#belle Seams Legging's

[un-lawliet]

“Fit For an Archon”

— in which the Hydro Archon is fascinated by you

a/n- happy pride month to all my wlw, i wrote this for us <3 im sorry for how long it is (gasp)

word count (7.1k)

You are the worst seamstress in Fontaine.

You’re sure of it.

Your hands seem to repel fabric, your needle poisoning the thread in which you clumsily stitch with and leaving you with a truly horrendous looking frock.

Chiori, bless her soul, had hired you as a a request from your Father, who, in Chiori’s defence, was a fantastic tailor, renowned for his intricate stitching and detailed attires- Truly a renaissance for Fontaine fashion.

And so when he left Chioris business, set to start his own amiss the bustling harbours of Liyue, you found yourself tucked away, working in his place for Chiori, who was currently frowning pensivly down at your work, as if it had personally offended her.

“…It’s bad isn’t it?” You state, looking intensely at your boss who chewed on her painted bottom lip, head cocked, wondering how in Tevat you were your Fathers daughter.

“It’s not…Awful” She tries, although not very well, her gaze fixed on the uneven stitching and the deplorable match of colour.

“Better than last time?” You question, a terrible sense of hope clouding your voice, hopeful that maybe, just maybe you were improving-

“No, no, definitely worse.” Chiori mutters, and your face falls.

She sticks a hand out and touches the skirt you had presented her with, lifting it up.

The seams fall and the skirt halves in her grasp, and you cringe silently, eyes closing in embarrassment.

“Hm.” She ponders, turning to stare at you from over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s…Meant to do that?” You try, shoulders raising in contention, only to be silenced again at the shake of her head.

“Take a break Y/N.” Chiori says, tired under attempts to support your terrible creations.

You don’t argue with her, immediately fleeing the boutique as if you were being hunted down by the God King Remus himself.

The bell on the door dings as you exit, waving goodbye to your co-workers who scoff at your exit, whispering words under their breath that you chose not to render.

You just needed to stick this job out until you had enough income to quit.

But- with the state of your designs and the even worse execution of said designs, you doubt you’d ever make enough to follow through with your intentions.

And really…You barely make ends meet as it is.

Oh God.

You kick a stone and watch as it skims across the tarmac, bouncing up and down until skidding to a stop metres before you.

You hate being a seamstress.

Making it to the manufactured river, you slump down, lazily throwing your legs off of the sides, your boots delicately touching the water surface below.

The same way they always did when Chiori sends you away.

How ridiculously boring.

Fontaine’s a-lot quieter in the evening, most people finding themselves at the Opera Epiclese to watch a spectacle, faces tinged red with excitement.

You prefer it when it’s quiet, when the streets are empty. It means you can lie backwards on the hard ground without too much judgement from your fellow citizens.

Your legs still bent down towards the water, with your back on the concrete dock, you allow yourself a breath.

You hear footsteps somewhere off to your right but pay them no mind. After all, passing judgement is only ever passing, and you’re sure whoever it is will waltz past you, giving you a confused once over before immediately forgetting your face.

You stretch one of your legs and break the surface of the river, feeling the tip of your boot soak up the water briefly, before you’re lifting it back out, shaking it gently to dry it off.

Someone cleared their throat behind you and you sign with the frustration of interrupted serenity.

Can you truly not have anything?

Pushing yourself up with your elbows, you turn your face the perpetrator, eyebrows drawn down to a frown.

You were gonna stare them out until they left you to mope at this stupid river, politeness be dammed!

.

.

.

It’s Focalors behind you.

Lady Furina.

Every retort resting on your tongue is swallowed up, getting stuck in the back of your throat and you choke on your words, chest heaving in shock.

The Hydro Archon stares down at you, watching your struggle, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smile on her lips.

Her hair sways in the breeze, tickling her leg and she seems to be quite fascinated in the dress encasing your figure.

A long ruffly mess of colour and mesh with a corset that one would barely call fitting, you look like a run away mannequin, pathetically thrown together before your God.

“Lady Furina.” You wheeze, propelling yourself to your feet, dropping into a bow, your skirt following comically behind.

Why is she here? Is she not fond of the Opera house? Archons people wait half their lives to meet her and here you are face to face with God through pure circumstance.

She waves a gloved hand in your direction, dismissing your bow entirely, eyes still drawn to the fabric of your gown.

“Your..attire is quite interesting.” She states bluntly, walking two steps to the left to capture your dress from all angles.

Your face flushes, “Thank you Lady Furina, it’s an honour to be complimented by-”

“Were you supposed to be in the opera?” She cuts you off, turning her body in the general direction of the Epiclese.

“What?” You answer before finding your manners, “I mean n-no it’s my….” You sigh, shoulders slumping, “I’m a seamstress.”

Lady Furina pauses, her head lifting you look at your face, studying it with such precision that you feel yourself bite back the desire to look away.

“..A seamstress?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh.”

The pair of you look at each other for a moment before she throws her head back and laughs. It echoes around the empty streets of Fontaine and reverberates right into your ears.

“I suspected as much!” She guffaws, clapping her hands together.

You cock your head, confused, “No you didn’t?” You reply, unable to stop the offence in your voice.

Sure you weren’t good at your job but you liked this dress! And you were definitely not apart of any play!

Lady Furina’s laugh trails off and she stares at you, her lip between her teeth, holding back a grin.

“Tell me!” She begins again, and you shudder at the volume of her voice. “Why is it that you look so sad?”

“Huh?” You question, eyes widening in confusion.

Furina smiles, it brightens her face, before pointing at you then back to herself, “As your Archon it is my duty to right the wrongs of Fontaine, and you appeared so gloomy that I had no choice but to journey off my path to check up on you!”

Shame forces its way through your body and you shake your head, holding out your sweaty palms to face her, “Lady Furina you do not need to trouble yourself with my issues, trust me.” And you shiver against her unblinking gaze, “Please, continue on your way..” You awkwardly laugh, gesturing to the street, dying inside.

Furina blinks at you, “You don’t want to share problems for me?”

You take a step back, bashfully shaking your head, “I mean no offence…”

It’s awkward.

Furina tilts her head, studying you, confused.

She is far too use to Fontainians requesting her opinions on trivial matters so much so that the blatant avoidance from you is baffling.

You scratch the back of your hand in the silence.

Lady Furina watches you, dissecting you with her eyes, trying to go over every woe that past Fontainians had brought to her omnipresent ears.

You chuckle, trying to force her gaze off of you before you melt and join the water behind you.

“You’re not watching the play?” You say, gesturing in the general direction of the Epiclese, pleading silently for her to stop looking at you like that.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes, “I’ve seen it before, it gets quite tiresome seeing the same thing over and over again.”

Oh

“Oh”

Lady Furina grins, her opposing eyes still gracing your face as if you were so easy to figure out.

“Do you…Hate your job?”

You gawk at her.

She smirks.

Jack pot.

“I’m right aren’t I? You can save your praise, I know I’m truly otherworldly when it comes to intuition.” She fans her hand up and down at you, throwing her pretty head back dramatically.

“Must be a gift from Celestia then.” You conclude, turning away from her and sitting back down at your river side.

You’re slightly peeved at her reaction and would rather not disrespect an Archon so early in your life, so you do not face her with your glare.

“Come now.” Lady Furina says, strolling over to you, “I only joke.”

The Hydro Archon was now sitting beside you, kicking her feet in the water.

This truly cannot be real.

You sigh.

Well, if she’s asking, you may as well answer.

What’s another sinner to an Archon anyway.

“Do you ever feel trapped by the wishes of another?” You ask, defeat clouding your senses as you speak.

Lady Furina stills, but you do not notice.

“My Father, asked me to keep on his legacy in Fontaine, he’s a brilliant tailor, I mean, it’s like he was born to be one…”

You trail off, and splash your foot into the water, “And I just- I’m terrible at being a seamstress, I can’t even pretend to enjoy it because I am so utterly rubbish at it.”

She’s watching you, you can feel it. It’s as intense as your emotions, you almost shy away.

“Sorry.” You mutter, “I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s not like you have to struggle with these “mortal issues.”

You laugh bitterly in the silence of your confession.

Lady Furina’s hand slightly brushes yours and you wonder if she notices.

The pair of you sit quietly for a moment, your face growing warmer in the seconds.

You’re about to apologise again, your words on the tip of your tongue before she speaks, ripping the pages from your mouth.

“I always find it fascinating to hear how Mortals think.”

“Hm?”

“How they can voice their feelings so freely, it has always struck me.” Her voice is a lot quieter, you almost mistake her for someone else.

You glance, taking in the side of Lady Furina’s face, her soft features seem burdened, you hope silently that you were not the cause of her worries.

“An Archon admiring her subjects…” You say, slicing through the quiet, “That’s quite comforting actually.”

Lady Furina tilts her head, narrowing her dainty eyebrows quizzingly, “Pardon?”

You smile, and hope it reaches both your eyes and hers. “You care. It’s kind.”

She’s watching you again, her chest rising and falling in tandem to the gentle swish of the water.

You place an arm on your knee and rest you head in your palm, feeling bold.

“It must be lonely being a God.”

And her eyes grow wide, for a split second, before she’s blinking and resuming her facade of impassive control.

“What ever do you mean?”

“There’s no higher being to think about you.” You reply, introspection fluctuating in your words before it slaps you back into reality with a cold hand.

“Uh- Pardon me, I don’t mean to call you lonely I just-”

“It’s quite alright.” Lady Furina says, straightening up, her hair brushing your shoulder and her hand moving from yours. “You did not mean any harm.”

She moves to stand, and you watch, perplexed.

“You have the freedom to quit.” She says simply, “There is no higher deity forcing you to stay.” And she smiles, “All will be ok.”

She leaves as fast as she had arrived and you’re left alone to think.

Strange you think.

You hope you didn’t offend her.

—

When it’s not raining, the sun has a habit of overstaying her welcome.

It’s absolutely roasting in Fontaine, and so when Chiori asked if you would stay behind to finish your garment after work hours, you jumped at the opportunity to relish in the cool breeze of the back rooms.

Besides, you feel less embarrassed working by yourself, with nobody around to mock your gowns.

You flinch as you pierce the skin of your finger, watching as a maroon red slides into your palm.

You wipe it on your dress, it clashes with the colour.

“Do you always make a habit of wearing the most..peculiar garments?”

You jump, dropping your needle onto the sickly pink fabric, you wince as it falls, sure to be lost forever.

“L-Lady Furina?” You gasp, turning your body towards her, your dress swishing in your movement as you try pathetically bow your head in her exuberant presence.

“Yes “tis I.” She replies, her arms opening dramatically but her eyes stay focused on your choice of apparel. “Honestly.” She muses, “It’s no wonder they keep you back here…”

Lady Furina glances around your cluttered work room, taking in the flurry of vibrant coloured ribbons dripping out from their boxes, half finished corsets falling apart at their seams and the tatttered fabric unevenly pinned to a mannequin standing just inches away from her.

You step in-front of her, your eyes wide as you try conceal her vision of your failures, a sheepish grimace on your face.

“Um, we’re closed today, it’s only me in- uh how did you get inside-”

“I am the hydro archon.” Furina’s voice booms out, the exaggerated drawl making you cower away from her slightly, “I merely walked in.”

“I thought I had locked the door?” You questioned, taking a step back from her.

“A locked door is no enemy of mine!” She laughs, regarding you with a look oozing with pride, her chest puffed out and head raised.

“Right..” You mumble, picking at the skin on your fingers, nervously swaying back and fourth.

Your fingers are adorned with pricks from your needle, they would bleed should you continue your childish picking, yet you persist, unable to stop your absentminded jittering.

Lady Furina watches your movement, satisfaction appearing to glow in her eyes.

“Now!” She exclaims, wondering over to the only empty surface in the room, an old blue chair, faded with age.

“I need a new ribbon for my hat.” The chair creaks when Furina sits, crossing her legs and staring at you expectantly.

You think the chair isn’t even worthy enough for you to sit on, let alone the God Of Justice.

“I can..Write an order down for a ribbon for when Chiori returns?” Your voice trails off, thwarted by the dull look she regards you with at your suggestion.

“No, no, no!” Furina shakes her head, her actions reminding you of a child, “I want you to make it!”

“I beg you pardon?” Your eyes widen, and you glance around, taking in all your terrible, terrible works of fashion.

“Me?” You breathe, “Lady Furina, if I may- I clearly lack the talent to create anything, let alone something in which an archon should wear.” You hands shake slightly as she stares at you, willing yourself not to blink or look away in her ever present intensity. “You know this.”

“But I demanded it?” She cocks her head, reaching up to take her hat off, outstretching her arms to look at it intently.

Her hair falls down, it cascades down her shoulders like water and you hold yourself back from counting the waves between each strand, instead choosing to look away.

Ribbons are simple, you remind yourself.

You’re not entirely deficient in the art of fashion, you’re just…Well- you’re just you.

“So?” Furina says, her voices drags you from the inner monologue whispering in your ear, she pushes the hat in your direction, twirling it so you can view its simplicity from every angle.

Your clasp your hands together, head tilted like a dog.

“I’m thinking.. here.” Her finger rests on in the space between the crown and the brim, “A blue ribbon thats doesn’t blend in with the rest of the hat but adversely will not stand out…”

You nod, it’s curt, Furina smiles, it stretches her face and she all but glows, cheeks flushed.

“You’ll do it then?”

You scratch your arm, and sigh.

“It will look horrid.”

“It will look like it was made by you.” She replies, sweetly, her voice like the silk in which she adorned, you take a second to truly feel the implications behind her words and suddenly feel yourself become quite bashful.

Your heart ticks within your chest and like clockwork you reach your hands out for her hat, avoiding her gaze.

“A blue that doesn’t blend in but also doesn’t stand out?” Your voice is whispered, trying to act assertive but failing all the same.

“Indeed, a ribbon fit for an archon!” Furina appears to get louder the more she reminds you of her status, you cringe at her volume but turn so she does not see.

“I’ll try my best.” You hum, glancing at the box you pathetically labelled “Ribbons”.

You reach out and touch the cardboard confines, pulling it towards you and shuffling some fabric under your finger tips.

Red, yellow, green…the most hideous shade of pink ever- Dear God did you supply this?

Furina sits, twirling a strand of her hair as she watches you, taking in the chaos of your dress and your work space respectfully.

You really had such a unique flare to you.

Your dress was terribly put together, fabric seemingly falling off the skirt, which, in Furina’s opinion, was much too puffy for an average day at work.

When she leaned closer, she could see how the seams were pathetically stitched together, a bundled mess of experimentation that clearly did not work, the sheer fact she could see the stitching was enough of a sign to tell her that you had made this dress yourself.

Furina raises a hand to cover her the genuine smile that ripped across her features.

You truly were fascinating to observe.

“You chose to stay here then?”

You look back at her, a small frown on your face.

“Yea.” You say simply, “It’s just easier.”

She scoffs.

“What?” You reply, indignantly, “I’m still getting paid.”

“You’re staying for the money?”

“I’m staying to save up the money.” You retort, “As soon as I have enough I am gone, you’ll see.”

Furina laughs, you can help but feel melodic, almost sad.

You don’t know what else to do, so you smile, watching as Furina breaks eye contact immediately, coughing into her glove.

“I hope I do.” You hear her say, and you try to ignore the giddy sensation that seems to course through your veins and into your heart.

—

“Lady Furina what an i-interesting bow.”

“I know, I know! Isn’t it just fabulous.”

“It’s um rather…big?”

“Yes? Is there a problem?”

“N-no! I was merely voicing that-”

“If there is no issue then I must bid you farewell. I have a meeting with a most important diplomat, I assume you have already placed the pastries?”

“Yes Lady Furina…”

“Good.”

—

On days when you aren’t in the boutique, you write to your Father.

You write pages upon pages of frustrated scribbles, voicing your resentment of his craft and the comparison to your own, writing furiously about how much you wish to be freed from your job and allowed to travel with him to nations far and wide.

In the end you send none of it, opting instead to write false truths about how honoured you are to work in the darkest parts of his shadow, and how gracious you are for his talents.

You lick the envelope seal and pop it thru the post office window, smiling softly at the old lady behind the glass.

It’s raining in Fontaine today, dark clouds pulsing in the sky, above you, soaking the fabric of your skirt.

It always seems to rain after a trial.

You shake your head. Damn, you should have brought an umbrella.

When you pass by a group of children you hear their yells, pitiful pleads of; “Hydro dragon, hydro dragon don’t cry!”

And you smile and whisper it under your breath as you look to the sky.

Your thoughts circle back to Furina, you hadn’t seen her as much, especially not with the growing fears of the flood of Fontaine.

You wonder if it’s true, wonder how she’ll solve it.

You have faith in her, you think.

There’s no way you’ll drown before you can leave to travel.

There’s no way Fontaine’s Archon would let you all perish under the power of Hydro when she herself is the embodiment of the element.

You have faith.

—

There’s nothing you truly dread more than presentations to the Archon and her people.

And there’s nothing you hate more than how Champvallon, who was standing in for Chiori due to her endeavours in Inazuma, was currently mumbling under his breath at your choice of dress.

You had been running late, quite literally, the ends of your dress stained with dirt, dying the pale blue fabric brown and green.

“You’ll have to stand in the back girl.” He grumbled, his moustache dipping slightly into his mouth, pushing your shoulders and making you move behind your fellow seamstresses, grey eyes pinched into slits as he chastised you.

You heard one of your coworkers giggle from behind her hand, whispering to another about your ill fashioned garments matching your deplorable creations of fashion.

You bit your tongue and glanced at the wooden floor beneath you.

She isn’t wrong, you think, thank Celestia that your tailoring would never see the light of day.

Lady Furina and her entourage enter the room moments later, you think Furina appears to glow and wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, or if this is some strange phenomenon one achieves when becoming an archon.

You shake your head and join your party’s collective bow.

You and Furina had grown closer, although, the margin of closeness was confined between her passing by the boutique window and waving in when she saw you, smiling cheekily as she took in your plethora of dresses that just appeared to get more ridiculous with time.

You had begun to crave these moments of seeing her, positioning yourself closer to the window, as to ensure you did not miss her.

You don’t understand why.

Maybe you just liked to see her smile.

…“Lady Furina, we at Chioriya Boutique thank you for allowing us to present our garments for you today.” Champvallon declares. You cringe at his sickly sweet voice that deepens in tone as he continues his speech.

The man behind Lady Furina is Neuvillette, you’re sure of it. High and mighty, his stature as impressive as his title.

And under your breath you repeat the pronunciation of his name, dragging out the syllables from under your tongue.

Lady Furina allows a moment to pass before she prompts, “Ah yes! Only Fontaines best is suited for your justice party.”

The presentation from the boutique takes hours.

Furina catches your eye a few times, and smiles, it’s subtle enough that you almost believe it’s not aimed at you. Ignoring the flutter of your heart everytime her eyes meet your own.

The final designs are being brought out when suddenly you see a creation that makes your heart drop.

Sitting on a cushion, is a broach.

An ugly, bedazzled broach that you were sure you had thrown out.

And it was being carried over to the justice team by a worker who stares at it confused.

“And here we have a broach for the Archon herself.” Says Champvallon, who is still yet to turn his head to view your horrendous work.

You’re paralysed, hands shaking trying to think of a way you can remove the jewellery without causing a scene.

“We hope you adore it as much as we adored making-” Champvallons voice trails off and he looks at the cushion, his eyes widening as he finally see’s what he’s presenting.

You hear the party behind Furina collectively stop their idle chatter and stare.

Everyone looks.

Nobody says anything.

“And who is behind the creation of this…thing?”

You want to die. Truly.

Your heart is in your throat and feel sick, raising a trembling hand as you step forward, your eyes stuck to the ground.

You’re sweating, palms clammy as you take a breath, preparing to be fired in-front of Lady Furina and her circle. Shame appears to drip off your brow and onto the crevices of your cheeks.

“It was me Sir.” You mumble, your voice weak, “But it was an accident I swear!”

Looking towards Lady Furina, you bow your head, pleading silently for her forgiveness, “I never meant to offend.”

“You foolish, troublesome girl.” Hisses Champvallon, his eyes narrowed as he walks towards you.

You bite your lip, and apologise profusely although you know it will not matter.

“Lady Furina.” Champvallon says as he reaches your side, plastering an ugly smile on his furious face, concealing his bitter dissatisfaction.

“I will send someone immediately to retrieve your actual broach, please, hand that one over to one of the maids, I will dispose of it as soon as possible.”

“No need.” Lady Furina says, halting the conversation instantly with a raise of her glove covered hand.

She glances at the miserable looking broach and then towards you, you hold her gaze for a moment before she smiles, recognition flickering across her decorated eyes, finishing her examination of your face.

“I’d like to keep it.”

“Lady Furina?”

Holding the broach in her hands, she raises it to her face, almost as if fascinated by the shameful stitching and the odd colour scheme.

“Lady Furina.” Champvallon stutters, moving away from you, “Your kindness knows no bounds b-but surely you would prefer something a little more..well pleasing to the eye?”

You stare at the back of his head as he leaves your side, counting the freckles on his neck to steady yourself.

“It’s unique, it’s different, Fontainians are known for their eloquence, and I as the God of Hydro must always be challenging these trends.”

Furina peers over her hands to stare at your boss, a dainty eyebrow raised.

“You wouldn’t dare to challenge an Archons will, would you?”

Champvallon splutters, his face warming to a putrid red, his arms rising up as if pleading to surrender.

“N-No I merely thought that-”

“Then it is settled.” Lady Furina laughs, leaning back in her chair and glancing at you.

In your daze, you barely register the tiny wink she sends you way, eyes too focused on the way you broach was now sitting snug, amongst the fabric of her outfit.

It stuck out like a thorn grips the side of a rose and you grimace.

It was ugly, inarguably so.

Neuvillette clears his throat, eyes sweeping over your trembling figure.

“It was you who made this?” He ponders, head tilted slightly.

Your eyes snap to his, and you nod, it’s clumsy and awkward and you hate yourself.

“Um, yes your Honour, I made it.”

“It’s very interesting.” His voice is light, as if trying to filter out the tension pulling the conversation to a standstill, “The yellow and the pink are an unusual yet unique combination, very bright to the eye.”

You breathe out a small smile, as Lady Furina nods her head. “Yes, yes, indeed.”

“Thank you Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina.”

You’re bowing again, chastising yourself for never taking the time to learn how to properly bow for an Archon, and then you’re leaving, hands still shaking, but head lifted just a little bit higher.

Furina doesn’t see you leave, too busy tracing the colours of her broach, smiling down at the terrible stitching as if it were weaved in silk and gold.

The presentation finishes with an awkward finality, with all eyes subconsciously darting down to look at your broach on Furina chest, wondering what in Fontaine their Archon was thinking.

—

You don’t know how, but Lady Furina had became a regular in your life now.

Always managing to catch your eye when you’re walking the streets of your home land.

Popping up randomly behind you just to greet you before leaving.

It appeared she worked in patterns, as if she was use to working by a routine.

You almost assume she appears there on purpose, it’s always far too convenient for it to be by chance.

“Y/N!” You hear one day, you’re sitting outside enjoying your lunch break as Lady Furina approaches you.

You hear a bustle and suddenly Fontainians are flodding the streets, clamouring over to her, crowding her.

You smile as she appears to soak up the attention, flaunting her hands in every direction, acknowledging everyone, one by one.

The people don’t seem to think about the prophecy when Focalor herself is before them, too busy trusting her with their lives to care.

You catch her gaze after a moment, and she puffs out her chest, as if trying to impress you.

Your heart aches.

You blink.

…That’s a strange feeling.

“Now now, my faithful subjects.” She begins, “I must take my leave now, I have very important business to attend to!”

You hear the groans of her people, as they beg her to stay, but reluctantly they remove themselves from her and walk away.

It’s just you and her now and she gestures for you to follow her.

You grow nervous, knowing there are watchers.

You hear them whisper behind their hands, hear them questioning why the “crazy girl from the boutique was the centre of the Hydro Archons attention.”

You cringe, but follow her anyway, your steps timid under eyes.

You think you’d follow her anywhere, but that could just be your adrenaline talking, your heart thumping within the confines of your chest.

“Lady Furina,” You say when you reach an empty alleyway, away from the eyes of Fontaine.

You pause, taking in the cracked bricks in the surrounding walls. “This is…Well- I’ll be honest it’s creepy.”

“Huh.” She says, turning to face you, “It’s more private no?”

“It’s a dark alleyway.” You deadpan.

Furina laughs, taking your hand in a wild moment of humour.

Dear God you hope you aren’t sweating.

“Never fear!” She declares, “As long as I’m here, nothing can harm you.”

Her words draw out a feeling that you don’t allow yourself to delve into, choosing instead let her hold your shaky hand without pulling away.

“I never got to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

You blush.

“For saving my career the other day.”

You see Furinas eyes move, as if trying to recall.

“Oh! The showing.”

You nod, “Thank you for…being so kind.”

You smile at her, and her eyes drops to your teeth in one fast, graceful motion before travelling back to your eyes.

“Always.” She replies, as if it was the simplest concept to her, like washing your hands or falling asleep.

Your face is on fire.

Gods your hands are definitely sweaty now.

Lady Furina shakes her head, as if pulling herself together.

“Now! I’m inviting you to tea.”

What.

“Sorry?”

“Tea. With me, together.”

“No, no I-I got that.”

She smiles, “So?”

“Why in Teyvat would you want to have tea with me?” You question, hope blooming in your chest, overpowering your habit of avoidance.

Furina stills, her face filled with confusion that you don’t get.

“You don’t want tea with me?” Shadows seem to cover her face, and you pull your hand from hers to frantically wave them in front of you.

“No no! Don’t misunderstand me! I’d love to, oh my God there’s nothing I’d enjoy more it’s just that-”

“Just that what?”

“You’re an archon?”

Furina frowns.

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m asking you to join me as a friend, not as an Archon.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

You know of your less than extraordinary appearance, and the simplicity of your life. You know that imagining anything more with an Archon is a fantasy so baffling that it even embarrasses you.

But you still can’t fight the disappointment resonating in your chest at the stupid word “Friend”.

Furina doesn’t seem to notice your deflation, instead probing you for an answer. Her hand reaching up to hold your arm, tugging you closer to her.

There’s a hopeful, cheeky look in her eye that you think could persuade even the most hellish of Demons to stand down.

“Well? You’ll join me?”

You sigh, and try to throw on a smile.

You feel like a puppet, your grin has to be ugly, repulsive, even so, you maintain it with cracked continuity.

“Sure.”

—

What does one wear to a date visit with an Archon?

You hate everything you own.

You almost rip your nails off in frustration after the fourth attempt to dress yourself fails.

This is terrible, everything is terrible.

Archons why do you own such ugly clothes!

You hear a knock at your door, and you jump, lifting your head to see Chiori staring at you, her unwavering gaze filtered with confusion.

“Chiori?” You ask, trying to hide the mess of your room.

Or well, her room, saying you were technically leaching off of her house until you could save up enough money to move.

She raises an eyebrow, a silent question of your antics, and you sigh.

“I have nothing to wear.”

“Hm.” Chiori responds, her lip going between her teeth as she takes in the mess of your clothing.

“And since when do you care what you wear?”

You scoff, offended.

“I always care!”

“Right…”

—

You think Chiori was sent by Celestia.

No really, you do.

Especially now when you’re twirling infront of your mirror, admiring her artistry on your body.

“It’s beautiful Chirori.” You whisper, your finger tracing the delicate stitching, enamoured by the sheer amount of detail on your gown.

“It’s hardly my best.” She replies, batting your hand away to finish the seam, “But all my other work is being used for the Fashion festival.”

You grin.

“I get the leftovers then.” You say cheekily, daring to wink at her.

Chiori shakes her head, “You get what I feel is right for you, and this…” She gestures to your dress, “Does look beautiful on you.”

Thank you Celestia you repeat in your head, Thank you for finally giving me a break.

—

You meet Furina at the Palais Mermonia.

She spots you as you walk in, and beckons you to a room across the hall.

Tiny Melusines greet you, and you smile at them, reaching down to pat their little heads.

Furina stills as she takes you in, fully looking at you.

“You look different.” She states, and you stop your movements entirely.

“You’re dressed…” Furina trails off, and your face warms.

“Nicely?” You finish, a teasing smile on your lips, “For a change?”

She shakes her head.

“You always look nice, it’s just jarring to see you wear something so well fitting.”

Her eyes trail along your figure, and you flush, your mind unable to comprehend your compliment.

Furina suddenly pulls herself out of her trance and smiles, putting out a hand for you to take.

“Never-mind that now!” She beams, “Desert time! Come, come!”

And you’re alone with Furina, your hand in hers.

She leads you over to a table adorned with confectionery to last over a hundred life times.

“Do you drink tea? Or would you rather Fonta?” She asks, turning her head to glance at you, and you rip your eyes away from your conjoined hands.

“Uh, tea, tea is good.”

Lady Furina looks at you, her eyebrow raised, “Alright, sugar?”

“Huh!!?”

“Sugar? As in, do you want sugar?”

“Oh! Yes of course!”

You pause, and Furina continues to look at you.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you taking sugar?”

Dear God, how are you so pathetic?

“Yes please.” You say silently, embarrassment morphing your face, forcing your head to fall to look at the floor.

Furina sets your tea in front of you, before pulling a chair over to sit next to you.

She watches the way your body seems to shrink in on itself, you hand fiddling with the loose fabric of your gown.

You nervous, and Furina scowls.

She doesn’t like this.

“What’s going on hm?” She asks plainly, and you restrain yourself from jumping at her forwardness.

“I-I’m sorry?” You attempt to delay, taking a sip of your tea, burning your mouth.

“You seem..off.” Furina says, her voice slightly drawn out, a frown on her features. “Have I done something?”

“What? No! Absolutely not you haven’t done anything…” You stammer out, a fake laugh breaking the barriers of your teeth as you try to compose yourself.

“Then why-”

Your eyes dart around the table, choosing to make eye contact with the bread than with her.

“It’s just a lot like wow I’m having tea with a God!”

Furina stirs her tea slowly, her eyebrows furrowed.

“I thought we were past this?”

“Sorry?”

“You seeing me as a God?”

You blink, and Furina takes a sip of her tea.

“You..You are a God though, you’re my God?”

Furina thinks the tea turns sour in her mouth.

“Technically, I suppose so, but I believe us to be friends?” She sets her cup down, and looks at you, her cheeks slightly red. “Am I mistaken?”

You clamour to explain yourself, your arms reaching out as if trying to slow time, ignoring the painful tug of your heart at that stupid word again.

“N-No of course we’re friends!” You stammer, “It’s just…Well I-”

“Then there’s no reason for you to be nervous.”

You nod.

And then something happens.

Something switches.

And suddenly Furina isn’t merely looking at you,

She examining you.

“Unless.” She starts, and you feel a truly dreadful sinking feeling within your chest.

“Unless there’s..Something else bothering you?”

And every facial expression you display is analysed before you, every twitch of your eyebrow, the way your eyes widen and the way you seem to stop breathing.

Furina leans forward, an emotion so humanly desperate flickering across her face.

An emotion she is yet to understand.

Your lips part and you truly do not know what to say.

It’s foolish, to ever consider yourself worthy to share a reciprocated love with your God you remind yourself bitterly.

You’re confused, anguished, disheartened by her referral to you as a friend and yet, you do not know what to say.

So you clear your throat.

And breathe in.

“I do not know what you mean Lady Furina.” You whisper, and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

And Lady Furina waits only a sheer second, before she’s leaning back in her chair and raising her head.

Somethings off.

“Then let’s us drink together as friends.”

You could swear then, that Lady Furina looked human.

You would stand trial on the fact that you saw her deflate with disappointment in the most mortal like way. You’d swear an oath.

But then you blink and the Hydro Archon blinks back.

And you’re sure you were mistaken.

—

There’s rumours in Fontaine.

There’s rumours everywhere, this isn’t a new concept to you.

But this is different, this rumour makes your blood freeze in your veins.

You heard it after you walked home from the boutique, a group of local Poisson men whispering under their breath.

“Lady Furina isn’t Fontaine’s Archon.”

You pause, turning your head as subtly as you could, creeping closer as to listen to their words.

You’re not a silent stalker and so they see you immediately.

They glare at you as they leave and you’re left confused as they made their way back to Poisson.

The next you hear of them, they’re dead.

Dissolved in the rising water.

You throw up when you see their faces in the paper, along with the heading “Fontaine’s Archon Fails Her People.”

You have faith.

You have faith.

You have faith.

—

Your faith dies with your Archon on the day of her trial.

You don’t go, you never go to trials.

But you know the happenings as if you were there to witness.

You find yourself running towards the Opera Epiclese, tripping over your own feet when the words “Death Penalty” reach your ears.

It’s silent.

Oh so silent.

And then the rain starts, and the tides grow.

And you can’t make it to the staircase of the Epiclese due to the water filling your lungs.

You’re drowning.

Screaming out bubbles of prayers to an Archon that isn’t yours.

Betrayal wrecks through your body and you’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

—

Furina cries on her watery throne.

Mourning the loss of her people, her home, her facade.

She thinks of you, briefly, thinks of your face, your clothes, your eyes.

Letting herself smile gently, she allows her tears to wash away her role.

It was nice to play a God.

If only she could save them.

—

.

.

.

.

You’re nervous.

You keep pacing back and fourth, pathetically trying to figure out a way in which you can knock on the door of Furina’s house, and speak with her like humans.

After the flood, you found yourself bed bound, your lips tainted blue and breath engulfing you so vigorously that you coughed until your eyes stung red.

The man who saved you kissed your hand when you woke up, crying out that he thought you wouldn’t make it.

You smile at him and thank him.

“I owe you my life.” You had whispered.

Lady Furina was no longer Fontaines Archon.

Gone into a state like hiding from the public, terrified of their outrage.

The nurse that cared for you, informed you of as much, recounting how the Iudex Neuvillette had saved Fontaine, saved you.

And you cried when she left you, tucked up in a hospital bed, weeping over the unknown.

You can’t face her. You conclude.

Not because you didn’t want to but because you had absolutely no idea how to begin.

Would she still regard you with such kindness despite you knowing everything?

How do you convey how you feel for her, when you truly do not know who she even is?

You heart sinks to your stomach and you walk away, hands dropping to your sides. Forcing yourself to move on, and to let fate guide you as far away from Fontaine as it could lead.

You hear a door open, but don’t make the connection until you hear your name being called from behind.

“Y/N!”

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder timidly, staring towards the very God woman you had grown so fond of.

Staring at you humbly on her doorstep.

“Lady-Miss Furina.” You reply, your hands trembling and voice shaking, turning to face her fully.

Her cheeks were flushed as though she made her way to the door in a hurry, eyes narrowed and yet you could not see a trace of annoyance in the depths of her pupils.

“You-” She starts, breathless as if realising that her action of following you would lead to confrontation for the first time, “I saw you.” She pointed up to her arched windows and your face flushes, mortified.

Of course she had.

You say nothing, trying to think of an excuse, anything to dissipate the tension you feel in your bones.

“…You weren’t going to come in?” She questions, her voice small, unbefitting for a woman who use to bellow to the masses with the unfiltered confidence of a Deity.

And you stare, and stare and stare . Your eyes moving over her face, her attire, the stupid bow on her hat.

You’re utterly speechless, profoundly so.

Unable to say anything of value to the woman in which you swore that you-

Furina sighs, her shoulders dropping, hat slipping forward on her head.

Taking your silence for resentment, she accepts your unfettered anger as atonement for her sins.

“I see.” She mumbles plainly, turning to go back inside her house.

And it’s said with such bitter regret and vile disappointment that you find words spilling from the confines of your lips, desperate to call her back.

“I quit.” You frantically say, voice meek.

And Furina stops so you continue.

“Working for Chiori.” You clarify, taking a step forward.

The sun appears to intrude on your conversation, the early morning light presenting itself from behind the brazen buildings of Fontaine, eager to listen.

It makes her complexion golden, the blue strands of her hair, now short, appearing to glow in its wake.

Furina opens her mouth, then closes it, shaking her head defiantly before he’s facing you again, and you’re so close yet so far.

“I needed a change.” You whisper, and she appears to lean closer to hear you, to read the way the words fall from your lips.

You don’t know why this is the first thing you wish to discuss with Furina.

There’s countless other things you could spew, the mirage of questions you have resting in the back of your throat, the confused, recount of events, yet you chose to say none of it for sake of talking about yourself.

You’re selfish, perhaps cruel, but God you just wanted to talk to her.

Furina looks at you, her eyes wide, the sun catches the blue and draws out the sparkle as she looks at you. You drown.

“I’m…I’m glad.” She whispers, “You hated it there.”

“I did.”

You step towards her, keeping your hands still, resting at your sides limp.

“You-” You start, clearing your voice, terrified to overstep, “I mean- Did you hate being an Archon?”

Furina doesn’t move, her cheeks painted rouge with the mention of her role.

Then slowly, subtly, she nods, once up and once down. You almost miss it.

You smile, your eyes crinkling trying to express your endless empathy through one look.

“Then I’m glad you stepped down.”

And Furina wants to kiss you.

She feels it in her mortal soul, amid the beautifully soft way you voice your smile, the desire to be human with you and to make you hers.

She breathes and you watch.

“I’ll miss your silly clothes.” Furina sighs, and you giggle.

“I still wear my silly clothes.” You bite back, and she shakes her head before moving a finger along the underside of your jaw.

“You’re beautiful.” She says, and you take her role of silence, stunned.

Furina lifts her hand, and places it on your cheek, looking down avoiding your eye. “And so boundlessly fascinating.”

“I can’t quite explain it I just-”

You cut her off when you kiss her.

Breathing in her confession and replacing it with your own.

Two mortal souls intertwined as one on her doorstep.

She responds by pulling you closer, trailing her hand to the back of your head and smiling against your lips.

You’re not a seamstress and she’s not an Archon and yet, in this moment that’s okay.

Everything is okay.

feel free to leave a request!

Masterlist <3

artwork credits

A/N- when i say i have been wanting to write this for MONTHS i mean it- i am just so BOUNDLESSLY sick of wlw fics being fetishised and the lack of like a good wlw comfort fic in any character x reader was bothering me ! so thank u to anyone who gives this a try and reads it ! i appreciate you so so so much !!!

ALSO when i say the reader’s fashion is strange or unflattering I HAVE BEEN OBSESSED with insane 19th century dresses so i made a collection of outfits PSA when i say she (the readers) fashion is questionable I MEAN IT <3 i imagine my lovely little failed seamstress makes her own clothes from time to time bc although she’s not good at her job, she still enjoys being creative

if ur interested i made a post of her outfits here :)

thank u so so so much for reading i love u i love u i love u

[angel-of-the-moons]

Mr and Mrs Knight

Steven Grant (Marc Spector + Jake Lockley) x Curvy!Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, body dysmorphia, smut, suit kink, glove kink, fingering, PiV sex, creampie, squirting, misuse of The Suit™ (and truncheons), cosplay, established relationship, fluff

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I am unashamed to admit that suits are fucking hot and the shit they do to me is what I imagine straight men feel when they see a VS model in lingerie. And Steven is hot. So is Marc. And Jake and Oscar in general you get the rest. Imagine the Mrs Knight suit looks something like this. (Also featuring the headcanons by @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction for Jake's craftiness!)

Taglist: @mundivagantsoul @belle-oftheball34 @steven-grants-world @denile-xo @whatevenisagrapefruit @hagridnmegamind @sapphire-and-ruby

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

It had been a banger of a night. A fun Halloween bash at the museum, amazing costumes, great food. Donna even seemed to be in a decent mood. But of course that woman could have been faking it.

You and Steven decided to go with matching costumes. In a gross abuse of Steven, Marc, and Jake's status as Moon Knight, you'd convinced him to use his "Mr Knight" suit as his costume.

Jake helped you make yours to match. Finding the majority was easy enough at thrift stores (despite Marc's insistence that you should buy a new one), the mask was what was the pain.

That's where Jake's expertise came in. Sure his main skill was in knitting, but that didn't mean the man wasn't nuanced in other ways to make clothes. You couldn't count how many times Jake would stitch up the seams of your favorite jacket that you just refused to throw away, or how many times he'd hit you with that smug smile when you blubbered about how awesome he was for giving extra life into your jacket so you could wear it juuuust a bit longer.

Your mask turned out to be almost a perfect replica of his, complete with glowing lenses to match Steven.

You were nervous when you got dressed, looking in your floor-length mirror at your reflection.

Your hair was pinned back neatly to allow you to pull the mask on or off (because unlike Steven's, which was magically suited--pun intended--to be comfortable) without much problem, and you would still appear "flawless" as Steven put it.

But right now, you were having second thoughts. You weren't sure you liked how the skirt fit you. Or the blazer.

The waistband of the skirt squeezed your waist and the rolls of your tummy, the creases in the fabric seemingly emphasizing every imperfection you saw in yourself.

Your transparent white stockings were not helpful either, the bands squished the fat of your thighs in a way that made them look like muffins, even moreso than your tummy. They kept rolling down so much you had to buy garters to wear beneath your skirt just so they'd stay up...

You frowned at your reflection as the skirt rode up your legs, showing off the cute lace trim of the stockings and your squishy thighs; honestly if you weren't careful, or you bent over the skirt would bare your ass to the whole party.

You were tempted to go and grab that last minute shitty vampire costume you had stashed away, when Steven walked in, already dressed immaculately in that gorgeous white suit of his.

He adjusted the tie, not looking at you as he does so.

"Hey, luv, I'm fairly ready. I can help you with your makeup now, if..." His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth feels suddenly very dry at the sight of you all dressed up.

His tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip, moistening it as he clears his throat.

"You look good."

"Oh.... Thanks." You mumble shyly, trying to pull the edges of the blazer down to cover the rolls poking out of your skirt a bit more.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong, beautiful?" He said softly, moving up to you.

"I... I look like a marshmallow." You sigh hesitantly, your tone full of self-deprecation.

"Hey, now." Steven smiled sweetly, wrapping his arms around your waist as you tucked your face into his lapel.

"You're the most gorgeous marshmallow on the planet if that's the case." He told you, kissing the top of your head.

He felt something press down on him, and he looked up at the mirror, getting a full view of your back, but he saw Marc's face staring back at him with a cringed expression.

(Dude, that was the shittiest compliment ever. What woman wants to hear her being compared to a marshmallow??) He hissed.

Steven was about to retort, before you started bubbling out on laughter at how silly his compliment was.

"That was so corny." You snicker.

Steven gave a smug smirk at Marc before looking down at you with a soft, lovesick smile.

"Yeah, well, you love my sense of humor, eh?" He winked.

"Yeah... I guess I do." You smile back.

"Now, then! Your makeup. Let's sit you down so I can work on it for you!"

Whenever you had your doubts about your appearance, Steven, Marc, or Jake would pipe in and alleviate your worries. Sometimes all three at once, though rapid switching would often cause problems for them (like migraines).

You kept your eyes closed as Steven carefully applied your highlighter to your cheekbones, the brush tickling your skin, his shaky breaths ghosting over your face.

He would mumble some curses when he messed up, but would correct his mistake.

When you had asked him where on earth he learned to contour and highlight he shyly admitted he watched half a dozen tutorials on YouTube to get it perfect for you.

You felt the coldness of the liquid eyeliner as he painted on the wings with the white liner, the silver and gold glitter further adding to your look.

"'Kay luv, open your eyes so I can apply your mascara." He murmured, looking down in your makeup kit for the said cosmetic.

Once he did, he pulled out the black tube and made sure there was no excess before he carefully combed the white creamy substance on your eyelashes, lightening them up to enhance the face he'd helped apply for you.

Once he was finished with both eyes, he leaned back and allowed you to blink, smiling that puppy dog smile of his in satisfaction at his handiwork before placing the mascara tube back in the kit.

He lifted his hand and shook the bottle of setting spray so you wouldn't accidentally sweat it off or wipe it off with something during the night (or god forbid it rub off on the inside of your mask).

"Close em again for me."

You couldn't help but smile at his level of gentleness and politeness.

You restrained from physically recoiling as the cold setting spray hit your skin and quickly dried.

"Now, do you want to put on lipstick now or when we get to the party?" He asked as he watched your sickeningly gorgeous lashes flutter open. All the white, silver, and hints of gold on your face enhanced your eyes and their color, the very depths of them stealing his breath away.

"We can do it now. I have liquid matte and regular lipstick." You reply, smiling once again.

"Which would you prefer?" Steven asked you.

"Whichever you think would look best."

He sucked in a breath that his lungs were suddenly starving for, and grabbed the liquid tube.

His hand gently cupped your chin as he brushed the satiny lipstick onto your lips, carefully lining them so it wasn't too much. He'd even dipped his finger in your cosmetic glitter and applied a very gentle amount.

"Gorgeous." He breathed.

"Aww..." You giggle, thankful for the glitter and makeup that hid your blush at his praise.

"Now then... Let's go, shall we?" He said, taking your hand to help you stand and slip in your white heels.

As the two of you left, Steven could hear Jake in the back of their headspace.

(Que hermosa... Be careful, hermanito. If she bends over, I just might take over for the rest of the night and have that ass for myself.)

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

Mr and Mrs Knight. That's what you two went as for the party. You two even won the prize for best couples costume!

Sure it was just a gift card to some restaurant, but it was exhilarating to hear how people adored your matching outfits.

And you couldn't help but notice all night that Steven simply couldn't keep his hands off of you.

He would get like that sometimes; working himself up like that, but trying to be subtle. You knew it was only a matter of time before an awkward boner would be the cause for the two of you to leave early, so you excused yourself to the restroom under an excuse to check and see if your makeup needed retouching or if you could go the rest of the night without your mask.

But you got a little nervous when two women went into the lavatory after you, and you felt trapped within your stall. You simply couldn't stand the glances from other women you were getting all night. You were afraid these two women who were clucking at each other like hens were amongst the ones judging you.

And your fears were confirmed.

"I can't believe that such a handsome guy would pick a blimp to be his girlfriend." One of them scoffed as she applied a fresh layer of brick red lipstick. As if she didn't have enough on already.

You felt your heart sink further inside of you as the other joined in.

"I know, right? It's gotta be her tits, only thing I can imagine. Maybe her ass, too." The other laughed as she touched up the false blood on the corners of her mouth.

"Either that or she gives good enough head that he can overlook the fact that if she ever got on top she could crush him." The first one snickered.

Your hands knotted in the mask you held in your hands, threatening to tear the stitches Jake so lovingly sewed in for you to wear tonight. You bit the inside of your cheek harshly as the two gossiped further.

"Ugh, and the sad thing is, he's cute, for a bookworm who won't shut up." The second sighed.

"Ugh, I know... I can look past the blabbering if I can see what he's packing."

"Right? I wonder if he's as good with his mouth as he is with his stupid history facts." The first giggled.

You gritted your teeth. You couldn't take much more, you knew that. Insulting you, you could take and bottle up to deal with later, probably in the heat and privacy of your shower.

But talking about Steven like he's some kind of... sex toy? No. Hell no. If you were anything, you were insanely protective over your boys. Even bordering on possessive at times (of course the same was true for the boys about you).

You were done.

You slammed the stall door open and sort of enjoyed how startled they seemed when they saw you, their jaws dropping when it hit them that you heard everything.

You hurriedly wash your hands and slip your gloves back on, gripping your mask in your hand tight as you spare them a backwards glance before leaving the lavatory to find Steven.

You felt sick to your stomach and you wanted to go home...

When you found him, his brows knitted upwards in concern at how tight-lipped and tense you were when you gripped his sleeve tight.

"Ey luv, what's wrong?" He murmured to you, leading you away from the crowd.

"I... I just want to go home." You say, the words those women said about your body weighing down on you, and the things they said about Steven burning hot in your gut. You weren't sure what to feel with this cocktail of emotions.

"Hey hey, okay we can leave." He says, kissing you on the forehead.

"Let's go."

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

The walk back to your flat was... Difficult. You could barely hold yourself together, suddenly hyper-aware of every roll and stretch mark on your body, even the slight double chin you had when you moved your head a certain way.

It wasn't until you were in the lift of your building that you finally broke down, your reflection staring back at you in the walls of the tiny space, crushing down on you with every imperfection you saw.

You couldn't keep in the bubbling sobs, or the fat tears that rolled down your cheeks and ruined the makeup Steven worked so hard to put on you.

He cradled you against him and cooed to you, saying sweet nothings and whispering nothing but praise for your looks, rubbing your back and kissing your hair.

In the various angles of the reflections, and the oppressive feeling weighing down on Steven... He could see and feel Marc and Jake.

Both looked pissed. Marc almost looked violent.

(If anybody talks like that about our muñeca again...) Jake trailed off.

(Oh trust me, I'll do the honors.) Marc growled.

The walk back into your flat felt horrid. You didn't just cry, you ugly-cried. You ruined your makeup, your hair fell out of the pins, and your skirt rode up more with every rushed step you took to hurry up and get in to get into some baggy clothes that didn't showcase your body.

You didn't feel cute or sexy anymore, you felt... ugly.

And Steven didn't like that one bit. Marc and Jake retreated, knowing that their anger at your injured self-opinion wouldn't help. This kind of situation was a Steven situation. He knew best how to be the sweetest person on the planet with you.

But right now he wasn't feeling particularly sweet. Sure, you were upset. But he couldn't help but get a good look at you as you walked ahead of him, the skirt riding up so much that he could just barely see the black and blue panties you wore beneath, your cheeks peeking out from the edges of the fabric, the garter straps clinging desperately to your stockings in effort to keep them up your gloriously plush thighs to keep them up.

He felt hot beneath the collar, his trousers getting uncomfortably tight as blood flowed straight to his cock.

The moment the door closed behind you, your hands, trembling and rushed, went to unbutton the blazer to get it off of you quicker, sniffles and tiny sobs sneaking out of you in the process.

However, your actions were halted when Steven placed his hands gently on your shoulders from behind, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your blazer, trying to soothe you.

"Love. You're gorgeous. Beautiful." He breathed, resting his forehead against the back of your head, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo.

"Steven, I'm... I'm not." You sniffle. "I'm fat, I can barely squeeze into a pair of jeans, I can't even shop at normal clothing stores for women. I get looks when I wear anything tight, and--and the things I hear people say about me--"

Your voice is broken off when you hiccup, feeling another sobbing fit try to get out of you.

"You don't understand what I'm sayin', luv." Steven smiled into your hair, ever patient.

"You're the prettiest girl in the world to us. You don't need a flat belly, or toned thighs to be pretty. You're funny, you're warm, and you're soft."

You made a shocked squeak when his hands snake around you, his gloved hands gripping at your belly and squeezing the plushness there through your clothes.

Your denial died in your throat when Steven rolled his hips into you, his hard cock throbbing as he rutted into the curve of your ass.

"You wouldn't be able to get to me like this if I didn't find you the most gorgeous woman on the planet. You wouldn't get Jake to say the filthy things he tells you in bed. You wouldn't have Marc snuggling you and resting his head in your lap or on your belly..."

His breathing got heavier as he rocked his hips into you further, a bitten-back whimper dying as he swallowed hard.

"S-Steven--"

"You've been driving me insane all night. This skirt looks so good on you." He says hotly in your ear, his fingers rolling up the hem of your skirt to reveal your panties and garters, making you gasp again.

"Those stockings huggin' you so tight. Been thinking about how badly I want to have my head between your legs, tonight." He growled.

Before you could say anything else, his gloved hand went up to your mouth and he tapped your lips, begging for entrance. Powerless to resist him, you let him press his fingers into your mouth, your tongue wetting them effectively before he pulled them away, and slipped down into your panties

He dragged one of his fingers up your puffy lips, parting your folds before he turned his attention onto your clit.

"S-S-Steven--" You whimper when he starts to circle the little nub.

"Hush, now. Let me show you, eh?" Steven said, biting at your earlobe softly.

You couldn't fight it, you couldn't fight the warm nectar that gushed out from you at his words and affirmations. All your mind could focus on was how wonderfully his fingers toyed with your cunt, deftly rolling, pushing, and pinching your clit in every way he knew that brought you the best pleasure, the fastest.

Your mind practically went blank when he curled two fingers into your weeping hole, the leather around his digits making them thicker than they normally would be, and providing a luxurious texture to your clit as he massaged you with his palm. His mouth trailed down your neck, breath hot on your skin as he bit down and sucked.

It wasn't like when Jake did this to you, no. Every one of them had different methods, different touches...

And Steven was particularly good at balancing out the sweet and the hard, paying more attention to your own pleasure than his. Sometimes, he would get so lost in pleasuring you he'd cum in his pants without even being touched.

This time was no different... in no time at all, he had you cumming so hard you almost fell to the floor, your slick gushing out and soaking the glove.

He smiled sweetly into the skin of your neck as he eased you forward, so you could press your palms on one of his desks, thighs quivering as you recollected yourself.

You barely saw through your haze clearly enough to catch Steven licking his glove clean through the reflection in the mirror on the desktop, his eyes closing in satisfaction at your savory taste.

You half expected him to drop to his knees and eat you out, next, but he doesn't. He just stands there for a moment, staring at you with a lidded and loving gaze, curls falling forward over his forehead as they always do.

That's when your self-consciousness rears its ugly head, and you pinch your legs together, and try to wiggle away from his gaze, to retreat to the safety of the bathroom and escape from his heated staring.

But in a flash, Steven is on you again, his hands gripping at your hips and that's when you feel the hot, heavy weight of his leaking cock slap against the barely clothed flesh of your ass as he rolls your skirt up completely over your hips.

"Steven!" You squeak.

"Hey, now... 'M not done showing you yet." His voice croaks out, heavy and barely coherent as the silk fabric of your panties brushes the head of his dick.

He groans, giving one more roll of his hips against your ass, smearing more precum on the fabric and skin, there; before he gripped the base, lining his cock up to your weeping hole.

"Fuck, luv. So soft. So wet f'me." He said, voice strained from barely contained arousal.

You squirmed, still feeling inadequate despite Steven's words and assurances.

God, you wanted him. You wanted him so badly. But right now you just felt so... so...

Your thoughts cut themselves off when he reached behind him, and from beneath his coat pulled out one of his engraved truncheons.

Placing it in front of you and gripping it with his other hand, pulling you tight against him as he thrust sharply into you, sheathing himself in one whole go, the tip of his cock slamming upwards so suddenly you felt his tip smush your cervix before he eased back.

"B-baby--" You whine, despite yourself.

"Not runnin' away, luv." Steven grunted into your hair as he thrust into you, his hands gripping tightly on the truncheon, using the bar to squeeze against your belly and hold you against him while he fucked you raw.

You couldn't fight the snapping of his hips or his raw need for you, right now. You couldn't hold back the moans and whimpers he wrenched out of you with each punctuation of his hips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--" You hear him wheeze as his thrusts get more and more desperate.

There is a metallic clang as he tosses the truncheon to the floor in favor of gripping your thigh and lifting your leg so your knee was on the desktop.

You let Steven guide you so you're practically laying face down on the desk, his cock still spearing you open, pussy fluttering around him at the change in position.

You were taken by surprise when he grips your wrists next, ripping off his tie before slipping it over your hands, before tying them together at the curve of your back. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough you couldn't squirm free.

He hesitated a moment. As nice as it would be to watch the soft flesh of your ass bounce and ripple while he fucked you... He didn't want to do it like this.

So, without further hesitation on his part, he gripped you, lifting you off your feet and rolling you so you were laying with your upper half on the desktop, pulling your legs up so your calves rested on his shoulders, all without dislodging from the warm tightness of your cunt.

You whimpered as he does this, and try to wriggle from his tie so you could cover your face, your running makeup and smeared lipstick.

Your pitiful, chubby face--

"Hey, hey..." His voice is soft and shaky as he leans in, cupping your cheek with one hand as your thighs squish against the both of you.

He caresses your soft cheek with a thumb and he smiles.

"Don't hide from me, sweetheart. You're gorgeous and I want to see you."

"Steven, I..." You whimper as your pussy clenches around his shaft, making it twitch inside of your tight, gummy walls.

His eyes rolled back with a groan.

"I'm not gonna stop until you see what I see." He grunts, dragging his cock out slowly until only the tip remains inside of you, the rest of your cunt squeezing desperately around nothing.

You're barely given a moment of respite before he snaps his hips into yours again, fucking you relentlessly and hitting your sweet spot over and over withe every arch of his hips.

Some of Marc's precision was bleeding into him as he aimed the tip of his cock like a weapon against your g-spot, pounding into you hard and fast, stoking the fire in your belly so hotly that you felt the embers scatter throughout your veins, every nerve in your body aflame in pleasure.

His left hand kneads the soft skin of your thigh, squishing and rolling the plush flesh beneath his gloved fingers before he slips his other hand between you, circling your clit mercilessly, making you shriek with every sharp thrust of his hips.

He loved how your body jiggled and bounced with every thrust; how your tits were bouncing so hard that they were spilling out of the top of your bra cups, your blazer falling completely open around you, now.

Despite still being fully clothed, you felt utterly naked beneath his gaze. Fresh tears burned in your eyes as he crammed his cock into you over and over again, his fingers working your second orgasm out of you faster and faster with every swipe of his fingers.

"It's okay, luv." Steven moaned, turning his head to plant a kiss on the inside of your knee, the leg he was squishing in his fingers.

"Cum for me, yeah? Show me how pretty you are." He pants, his thumb pressing hard into your clit.

That was all it took, the friction of his fingers, the thrusts of his hips, and each jab of his cock, plus his words? You were on cloud nine, brain fried and all sense gone as drool dribbled down your chin and you cum with a choked cry, babbling out his name over and over as your body clamps down, gushing around his cock, spraying out and soaking his hand and the front of his suit.

Steven, poor, loveable, goofy Steven could never hold out too long after you came, the squeezing and milking of your pussy was simply too much for him to bear.

Your eyes rolled back and you felt yourself spasm in an aftershock as you felt the hot ropes of his cum painting your walls a milky white, flooding your hungry cunt with everything he had to give you.

He drops your leg, wrapping them around his waist as he leans in and kisses you roughly, his tongue pushing past your lips to twine with yours and steal your recovered breaths.

"See... You're fucking beautiful. Wouldn't do this to us otherwise." He mumbles against your lips.

"Oh... God." You whimper.

Your mind ticks back into sanity and you realize the two of you are still clothed. Your outfit was of course mussed, but Steven was almost completely immaculate. The only thing he was missing of his suit was his tie, and the only sign of mess was the wet stain on his front, and his cock still sheathed inside of you.

"Hmm." He hummed softly, looking down at you with the softest gaze he could fix on you.

Steven gave you a sweet kiss to your forehead before he moved his mouth to the shell of your ear.

"And if you still don't believe me... Jake and Marc want to have a word with you."

[chic-a-gigot]

The Delineator, no. 4, Vol. XLVIII. Autumn Number. October 1896. Published by the Butterick Publishing Co. London & New York. Colored Plate 21. Figure D44. Outdoor Toilette. Internet Archive, uploaded by Albert R. Mann Library

Figure D 44. — LADIES’ OUTDOOR TOILETTE.

Figure D 44. — This consists of a Ladies’ jacket and skirt. The jacket pattern, which is No. 8661 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen differently portrayed on page 438 of this number of The Delineator. The skirt pattern, which is No. 8599 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in nine sizes for ladies from twenty to thirty-six inches, waist measure, and is shown on its accompanying label.

A leading style of jacket or blazer and skirt is shown at this figure. The jacket is here pictured made of a handsome quality of broadcloth, with a velvet collar and velvet cuff-facings, and the skirt of gay plaid wool goods. The loose fronts of the jacket are closed with four handsome cord frogs and are reversed in stylish lapels that form notches with the rolling coat collar. At the sides and back a close adjustment is effected by under-arm and side-back gores and a center seam and stylish outstanding flutes result from extra widths underfolded in box plaits at the middle three seams. One-seam sleeves that are gathered stand out in short leg-o’-mutton puffs at the top and are comfortably close-fitting below; they are completed with deep, round cuff-facings of velvet. Machine-stitching finishes the pocket laps and all the free edges of the jacket.

The skirt, which is known as the new bell skirt, is circular at the front and sides and in two gores at the back. At the front it flares stylishly and it ripples gracefully at the sides and back.

The most admired jackets are made of broadcloth, cheviot, etc., in any of the popular shades, and a velvet collar and cuffs and machine-stitching form the fashionable finish. With a stylish street jacket, a skirt of plain cloth or of bright plaid wool may be worn.

The large hat shows a lavish trimming of ostrich tips.

[hellfirenacht]

Wing Man: End Credit Scene

Fic Summary: Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington is your best friend, and is constantly striking out. Sick of this, you two make a deal; you’ll wing man for each other. Hooking Steve up with dates is easy, but he finds himself struggling to find you a date. At least, until Dustin starts talking about his new cool friend Eddie.

Chapter Summary: Post Credit Scene

Words: 786

(Master List 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 Epilogue Post Credit)

A young boy with short and unruly curls stares at the vending machines. He has very limited pocket money, having spent the morning poking through every payphone and looking under every couch cushion for the last quarter to allow him to buy a bag of chips and a TAB. 

He punches in the code for the soda, double and triple checking to make sure he’s going to get his desired treat. With success, the soda falls with a satisfying THUNK and he carefully tucks it into his coat pocket. 

Now he moves to the snack machine and punches in the number for the chips, again double checking that it is correct. The machine makes a noise, and the swirly metal that holds the chips shakes for a moment and then... nothing. 

No satisfying fall of the chips, just a mechanical hum and then silence. 

The boy frowns and reached out to push the coin return button. 

Nothing happens. 

He pushes it again, a few more times in a row, and is still met with a stillness. 

He gives the machine a shake and a smack before letting out a defeated sigh. He leans against the machine, and tries to remind himself that at least he got his soda, which is more than he could normally say. The thought that he could ask a teacher or the principal for a refund crosses his mind, but that’s quickly shut down by common sense. No one would give a shit about letting the poor freak get his quarter back. 

“Is it broken again?” Someone asks him, and he looks up to see a girl about his age. She’s holding a library book and a few sheets of loose paper. 

The boy nods. “Yeah, it ate my quarter.” He says. 

The girl moves next to him, and he’s unsure how to feel about someone so close to him. Ever since middle school started, most people avoided him like the plague but this girl seems more concerned about the vending machine. 

She digs into her pocket and pulls out her own shiny set of quarters and drops one. Both kids reach down to pick the coins up but end up bumping their heads together and laughing awkwardly. The boy picks up the quarter while the girl rubs her forehead. 

The girl takes the quarter and looks at the machine. “Which one screwed you?”

“B3.” The boy replies. 

She looks at the vending machine and pokes at the 3 button a few times before handing over her library book to him. He looks down at the cover, it’s a book on how to do origami which seems pretty random to him. The girl pulls out a folded piece of paper (is that supposed to be a fish or a frog?) and starts rubbing the folded seam between the buttons. 

“3 sticks.” she said. “That’s what someone told me at least.” 

She pushes B3 again. Nothing happens. 

“They might have also been full of shit.” she shrugs and the boy laughs at the bluntness. “Is there a different one you want?” 

He looks at the options and settles on a candy bar at the bottom. “That one.”

She pushes the buttons, and this time, it falls successfully. The boy pulls it out and quickly unwraps it. 

“Here.” he says and snaps it in half, handing it over to the girl who takes it, along with her book. 

“Are you sure?” she asks, and he nods. 

The bell rings, signaling that they have about 30 seconds to get to home room before either of them would be in trouble. The girl hands over the piece of paper she had tried to use to help him. (Maybe it’s a car? No, cars don’t have legs but neither do fish... this has to be a fish, right?)

“Trade you.” She says with a smile and quickly runs off towards her class. The boy awkwardly waves before turning and hurrying towards his own homeroom. 

The alleged frog would eventually get covered in chocolate and tossed with other garbage at the end of the week. The half of the girls candy bar would be eaten in three bites and forgotten about. Ultimately, this interaction that only lasted three minutes at most shouldn’t mean anything. 

Most meetings are rarely memorable or dramatic. Sometimes, you meet someone once and never see them again. Sometimes, you’re lucky enough to meet someone for the first time over and over. 

Eddie Munson never thought of himself as lucky. You never thought of yourself as much of anything. 

It’s a good thing that it never mattered, as the two of you met over and over until there were no more firsts and only continuations.

I've never finished a fic that was more than 3 chapters. Say something nice to me, please 💜

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

Tag List @k8loo @terrormonster55 @sp1dyb0y1008 @crocwork-clockodile @ali-r3n

@mxcheese @josephquinnschesthair @gagasbee @peaches-roses-sins @witchwolflea

@vintagehellfire @royale1803 @cumslutforaemond @prestinalove @browneyedgirly93

@perpetualmessmachine @thebook-hobbit @cultish-corner @grishaversecaptivated @sortagaysortahigh

@siriuslysmoking @huffledor-able541 @pookiesnatcher @eddiesguitarskills @browneyes-8288

@sheneedsrocknroll92 @kores-mun-son-n-more @eddiebuttcheeks @kirsteng42 @dreamerjj

@moonisu @em022O @cosmorant @kurdtbean

[dhampling]

the tailor's smock (astarion x reader)

“You know what the problem is. We all know what the problem is. Hunkers Boolean across the street knows what the problem is. Do not make me say it!” - inspired by the prompt 'let’s get you out of those clothes' from this list sent to me by @kikistarstuff! thank you - i took a slightly different direction with it but I hope you enjoy! w/c: 1,023

Eventide ripples through the Upper City.

Church bells - scintillant, joyful. A provincial hum weaves amongst lavender-laden window boxes and bread left on cooling sills for the evening air to swallow. In places the sky still blushes through a deep crimson pink but nightfall quickly arrives as it always does.

You’re awake early, by all counts.

Astarion bristles as he works. His leg bounces, and the chair doesn’t quite sit even on the board flooring of your townhouse. The little knocks form a steady rhythm.

You stand astride his tailor’s podium in an almost-complete garment. He’ll lift his eyes to survey you every few moments as he sketches.

“Coffee?” You mumble. 

He stays frozen for a moment - deep in thought elsewhere - before quickly collecting the tankard from his desk and delivering it into your chilled hands.

“Sorry, my sweet. I’m just-’ 

A sigh

‘I’m a little lost with how to finish it.”

His pallid hands drag over a now-long face. He spins slowly in place and lets out a long groan.

“You had a plan at the beginning, no? What happened to it?”

What began as a routine addition to your everyday wardrobe - an overall-style frock, nothing grand - now hangs as a genuine blockade between Astarion and doing anything remotely useful. Stitching seams only to later rip through them, selecting which buttons would best compliment the straps of fabric over your shoulders then switching at the last moment, drawing vague silhouettes in a heavy journal and showing them to you in flustered breaks. Torn pages balled in the corner of the room.

He looks at you with an incredulous tut. A fiery flick of his lashes.

“It clearly wasn’t a very good one, was it?!’

You’re tired of the garment now. Any want to wear it was discarded alongside the first five iterations of the dress; and you’d rather simply go and sit among the blankets in the den with a book. Maybe a fresh cup of coffee.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m doing this for you!”

His arms gesture wildly to the dress, eyes frantic. He looks insane.

You meet his gaze in a tired standoff. The energy from both of you runs wholly parallel, and in entirely different directions. 

You refuse to meet his angst with anything remotely similar. Your brain can’t compel itself to make this an argument, no matter how much you might want to.

“What is the problem here? Really?”

You remove the few remaining pins from the garment. He sighs once more.

“You know what the problem is. We all know what the problem is. Hunkers Boolean across the street knows what the problem is. Do not make me say it!”

In all seriousness he flounces to his chair and sits pensively, leaning over the desk with elbows resting; head in hands. You stifle a snort.

“What are you on about?!”

A sip of coffee. A frustrated borderline-yowl. The bells continue to chime on beyond the window. The bristle of a late wind.

“I can’t even make an overall! An overall!”

You draw the corners of your lips cheekward in a closed grimace.

“Love. With the best of intentions, please do not let the fact you can’t make a smock get you this upset.”

He looks up at you. Rolls his eyes.

“So you do know I can’t make it. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” 

“That is categorically not what I meant.” You chide, putting your tankard on his desk and tapping him on the arm lightly.

“I’m completely and utterly useless then, I suppose. 

Astarion drawls. A child seeking attention. 

‘A basic smock. Beyond the ability of my wretched spinster hands.” 

“I suppose you are.’ 

He looks up.

‘Useless, that is.’

Gormless. Too tired to be witty, just a blank stare. 

‘I suppose I’ll just have to find another prospect who can make me my own personal smock collection. It is my greatest wish, after all.”

It takes a couple of minutes of nothing for him to respond. You watch the streetlamps glower in the new dusk, the stray cat pottering onto nearby roofs; one of your neighbours collecting their washing for the night. 

“Hah!’

He smacks the desk lazily and rests his head on the wood for a moment. When he lifts his eyes are heavy-lidded. A roguish daze. The quirk of a smile.

‘I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

The grimace returns. You nod. 

“Really, properly stupid.”

The clientele Astarion desires in his new business venture aren’t the kind who are buying regular overall-type garments. They visit the tailors for their finery; not middling homewear.

“I was doing it for you. I really was.’

He pushes his chair back and stands, crossing the few steps to where you stand adjacent.

‘You look so homely in this kind of thing. It’s-’

He pauses. Tilts his head from side to side. Errs.

‘- sweet -’

With another step forward his hand moves to your cheek in a soft, revering touch. All tension melts from his face

‘And I thought it’d make you happy. Being able to bustle about our little house in something so mundane, knowing I’d made it just for you, to be able to do so in comfort.”

His forehead meets yours in a worn stupor. 

“You’re silly. I hope you know that.’

You meet him in a tired coffee-stained kiss; his own relinquishing their well-worn mirth. 

‘Plenty of time for that. For you to make me all kinds of beautiful things. A whole lifetime, even.’

Another kiss. He gives a fanged grin against your lips. Bliss.

‘But right now, I am desperate to go back to bed.”

His arms snake around your waist, hands grabbing your sides in a weighty adoration.

“Now then treasure - that’s something I can get behind.’

He gently moves his kisses down to your neck, pressing against your weary frame with an intentional rut of his hips. Every part of him emanates a sleepy desire and you can’t help but feel heady at the thought of returning to your shared bed. Your lover.

‘Come now. Let’s get you out of those clothes. I fear we have new plans this night.”

[michaelmanley]

True Accounts of a Pregnant Man: Shopping (Story)

A bell tinkles faintly above the doorframe as I step into the cozy little boutique. My cheeks are rosy red and numb from the faint autumnal chill in the air outside, so the warmth of the shop causes them to tingle slightly. My nose twitches, and I inhale deeply through my nostrils, noting the faintest hint of vanilla mingling with pine wafting through the air.

“Coming!” a woman’s voice calls from somewhere in the back. Waiting for her to re-emerge, I wipe my boots awkwardly on the thatched doormat, drying off the dampness on their soles from the cold November rain. Beginning to unwind my scarf, I cast my gaze around the quaint little boutique, taking in the scenery noting the evergreen boughs and festive garland already adorning the eaves. Not even Thanksgiving, and this place had already broken out the Christmas decorations. I roll my eyes. Well, that explained the smell, at least.

The sound of labored, sluggish footfalls approaching snaps me out of my reprieve. The shopkeeper must have found whatever she was looking for in the back. I suck in a nervous breath, trying to prepare myself for the horrifically awkward social interaction that is assuredly about to transpire.

Stepping through the stockroom door with a cardboard box tucked under her arm, the ruddy-faced shopkeeper gives me a tiny smile through pursed lips. Given the nature of this specialty boutique and the thing it specializes in, she’s younger than I thought she would be. Early thirties, by the looks of things, but I’ve never been any good at guessing age. Her sandy-blonde curls are done up in a messy bun, the frames of her readers slipping down the bridge of her nose. She’s wearing a stretchy pair of black leggings, and for warmth, a gray cashmere cardigan bundled up tightly over the rather significant protrusion of her expectant midriff. A shorter woman (I stood at only five foot eight, and her head came up to about my shoulder), she was all belly, and carried her bump in the shape of an uncomfortably engorged pregnant orb of pure baby sitting heavily in her stomach.

“Sorry about the wait, sir,” the shopkeep says, and I note the shallowness of her breathing, a symptom of her overwhelming fullness. She opens the box and pulls out a series of identical cream-colored sweaters in various baggy sizes, preparing to restock the shelves while she talks. “Hard for me to get around these days!”

“It’s alright,” I say. “Trust me, I understand.”

“So, what can I do for you?” she asks brightly as she waddles over to one of the plastic belly-sporting mannequins and adorns it with a comfortable looking cable-knit. “Shopping for a special someone this holiday season?”

I grimace, steeling myself internally. “No,” I say. “I’m shopping for myself.”

The shopkeeper freezes, and slowly turns to look at me with incredulity. Wearily, I shrug off my baggy winter coat, revealing the form that had been concealed within its folds before. There is no mistaking the subtle but unflinchingly firm distention of my abdomen, the way my stomach bows outward obviously. My favorite turtleneck can no longer stretch far enough to cover my belly, and every time I try to tug it back over the hump of my baby bump, it simply slides back up, so I’ve simply given up on fighting it. A tantalizing sliver of pale pregnant tummy is clearly visible in the seam between my sweater and a too-snug pair of jeans which I’ve similarly given up on buttoning.

The shopkeeper can’t help it— she gasps, loudly, then claps a hand over her mouth in shame. She takes a half-step backwards, circling around me slowly as she sizes up my fertile form, unable to make sense of what her eyes are seeing.

“Take a picture,” I say, sarcastically. “It’ll last longer.”

I delicately lift the hem of my turtleneck a few inches further, giving her an uninterrupted view of my pregnant belly. The shopkeep, initially having stumbled away in shock, is overcome by curiosity, and magnetized by the sight of bare boy belly, creeps closer to where I stand.

“Can I feel it?” she says, but her trembling palms are already pressed to the subtle swell of my bump. I can feel them poking and prodding curiously, sweeping over the smooth, rounded curve of my belly, insatiable in their desire to know more, to feel the miracle for herself firsthand.

“Go ahead,” I say. “At least you asked for permission after you touched it. Most women don’t ask for permission at all.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and her hands withdraw as she barks out a laugh in disbelief. “I always complain about strangers touching my belly without consent, and well— here I go, giving my gender a bad name. At least I’m not the first woman to make a hypocrite of herself, though, I take it?”

“You are not,” I confirm, my voice twinged with irony. “I don’t get a whole lot of strange men feeling me up without warning, at least. They’re mostly repulsed by me on sight. But women can’t keep their hands off me now. I guess there’s something about this belly they find irresistible.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem like such a bad deal for a strapping, handsome young man like you!” the shopkeep teases. “Come on, you must be at least a little flattered by all that attention!”

“Not really,” I sigh. “Are you flattered when strangers touch your tummy without warning? I guess getting pregnant means I’m public property now.”

The shopkeep’s mouth opens then closes again, sympathy and understanding dawning in her eyes. The mystery and romance of my miraculous maternity has slowly faded as she realizes that the reality of my life as a pregnant man is much akin to her own, our struggles and objectification mirrored (except obviously, the discrimination I faced was more severe by several orders of magnitude).. “Ah. Say no more. Trust me… I know the feeling.”

“Thank you,” I say with a weary smile. “I’m glad you understand.”

“My name’s Brittany,” the shopkeep offers, extending her hand for a cordial shake by way of apology. “Thirty-one weeks today.”

“Michael,” I reply. “But only my mom calls me that. You can just call me Mike. I’m eighteen weeks along.”

“Only eighteen?” Brittany gapes. “But you’re so… big! Are you carrying twins?”

I give her another stare, and she laughs, remembering herself. “Oh. Right. There I go again, saying something I’d hate to hear myself in this state now that the shoe’s on the other foot. How sexist of me. This must happen to you a lot, huh?”

“It does indeed,” I confirm. “And it’s just the one. My family has a history of carrying big.”

“So,” Brittany says, trying to plow forward in the conversation and push past any awkwardness, “Mike. You… need a new wardrobe, I assume?”

“Yes please,” I affirm eagerly.

“Nothing fits anymore, huh?” she teases, gesturing to her own stomach. “We’ve all been there.”

“It’s not just my gut,” I explain. “The entire shape of my body is changing, too. My jeans still fit me fine length-wise, but they’re starting to get snug in the waist as my hips widen. And my chest… it….”

“Relax,” Brittany says with a smile. “Let’s just take it one step at a time. Here, why don’t we step into one of the changing rooms, and I’ll take your measurements first, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, fidgeting with my scarf anxiously. Brittany waddles towards the back of her maternity boutique, and I waddle after her. My nose twitches again as I sniff the air. Now that we’ve moved away from the faux trees in the window display, the scent of artificial pine is ebbing, and another aroma has taken its place.

“Do you have a candle lit or something?” I ask. “I thought I smelled it before, but that vanilla odor is pretty thick over here.”

“You really are pregnant,” she breathes in awe. “I wanted something gentle but fairly festive that wouldn’t bother my pregnant patrons or me. Your sense of smell might be unusually sensitive, though. Do you want me to put it out?”

“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”

“With a nose like that, morning sickness must have been a bitch for you, huh?” Brittany says, clicking her tongue sympathetically.

I shudder, recoiling with revulsion at the unpleasant memories from the not-too-distant past, and say nothing more.

Fishing around in the pockets of her cardigan, Brittany pulls out a brass key, and unlocks one of the dressing rooms. Grabbing a stool and a tape measure, she waddles in after me and shuts the door behind her.

“Alright!” Brittany says. “If you just pop those clothes off, we can get started with your sizing!”

“Um,” I mumble, rubbing my arm sheepishly. “Do I really need to?”

“Well, with your clothes in the way, I won’t be able to get any accurate measurements,” Brittany explains. “Why? Is that a problem? If you’re uncomfortable— wait.”

Brittany’s brow furrows, as if mulling something over. I can already tell where this is headed.

“Are you—“ she starts.

“I’m not trans, no,” I explain, wincing apologetically. “I’m a cis man. If that makes taking my measurements uncomfortable for you at all, I can—”

“No, no, not at all!” Brittany assures me with a cheeky grin. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. How do you think I wound up like this, hmm?”

I let out the breath I had been holding, silently grateful that the shopkeeper hadn’t thought to ask how I myself wound up in my current state, in light of this new information.

“Come to think of it… how did YOU wind up like this?” Brittany presses.

I facepalm. She does, too.

“Oh my God,” Brittany groans. “Today is not my day. Blame it on the pregnancy brain. I am so sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine,” I groan back, the shopkeeper’s constant apologizing for her verbal sexual harassment beginning to wear thin. “Like I said, I’m used to it.”

“You don’t have to tell me, by the way, if you don’t want to,” Brittany offers, but her face is burning bright red with curiosity, so I decide to indulge her.

“Medical experiment,” I say, by way of explanation. “Fertility trial. They’re running it over at the university. I’m carrying some donor’s eggs in an artificial womb conjoined to my prostate. They tell me the data I’ve given them has the potential to progress our understanding of gender-affirming care and human biology by entire centuries. It’s being kept tightly under wraps until they confirm both fetal viability and my capacity to carry to term.”

“That’s so noble of you. I could never do what you’re doing, Mike,” Brittany says. “You have it so much harder than me. No woman has any right to complain to you about pregnancy ever again. Or childbirth, for that matter.”

“Yes, well,” I quip dryly, “knowing that makes it all worthwhile.”

Emboldened by the knowledge that this conversation could not get any more awkward or uncomfortable than it currently is, I wiggle out of my turtleneck, having psyched myself up to begin the measuring process. The air on my fully exposed and highly sensitive nipples causes them to stiffen and stand on end, and I try not to think about how puffy my pecs are, how their faintly sagging shape is beginning to appear more and more breast-like.

“You’re so smooth,” Brittany marvels, taking in the sight of my totally taut and silky smooth stomach as I stumble my way out of my jeans, grunting as I peel them off my hips..

“I had to shave all my chest hair,” I blurt defensively. “The ultrasounds couldn’t get a good reading with it in the way of the signal.”

“Not just there,” Brittany says, her eyes flicking up and down as she methodically unwinds her measuring tape. “Everywhere.”

I nod. My legs and arms are shaved clean, too, which was certainly unusual for a man, but certainly the lest unusual thing about me. “Well, it felt weird being hairless only on my tummy. And besides, I was never crazy about it, all the hair on my arms and legs. This feels… less weird to me. It sounds crazy, but it makes me feel more pregnant in a way. Before, with all that hair covering my body, I could pretend I was just bloated or putting on weight, but with no fuzz covering my curves, it’s harder to deny.”

“I see. Still, all that hedge-trimming must take you forever,” Brittany muses sympathetically. “I hope you’re not getting too accustomed to having nice smooth legs right now. Once your bump gets big enough to start getting in the way of everything, you’ll give up on that part of your routine pretty quickly.”

“I still don’t know how I’m supposed to shave my happy trail for the doctors once this gut sticks out too far for me to see the underside of my bump,” I complain. “Just thinking about trying something that scary with a razor fully blind…”

“I can’t imagine,” the saleswoman gasps. “I’d be so terrified I would have nicked the baby somehow if I scraped my belly with the blade too hard! Don’t you ever worry about that?”

“All the time,” I confess. “I know it’s silly, and that my womb is very well protected in there, but this isn’t a normal pregnant person problem. It takes me forever to shower and shave.”

“You poor thing,” Brittany sighs. “Like I said, I could never deal with everything you’re going through.”

“Well, I’m lucky I have such a good support system,” I say. “And once I get to that size, I’m sure my mom will help me shave my stomach.”

“You live with your mom?” Brittany asks, and I nod.

“I moved back home once I found out the procedure took. I was previously enrolled in the university, but I’m taking an impromptu gap year now for obvious reasons.”

“Well, that’s good!” Brittany offers. “She’s been through this before with you, after all. I’m sure she takes excellent care of you.”

“She could certainly do better,” I grouse. “When I told her I was beginning to outgrow my old wardrobe, she insisted I try on all her old maternity clothes from when she was pregnant with me. That’s why I wound up coming here.”

“Oh, that sounds like a priceless memory!” Brittany crows. “Did she take any pictures for the photo album?”

“Several,” I grumble. “Of all the women who need to learn boundaries when it comes to my body, she’s by far the worst offender.”

“Well, she might tease you now, but I’m sure she’ll do the right thing and spoil you rotten when the going gets tough,” Brittany reassures me.

“She’d better,” I huff. “I deserve nothing less. After all, it’s not like this is just a walk in the park for me and baby. I’m doing a lot of hard work here, you know. There was a slim chance the procedure would even work at all, and now that I’m actually pregnant, the risks have decreased significantly, but it’s still super dangerous…”

An unsettling quiet descends upon the changing room, leaving much unsaid.

“Do you think it’s silly?” I ask, after a beat. “That I worry about stuff like that.”

“Not at all!” Brittany readily assures me. “That’s just your paternal instincts kicking in. I’m sure you’re going to be a great daddy.”

I smile faintly, feeling a fluttering in my chest. Moments later, I realize the feeling isn’t just metaphorical, and that the surface of my stomach has begun to shift slightly.

“Oh!” I whimper. “She’s moving…”

Brittany’s eyes shimmer with excitement as she tentatively touches her fingertips to the side of my gravid gut, smiling in awe as she feels the faint stirring.

“She?” Brittany asks to clarify, and I nod excitedly, head bobbing up and down.

“That’s my girl,” I say, and Brittany giggles.

“I figured as much” she replies sagely. “Even if it wasn’t obvious from the way you’re carrying her, you give off huge girldad vibes. Call it mother’s intuition.”

“Do you think I’ll develop any of that?” I tease, and she snickers as she starts to wrap her tape measure snugly around the width of my waist.

“Oh, I’m sure you will, Mike. Will you… get to keep her?”

“I’m going to keep her,” I say, firmly. “I don’t care what the university lab says about it.”

“That’s sweet,” Brittany hums, jotting down a few numbers on a little notepad. “I’m sure you and your husband will make a wonderful family.”

“Oh, I don’t have a partner. And my sexuality is none of your business, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't pry,” I clarify, but she just sort of nods absentmindedly and pays me no mind while she tugs on the yellow cloth tape. I know she has tuned me out. Even in spite of my sexuality, women seem to find me completely non-threatening in this state. It is as if I am just one of the girls to them now, my pregnancy having disqualified me as a man in their eyes. Maybe that’s why they’re all so touchy-feely, despite how many times I try to tell them the intense discomfort I feel from their prolonged and persistent physical contact.

“Mhm,” Brittany says absentmindedly as she pokes my hips, admiring the way her finger sinks in slightly. “Thirty-six men’s in the waist. I wonder if I have anything that translates to that size…”

“I was a thirty-two eighteen weeks ago,” I say quietly. “And please do stop touching me like that. It’s demeaning.”

“Well, you’d be lucky if you stay in the forties, at that rate,” Brittany jokes, ignoring me. “Word to the wise, Mike. Stretchy pants are your new best friend. Ooh, and look at this! Your man-boobs are almost big enough to fit into a B-cup! I guess you’ll probably want to order a bra, too, right?”

“What would be wrong with that?” I say, crossing my arms protectively over my budding breasts. “I’m going to need the extra support due to all the growing and changing my body is doing. A bra isn’t just worn to be ogled, you know.”

“Yeah, but come on,” Brittany teases, her finger darting out to flick my nipple. “Don’t you think that’s a little girly?”

“Brittany,” I say bluntly. “Stop touching my tits.”

Brittany squeaks and stumbles backwards, bumping up against the dressing room door. I roll my eyes, beginning to grow frustrated with her constant sexism. Perhaps my hormones had me running a bit hot, but there was only so much a man could take.

“In the future,” I remind her, “it might be wise to check your privilege. Pregnant men are much more likely to be ogled and sexually harassed by the female population based on their state of dress, as you yourself just clearly demonstrated. Additionally, I find your tone towards me to be patronizing— pregnant men also deal with a greater degree of mammary growth than their female counterparts, due to their need to develop the tissue from scratch, so the fact that you believe such articles of clothing are coded solely to your gender is deeply misandrist. After I went out of my way to try and show you some grace since this was clearly your first time meeting a pregnant man, the fact that you willfully violated my own boundaries in turn is deeply disappointing to me.”

“Of course,” Brittany meekly ekes out. “Right. Any objectification I face as a woman is nothing compared to the discrimination and hardship you face as a pregnant man. I wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”

“That’s quite alright,” I say to the shopkeeper. “I’d like a little privacy now, please. Why don’t you fetch me something to try on, ma’am? I’m sure your options are limited given my unique proportions, but I’ll gladly take anything you’ve got that fits while you special order something in for me.”

“Of course, sir,” Brittany says, her demeanor reverting to professional rather than personable as she bows her head in shame. “I’ll try to find something that suits your style and needs.”

“Thank you,” I say politely but curtly. “That will be all.”

The shopkeeper takes her leave, and I shut the door behind me. Exhaling sharply in frustration, I give my pregnant tummy a little pat, feeling my unborn daughter squirm slightly from my touch, as if pleased by her daddy’s protectiveness. Turning towards the dressing room mirror, I pause as I drink in the sight of my fully exposed body, still somewhat foreign to me.

My frame is undeniably fertile, from the prominent protrusion of my gravid gut and the engorged state of my steadily-forming tits to the width of my hips and the arch of my back. Every inch of me looks soft, curvaceous, and plush, a far cry from the limber, lithe, and skinny-framed man I was before. But these are far from the only changes. My face seems fuller, my skin seems dewier, my cheeks rosier, exuding that ephemeral pregnancy glow. My long, curly strands of brunette hair, which were already thick and luxuriant, have become even healthier and heartier, framing my face in a flattering fashion. Usually, I kept it at a medium length, but with its tendency to grow faster and faster of late, I had simply given up, and now it neatly reached down to frame my face flatteringly. And though my sharp, angular jawline and Adam’s apple were undeniably masculine, with a little makeup and a shift in presentation, I could effortlessly pass as feminine. It’s not hard to see why my burgeoning bump and body are subject to so much attention.

I must admit, I look quite good.

A knock sounds at the door, followed by the sound of someone nervously clearing their throat.

“If you have clothes for me, please kindly place them over top of the changing room door,” I say to Brittany, having had quite enough of my body being visually violated for one day.

“Of course,” Brittany says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir. I tried my hardest to find something that matched your personal style and specifications to the letter, since I knew it would be terribly inconvenient for you to have to change your look just on account of this pregnancy. I was able to find something that should hopefully have enough stretch to accommodate your bump, but as far as pants go… none of the maternity jeans or yoga pants I currently have in stock are wide enough for you. Not that that’s a bad thing! Don’t worry, though, I’ve already placed an order for a new shipment. In the meantime, this is the best I can do.”

Brittany passes me the bundle of clothes over top of the changing room door. Unfurling it, I find a stretchy charcoal gray turtleneck dress, made with a soft but sufficiently hardy material to withstand the winter winds while still allowing enough give for my body to continue growing. Paired with it are some semi-translucent black tights, along with a very practical beige bra for my blossoming bust. A new pair of more fashionable black boots and a long black overcoat with a women’s waist cut complete the look.

“No pants in my size?” I say wryly. “Your boutique could stand to be more accessible and welcoming to all body types.”

“I’m really very sorry, Mike,” Brittany says.

I sigh. “It will have to do. Now then, Brittany, if I open this door, will you promise to behave?”

“I promise,” Brittany agrees readily.

“Good,” I say. “I am going to open the door now. I will expect your assistance in adorning my bra. You are not to touch me in any other capacity than is strictly necessary in the course of your duties. Have I articulated my boundaries clearly to you?”

“Yes,” Brittany says, sufficiently cowed.

I unlock the dressing room door, ordering her to enter as soon as my back is turned. She approaches hesitantly, and wraps her hands around me from behind, slipping both of my boobs into the B-cups of my bra as I wriggle my arms into the thin little straps. Once everything is in place, she latches the hooks fast.

“Is everything alright?” Brittany asks. “Can you breathe okay? How does it fit?”

I inspect myself in the mirror, cupping my sagging breasts with both my hands as I admire the faintest hints of cleavage beginning to form between them. The tension in my upper back has lessened slightly, too, at least one source of stress on my spine having been alleviated.

“Yes, I feel quite well supported. Thank you, Brittany,” I say with a smile, and I can tell she has visibly relaxed with relief. “Does this bra come as part of a matching set, by any chance?”

“It does,” Brittany says. “I didn’t think you’d want the panties when you already have your briefs.”

“I might as well,” I say, shrugging. “I’d like it if you could get them for me, please. And I’ll be putting them on myself.”

Brittany departs, and returns moments later with a silky beige slip. I shut the door on her once more and sit down on the bench in the dressing room as I wiggle out of my old briefs and slide the snug-fitting panties up my shapely legs. Tucking my member snugly inside my new well-fitting underwear as they securely cradle the package, I admire how they cling to my hips, flatteringly highlighting the pleasant plumpness of my posterior. Next are the tights, which I struggle fiercely to tug over the humps of my hips. Shrugging on my new turtleneck dress and sliding into my new overcoat, I slide my elegant gray and black patterned scarf over my shoulders, the only remnant of my previous outfit that still fits. I give myself one last once-over in the mirror, rubbing my pregnant belly in satisfaction with my appearance.

When I open the door, Brittany is standing there with an empty brown paper bag.

“For your old clothes,” she says helpfully. “You can wear your new ones out of the store.”

“That’s good,” I say. “How does it look?”

“You look stunning,” Brittany breathes. “It definitely suits you.”

“And how much do I owe for this?” I inquire. “I’m ready to be rung up, please.”

“Oh, no,” Brittany says. “I feel bad that I didn’t have anything in your size… and for everything else. Please, it’s on me. I would feel just awful if your poor experience today soured your opinion of my boutique, and I want to make this a more inclusive space for you.”

I smile, having already mentally noted that the price for this luxury dress, coat, and boots would have been well over a hundred dollars. “I see. Well, I suppose that unlearning your sexist attitudes and practices towards men takes time, and I do appreciate the gesture.”

“You’re so right,” Brittany says eagerly, bobbing her head. “And I have so much to learn, especially from you. Please accept my formal apology for my inappropriate conduct, Mike. I had no idea how difficult it was to be a pregnant man.”

“I acknowledge your apology,” I say. “But I don’t accept it just yet. In the future, I hope to see that you’ve learned your lesson.”

“That’s totally valid,” Brittany says. “You don’t have to accept my apology yet, but I’d like it very much if you could someday.”

“Well, Brittany,” I say. “That depends entirely on you.”

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” Brittany adds quickly. “I’d really like to make it up to you, Mike. In fact, I’m part of a group of pregnant women—“

“Pregnant people,” I remind her. “You need to use more inclusive phrasing that’s less hurtful and exclusionary towards pregnant men like myself.”

“Pregnant people, right, sorry,” Brittany says hurriedly. “I’m part of a group of pregnant people who attend a maternity aerobics and prenatal exercise class. I know I’m a bigot and you have no reason to trust me after my disgusting and reprehensible behavior towards you, but I’d really like it if you could come to a session with us. I think we could all learn a lot from your bravery and strength.”

Brittany hands me a yellowed flyer advertising a water aerobics class being held at a local gym. I crease it once down the center and fold it into the pockets of my new overcoat.

“I’m sorry,” I say politely. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a thing to wear.”

“I can order you a swimsuit!” the shopkeeper reassures me. “That would be on me, too.”

“Why thank you, Brittany,” I reply. “I’ll certainly consider your offer.”

Brittany beams at me bashfully. “No, thank you! I appreciate you giving me a second chance, and I hope you’ll continue to correct me and check my privilege so I can become a better person.”

“Well, Brittany,” I state, “I can certainly tell you’re sincere in your intentions, so let me tell you this. The first lesson to unlearning your privilege is to be silent and listen when an oppressed group is speaking.”

Brittany opens her mouth, then closes it, nodding as she pulls the pen and pad she used for sizing notations out of her cardigan to jot down my words.

“For instance, it is highly rude to complain about your problems or your pregnancy in the presence of a pregnant man, since pregnancy is many orders of magnitude more difficult for me than it is for you,” I continue. “It is also basic etiquette to defer to a pregnant man in matters of common courtesy. In order to best serve the oppressed, you must be of service to them. Do you understand?”

“I see!” Brittany says. “I’ll do my best to learn my place and speak when spoken to, and I really do appreciate you educating me about the microaggressions coded into my behavior. I hope I can be of service to you in the future. Would you like me to hold the door open for you on your way out?”

“Very good!” I say politely as I waddle out the door, giving Brittany a reassuring style. “You’re learning quickly. I’m sure you’ll see the error of your ways in no time.”

“Come back any time, Mike!” Brittany calls after me. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know!”

I cheerfully wave her goodbye, bundling my overcoat around my bump more tightly as I approach a parked car positioned next to the curb. Waiting outside is a striking woman in her mid-to-late thirties with curly brunette hair, standing at about five foot eleven and holding an umbrella to shield herself and her slim-fitting teal medical scrubs and crisp white lab coat from the downpour of sleet. As I draw closer, she opens the passenger side door and gingerly helps me inside.

“Thanks for waiting, Mom,” I say as I ease myself into the passenger seat.

“Nonsense,” Mom says with a smile. “There’s no need to thank me. I remember how uncomfortable it was, trying to squeeze behind the wheel when I was pregnant with you, bump pressing straight down on my bladder. I wouldn’t want my pregnant son to go through all that!“

“Well, even if you’re only doing what’s expected of you, you’re still a halfway decent chauffeur,” I say, complimenting her.

“Thank you, Michael! I’m just happy to help,” Mom says as we pull away from the quaint outdoor mall where Brittany’s maternity boutique is located. She hands me a golden bag, which I recognize instantly as bearing the insignia of my favorite confectionary shop from across the street— a little present to sate my cravings. “Anything I can do to make your condition more comfortable. Look, I even got you those sweets you were gushing about!”

“That’s wonderful!” I say with a smile. “I’m glad you’re being more considerate of my cravings, and I appreciate the effort. Stuffing myself with something sweet will help to take my mind off things.”

“That must have been very scary for you, in there,” Mom says sympathetically.

“It was mortifying,” I sigh, opening the bag to find a ribbon-adorned box of white chocolate candies. “There’s just so much intolerance in this world. It’s a very scary time to be an expecting father, what with all this vitriol and bigotry. You have no idea how difficult my life is like this.”

“Well, I’m proud of you for standing up to prejudice,” Mom says as I pop a couple handfuls of candies at a time into my mouth, moaning faintly. “It’s unfair that society treats you so poorly as a pregnant man.”

I feel my unborn daughter stirring slightly in my womb as I munch on a mouthful of molten chocolate, licking my fingers clean.

“My daughter will grow up knowing exactly how much her daddy struggled and suffered to bring her into this world,” I sniff sadly. “And she’ll never once doubt how loved she is because of it. After all, no one has it worse than a pregnant man like me!”

[banned-for-horny]

After your words I just need more possessive traumatized, messed up Robin who clings to PC like a small coala.

"Robin!"

Robin is five when he skins his knee.

He doesn't remember how or when. What he does remember is the itch of the cut, the way his skin tingles and burns as blood begins to puff at the seams. He remembers his eyes watering, blurring the world around him as he starts to hiccup and wail, because Robin had been (and always will be) a crybaby.

But, he also had you. You'd come running the moment he fell, chubby hands dragging one of Ms. Bailey's friends behind you. Unlike him, you were never allowed outside without supervision. Today, that seems to work in his favor.

Yes, Robin remembers thinking. He's very lucky to have you.

"Robin, what are you-stop!"

Robin is seven when he loses his first tooth.

That's late, apparently. You're already missing three, two falling out and one forcibly knocked out when an older orphan tried to push you down the stairs. Robin had bitten the older orphan in retaliation, but the force from hitting the floor still knocked your tooth clean out.

But it's not a scary process, you tell him when you cram your fingers in his mouth. It doesn't hurt at all! And if it hurts, you'll go get Ms. Bailey for him and then she'll buy you some nice pastries from the café.

It's a flat-out lie. Robin recalls blood gushing from his mouth when you finally ripped his tooth out. It started to make him dizzy, so you ran out to find some help until he was sent to the hospital to have his mouth looked at. You're still there when he wakes up, though, and you manage to buy him some vanilla ice cream with what meager savings you have.

His throat was still numb from the anesthetic, but Robin recalls tasting milk and honey when you smiled at him.

"No, Robin, stop! S-Snap out of it already!"

Robin is ten when he first walks in on you in the bathroom.

It used to be fine before. He remembers taking showers with you all the time, blowing suds at your face and wrestling to shove you under the surface. Ms. Bailey had said to stop that when he reached seven, but you were never one for listening to the caretaker, so neither was Robin.

But now, Robin thinks that night, it's...different.

He has his thin blanket strained between his legs, face warm and neck damp with sweat. The weird squirming in his stomach won't stop. He wants to sleep, but every time he shuts his eyes, he sees your bare back instead and feels sick all over again.

In the future, he will take classes and learn from a pretty blonde man all about what he's feeling. It's natural, he will learn, for boys his age to start developing some interest in people. It's not something to be ashamed of. In fact, in this hell, it's something he should embrace.

But for now, Robin just rolls onto his stomach and tries to ignore it.

"Robin, this isn't-please, don't! Get off-"

Robin is thirteen when someone tries to take you right in front of him.

Your bodyguards are careless, have been ever since you hit thirteen. Robin knows one is still around, though he's too busy schmoozing with some other guy across the park.

But Robin isn't, and the second the lady's grip on your forearm gets too tight, he's there with a fistful of mulch and a scream that splits the air like the temple bells. He shoves the chips at the tall woman's cheeks and rams an elbow into her shoulder. It's just enough to get her to let go, stumbling back from the assault.

Then she rounds on Robin with her lips pulled back in a snarl, but you're already on her, throwing your entire weight into a tackle that sends the woman flying into the fountain. Your physique has always been better than his. He's still very lucky you would never use it against him.

By the time a 'random bystander' (ie, the bodyguard that supposed to be protecting you under Ms. Bailey's orders) comes in to sweep you and Robin away, you're starting to grow a black eye and his ankle hurts pretty bad, but he's hand-in-hand with you. You're all smiles for the first few hours, reassuring him that everything was okay and that you're fine, but when he's in his shared room with you, you end up slipping into his bed.

You're trembling. Robin wraps his arms around you and holds you tight.

"Don't touch me!"

Robin is sixteen when he sees you kiss another classmate.

He doesn't know who she is, just that you're just as flustered and apologizing to hell and back. It must have been an accident. It happens all the time.

That doesn't stop the hole from tearing into his chest, rattling his nerves and flooding every pore in his marrow with...with what? Unease? Disgust? Betrayal?

Whatever it is, it's chased by a rush of shame. You would never betray him. Furthermore, you aren't his. Not like that, at least. You've been raised by his side ever since he can remember. Wherever Robin went, you were guaranteed to follow (or, at least, try). Even when school started and your schedules differed, you made it clear that walking home with Robin would be part of your new routine. If Robin ever fell, you would be there to catch him.

And if anyone tries to hurt you, Robin is supposed to be there to protect you, because he's your friend-no, because he's yours.

"..."

Robin is nineteen when he finally pulls out of your cum-slicked hole. Sweat drips from his temple and traces his cheekbone. His arms are aching, his stomach burns, and when he looks down, your eyes are locked onto the curtained window that overlooks the town. The flesh around your throat is already starting to puff with hand-shaped bruises. You could have easily fought him off, but you would never lay a hand on him, even if it meant hurting yourself.

He's lucky, he thinks before collapsing on top of you. You're still half-dressed in your sleepwear, the fabric clinging to his sweaty skin as he tries to curl around you. The bed sheets below you are still fresh with your scent.

Right. This is your room. He'd come into your room, climbed into your bed, and-

He doesn't realize he's crying until your hand touches his cheek. You're not looking at him, glazed eyes focusing on the wall instead, but the rest of your body moves on autopilot, muscle memory from years of comforting him when he wept.

"...it's okay, Robin," you murmur. "It's okay. I'm fine."

Because you would always be there to catch him. No matter what.

Robin is very lucky, indeed.

[murmaiderii]

A BETTER WORLD CHAPTER ONE: NOWHERESVILLE, MAINE

Also available on ao3

MDNI, Check ao3 tags for more info

Winter and its winds are always unkind to Stan’s boat. The ship wasn’t in great shape 30 years ago when he bought it with what little money his brother gave him. But now, after decades of wear and tear, Stan is getting worried that the old girl is on her last legs. Sailing will be out of the question for the rest of the season. If he wants his boat, his home, to stay intact, he’ll have to hunker down at the nearest port in a shitty little town in Maine.

His boat pulls into the sparsely populated port. He hoists the rusty anchor into the water, grunting heavily as he does. If he had someone to help with that task, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard on his back. “Fuck…” He rubs his aching back through his thick sweatshirt. It isn’t enough to keep him warm in the cold of Maine, but he just doesn’t care enough to even bother grabbing his only coat. The thing is falling apart at the seams, anyway. He locks up his cabin and jumps onto the splintered dock, aggravating his knees in the process. He needs a drink.

Everything in this town is so gray. He’s seen more than his fair share of bleak sites, but this place is just depressing, even for him. Obnoxiously bright street lights pollute the sidewalks, illuminating cookie cutter houses. No lights are on in anyone’s windows. It isn’t even midnight yet. This town must be so dull that people have nothing better to do at night than sleep. Luckily, there’s a bar not too far from the dock, located in the perfect spot to attract the rare sailor who’s unfortunate enough to stop here.

A bell rings when he opens the door to the bar, startling the distracted bartender. The young redhead behind the counter looks up from her phone to greet Stan. “Welcome. Don’t get too many customers at this hour,” she says. “What’re you havin’?” He sits at a stool right in the middle of the counter.

“Gimme whatever will get me drunk fastest for the least amount of money,” he requests. She cracks a small smile.

“Got a real crappy whisky that’ll do the trick.” She grabs a clean glass from under the bar and fills it with an unusually dark whisky from the lowest shelf. She slides it across the bar to Stan. He throws half the glass back and shivers from the bitterness. 

“This is disgusting,” he complains. 

“Want something else?”

“This is the cheapest thing you got?”

“Yup,” she confirms. He swallows the rest of the glass and slides it back towards the woman.

“I’ll take another.” She leans over the bar and fills the glass back up to the brim. His eyes flicker to the cleavage pouring out of her black dress shirt. She sure is showing the girls off, probably in an attempt to get better tips from sad saps like him. She’ll be sorely disappointed to find that Stan is too broke to leave more than a couple bucks for her. She leaves him to his drink, focusing on cleaning up a tap.

He sips his second round more leisurely. He’s in no rush to get back to the faulty heating of his ship’s cabin, and he sure as hell can’t afford a hotel. The familiar bug of nicotine cravings crawls through his body. He pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. The bartender whips her head around when she hears the flick of the lighter.

“Ya can’t smoke in here, buddy,” she tells him.

“C’mon, kid. Ain’t no one else around.” She shakes her head at him.

“Federal law, and I don’t want this place to reek of tobacco.” He sighs and slips the contraband back into his pocket. “Hey, mind if I pour myself a drink? I’m not supposed to drink on the job, but as you said, ain’t no one else around.” He nods at her. She grabs herself a glass and fills it with cheap vodka and cranberry juice.

“Your boss ain’t gonna fire you when he sees ya drinking on the security camera?” Stan asks.

“Bosses are my parents. They won’t do anything besides give me a quick lecture.” She leans on the counter across from Stan. Her big breasts stare him in the face. Keeping his eyes away from them is a struggle. “The hell brought you to this wasteland? Hope you’re not staying long, for your own sake.”

“My boat ain’t doin’ too well. I gotta stay in one spot until spring.”

“Damn, you chose just about the worst spot to stay in. Might be worth the risk to sail to the next port. Drowning is a way better fate than living here,” she complains. 

“If it’s so bad, why don’t you get up and leave?” He questions.

“I’ve been plotting my escape since I was a kid, but I always end up being too lazy to run. That’s the issue of this town. Breaks your spirit so much you don’t even have it in you to escape its clutches. You should get out before it takes you, too,” she warns.

“Can’t be that terrible if it produces women as beautiful as you,” Stan flirts. Her lip briefly twitches up, just long enough for Stan to catch it.

“If only the selection of guys was as good. You’re about the most attractive man to walk into this garbage joint.” Stan chuckles at the compliment.

“I find that hard to believe.” He polishes off his second glass. She pours him another. “Kid, I don’t think I can swing another drink. I’m pretty strapped for cash here.” “On the house. I just wanna talk to someone who isn’t from here for once.” He lifts his glass in a cheers to her.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Marty. Yours?”

“Stan. Marty’s a pretty manly name for such a sweet young thing like you.”

“I’m more salty than sweet,” she jokes.

“Why don’t ya let me taste so I can see for myself?” He leans closer to her face. She leans closer to his in return.

“You’re a real dirty old man, you know that?” She pats him on the cheek.

“I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t at least shoot my shot. Haven’t seen a woman as gorgeous as you in forever.” He finishes his third drink. There’s enough booze in his system that he feels like his problems are a little further away. “How much do I owe ya?”

“For that swill? $10,” she tells him. He pulls a 10 and two 1s from his pocket.

“Thanks for the drink, sweetheart. I’ll get outta that pretty red hair of yours now.” Stan staggers across the bar. Being this drunk will make it a little easier to sleep in the freezing cabin of his boat tonight.

“Night, Stan. Don’t come back. You’re too good for this place.”

“So are you, kid.” She waves him off. As much as he wants to heed her warning, he doesn’t have the choice. He’s stuck here for some time. If he gets to see her again, then maybe it won’t be so bad.

The booze is not enough to keep him from shivering. Maybe he can call that rich bastard brother of his for a little financial help. He owes Stan as much after exiling him to do his dirty work. All he needs is for him to cover a few repairs and maybe get him a heavier blanket and new coat. But that would mean contacting the asshole for the first time in three decades. The man got rich and famous with his dumb science shit and never even thought to track Stan down and see if he needed help. He’ll freeze before he’ll talk to his brother again. 

He needs to get out of this cold. He can probably swing another glass of whisky at that bar if he skips a meal tomorrow. The longer he can stay in the warmth of the bar, the better. He pulls his hood over his head and power walks back to the establishment. When he gets there, the door is locked, but Marty is still inside, seated at a table and scrolling on her phone. He turns around when the door doesn’t open for him, but she unlocks it for him.

“Everything good, buddy? It’s after hours,” she calls to him. He enters the bar and she closes the door and locks it again.

“I was hoping you’d still be open. It’s damn cold on my boat. Don’t think I’m getting any sleep tonight,” he explains. 

“Well, I can’t let you stay here when I leave. Can’t risk you robbing the place.” She thinks her options over. “There’s a shelter a couple of miles from here.”

“Nah, forget it. Thanks for tryin’.” He tries to leave again, but she puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“There’s a room in the back with a bed. Remember that there are cameras if you try to rob us.” She leads him past the employees only door to a small room with a single bed and a few boxes left there for storage.

“Ya ain’t gotta do this, kid,” Stan protests.

“Don’t make a mess, alright? And no helping yourself to the booze.” She ignores his pushback and starts to leave.

“Hey, Marty?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” She gives him a salute and walks out, closing Stan’s door behind her. He lays down and stares at the ceiling. This simple gesture by this young girl has to be the first nice thing anyone has done for him in years.

Marty sits in her car and contemplates what she’s done. Trust has never been one of her strong suits, so she surprised herself by letting Stan stay in her bar unsupervised. There was something about him. It’s hard not to pity a man whose life is in such a state of disarray that he’s forced to spend any amount of time in her town. She feels that the effects of her one drink have worn off enough for her to drive home.

Though her family home is across the street from the bar, she doesn’t want to spend too much time with those people. The ten mile drive to her studio apartment is worth the peace it offers. She thinks about Stan through the drive. She’s almost tempted to pay for repairs to his boat in exchange for hitching a ride anywhere but here. She parks in her designated spot, next to the car of the neighbors she always hears fighting through the walls. They’re even going at it when she walks through her front door.

She rips off her work clothes and flops into bed in her bra and panties. She’s going insane here, and Stan's presence really brought those feelings to the surface. She’s sick of the human waste around her. The awful marriages and the town drug epidemic and all the teen parents throwing away their chances at college. The blinding light pollution and the abandoned structures crowding the streets because most businesses can’t survive here. She needs to get Stan out of here before the place swallows him like it does everyone else.

The yelling next door gets worse. They’ve done this nearly every day since Marty moved in almost two years ago. The thread finally snaps for her. She shoots up and starts banging on the wall she shares with the couple. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I’ve had it with you people! Get a divorce if you hate each other so much!” She screams.

“Mind your own business, bitch!” The man yells back.

“You bastards keep everyone in this damn building up every night!” She bangs harder. She hears both of them swear and barrel out of their front door. They begin banging on her door.

“Come out and say that to our faces, bitch!” The woman yells.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Marty hisses. Unless she wants her neighbors to bust her door down and lose her deposit for her, she won’t be able to keep them locked out forever. She isn’t going to be able to stay here tonight. She tosses her essentials into a duffel bag and throws an ex-boyfriend’s oversized t-shirt over her underwear. Then, she snatches a small canister from her desk. She takes a deep breath, swings the door open, and blasts the neighbors in the face with pepper spray.

“Dammit! You bitch!” The neighbors clutch at their reddened faces and stumble around blindly, trying to grab Marty. She slams her door shut and dashes past them, straight to her car, and books it out of there. She’ll have to spend a night or two at her parents’ place.

[ievaxol]

no one can unring this bell

on good days, the creaking hardly bothers him.

'tis simply part of the daily routine to draw from the well of his aether and breathe life into his limbs again upon waking, to close his eyes through the initial panic of being pinned to the bed by dead weight and then the secondary, slower burning one of that dead weight being attached to him.

it took a couple of years, but he got the hang of it eventually. for all the theatrics of his youth, g'raha has discovered a pragmatic streak that runs deep within him.

he'll trade an arm for a settlement, half a leg for a child with eyes the color of lakeland -- he'll barter, give and take and move the pieces he has with lips pressed together and eyes cast to a future that may well lay hundreds of years ahead.

his own body is merely another resource at his disposal. he sits down with stacks upon stacks of books on anatomy to find a way to have the aether penetrate all the way out to this fingertips, not for himself but because the dexterity is needed in order to fight.

lyna smothers him in salves and ointments and he lets her, if only so she can feel needed. there is no need to tell of an itch that goes deeper than skin, not when she frowns in determination and sets his heart to bursting with affection.

on bad days, it does bother him.

those days he lets the sleeves drop a little lower and he stays in the tower if he can, both relieved and sickened at the familiar hum of aether that cocoons him.

relief at knowing he'll be able to move the way he wants. that he'll be able to fool himself into thinking there is nothing wrong with him so long as he doesn't look upon himself and see the tattered remains of his dress branded into the mockery of flesh provided by the tower.

nausea at the calculations that perpetually run in the back of his mind, reminding him of the fact that his body is no longer his. how many ilms of skin does it cost to save a life? what limbs would he trade for the crystalline mean? does he have the right to grieve himself?

it would probably do him well to remember that the tower isn't sentient as such, yet he can never shake the feeling that it hungers for more. some days it feels as though he has placed himself in the maw of a starving beast that is simply waiting for him to grow a little more before its jaws snap shut.

and time is notoriously not on his side.

on the worst days, the creaking is all he hears.

when he's called out on extended business, or another summoning attempt falls flat, or someone dies, or, well --

it's so loud those days. the scrape of rock against rock, slow and relentless. it is inescapable, too, as his chest heaves with every breath he takes and the crystal moves with it, groaning and cracking like a live thing.

the warmth is siphoned first out of his skin and then out of the very air, leaving his teeth chattering and lyna's face engraved with a silent worry that he's scared will grow permanent, and he wants to weep at how the one supposed to protect her ends up hurting her the most.

every swallow is a struggle, every step a fight. the seams of his transformation cracks and bleeds pain until he's half delirious with it, overcome by the need to claw his way out, out, out of his own body and the prison it makes.

it's basic survival instinct after all, to run away from what's killing you. and here he is. walking toward it, sprinting some days, as if he truly can't wait.

he has a thousand things to do and a hundred places to be, and yet all he is capable of is humming under his breath to try and drown out the never ending sound of his own corpse being puppeteered.

a small prize to pay on the grand scale of things but gods.

gods does he long for silence.

[softly-potter]

White rose in Bloom Event - Day 6

Day six for WRW🌹hope you like this one!

@whiterose-fans-blog

Prompt: First kiss

Word count: 610

Warning: none

-

Ruby presses the back of her knuckles to her mouth, trying to slow her breathing as she watches Weiss brush out her hair.

Their last night together before Weiss goes back to Atlas, and yet Ruby had still not felt the timing. She’d dreamed of kissing Weiss for years, and now that she had the chance, she’d frozen every time.

“I think I'm all packed.” Weiss says, pulling Ruby from her thoughts. Blinking, Ruby drops her hand from her mouth, nodding quickly.

“G-good, that's good.” She replies, and Weiss raises a brow.

“Ruby, come on, are you still nervous about moving back with Tai?” Weiss asks, puts a hand on her hip. “I’m sure he’ll let you be just as independent as you are now. Trust me, when it comes to the dad department, you’re winning.”

Ruby smiles and settles on her haunches in front of her own bag. She had been packed since earlier this morning, her comic books settled nicely on top of her clothing, but she nervously double checked it anyways.

“Nah, I know,” Ruby says with a grin. “He’s the best.”

Her heels clicking on the wood floor paneling, Weiss walks across their dorm and sits on Ruby's bed, crossing her legs at the knees. “Is something going on? You know you can tell me anything right?”

Ruby looks up at her from her crouched position and finds Weiss beaming.

“I know, I-” Ruby swallows, standing straight before sitting next to Weiss. “You just make me nervous.”

Weiss lets out a laugh that sounds like the twinkling of bells. “Me? No way.”

“Yes way,” Ruby giggles. Weiss places a hand on her shoulder, fingers chilly before leaning close and pressing a chaste kiss to Ruby's cheek.

It could be friendly.

It could mean nothing. But Ruby is about to lose Weiss for the summer and she can’t let it slip by.

As Weiss begins to pull back, Ruby moves forward and presses her closed mouth to Weiss’. Weiss freezes, her hand clutched to Ruby’s shoulder, until her lips soften and she kisses her back.

Heart hammering, Ruby drops her chin, her lungs expanding before looking up nervously. Weiss’ eyes are wide, and she presses her hand to her mouth.

“That-”

“I’m sorry-”

They speak at the same time, and Ruby swallows thickly, nervous energy in her veins until Weiss’ face cracks, and she lets out a small laugh.

“What’re you apologizing for?” Weiss muses, scooting forward. “I’ve been thinking about that all semester.”

“You-” Ruby splutters, her face hot. “You have?”

Weiss rolls her eyes and cups the side of Ruby’s face, her thumb skimming over her chin. “Mhm. Now come back here.”

Closing the distance, Weiss kisses Ruby softly, her mouth smooth as her tongue runs across the seam of the other girl's mouth. Ruby hums in weak surprise, grabbing Weiss' wrist as she turns her face, relishing in the feel of Weiss against her.

It's soft and faint, Weiss’ tongue massaging Ruby’s in slow tandem. She tastes like sweet cream, her mouth plush and when she moans, Ruby feels a pull in her abdomen.

After a few moments, Weiss pulls away, scarlet painted on her pale cheeks, and it takes Ruby a few moments to remember to breathe correctly. Beside her, Weiss’ scroll buzzes and she swears as she reaches for it, her eyes rolling once she’s read the message.

“It’s my sister, I gotta go,” Weiss hums, and she grabs Ruby's hand, giving it a squeeze. “But… I look forward to doing more of that when we come back. Okay?”

Ruby smiles, squeezing Weiss’ digits and wishing she never had to let go.

[rogersideup]

Nice to be Kneaded

Chapter 6:

Sunflower

Series Masterlist

previous part: Absdoughlutely next part: Beautifully Natured

Word Count: 5,150

Warnings: My blog is 18+ only. All minors or blogs without an age in bio will be blocked. Minors DNI. Descriptions of injuries, mentions of blood, anxiety, and domestic abuse.

"Hello!" Your favorite voice bounced off the walls all throughout the quiet and empty bakery after the sound of the bells above the door chimed.

"Hey, honey! I'm in the kitchen!" You called out, a sickeningly delightful smile smeared across your face as you could hear his foot steps quickly approaching.

Since you we're facing away from the doorway, busy peeling and chopping apples on the big stainless steel countertops, you felt him before you saw him.

Steve's big arms engulfed you from behind as he peeped at what you were up to from above your head. "What's cookin' good lookin'?"

You laughed at his question before setting the big, freshly sharpened knife on the cutting board and ripping off your vinyl gloves. "Well for now it's just apples, but hopefully in an hour or two it'll be a whole tray of apple crisp bars ready to go for morning rush."

"Well it already looks delicious" He commented with a lopsided grin as you tossed the gloves into the trash for an opportunity to give him a proper hug.

You wrapped your arms around each other and lingered there for longer than an average hug, but who could blame you when he smelled so nice and held you so close and snug against his built chest. "They're just green apples, Honey"

"I love green apples" He stated as a matter of fact.

"Well today is your lucky day, because we have far too many so eat away" You released Steve from the hug and finally got to admire him.

It seemed as though every t-shirt he owned was one wrong move away from bursting at the seams, all while his legs just went on for miles and miles an-

"Soooooo, how can I help?" He asked, running his hand through his hair to pull it off his face.

"However you want" You smiled knowing that was his favorite answer.

If there was nothing blatantly obvious that needed to be done, he always found tasks that he loved to do. From organizing the cookie cutter bins by category in alphabetical order, to rearranging all the spools of ribbon on the long hanger to be in order of the color wheel, he always did it with a smile on his face.

At first you found it a little unnerving as if he felt pressured into needing to do something rather than just hang out with you, but after a few weeks of insisting, you finally understood he really did enjoy keeping busy any way he could. Anything that could occupy his hands and mind kept him one step closer to sanity.

"Ohh!" He lit up. "Can I finally fix that light in the bake case?"

He's quite literally been begging to fix it ever since he noticed one of the tiny lights in the bake case had been out. It wasn't enough for a customer to notice, nor was it a dire issue so it kept getting pushed to the back burner. It also wasn't as simple as just replacing the bulb, there were screws and wires and some weird metal pieces attached to weird plastic pieces...

"Be my guest, I know that would make you so happy"

"Just think of how beautiful your apple crisps will be in the morning under all of the lights, rather than all of the lights except for that one that's been out for weeks!"

"What would I ever do without you, Stevie?" You giggled as you snapped on a new pair of gloves to continue your apple chopping. "The bake case would be so dull... much as every passing day"

"Ugh, you're so lucky to have me." He joked with a sigh. "Screw driver?"

"Tool box is in the supply closet, very top shelf, back left corner." Your smile prevailed. "Did you lock the door?"

"Yes ma'am, and closed the blinds."

"Wow, at this point you're my best employee."

"And don't you forget it" Steve threw you a casual wink before disappearing into the lobby.

The light was an easy 15 minute fix, well, it would've been about five had he not lost a screw that took 10 minutes to find but he would never admit that. As he was finishing up, he heard what was almost a hissing sound coming from you in the kitchen, followed by clanking as if something had been dropped onto the metal countertops.

The sounds piqued Steve's concern, so he closed the case back up. But as he was walking back to the kitchen, he heard your little voice call out to him.

"Steve?" It was shaky and scared, something he had never heard from you before. Needless to say his walking pace turned into a jog, and when he made it through the doorway he saw you holding your hand in the other.

Your face was white as a ghost and your eyes were spacey, but the closer he got he noticed you were squeezing a bunched up paper towel to your hand and slowly swaying. He looked over to your apples to see a red puddle and the knife where it shouldn't be.

He recognized that glossy facial expression, he had seen it millions of times before on battlefield and training rooms. So he offered you a comforting smile as he approached to keep a hand on you. If you were about to pass out, he would be there to catch you.

"I um..." You started, but you couldn't quite get the words out without your internalized panic becoming very, very external. "Was cutting- then the knife slipped and I...caught it..."

"Are you okay?" He rubbed your arm as all his extensive first aid training from his days as an Avenger came flooding back to him.

"Bleeding" You stated, blinking your eyes as fuzzy darkness started to overtake your vision in invasive swirls. "A lot."

"Feelin' dizzy?" He questioned gently.

"Very." You nodded.

"Alright sweet girl, let's get you sitting down." He encouraged. You took one wobbly step before Steve stopped you in your tracks. There was no way you were going to make it to a chair by the will of your own two feet. "Okay I'm just going to pick you up."

You nodded in agreement and he swooped you into his arms like a rag-doll. You didn't even feel the need to hang on in case he dropped you, you just focused on keeping firm pressure on your hand as he took you to the front and set you down on a padded booth.

"Can I see it?" Steve questioned as he squat down in front of you. Once again you nodded and slowly pulled the paper towel away from your hand to reveal a nice slice right in the cushioned part of your palm beneath your thumb.

He inspected it the best he could but there was too much blood to even see what was going on beneath it, and when you curiously took a peak at your own hand, the black fuzzies invaded more of your vision.

"I think- I think I'm going to pass out." You mumbled.

Steve's eyes met yours in an instant when you admitted that, and he saw your ghostly white complexion had turned into bright pink cheeks and your head barely standing still. He pressed the paper towel back into your palm to block your injury from your eyesight.

"It's okay, lay down. Deep breaths." He reminded you, and assisted you on a slow and careful journey downwards on the booth. He reached over and grabbed a throw pillow from one of the lounge chairs and slipped it under your head. "Where's the first aid kit?"

"B-bathroom." You mumbled.

"Keep putting pressure on this, I'll be right back." He told you, guiding one of your hands to the other so you could firmly press them together.

You tried your best to stay awake even though you had to fight through the tunneled ringing in your ears and you lack of ability to see anything beyond the dizziness. However, you did hear his feet moving quickly around the store and the hand washing sink running.

Less than a minute later he was back and sitting on the floor in front of you, and setting down everything he had grabbed. You looked down to see him snapping on some gloves that barely fit his big hands, along with a whole roll of paper towels and both first aid kits. The calm expression on his face reminded you of exactly who he was, and what he did for most of the years of his life before he even met you.

"Here, take a few sips of water." He instructed you, cracking open a cold plastic bottle he took from the drink fridge. You did as you were told before placing the cold bottle against your hot cheeks as he sandwiched your injured hand between his two. "I'm going to see what I can do with what I have here, okay?"

"Do I need stitches?" You asked.

"I don't know yet, but I'll try my best to avoid that." He grinned before pulling the bloody paper towel off your hand. "Did you wash this already?"

"Ran it under water" You sucked in a breath as you felt gushes of thick warm liquid as he left it uncovered. Having not learned your lesson the first time, you looked again. "Oh my god..."

"Don't look at your hand, look at me." He advised you as he wiped away at the blood. It really wasn't stopping or slowing down at all, so he sandwiched your hand between his again and held it with firm pressure from both sides. "We're just going to hold hands for a while."

His reassuring smile as his eyes met yours made you feel like you could breathe again. "Well this is nice."

"Walk in the park" He agreed. "Does it hurt or can I squeeze harder?"

"Harder is okay" You agreed, so he did. It was just enough to feel your hand throbbing in his hold but not enough to cause more pain than you were already in.

"So, how was your day?" He questioned nonchalantly, trying to pull your mind away from your hand in attempts to calm you down. Plus he knew he needed a good amount of pressure to stay there for a little while.

"It was fine-busy." You answered shortly wanting to cut to the chase. "You're like, medically trained? You can give me stitches?"

"I'm trained enough to stop bullet wounds from bleeding out, and I've given stitches more times than I even remember." He reassured you. "But I have nothing here to work with, and I don't know enough to medically decide what kind of stitches would be best for this. If you need them, the best hands to be in will be a doctor's" He explained.

"Does it hurt?"

You worried eyes were killing him, but setting realistic expectations for what was to come seemed to be the best way you knew how to deal with your own fears, so he was happy to answer. "Another benefit of a doctor is that they'll numb you before. A few little shots around your hand and you'll barely feel a thing. It definitely doesn't hurt more than catching a falling knife."

You nodded with a gulp before an anxious, almost guilty admission slipped past your lips. "I'm really scared of the hospital. I know that probably sounds stupid to you but-"

"That's not stupid." He shook his head. "Most people only find themselves in a hospital when a bad thing happened to them or someone they loved. It's easy to be scared of a place like that."

"I'd rather you sew my hand together with a needle and thread and no pain killers then have a panic attack by myself in the emergency room." You continued to express your fears.

It was apparent to him now that the panic in your voice wasn't necessarily over the injury itself, but the thought of having to seek medical treatment. His first words without much thought would've been 'you won't be alone, I'll go with you', but you were smarter and more thoughtful than him. Stepping into a hospital with cameras around every square inch of the building and high security would be like locking himself in a cell.

You could see his wheels turning, trying desperately to find a solution to ease your mind before he let go of the pressure on your hand to check in on the cut. "It does actually seem to be slowing down a bit, but it looks pretty deep. Even if it closes on its own it's going to keep ripping open." He sighed.

You could tell he was contemplating the most morally correct option. He could do this himself and it would be fine, or he could encourage you to seek medical help and you'd have a not so fun night in the emergency room by yourself.

"Please" You pleaded, tears pooling in your lash line. "Georgia hates me, I have no family here, and I don't feel comfortable going with any of my other friends. We both know you can't step foot into a hospital."

"Can I ask what exactly you're afraid of?" Steve questioned gently, one of his hands still squeezing yours while the other rubbed up and down your arm to try and comfort you.

"I had a lot of really bad nights by myself at Greenwood medical." You started, unsure of how much you actually wanted to confess because you hated the way people looked at you when they found out. But Steve, maybe he would be different. Maybe he wouldn't look at you that way. "My ex-boyfriend he... wasn't very nice. And going there just reminds me of all of those times I was there alone because of him and I just- I can't go there."

His eyes softened, and his eyebrows tried hard to hide his inward emotion but he was still sympathetic. There was not much detail, but he got it now. He was done asking questions until you were ready to tell him more, and he was going to make sure you didn't have to step one single foot anywhere alone tonight.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." He sympathized, still rubbing your arm. "I have a lot of first aid supplies at home, I think I can make it work. I have a few things we can try before I sew it up, but just in case I do have a sterile needle."

You quickly nodded, accepting his offer to play doctor for you. "I'll just clean up the kitchen really quick-"

"No" He giggled as you started sitting up. "You stay here and keep putting pressure on it , I'll clean up the kitchen then take you to my house."

"I'll be fine" you insisted, but as you fully sat up a whole new wave of dizziness hit you once more.

"Just stay here." He smiled, wrapping your hand up with lots of gauze and tying cotton wrap around it as tightly as he could. "I'll be right back."

He disappeared through the kitchen door way, leaving you to lean your head back against the wall and take in some deep breaths to calm yourself down. You could hear the fridge opening and closing, the three compartment sink running, and the contents of the sanitizer bucket being dumped out before he came back to you.

He handled you with such tenderness and care as he helped get you into the car and back to his place. You didn't really even have a chance to process the new environment you were in as he urgently rushed you up the stairs and sat you on top of the en suite bathroom counter with your hand dripping blood over the sink.

He started rummaging through the cabinet and advising you to look away once more before he snapped on a new pair of gloves and aided the best way he knew he could.

Through the whole ordeal he told you exactly what he was doing before he did it, let you squeeze his hand as he sanitized it as you both knew the stinging was going to hurt like hell, then at the very end he was just as happy as you were that a bit of super glue and some butterfly closure bandages saved you from that sterile needle he told you about.

When all was said and done, it was nearing 10pm and he could just see the emotional and physical exhaustion dripping off of you. So the second the final wrapping was secured on you hand and he knew you were on the road to a smooth recovery, he gently raised the back of it to his mouth and gave it an exaggerated kiss just to make you smile.

"All better?" He asked, your eyes opening to look at him when you felt his mustache tickle your skin.

"Thank you, Doctor Rogers" You softly smiled, not having much energy left. "Your services are greatly appreciated."

"It's easy to be a great doctor when you have a great patient" He admitted. "I'm sorry, I know that hurt. On a scale of one to ten, how much of an asshole do you think I am now?"

"Zero" Your smile stretched beyond what you thought was possible. "Far less painful than the alternative."

"Good, that's all I could've hoped for." He let go of your hand. "Are you okay?"

Though the question was played off as surface level, you knew what he was really asking. Instead of answering the question with a lie, or forcing yourself into the emotional intimacy of telling the truth, you simply stuck your arms out for a hug.

He didn't hesitate to step between your legs and let you lean forward onto him before he protectively wrapped his arms around you.

The two of you stayed there for a while, but he didn't mind one bit. He ate up every second of it considering human contact in the past year of his life was few and far in between before meeting you.

"Why do you have so much first aid?" You questioned with your chin resting on his shoulder, arms happily keeping him close.

"Nat, Wanda, Sam... they all know exactly where I am. If they need a place to hide away I just want to be prepared." He explained. "Just in case something happens."

"You're a good man, Steve." You told him confidently. Somehow, talking about your hard realities felt easier like this. Being so close yet not having to see the worried facial expressions of each other as you talk about it. "Does Tony know?"

"Yeah" his voice broke, almost as if he was whispering. "He knows Bucky is in Wakanda too. He knows I broke everyone out of the raft, and didn't do anything about it when he got the call. Even if he hates me, I think there's a part of him that understands why I had to do what I did."

"How is Bucky doing?" You questioned.

"They cured him" Steve told you. "I got to talk to him yesterday. He's doing good, but even though the winter soldier is gone he has a lot of healing to do."

"Does it make you happy when you get to talk to them?" You asked knowing how much guilt he held onto.

"It does, I get a lot of peace of mind. It seems like everyone is making the time to work on themselves. Do things they've always wanted to do but haven't gotten to yet because avenging got in the way." He explained as he relaxed into you once more.

With each honest answer, you found yourself wanting to be more honest with him too.

"How about you?"

"I'm doing better. I slept through the night last night- anxiety levels are starting to creep down. I feel like I'm starting to accept that Captain America isn't who I am anymore, and that's okay." His answer sounded genuine to you. "So, I ask you again. Are you okay?"

"I wasn't." You confessed. "For a very long time, I was in a very bad place. I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of never being able to move on from how he hurt me. But I got there, and I'm doing a lot better. It's just sometimes things happen that remind me of how bad it really was, and it makes me panic out of fear of feeling how I used to. But I'm okay now."

"Where is he now?" Steve tightened his grip on you, nestling the side of his head into yours.

“Arizona"

"Do you want me to drive to Arizona and cut off his dick?" Steve offered, earning a heavenly laugh from you.

"It's okay, all that drive time isn't worth three inches." You smiled.

He laughed right in your ear before letting out a sigh. "You're right, three inches is more embarrassing than nothing at all."

You slowly let go of him and leaned back against the mirror, though Steve didn't feel ready to stop touching you yet so his hands make their way to the sides of your thighs.

"You're so sleepy" He grinned, being unable to hide how adorable he truly thought it was.

"I've been up since 4 this morning, of course I'm sleepy." You agreed.

"I'm mad at you, by the way." He stated with a sigh, mischievously raising an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah? What'd I do?" You questioned, hyper-aware of his warm hands squeezing your legs.

"You make me enjoy your company so much that no matter how much time we spend together it's never enough." Steve explained. "And when you leave? I miss you. Why did you do that to me?"

"M'sorry." You apologized disingenuously. "What are you going to do about it? Call the police?"

"Mhm, report you for harboring a fugitive." He joked.

"How dare you?" Your eyebrows playfully furrowed and your lips tugged upwards. "Then what would happen to my stupidity handsome fugitive? I'm pretty sure he survives off of chocolate chips and almond croissants. He'd wither away without the bakery"

"He'd have to run far, far away. Find a new bakery in a different town and cry over how lame the almond croissants are compared to yours."

"How do I keep you from dialing 911?" You asked. "How could I possibly spare you from a dull life full of mediocre pastry?"

"It's simple, just stop making me miss you so much." He shrugged.

"I think that's something you'll have to work on within yourself, sweet cheeks."

"Bucky did always say I have quite the knack for becoming far too attached to the people around me." Steve explained. "But this? This was never supposed to happen. Not when I told myself I wouldn't trust anyone until I could figure out how to absolve my criminal status."

"Well told myself I'd never let another man sneak his way into my heart, but here we are." You shrugged, cheeks warming at your own words.

"Is that what's happening?" Steve asked.

"We're either living in a cloudy bubble of naïveté, or maybe we were both supposed to end up right here, right now." You sleepily let your thoughts spew out of your mouth.

You watched the well oiled gears in his brain turn and crank until he deflated. "I really care about you."

"But?" You asked, feeling your heart sink to your stomach.

"I'm going to have to leave one day." He reminded you. "I don't want to hurt you like that."

"I know that." You nodded as you took his hand into your non injured one. "But you've been on the run for almost a year now, Steve. That's a whole year of your life that you'll never get back just because you don't know where you'll have to go or what you'll have to do next. Tell me, how much longer do you think you'll have until you leave Greenwood?"

"I don't know." He whispered, trying to understand your point.

"How long until you're forgiven?"

"I don't know."

"How long until the world needs their Steve Rogers back?"

"I don't know."

"How long has it been since we've been dancing around whatever is going on here just because time is so uncertain?" You laced your fingers with his, and his thumb nervously traced stripes into the back of your hand.

"Since the moment I saw you." He admitted, cheeks glowing pink.

"It's been a long time. A really long time. Months" You reminded him. "Whether we have a whole life time ahead of us, or only five more minutes, I'd rather spend the rest of my time with you being genuinely happy instead of dully dancing around the inevitable."

"Are you going to hate me when I go?" He questioned softly. You could see the concern smeared across his face. The fear flooded his eyes and sunk his eyebrows, he really couldn't handle one more person he loves hating him.

"Nothing could make me hate you." You denied. "I understand that this can't be forever, and that's okay. I just want it for now."

His free hand made its way up to your hair before gently pulling the strands that didn't quite make it into your ponytail away from your face and behind your ear.

Thoughts were firing out of every corner of his mind and ricocheting off every surface they could. It caused a chaotic sea of emotions, and paralyzed him with lack of words as the only outcome he could think of in this moment was closing his eyes and leaning forward hoping you'd meet him halfway.

And you did. His hand traveled along with your movements, caressing the side of your face as your soft lips met his.

The kiss was long, gentle, and sweet. Both of you couldn't remember the last time butterflies filled your stomach that didn't involve cutting it really close in hand to hand combat or just barely escaping a man that wanted to do you harm.

Most people loved to offer unsolicited advice when they learned of the situation with your ex. They all advised you, butterflies aren't some romantic feeling that was meant to sweep you off your feet, it was anxiety warning you to run.

But this, this was different. They were calm, slow flutters that made you feel so warm and relaxed that running wasn't even an option. You were more so melting into his hands like a popsicle on a hot summer day, you felt like the chunks of butter atop a crumble in the oven; slowly melting and turning a good thing even better.

When you mutually pulled away because the unfortunate human need to breathe was just too much, your foreheads and noses stayed pressed together.

"I think you're braver than me." Steve admitted, thou could hear the sadness in his voice.

"Why is that?"

"You've already accepted that this can't be forever, yet I already miss you even when you're right in front of me." His throat felt like it was closing, and his heart was slowly being ripped apart in his chest.

You kissed his lips once more, then again, and again. "I'll miss you too, but we shouldn't keep wasting such a good thing while it's right in front of us. Our time together is so precious, we have a chance right now to make the most out of it." He kissed you this time, then you continued. "Sunflowers still grow when the moon is out."

"I don't know if I would still be surviving this without you." The confessions wouldn't stop flowing passed his lips at this point. "I guess that makes you my sunflower in the dark."

"You'll make it home one day." You pulled your forehead off of his. "You'll be forgiven, you'll get your family back, and when it happens I'll still be cheering you on."

"I'll tell them all about Greenwood, and how I risked everything for a sweet little baker that catches falling knifes and hides away criminals." His sadness started to dissolve when he saw how yours never arrived.

It did, but you did a good job hiding it for the sake of his own mind.

"I'm not hiding away a criminal, I'm hiding away my best friend. Big difference."

His smile stretched impossibly wide. "They'll never believe me, by the way. All of them will make jokes about it until I find my way back to you and they see it with their own eyes."

"If that's the case, you'll need to fill me in on what kind of desserts Avengers like to eat because I'll have to win them over somehow." A yawn took over the end of your words.

"Do you want me to walk you home?" Steve questioned.

You shook your head. "Don't want to miss you that much."

"Okay, then how does Cars 2 and some real cuddles this time sound?"

"Like a dream come true." You smiled before taking another opportunity to steal a kiss.

"Come on, let's get you cozy." He offered you a hand to help you off the counter.

You both changed into some cozier clothes after he found you a shirt and some sweatpants of his that might've had a fighting chance at staying on your body. It earned a good laugh when you had to roll up the waistband a few times and tie the drawstring tight, but your efforts to still look a little cute in a super soldiers clothes were diminished when his shirt swallowed you whole.

Although Steve's clothes looked much better on him, you couldn't even begin to deny how comfortable you were as you slipped into his bed in his surprisingly well decorated bedroom and found yourself wrapped up in him once more.

"Tomorrow I'll help you change the bandages on your hand and drive you to work." He exclaimed while running his fingers through your hair that was now out of its ponytail and flowing freely.

"That's some real princess treatment." You drowsily mumbled, soaking in his body heat.

"I'm pretty sure that's the bare minimum of human decency." Steve challenged.

"I told the girls that I got injured at work and that I'll be going in late." You informed. "We can sleep in."

"Good, you deserve more than 12 hours between workdays."

"Nobody in the entire world would be able to wake me up before the sun if this is what I'm falling asleep to." You smiled as your eyelids were forcing you to keep them shut.

"I'm happy to have you here" Steve kissed the top of your head.

"I'm so happy to be here." You reaffirmed. "Goodnight, honey."

"Sweet dreams, Sunflower."

Next Part: Beautifully Natured

Tag list: @patzammit @bemysugarbean @buckymydarlingangel @happinessinthebeing @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @differenttyphoonwerewolf @themotherof10 @lokislady82 @talesofadragon @spikeluv84 @xxxalicerogersxx @avid-fic-reader-05 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bitchy-bi-trash

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

Hello Beloved 💙💙

1 and/or 28 for the soft prompts if it sparks joy ✨️

The soft, sultry croon of Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet filters through the kitchen, its gentle and heartrending notes caressing the floor and cabinets and every inch of Buck’s skin.

Buck hums along as best he can, letting the vibrations settle in his bones and sweep him away, the combination of sounds turning into a collection of sparkling orange and deep maroon and rose gold inside his chest, painting his flesh with the same feeling and colors of the setting sun, whose final touches spill through the window above the sink.

He never feels more settled or peaceful than when he is here in Eddie’s kitchen, preparing food for his boys and listening to the jazz playlist he reserves solely for cooking.

Buck isn't sure why, but the syncopated rhythms, husky timbres, sharp pitch changes, and the raspy voices of jazz artists like Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald, and Miles Davis, always heighten the cooking experience for him. The sounds of it rattle pleasantly through the room and his veins, grounding him and allowing him to focus solely on the task at hand.

He joins in with Gillespie’s crooning, softly singing, “Swing love, sweet cadillac, comin’ for to carry me home,” repeatedly under his breath as he brings the edge of the knife down swiftly, slicing through pieces of carrot, potatoe, bell peppers, and squash in a steady, soothing rhythm.

The music carries him through each movement, weaving into his muscles like vibrating threads that tug him from place to place, his hips swaying with the beat and feet gliding across the floor as he deposits the chopped vegetables into the chicken stock simmering on the stove.

A soft laugh breaks through the music, skittering through the air, reaching out for Buck like the winding tendrils of a plant’s roots or the final rays of sunshine that kiss the horizon. It’s a sound Buck cherishes, the dips and valleys of it tattooed on his heart, held dearly in the very center of him. A sound that at times was hard won, only breaking past gritted, bloody teeth when Buck reached inside and yanked it out, but now it falls easily from lips curved in the shape of love and fondness, spilling out freely and genuinely like pure, clear water from a spring.

Buck turns around, guided by the sound of that laugh and the thread that connects him to the person it comes from.

Eddie is leaning against the frame of the entryway, arms and legs crossed, his body angled in a slant that has no right being as hypnotizing as it is. The lines of him are long and lean and strong, his legs lengthened by his position and the breadth of his shoulders wide, pulling at the seams of his white t-shirt in a way that makes Buck’s mouth go dry. He’s had his hands and teeth and lips and tongue all over every inch of those legs and shoulders, but it’s never enough.

He’ll never get enough of Eddie for as long as he lives.

Eddie looks like he’s been there for a while, comfortably settled against the wooden frame, his eyes dark and hooded, a lazy smile stretched across his face.

Buck huffs and leans back against the counter, eyes narrowing at Eddie’s form. “How long have you been standing there?”

Eddie hums and shrugs, tilting his head to the side and resting it against the frame. The corner of his lips twitch and his bottom lip pokes out a little bit, tell-tale signs that he is fighting off a smirk. “Long enough.”

“Well, you could have come in and helped me,” Buck grumbles.

That laugh flows out of Eddie again, light and breathless, not weighed down by anger or hurt. He pushes himself off of the entryway’s frame and strides over to Buck. “Sorry, babe,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all, “I just love watching you like this.”

Buck levels Eddie with an unimpressed look as he slots himself along Buck’s side, hand landing hot and heavy on Buck’s hip, thumb automatically dipping beneath the edge of Buck’s hoodie to stroke over his skin. A shiver runs through him, tiny trembles sparking in his cells beneath Eddie’s touch and spreading along his entire nervous system.

Eddie grins, wild and pleased.

Buck nudges him in the chest with his elbow. “What exactly do you love watching? Me slaving away in your kitchen? Doing my very best to provide you and your son with a hearty meal after a long day? You got a housewife kink I need to know about, Eddie?”

A sharp pinch to his hip makes Buck jump and yelp.

Brown eyes shine with mirth, a glittering darkness that is more dazzling than the night sky, as Eddie laughs bright and loud. Buck smiles because Eddie’s joy is the sweetest thing he knows, but he still slaps at Eddie’s chest in admonition. Eddie catches his hand and holds it against his chest, flesh and bone fluttering beneath their hands as his laugh dies down.

“You’re such a little shit,” Eddie says, his nose scrunching the way it does when he’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “Though, the thought of you in a little dress and dainty apron is rather compelling.”

“Mmm, yeah?” Buck steps in a little closer to Eddie wraps his arms around his shoulders, linking his hands together behind Eddie’s neck. “I’d look good in any dress, but definitely in a little one.”

Eddie’s hand slips from Buck’s hip to the small of his back, settling into the slight groove there with an intimate familiarity, his fingers curling into the fabric of Buck’s hoodie. Buck’s soul sighs in relief and sings with the first sparks of pleasure as Eddie presses against Buck’s back, exerting just enough force to pull Buck into Eddie until there’s only a few inches separating them.

“I don’t doubt it.” Eddie leans in and nudges Buck’s nose with his own, a sweet brush of skin, a kiss so serene and intimate that it makes Buck’s knees weak. “You look good in anything, baby.”

Buck slides his nose along Eddie’s then shifts his head until he’s nosing at Eddie’s cheek, giggling a little at the scratch of stubble. He kisses that beautiful curve and feels the slow smile that spreads across Eddie’s face, blooming underneath Buck’s lips like a flower coming to life on the first day of spring.

“You keep flattering me like that and I’ll go find the daintest, laciest apron I can find and wear nothing underneath. Really make those housewife dreams come true.”

Eddie huffs and shakes his head, dislodging Buck’s lips which were dragging across his cheek and jaw.

When Buck pulls away to look at Eddie, happiness is painted across his face bright and vivid, but there’s an edge of seriousness that makes Buck pause.

Eddie sighs softly and gives Buck a crooked smile. “Not housewife. But husband sounds pretty good.”

Buck’s breath hitches in his chest, the air that keeps him alive rattling around in between his heart and breastbone, fluttering around like hummingbird wings.

“W-what? Eddie, are you–”

“Not yet,” Eddie rushes to say. “But, would you–I mean, is that something you would be interested in?” A tiny grimace pulls at his face and even though awe is dripping through Buck like spiced honey, he can’t help but laugh and drop his head so that their foreheads are pressed together.

“Is that something I’m interested in?” Buck parrots back.

Eddie groans. “Shut up. I’m not great at this.”

“No, no,” Buck reassures, dropping a quick kiss to Eddie’s lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs.

Eddie hums and pulls Buck into a deeper kiss, licking into Buck’s mouth quick enough to grab a taste, but not staying long. Buck whines into Eddie’s mouth as he pulls away, pushing his lip out in a small pout just to hear Eddie’s laugh, but also because he’s a little disappointed that the kiss didn’t last longer. Kissing Eddie is one of his top five favorite things to do and if he had his way, at least twenty-two hours of the day would be spent doing just that.

A sweet peck is placed upon Buck’s pouting lips as Eddie places both of his hands on Buck’s hips and moves them away from the counter, guiding them into a gentle swaying motion set to the slow rhythm of the music still playing in the background.

Buck tightens his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and shuffles along with him, tucking his face into Eddie’s neck as they dance through the kitchen.

“So that’s a yes?” Eddie asks quietly.

The sultry jazz music spilling from Buck’s phone has nothing on the lilting melody taking residence in his chest, something bright like the sun and sweet like honey and bubbly like champagne beating in his blood and marrow, all of it blending together to sing Eddie Eddie Eddie.

“Yes,” Buck murmurs against the skin of Eddie’s neck before planting a kiss there. “That is a yes to you eventually asking me to marry you.”

Eddie’s laugh is quiet this time. Buck doesn’t hear it but he feels it rumble through his own chest, a piece of Eddie’s joy sinking into him, and he hopes it weaves itself into his DNA, a part of Eddie forever held inside Buck, more beautiful than the music they are dancing to and more colorful than the sunlight bathing them in its warmth.

soft prompts

also on AO3

[pants-magic-pants]

I've done a final fitting for the costume pieces before they get all their bells and whistles... For those who have not worked with velvet before, I must caution you by mentioning that your pieces will all be slightly smaller than you planned, because the fabric needs to fold back from the seams, and cannot do so as flatly as lighter fabrics. That being said, I had to adjust my outfit to deal with a slightly higher up coat than I expected, and yeahhh... it made my legs look very long. I'm like a sailor moon character. 😂....

[blueicequeen19]

Fools Gold

Warnings: dub-con, bullying, drinking, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, overstimulation, oral, bondage, the works

Part Two

I smirk at him over my beer bottle. He couldn't do anything around all these people. Not without giving him and his group away. Everyone on the island thought the gold was just a rumor but I knew it was real. And he sure as shit didn't want his friends to find out that his portion was missing. Well, stolen.

I down my beer, never taking my eyes off him from across the room. I could feel the tension and the anger radiating off him in waves. His friend Pope was chatting away but JJ didn't even acknowledge him.

Just then, there's a massive strike of lightning out over the water. It lights up the whole beach. A moment later there's a boom of thunder and the lights go out. Screams erupt all over the party and I take that as my cue.

Chaos was erupting everywhere and I knew JJ would seize this opportunity to get his hands on me. JJ was nice until he wasn't.

I turn, pushing past people the best I can but everyone is in a panic. I get shoved hard just as I spot the back door and an arm wraps around my waist, hauling me down the basement steps. I scream but it goes unheard over the other commotion.

"Get off me!" I scream, kicking and screaming as he hauls me further into the dark room. It was eerie down here. I instantly break out in chills. A moment later a door opens and he throws me onto a futon, shutting and locking the door behind him. Then he shoves a chair under the door knob. trapping us in here. JJ turns slowly, the darkness casting an even more sinister look over his handsome face. I'd fucked up.

"Where is it?" JJ bites out, jaw clenched as he glares at me, unblinking.

"Let me go and I'll go get it." I counter but he shakes his head, pulling the bandana out of his pocket and making a show of rolling it up into a makeshift rope.

"We're not leaving until you tell me where it is." The threat in his voice sets the alarm bell off in my head. I scramble to get off the futon but he's too fast. He quickly pins me on my stomach, his knee pressed into my back as he forces my hands behind my back and ties them together. He makes it so tight it burns. My shorts have ridden up so far that I have a wedgie, my cheeks no doubt hanging out because he pinches each one, making me yelp, then slaps them. My clit throbs with each slap. I try not to moan but I can't help it, arching my ass up for more like a cat in heat.

"Is that what you want? You want me to fuck it out of you?" JJ fists my hair, yanking me back on my face and knees and pressing his clothed erection against my ass. I'm panting and moaning, unable to control myself. Why did I love this so much? Being manhandled, tied up, and having my choice taken away? I wasn't a submissive person but for this.. I'd submit.

JJ yanks my shorts up higher, bearing more of my ass to him and the seam presses perfectly against my clit. I rock back and forth, my face buried in the cushion to hide my humiliation over how badly I wanted this. He could do whatever he wanted. I wouldn't break. A slap lands across each cheek and I yelp as my clit throbs harder.

"Such a whore." I hear him mumble, his large ringed hands kneading the flesh of my ass to eliminate the sting. Then he slaps it. Again and again.

"You're a pussy." I pant, baiting him for more. He growls, slapping me harder until tears fill my eyes but my clit only pulses harder. He yanks my shorts and panties down in one go, immobilizing me with my thighs trapped together. Then I feel him lift off the futon and he grabs one of my ankles, yanking me to the edge. I look over my shoulder in time to see him shirtless and he quickly binds one of my ankles to the metal bar.

"JJ." I squirm, unable to use my arms or my legs like this. I had to turn my head just to breathe and I couldn't hold myself up without help.

"Speaking of pussies, look at the mess you've made. Is this for me?" JJ sits on the back of my thighs and spreads my ass cheeks to examine me. My body heats with embarrassment all the way to the tips of my ears.

"Stop it." I growl and he laughs.

"Make me." JJ taunts back, then he pushes one long finger inside me. I moan, my eyes falling closed as I try to rock back against him but I can't. I can only receive, not take. I'm at his mercy.

I growl in frustration at his teasingly slow movements. I needed more. I needed hard and fast. I needed to cum like I needed to breathe.

"Please." I whimper, his thumb swiping over my clit just enough to make me jerk.

"Awe, you're begging already. How sweet." I wish I could smack the smirk off his face, even if I can't see it. He holds that one finger still inside me as his thumb presses against my clit and I try to buck him off.

"Fuck you." I seethe, wiggling my hips to try and escape him. He laughs, slapping my ass and groaning when he feels me clench around his finger.

"You're so responsive. Fuck," JJ rasps, slipping his finger from inside me and moving enough to flip me onto my back, my hands trapped beneath me. "You want this."

"Jesus Christ, you filthy thing. You're dripping.” JJ moves above me, his eyes lingering on my lips for a moment but he doesn't kiss me. I watch as he licks his lips and lowers himself to kiss my collarbone instead. I groan when he roughly tugs my top and bra down and takes his time sucking each of my nipples into his mouth.

"I should fuck you." His voice is low and thick with desire, his erection digging into my waist as he bites and marks my skin. I arch into him, my pussy throbbing so hard I could cry.

Please, fuck me. Please.

"I'll fill you up so deep with my cock you won't be able to breathe. You won't be able to do anything but just take it. And judging by the way you're trembling and grinding against me, you'll fucking love it." I whimper at his dirty words, wanting everything he's threatening me with. He moves lower until he's face to face with my pussy, my free leg thrown over his shoulder as he settles down on his stomach.

Please touch me. Please. I'll do anything.

"So wet. So pink." He blows on my clit and I buck my hips, tears in my eyes. "So ready."

"Stop. Please just stop. I can't take it." I cry, my desire now painful between my legs. My pulse was throbbing in my clit.

"You don't want me to do this?" I gasp when his tongue meets my clit, my eyes damn near rolling back into my skull as pleasure erupts.

"Or this?" My clit is sucked into his mouth and I make a noise I've never heard before, arching into his mouth just as he releases it.

"How about this?" I shake uncontrollable as he flicks my clit rapidly then trails his tongue down to my entrance and plunges inside. Just when I think this is it, that he's going to let me have it, he stops and bites my inner thigh. Hard. So hard that I scream and my orgasm is lost.

"You fucking asshole!" I cry, trying to move my leg so I can knee him in the face but he doesn't let me move as he smiles wickedly at me.

"Tell me where the gold is and I'll let you cum." JJ flicks his tongue out against my clit and I grind my teeth, hating him in this moment.

"Like you could get me to cum." I taunt, breathing rapidly as I decide to flip this around.

"Yea?"

"Yea. I've heard about you. The smallest dick on the island." I feel his body stiffen and his hands dig painfully into my thighs. I wince but I keep going.

"I've heard how girls only come around you to get close to John B." I stare at the ceiling, feeling his body raise to his knees between my still parted thighs.

"You might be pretty but you'll always come in second to John B. He's who the girls really want to fuck." I hear the clink of a belt and then he's shoving inside me, his chest suddenly pressed to mine and stealing my air. My neck arches as he bends my free leg and fucks me savagely, the futon scraping against the cement floor. I'm given no time to adjust to his size or girth and it burns but fuck. I love it. I'm so wet I can hear it as our bodies slap together over and over again. My head is hitting the metal frame of the futon but I couldn't care less. JJ suddenly lifts up, hitting a new angle inside me as he pinches and slaps my tits until I finally cum with a silent cry, barely able to breathe. Pleasure fills every fiber and every pore of my body and I feel myself grow more and more wet. My arms are numb, my back hurts, but I don't care. My pussy is pulsing and filled and I could die just like this. I didn't want him to ever stop. I suck in a breath, ready to cum again when his hand tightens around my throat and takes away my air. Just as everything goes black and I'm sure I've passed out, he lets go and I cough, gulping down air as my body convulses.

"Nothing else to say?" JJ taunts, pulling out long enough to flip me over onto my stomach and collapsing onto my back and hands as he starts to fuck me again. I open my mouth but I can't do anything but moan incoherently, still disoriented from the lack of oxygen.

"Sorry, what? I can't hear you over the sound of you creaming my dick." He fists my hair, yanking me back onto my face and knees as he keeps going, his pelvis slapping against my ass so hard I know I'll be sore for days.

"Does this feel like the smallest dick on the island?" JJ growls, his hand diving beneath me and pressing down hard on my stomach. Which is exactly where I feel him. My body tightens and I cum hard, shaking uncontrollably with how sensitive I've become. I start to sob, my body buzzing with electricity. I couldn't stop cumming. He needed to stop before I had a heart attack and died. I'm suddenly yanked against his chest, his hand around my throat as he buries himself deeper and deeper, giving me no chance to catch my breath.

"Tell me where it is." JJ growls into my ear before trailing his mouth down my neck and to my shoulder., biting and kissing

"I-I." My body tightens and my head falls back against his shoulder, he pinches my nipples hard until I'm right on the edge, my mind starting to unravel.

"I should pull out and leave you like this. Humiliate you like you've humiliated me. Maybe I'll invite my friends down here to have a turn." I open my mouth to scream as an earth shattering orgasm hits me so hard my knees give out.

But he's there to hold me up and slaps a hand down over my mouth as he curses and fucks me through it. I swear I black out for a second because I come to on my stomach and his warmth running down my butt cheeks. My hands are untied and so is my ankle before I'm quickly flipped over, no regard for the mess we've just made on this persons futon. JJ grips my chin as he glares down at me, his pupils blowns and his hair stuck to his face from sweat. I wanted to taste it.

"Tell me where it is." JJ demands, making my jaw ache.

"I-It's gone." I whisper, exhaustion threatening to take over my mind and body. I needed to get out of here and go home.

"What?" JJ bites out, shaking me.

"I spent it. It's gone."

[biorust-art]

From one bag to another!

Hey yall, I just recently made Ashton's black side pouch for cosplay and uh, turns out it's relatively easy! You just need a few extra materials and nerves of steel for cutting into your official cr dice bag.

Tutorial under the cut! but ofc if there are any questions, just let me know. Image Descriptions tacked onto the images.

Material list: - CR Dice Bag (I used Ashton's cus i bought the dice and was like, woah the insides are purple just like they're side leg pouch! oh dang!) - Seam Ripper - Cloth the same color as the leather (or not! but you will need some cloth for the back.) - Purple and Black thread (I am assuming yall have a sewing machine, if not this will take longer, but it's not Not doable) - Needle -Seam glue/ Fray glue if needed - Snaps/ buckles/ whatever closures you want to use -Extra chain (though you can probably also use ribbon, embroidery floss or whatever else you have on hand.)

1- First step is carefully cut the seams using a seam cutter. This process does need to be exact if you're going to keep as much as the fabric viable to use.

2- Second step is iron everything out. The leather melts easily so please put something (cloth) over it to stop that from happening.

3- cut the fabric. The approximate end dimensions for the finished bag are: 5.5in x 4.5in x 1.0in OR 13.9cm x 11.4cm x 2.5cm Which mean you will cut the leather side into 4 parts.

Do Not Cut the one with the CR logo if you want to it decorate the front.

Look at the purple squares in the pic above. Do Not alter the width of the leather pieces, instead cut so you have two 1.5in (3.8cm) long pieces and one 3.75in (9.5cm) long piece. There Will Be Extra Leather Left Over.

Cut cloth in a 6in by 5in square (15.2cm by 12.7cm) (the extra .5in (1.27cm) is seam allowance)

4- Assembling. Look at the blue pattern I've drawn out above and lay out the bag pieces how they should be. Always sew with the right sides of the fabric facing each other. Sew the front/bottom of the bag (same piece) to the back, then sides to the front/bottom.

5- Add the purple/ contrast color/ lining of the bag. Determine where you want the contrast color to start (mine is a little less than 2in (5cm) away from the top) Sew the right sides together and then flip the fabric over.

Cut the excess so you have enough to hem (so the edges don't fray) (1in (2.5cm) or so, whatever you're comfortable with) and then hem it down.

You can do the same process with the sides, just be careful if you want the contrast colors to match up with the sides.

6- Sew the sides to the back, then the front. Once Again the right sides are together. I used a machine for this, but if the ends are too close, you can hand sew this in your preferred method (back stich, blanket stitch etc) And then you can turn it inside out and boom! bag looking thing!

7- Next up comes down to a lot of preferences. Hem the flap of the bag in the style you want (I put rounded corners in mine and messed up a bit lol) I have found the leather slips on the sewing machine and is a bit difficult! Be careful of this, go slow.

After hemming the top, you can use the round piece of leather to cut a strip (give or take an inch (2.5cm)) hem it if you want, sew it onto the bag with an X pattern if you want, you choose how you want the front of the bag to look.

I sewed on black snaps to close the bag.

8 - Add the bell's hells pendant. I used an extra chain I had laying around (in gun metal color to match) and simply sewed the chain onto the bag in a way I thought looked cool. Customize it! I imagine Fearne's bag would look cute with a peach ribbon, Laudna with some red string/yard etc etc! go ham.

this bag is going to be attached to my Ashton pants using more snaps but add more things if you want! Add a loop for a belt! etc etc.

I have never made a tutorial before so if there is anything unclear or missing let me know! and if you have tried this, show me how it went!