#and I think he'd look fantastic in a grey suit

[krenenbaker]

do u see my vision do u think jade would wear these

YES OMGG!! I would LOVE to see Jade in those!! ESPECIALLY THAT PINAFORE. THAT IS SO JADE-CODED

I also think that Jade would wear:

Maxi skirts (I think he'd have a black maxi skirt that he would wear frequently... if he got used to the amount of material)

Short-sleeved button-ups (in summer, either with light trousers or shorts. Either cotton or linen, probably.)

Cargo shorts and pants (esp. for hiking)

Wrap dresses (I think a lavender or forest green one would look STUNNING on him)

Sports coats (tweed? wool? cotton?)

Suits ^w^

BLACK. TURTLENECK. (maybe with a blazer? or under a chunky sweater, if it was a thin material?)

I also think that the things Jade likes to wear depend on the individual piece... it sounds like he has some sensory issues with clothes, so he may dislike wearing certain garments, and maybe avoid certain clothing or fabrics altogether?

[clioquev]

Would memo wear a suit he feels like a suit man to me like a nice classic black or a charcoal grey even or like......plum and brown he could pull that off I think

he's not really a suit man, no

in terms of character preference, memo prioritizes comfort. for him (and me, to be honest), the sensory experience of wearing pants, the fitted fabric encasing and rubbing against his leg, is deeply uncomfortable. the baggier the outfit, the better. there's also a cultural element: the classic suit fell out of fashion in his area. clothes are either larger than life - these extravagant pieces that are simultaneously tame and something worth a runway - or display the body modifications of an individual. if he were to wear a classic suit, he'd likely ditch the jacket and tie as soon as possible

as for my input: i think he looks awkward in modern clothes. the contrast between his fantastical elements/"abnormal" background make it difficult for me to imagine him in anything typical. after all the weird designs i've tried, returning to something normal feels strange lol

i have drawn him in a suit though. the drawing dates back to february twelfth of last year (this ask had perfect timing), so excuse the fact his design's outdated

[five-miles-over]

First Date Headcanons for Tom Hiddleston's Characters - Part 2

(Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or images. This is just a fun listicle, not designed to offend anyone. As always, please feel free to leave comments and/or constructive criticism below. Thank you, and without any further ado, please enjoy!)

Click here for Part 1 with Will Ransome, Henry V, Loki, Bill Hazeldine, and Caius Marcius Coriolanus

Characters in this list: Jonathan Pine, Robert Laing, Magnus Martinsson, Oakley, Thomas Sharpe, Jaguar!Tom Hiddleston

Jonathan Pine from The Night Manager

Breakfast date

A date with Jonathan Pine would begin with him inviting you to share breakfast after his shift as night manager. The meal wouldn't be terribly decadent, but it would be beautiful enough for a

date. 

(If this is set in the Hotel Nefertiti in Cairo, then breakfast might be foul/ful or taameya (which are made with fava beans) or whatever was left over from the hotel kitchens. And if this is set in Hotel Meister in Zurich, then breakfast would be bread, margarine, marmalade, and hot chocolate.)

"Are you tired after a long night?" You gently asked while he placed some food on your plate.

Jonathan let out a chuckle. "I'm used to it." He filled his own plate, and then sat across from you. "What do you enjoy doing most at night?"

"Aside from sleeping?" 

"Sleeping only makes up a third of a person's life," Jonathan replied without missing a beat. "There must be something else you like to do after sundown."

Jonathan would be very courteous, asking you about where you were from and what you enjoyed doing. He would not reveal much about himself, merely saying that he left an army career for an occupation that was much more 'quiet'. 

After the meal, Jonathan would be happy to accompany you for a small stroll or he would escort you to wherever it is you wanted to go. Before saying goodbye, he would gently hold your hand and sincerely thank you for your company, hoping to see you again soon.

Robert Laing from High-Rise

Going out to the restaurant in the high-rise

A date with Robert Laing would begin with him picking you up from your apartment (which is also located in the high-rise) at about 7 or 8 PM. He'd be dressed to the nines, wearing a grey suit and a gold tie, with his hair combed. 

As a new resident, Robert wouldn't be very familiar with the fine dining places outside of the high rise. So he'd prefer to go to the one within the building (in my mind, it's also the place he frequently orders dinner from. He can cook, but doesn't prefer to do it often.)

Throughout the dinner, Robert would talk mostly about his work as a lecturer at the medical school. He would also ask about your apartment, how often you went to Charlotte Melville's parties, and where you were from.

"What do you think of the parties?" You asked while Robert cut his food with a fork and knife.

"They are…nothing like I have ever been to before."

"Do you go to many parties?"

"No," Robert replied, taking a bite. "I don't always have the interest. I prefer something intimate like this. In any case, I'm happy we could do this."

"Me too. Charlotte has said many good things about you."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "Did she tell you that I've been wanting to go out with you since that afternoon we met?"

After paying for the meal, Robert would walk you to your apartment. You offered to make him some coffee, saying it was the least you could do. Over two cups of hot espresso, Robert and you would talk some more, possibly falling asleep in each other's company. But in the morning, Robert would thank you for a nice time and help you get ready for the day before leaving for work. Of course, not without forgetting a kiss.

Magnus Martinsson from Wallander

Drinks at the local pub

A date with Magnus would begin with him picking you up after his shift at the police station. Depending on how much work there was for him, he might come to pick you up at a pretty late hour.

"Wow," Magnus gulped, watching you lock your front door and come towards his car. "You look fantastic tonight."

The two of you would go to the local pub and share a few pints, talking about work, the weather, and anything else that catches your fancy. Maybe if he's feeling like showing off, Magnus would play a round of billiards or darts (and hopefully win). And if you asked, he would gladly teach you to play, unafraid to hold you close while he tells you how to properly hold a billiard stick and shoot.

The date would end with a couple of kisses, and Magnus driving you back to your place. He'd bid you goodnight, and if everything went well, he would ask you when you'd be free for a second date.

Oakley from Unrelated

Swimming or skinny dipping at night

A date with Oakley would begin with the two of you sneaking to the pool after everyone else has either gone to sleep or retired to their rooms for the night. And tucked under his sleeve, Oakley would smuggle a bottle of alcohol from the cellar or a flask containing the ingredients of a Negroni. The two of you would take turns drinking, laughing all the while.

When the alcohol's finished, Oakley would quickly remove his shorts, t-shirt, and underwear and jump into the cool, still waters.  

"Did you just…?" You gasped before bursting into a fit of giggles. 

"Of course I did." Oakley leaned his head back and treaded water. "It's so much more fun that way. Come on, love. The water's relaxing and the weather is still unforgiving at night."

Taking a breath, you jumped into the pool and waded towards Oakley. He whispered for you to relax before putting his arms around you and his lips on yours. Depending on how comfortable you were with him, Oakley would kiss you more, leaning you against the edge of the pool so he could nuzzle against your neck. 

You can use your imagination for the rest ;)

Thomas Sharpe from Crimson Peak

Ballroom dancing

A date with Thomas Sharpe would begin with you meeting him at a party where he's either the guest of honor, or a party where the two of you are guests. He would politely catch your attention, drawing you away from your friends so he can have a word with you. With an innocent smile, he would make small talk, asking about how you're enjoying the festivities.

And when it's time for the dancing to begin, he would graciously offer you his hand.

"Will you grant me the honor of sharing a dance with you tonight, my lady?" After pressing a kiss against your knuckles, Thomas clutches your waist and begins to lead you in a swift yet gentle waltz.

The two of you would dance together for a few songs, not taking your eyes off of each other. And after that, Thomas would lead you to a less crowded part of the ballroom, talking to you about your family, about the things you liked (so he could remember in the future when buying you a present), and about where you were from. 

The night would end with Thomas (and his sister) escorting you home as a gesture of courtesy, and a proper good night kiss. A few days later, you would receive a letter -penned by Thomas himself - about how much he enjoyed spending the evening with you, and how he would like to continue courting you.

Jaguar! Tom Hiddleston

Cocktails at a fancy lounge, and a long drive at night 

A date with this Jaguar villain would begin with him inviting you to drinks at an exclusive club in downtown London. Showing off his influence, he would get a room just for the two of you. After a few bits of small talk, he'd move closer and whisper in your ear just how pretty you are, sending chills down your spine. 

"You look absolutely ravishing tonight, darling," he purred, placing his hand against your lower back. "After you finish that drink, what do you say to taking this elsewhere? Surely you must be wanting more…"

He'd take you for "a spin" in his Jaguar only for you to end up on the road at nearly 140 kilometers per hour. Little did you know, he actually had some pretty interesting cargo in the dicky - the type of cargo that police might be attracted to.

"Don't worry about the sirens," he told you excitedly, as if he were a child on Christmas morning. "It just adds to the excitement!"

[philtstone]

20 from the touching list and dealer’s choice for pairing!!!

#20 -- bandaging/stitching up an injury

you can also read this on ao3! this got egregiously long and i may eventually just post it as its own fic but also i have no regrets bc ive been thinking of this concept since i made this clown post like 2 weeks after fatws ended. technically part of this verse but can definitely definitely be understood just fine as a standalone. yeehaw!

"Ah ... shit."

Bucky's been in his fair share of dingy motel rooms, and this one ain't so bad as far as they go. Sarah checked for bed bugs before the kids wiped out and didn't find anything. There's a more than functional toilet, with complimentary soaps. The carpet only smells like piss a tiny little bit.

"It's got ambiance," Cass had declared at the door, ever good-natured, rubbing at his eyes exhaustedly under lopsided glasses even as he held tightly to his mother’s hand. AJ had fallen asleep in the backseat of Old June after the commotion on the interstate, and hadn't woken up even when Bucky maneuvered him out of the car and carried him the three flights up to their rented room; he'd asked, from his squished-cheek position against Bucky's shoulder, "'S'it got a TV?"

It hasn't.

Bucky keeps wanting to apologize. He's not sure what for. It wasn't technically his fault that the house got jumped by armed goons. It wasn't technically his fault that Sarah's front hallway is currently full of broken glass, or that the ever-enduring Ram has finger-shaped dents in the hood, or that they had to leave a bunch of knocked-out suits in the backyard for poor Ms. Gloria or the fuckin' state troopers to find. They were all still breathing – he made sure to stop and check. Since Sarah drove past state lines he's only had to take a second and re-anchor himself in his own body once, which is a great, fantastic improvement from the last time he ended up taking out a truckload's worth of strangers without explicit knowledge of who they were or why he had to engage with them, but God, he will be miserably, stupidly happy when they can finally get a lock on wherever Sam is, and figure out why the latest megolomanic supervillain came for Captain America’s family.

Meanwhile, there's an open wound in Bucky’s side that he hasn't noticed until now.

He’s slipped into the motel room's single bathroom, and has to crane his neck awkwardly to get a proper look at it. It's already kind of gummy. Tacky against his fingers and torn shirt. Pretty short across, though deep enough that it's clearly been bleeding sluggishly under his jacket for the last few hours. Not an active problem, though his favourite grey long-sleeved is ruined, which is annoying, and in his newfound awareness the place where the farthest side of his ribcage, almost on his back, got caught by something -- stray bullet, most likely, though that glass he was thinking of is definitely a contender – is stinging more than is reasonable.

It'll be gone by tomorrow. Bucky's already resigned himself to the fact that he's not sleeping at all tonight, so that other part's fine too.

"Bucky?"

"Uh --" He clears his throat, compulsive, straightening up to face the bathroom door and fumbling with the first aid kit he found behind the toilet basin. Sarah's quiet voice is as full and melodic as it always is. "It's -- yeah?"

Sarah says, in the same muted voice,

"Can I come in? I saw some mouthwash in the cabinet and like, I need to rinse my mouth out or I'm not gonna sleep a wink."

"Oh -- sure, I mean, of course."

She enters, soft on her feet. He hovers, trying to maneuver one antiseptic-wipe-holding hand up and around under his shirt without making too much of a big deal out of it. The angle is stupid-awkward, as if whatever did it did so out of an ironic sense of spite. He keeps his head down, and asks, matching her earlier tone,

"Are the kids okay?"

Short-form sigh, the sort she makes so often. Sarah's no stranger to complicated circumstance.

"They're holdin'. Asleep now, probably be a bit freaked out later. You know how things catch up with you."

Bucky lets out a humourless chuckle in spite of himself and nods, listening to Sarah fumble with the bottle cap, pour the liquid out, and take that kind of measured sip people do when they don't wanna make weird mouth sounds around others. She spits, quiet-like, into the sink. Rinses her mouth out. Turns around.

"God, that’s disgusting. Anyway, there's one of 'em on each bed, so I thought --"

"It's fine, I can just take the fl --"

"-- Jesus Christ, Bucky, you're bleeding!"

Her voice climbs in volume at the same time and pace of her widening eyes; in a second she is much closer to him than before in the objectively too-small bathroom, hands hovering.

"It's fine!" he says hastily, trying to keep his own voice level; the last thing he wants to do is wake the boys up after the day they've had. "Sarah, seriously, this is not a big deal. It'll be gone by tomorrow."

"How -- why didn't you say anything --"

But she's reeled it in. From shock to pragmatism in the flip-switch of a heartbeat, and he didn't even realize that he'd been worried about freaking her out until something about the practical way she's looking at him makes him sag, instinctually, against the peeling wallpaper of the bathroom wall.

Still,

"I didn't notice," Bucky admits, eyes flicking over to the stained yellow shower curtain. He tries not to grimace at himself. Sarah tucks a loose braid behind one ear and he sees her lone remaining earring glint. The other got lost somewhere, status unknown, she said in the car she didn't care much anyway 'cause they were department store knock offs from a Black Friday sale.

He had noticed when she first came in that she'd changed out of her dirty clothes, but kind of in his periphery; now that she's right in front of him, it's extremely difficult not to full-body register her silhouette. She's lost her familiar plaid and the yellow t-shirt beneath it, and is dressed in a thin camisole and old bicycle shorts she must have dug out of the Goodwill donation bags perennially stored in Old June's trunk. The camisole is a pale off-white, bright against the dark pouch of her midriff it's ridden up to expose, and the soft slopes and curves of her shoulders and breasts. The bicycle shorts are -- well.

He swallows, reaching through patchy swatches of pre-war memory to access his mother's stern voice, then his grandmother's, then the hairy-chinned nun who always yelled at Steve for being a shit altar boy, and hell, even that one Rabbi down at the corner of Fourth. Pull yourself together, Barnes.

Sarah says, hesitant, but not disbelieving,

"It doesn't hurt?"

"Not much."

Her lips purse together in a flat line and Bucky has to work hard not to stare at them. She raises a considering eyebrow. "So you were, what, plannin' on prancing around the next few days with a bloodstain under your armpit?"

"It's not under my armpit," Bucky says, maybe a little defensive. Then, "I was gonna toss the shirt."

"While you're still bleeding?"

"Mostly slowed up."

"You'll ruin the only spare clothes I could find in the trunk."

"It's --"

"Don't give me that, Bucky Barnes. You’re the one who told me we’re trying not to attract attention to ourselves. Like, I don't know about you, but I'd notice if someone walked into a Waffle House lookin' like a Tarantino film."

Bucky doesn't know if he wants to sigh or laugh.

“It is not that bad.”

“Uh huh.”

He closes his eyes, wincing but steady. Sarah usually makes him feel steady. Even with the bicycle shorts, and the dizzying proximity, she does.

"You're taking this all really well," he comments.

"Baby, I am a pro at compartmentalizing," Sarah says. "Just now? I'm perfecting a lobster mac recipe in my head."

Bucky gives in to that laugh. "I can't reach it properly," he admits.

"May I take a look?" Sarah asks. It's gentler than before. Maybe that's what gets him.

"I -- yeah. Yeah, alright."

She walks the two steps around him and he tugs the hem of his shirt to his ribcage, stays silent when the fabric pulls against torn skin. He can feel the wound, small as it is, open again when he moves. He tries to use his other arm to hold his shirt up, but nearly elbows her in the nose.

“Shit, sorry –”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll just –”

He gives up, feels his stomach flip. Before he can think too hard about it he has yanked the shirt up and off over his neck.

Sarah is silent. He keeps his eyes ahead, tense in the anticipation of her touch, in anticipation point blank. She's seen the seam, where the prosthetic meets him. This is different.

"It's not very fun to look at," Bucky says quietly. "I’m sorry if it -- scares you."

She's at his side, still, but in direct view of the faded scarring along his pectoral and scapulae, hiding the internal plating and wiring that made the first arm possible and even marginally functional. Shuri replaced as much of that as possible, realigned the whole thing so the chronic pressure lessened and the ergonomics improved. The new arm is lighter, the scar tissue rehabilitated somewhat; most of the time, any associated pain is either weather-related or phantom. He can say, truthfully, that looking at it doesn’t make him feel sick like it used to. There is a big gap between less now and not at all.

Sarah tilts her head, and there is a minute movement where he thinks she might be biting her bottom lip but can't be sure. Another braid spills over her shoulder, loose in her ponytail. She got new ones last month. They're the really long kind, hanging all the way down her back and swinging around when she moves. They're stunning on her. Everything is stunning on her. He's a fool, and it's true.

"Antiseptic?" she asks. But there isn't anything different about her voice.

Bucky clears his throat, against the ball stuck somewhere in the back. "I -- yup." He digs around through the first aid kit open against his thigh, then holds up one of the packets. He watches Sarah's full mouth twitch, and is unsure why, until she slips the alcohol out of his hand and tugs on one of his gloved fingers.

"You wanna take this off too, Luke Skywalker?"

That was courtesy of some kid at a gas station near Mississippi. So much for staying under the radar, but it's been making AJ go bonkers all afternoon, probably even a good distraction from the gunfire and very real danger, so Bucky cannot help himself, and smiles crookedly at her in response, his cheeks warming.

"Oh. Forgot."

"It's fine." He tugs the glove off his hand and hears the tear of the wrapper around the alcohol swab. "Weird seeing you with it on, though. You never wear that at home."

Home, he thinks. The concept, like Sarah, is dizzying.

"So," he manages, praying his voice comes out steady. "Lobster mac?"

"Uh huh. Key is, you never use warm milk when makin' the roux."

"Isn't that the case for any roux?"

"You really listen when I talk, huh?" And her tone's joking, but Jesus if he doesn't want to choke out the world's most pathetic yes, yes, every word when her warm fingers press over his skin and it's like every muscle in his chest jumps to meet them in response. She was in the coat closet, with the children, when a gunshot went off and shattered the porch door because he knew how to move out of its way like muscle memory. She was there when he ducked left then right then grabbed a man in the exact place required to crush a trachea but didn’t, only disarmed him and pinned him to the papered wall fast and hard enough that he’s going to wake up considerably concussed. She saw him move in precise, inhuman movements, like he has never had reason to showcase to her before. Sarah’s careful palm presses over his ribcage, and Bucky feels his eyelids flutter of their own accord.

"Anyway,” Sarah says, “your lobster's gotta be a good one."

"Of course."

"C'mon, don't be laughing. You never had bad lobster?"

"Honestly, I've only ever had your lobster."

"Okay, I see the ambiguity there --"

"No, no, I didn't mean --" He ducks his head, sure she can see him flushing, "Sarah. Ms. Wilson. You know your cooking's the best thing in all Louisiana state."

"Mmmhmmm. Okay white boy, nice save."

"So, what, no spices?"

"Excuse me," she tears a bandaid open with her teeth and his brain short-circuits just slightly, "I can't be giving away my whole recipe like that. Bad for business."

Sarah works in sure, precise movements, cleaning up the blood and covering it just enough that it won’t stain anything overnight. She is entirely practical, and efficient, doesn't press too hard, nor too soft, firm yet unquestionably gentle against his body in a way that is not really necessary.

"Shit," he says suddenly.

Sarah stills at once, thumb pressed over a muscle in his back midway through smoothing down the tape.

"What?"

"I missed therapy today," Bucky realizes.

Well; yesterday. It's well past midnight now. He looks down at her. Sarah looks up, clearly slipping into problem solving mode. She does it the exact same way Sam does, he’s noticed. She says,

"Oh! I -- well, do you wanna check in, maybe?"

"Check in?" Bucky repeats, a little stupidly.

"Like, text her, explain why you missed it, so she's not worried. I can uh, leave the room."

A beat. Two. Bucky bursts out laughing.

It’s this messy, dissolving thing, leaking out of him with an edge of hysteria, and Sarah’s not far behind.

“So she’s not worried –” he manages, half a groan, hand on his face because yeah, the boys are still asleep in the next room, and they’re here together in the single shared bathroom like an evolution of the strange domestic daydream he’s been living in every few weeks when he shows up on her doorstep. Her giggles continue, syrupy, poorly muffled, even more hysteric than his own. Maybe some of that compartmentalizing has been breached. He keeps on laughing, bent over, objectively too close to her and gasping with it. It’s only when she brings a wrist up to wipe at her eyes, still more or less incoherent, that he notices it, and reaches for her hand without thinking.

“Hey,” he says, still breathless, “Your elbow, Sarah.”

“What – oh?” Her arm’s shaking, entirely the aftershocks of the adrenaline. This is something he knows. “It’s just a scrape." Her voice shakes, with the laughter and other things. "Bumped weirdly against the car door.”

“Here. Come on, we still have bandaids.”

She’s shockingly compliant, usually so stubborn in accepting help in anything, even less when it's personal. She lets him extend her arm and turn it over, holding it carefully over his jean-covered knees so they are not quite touching. With assured movements to match Sarah’s own Bucky takes the last antiseptic packet, dabs carefully at the raw skin, doesn’t quite wince when she hisses. His right hand is large where it cups over her elbow, and he tries not to notice the kick of her pulse against his thumb, or the fact that her dark skin has erupted in warm gooseflesh, or his own unfamiliarity with administering this kind of care to another person.

“There,” he says, when he’s done, feeling a little bit like he doesn’t recognize his own voice. The bathroom is quiet around them, as if the whole world’s narrowed down to just their two and the toilet seat.

“Wasn’t very bad.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he hears himself say. “Now we’re even.”

It’s like it's trying to crawl out of his pores, sometimes, the impulse impress her. To be -- normal -- around her. She is so kind to him. All the time, like it's as natural as breathing. It is like nothing he has experienced in perhaps his whole life. She quirks a smile, pretty and softening for all that she’s just wiped the blood off his back and been chased out of her home by strangers, and he’s hit with that dizzying feeling again – the need to apologize. There’s something sacred about that house, and Sarah and her children in it. The idea of its walls being breached is terrifying to him at a conceptual level he doesn’t really know how to parse out. He thinks Sam might be the only other person who’d get it, and even then, Bucky doesn’t know if he has the guts to bring it up. Because here Sarah is, letting him touch her, and here he is, wanting. Desperately. It leaves him rudderless, and yet with every passing day feels simpler than before.

Sarah extracts her hand from his to tuck a braid behind her neck again, and to toss the small handful of bloodied gauze into the toilet. Moving on instinct, he gathers up their opened first aid detritus, picks his sodden shirt up off the floor.

"Can I tell you something?" she says, after a moment.

Bucky nods, holding his bloodied shirt close to his abdomen.

"So like, earlier today? When those guys showed up? Gotta grab Captain America's sister, whatever. You were in the backyard, remember."

"Of course."

"Painting that awful shed."

"Yeah."

"Took you thirty seconds to get from there to the front, where I was." She takes a deep breath, like she's shoring herself up to say something. He can see her chin wobble -- the slight tremble of her hand. She has to be the single most incredible person he's ever met, he thinks, and he has met a lot of people in his miserable long life. "Those thirty seconds you weren't there," Sarah says, "I was scared."

Bucky stares at her. Even in her borrowed clothes she smells of that coconut she so favours, and he can feel the puff of her breath against his bare arm, flesh and bone like any other man's. His head is still buzzing, though maybe from different things now.

He says, voice rough, “I could stay up, in case the boys have nightmares.”

“You’re thinking of my babies right now?” she asks, in a strange tone.

He should kiss her, Bucky thinks. He should pick her up and press her against that peeling wallpaper and –

“I just thought –”

“Mama?”

AJ’s voice, plaintive and carrying the edge of panic, sounds from just the other side of the bathroom door. Sarah startles; Bucky jerks to his feet and nearly knocks over the first aid kit. For a split second, their eyes lock, wide and heady and caught. Then she curses and stumbles her way out of the bathroom. Her hands close to herself again, held aloft, ready to comfort, dulled again with the mundanity of living.

“Mom –”

“I’m here, I’m here, baby, just in the bathroom. You know how folks gotta pee in the middle of the night. You’re safe, AJ. Is Cass asleep? He’s right here? Okay. Okay, we’re all together. It’s fine.”

Bucky slumps back against the wall, groaning through his teeth, feeling like he’s just been jolted out of a full-bodied dream. He scrubs a rough vibranium hand over his face, tosses his ruined shirt into the garbage can, and pulls his phone out to see if Sam’s back online. He’s not. Bucky’s phone is newly cracked in the top right corner. Sorry I missed today, he texts, to Raynor’s number. Urgent family thing. Tell you next time.

Then he straightens up, rolls out his shoulders, and pads his way into the bedroom, ready to fold himself into the scuffed fold-out chair in the corner and keep watch on the door until morning.

[d-noona]

MAKE OVER

Chapter 13: The Project

Jung Hoseok x Reader

Reader as Kang Hyeonji

SUMMARY: When Kang Hyeonji transformed herself into a striking redhead, the entire male population of Seoul stood up and took notice. But her make over was for Jung Hoseok’s benefit alone. He began to show interest in the new look but not in the way she wanted. Suddenly he was over-protective, perhaps a little jealous. It seemed that the idea of having a relationship with her couldn’t be further from his mind. The girl however wants more. So it was time for an ultimatum. If Hoseok didn’t want Hyeonji to lose her virginity to another admirer, he had no option but to make love to her himself.

"So how did last night go?" Her mother asked when Hyeonji struggled out of bed shortly before midday. "You must have got home pretty late. I was still up reading at one-thirty."

Hyeonji knew she could not bear a full confession at that moment. She will still coming in terms with the end of her relationship with Hoseok. In the cold light of morning, it was a bitter pill to swallow that she'd exchanged a lifetime of friendship for one night of fantasy. Hoseok had delivered her home around three-thirty, neither of them having said a word to each other on the trip. When he'd try to say something in the driveway she'd stopped him with a look and quickly left. In her room, she'd felt too shattered to cry. She'd undressed and climbed into bed and just lain there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the whole man/woman thing. No clear answers had come to comfort her. She'd finally dropped off around dawn, and had one of those awful dreams where she was travelling on a train and had lost her luggage, which passed by a no vacancy Inn called Omelas. It was a frustrating dream which she had from time to time. Inevitably, she woke feeling dreadful. Not that she needed an extra reason that morning. Hoseok didn't like her anymore. She'd become a sex-mad monster in his opinion; a complication. Hyeonji knew that he would not come around anymore and pride would stop her from seeking him out. Their friendship was over, ruined by her love for him.

"Sweetie?" Her mother probed gently.

She shook her head, unable to say anything. Zil sighed. "I presume it didn't work out like you hoped."

"No," Hyeonjie managed.

"I see. I'm so sorry my love. I know how much Hoseok means to you." As her mother caressed her hair gently. "Meant." Hyeonji said with sudden and unexpected determination. She stood up from where she'd been drooping over the kitchen table, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Now they straightened, her chin lifting in defiance of her depression. "Hoseok is the past, Mum. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and I don't aim to waste it moping around. I'm going out."

"Out? Where, out?" Her mother replied in confusion.

"I really have no idea. Yet, i'll think about it while I have a bubble bath." With Hyeonji's declaration of sudden independence her mother stuttered. "A b..bubble bath? In midday?"

"Why not? Do you realize I haven't use bottle of bubble bath Han Byeol gave me for Christmas? I also have one of those bath bombs from Choon Hee. I think it's way overdue." As Hyeonji slams her palm on their kitchen table.

"What about the papers? The financial form Hoseok was going to leave with me last night. Did he forget?" Her mother asks. "No. He didn't. I'm sure he hasn't forgotten, Mum. Hobi isn't like that." Hyeonji responds only to realize she was still quick to defend his ex best friend. "Do you think I should go over and ask him about them? He must be there, his car is in the driveway."

Hyeonji flinched. The thought that Hoseok was physically so close rattled her momentary resolve to get on with her life. How could she go on, having won him in a fashion for one short night, only to lose him forever? "Yeah, I think that would be a good idea," she said briskly. "He's probably still asleep but I'm sure Mrs Jung will be up." Hyeonji turned and fled the room quickly before she weakend in front of her mother.

"Stay strong" she kept mumbling to herself. "You must stay strong!"

One hour later she was bathed and dressed in a white one piece sundress that went seven inches above her knee. It was pure and dainty, with the fabric swinging nicely on her legs. Allowing her freshly dried hair to fall on her shoulders with her perfectly made-up face. She'd also hunted out some pearl earrings which she'd only worn once, which now suited her look and her new hair color. She'd thought about putting on the new necklace Hoseok had given to her, but didn't want the constant reminder of him, so it stayed at the back of her top drawer. She did however, spray a whiff of Seductress behind her ears.

No one would've guessed just looking at her that inside she was having the mental and emotional battle of her life. It would be so easy to give in and give up, to sink back into the miserably mousy little nothing she'd once been. But to do that would be to waste all the changes she'd made. If nothing else she would remain grateful to Hoseok for being impetus behind her making those changes. Neither would she regret losing her virginity to him. How could she? She loved him. It angered her, however, that Hoseok had never recognized her love for him, when everyone else had, even dear old Jeon Jungkook. It had been easier for him to believe she'd suddenly turned into a sex-mad monster bitch than to face the fact that there could be something else behind her choosing him to become her first lover.

"Hyeonji?" Her mother called out from downstairs, and Hyeonji immediately tensed. She recognized that slightly sheepish tone in her mothers voice.

"Yes?" She called back curtly.

"Um...Hoseok's here. He wants to talk to you."

Hyeonji squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh God," she mumbled. Her thoughts racing as to why he wouldn't leave this shit alone. It was finished. They were finished. She'd risked the substance for the shadow and she'd lost. She understood that. Why didn't he? It looked as if she would have to spell it out for him again, because there is no way she was going to let him play with her emotions anymore, no matter how innocent his intentions. The way to hell was paved with good intentions. Maybe she should remind him of that. "I'll be right down," she said stiffly.

Gathering her strength, she slipped her bare feet into her beige sandals and forced herself to go down and face Hoseok. Her mother passed her on the stairs, obviously deciding to make herself scarce.

Hoseok was in the kitchen, standing with his back to the sink, his arms crossed. "You look awful," she said knowing that he didn't, actually. He looked fantastic, even with dark rings under his eyes and his clothing not up his usual satorial splendor. He was wearing his usual tattered jeans. Grey. Stonewashed, but his white T-shirt was crumpled.

"You don't," he returned, brown eyes washing over her. "You look beautiful."

Hyeonji declined to make a comment. "What is it that you want Hobi?" She asked coolly. "Your mother says youre going out." He arched his eyebrow at her.

"Yep" she responded. "Where?" Hoseok responds just as quick. "That is none of your business." She quipped.

"I am making it my business. Where are you going?" As he pushed himself off the sink, slowly approaching Hyeonji. She shrugged with his sudden question. "I'm not sure yet. Anywhere."

"In that case you're coming with me."

"No. Not good enough. Why should I?" Hyeonji starts to feel her blood boil. Hoseok can be persistent but she didn't think he'd be this damned controlling.

"It was...once. You used to be happy to go along with anything I suggested."

Her smile was not very nice. "Times have changed Hoseok. Haven't they?"

"Yes, and so have you," he bit out.

Hyeonji raised her eyebrows. "Do I detect a note of disapproval here? I must admit I'm at loss. Because I actually did do everything you suggested. This is your creation Jung Hoseok," she said, uncrossing her arms and sweeping them over her body. "You made me what I am today. You even gave me a splendid initiation into the pleasures of being fucked. I'm eternally grateful. They say a lot of girls' first experiences aren't anything to write about. I dunno about you, mine was pretty fucking awesome."

"I don't want your gratitude Hyeonji."

She placed both hands on her waist daring him even more. "Oh? What is it you want then? Tell me."

"You!" There was no denying the dark intent in his smouldering brown eyes. They raked over her, showing her with more than words what he wanted. Not love, God, no. There was nothing of love in the way he was looking at her. Lust, hot and strong, burned across the distance between them, branding her with its stunning heat. Hyeonji's coolness vanished momentarily, swamped by a white-hot deluge of answering desire.

"Don't fucking tell me its not mutual," he ground out. "I can see the truth in your face. You want me as much as I want you, Hyeonji as complicated as this might get, once was simply not enough."

She wasn't going to deny it. Impossible. Her heart was off running, and so was her conscience. If I can't have this love, she reasoned recklessly, then I'll settle for his lust. I'll settle for damned well anything at this moment. Even if it is fake love. The realization made a mockery of her earlier vow to get on with her life without Hobi. She was condemned to always being weak where he was concerned. Love made a woman weak, she accepted it with a sobering thought.

"What about Tinashe?" She asked, proud of herself that she didn't sound shaken as she was.

"You let me worry about Tinashe." He held out his hand and waited. She knew that to place her hand in his was to surrender to his wishes without reserve. From what she could see, he wasn't offering her anything but sex. He hadn't even promised to get rid of his old girlfriend. Hyeonji knew she could not cope with that. "I won't share you, Hobi."

"I won't share you either Hyeonji."

"You won't go back to her?" She spoke softly. "Not if you come with me right now." He replies. These unspoken words haunted Hyeonji, for she found them both dismaying and wildly exciting. It wasn't exactly what she wanted. Still becoming Hoseok's fuck buddy was a temptation beyond bearing. She hadn't yet had her fill of him in a sexual sense, either, had she? Difficult to knock back such a chance. Impossible, really. His face held a blackly triumphant satisfaction when she placed her trembling hand in his. His fingers closed tightly around its slender width and he yanked her towards him. Her lips parted on a breathless gasp as their bodies collided.

"So you're my creation, are you?" He murmured in a low, dangerously menacing voice. "In that case I've created a monster. A manipulative, demanding, conscienceless monster." He began stroking her neck, making her quiver with arousal and expectation. His eyes dropped to her mouth and she could feel the heat of her desire in their blistering brown eyes. Any moment he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her, ached for him to kiss her.

"No, I'm not going to kiss you," he growled, his fingers stilling on her throat. "Even though you want me to. You're going to learn to wait. You're going to learn a lot of things before I'm finished with you. You think you can play with people? You think you can use me then just move on to other men, other lovers," his fingertips pressed into the soft skin of her throat. "Think again, baby," he snapped, brown eyes gleaming. "Last night was only the first of many nights. And all of them will be with me. No one else. Not Jungkook or even your pathetic Mr X. Soon, your body will only respond to me. You're Daddy's little girl. You're Daddy's little project." He laughed. It was definitely a Mr Hyde laugh. It sent shivers down Hyeonji's spine.

"You, better than anyone know, how obsessive I can get about my projects," he went on in a fearsome fashion. "Nothing sways me from my goal. I promise you I will devote every minute of every day to the task, all my intellect, all my strength and every ounce of energy. I will become your tutor. Your master, your own personal devil!"

Hyeonji gaped at him, her eyes round, her heart pounding. This was a Hoseok she'd never met before. A madly impassioned, out-of-control Hoseok whose dark side had him firmly in its grip. But the insidious attraction of that dark side. His words were already sending her on the path to that particular hell. And hell it would eventually be. For she knew Hoseok well enough to know that his obsessions always burn out. Once a project was mastered, he quickly lost interest and abandoned it, moving on to the next project. And the next.

Hyeonji decided enough is enough. She might be dying to volunteer as his next project, but she would not be bullied or abused. She brushed past his temporarily stunned self and dashed upstairs. "Mum! Hoseok and I are going out for the day. Don't wait up." She heads back down to a stunned Hoseok. "Come on Daddy. Let's go."

Chapter 14

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