragged, when he slides two fingers into your cunt, crooking up to stroke you the way you like while his mouth works your clit.

God, he loves this part.

The part where you lose any semblance of control. The desperate sounds you make when you start to come apart beneath his mouth and hands.

“Hoseok -- “ your voice is strangled when you call out, “ -- Hobi, I’m gonna come.”

Something about the way you say his name goes straight to his dick. He grits his teeth when your nails dig almost painfully into his scalp as you start to tremble, shuddering against his mouth.

“That’s it, baby,” he soothes, pinning your hips down with his strong hands, keeping you from pulling away from the pleasure that borders on pain. “That’s it. Sound so good when you come for me.”

Hoseok stays face first in your cunt, nose and tongue pressed against you, until he’s certain the last wave has come and gone. Between his own legs, his cock pulses painfully, leaking pre-come at the thought of finally being inside of you.

Your body twitches with the aftershocks of your release as he slowly kisses his way up your thighs, your mound, your stomach.

“How was that?” he asks with a teasing tilt to his mouth, stealing your ability to answer when he kisses you deeply, fitting his slim hips between your legs. He reaches down to grab his stiff cock, sliding it across your slick entrance. You clamp your thighs together to tighten the drag and he groans at the friction.

“Amazing,” you sigh, dragging your nails over his ass, up the lean muscles of his back. “Perfect. You should let me return the favor.”

His dick practically jumps at the suggestion, stomach contracting hard at the prospect of feeling your pretty mouth wrapped around it. But Hoseok is too worked up, too riled up by the alcohol and the excitement.

“Can’t tonight,” he pants, arousal shooting up his spine when you wrap one hand around his now-wet cock. You pump him lazily, trailing soft bites from his jaw to his shoulder. “Need to be inside of you.”

“Yeah, I’m ready for that too,” you admit, guiding the blunt head of his cock to your entrance.

He surges forward then, pushing past the tight grip of your fingers, groaning as he’s enveloped completely by your warm cunt. You whimper at the stretch, locking your legs around him, gasping when he bottoms out.

He pulls back to the tip only to drive in again, earning another strangled moan. You’re squirming beneath him, breathless and dewy, looking like some kind of wet dream.

“I’ll never get over how good it feels to be inside of you,” Hoseok admits, burying himself as deep as he humanly can into you.

You’re so wet he can feel you spilling out onto the base of his dick and for one fleeting moment he wishes you knew how good this feels for him. How wet and hot and tight you feel around him. How being inside of you like this makes his brain go haywire, reduces him to only instinct and need.

You lift your hips to meet each snap of his, the wet sound of your joining echoing off the walls in this mostly empty house.

He hears you moaning his name in between the other sounds you make, in between the panting and mewling that makes his balls tighten. You grip his forearms as he grinds against you, kissing you in between desperate breaths.

“I think I’m gonna come again,” you gasp against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”

“Oh, fuck,” Hoseok groans, pulling back to get to his knees. He hooks one of your legs over the crook of one strong forearm, using his one free hand to press a thumb to your clit. His rhythm falters as he watches himself slide in and out of you, hypnotized by the sight of his body joined to yours.

You lift your ass off the floor, back arching as you chase the pressure of his fingers. Hoseok strokes you desperately, feeling his orgasm looming menacingly at the base of his cock. It takes just a few more strained pumps of his hips to set you off.

The second he feels you clamp down around him, Hoseok folds back over you, arms braced on either side of you as he thrusts through his own orgasm. He shuts his eyes and groans as he empties his cock inside of you, thrusting until he can’t anymore.

He collapses onto you, heart racing as he tries to catch his breath.

“Don’t leave me,” you groan when Hoseok peels his damp skin away from yours to get to his feet.

He strides across the room, completely nude, grinning when you turn onto your side and go up on one elbow to ogle him.

“Just for a second,” he calls out, pulling out every unorganized drawer in the kitchen until he finally comes across a pen. “Gotta finish something.”

He makes a show of holding it in the air as he walks back into the living room, opening the gold-flecked box, and pulling out the last unmarked polaroid photo.

You’re smiling the entire time you watch him pen the last caption on the last photograph.

she said yes

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