#design your own fleece

[tronform]

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[hoe4sports]

Our two little girls

Leah Williamson x reader

A/N: My first fic in ??? Idk, please go gentle on me as ease back into this whole world

Warning: mentions of substance abuse.

Summary: Finally getting to pick up you daughter Gracie from the adoption agency; you are met with a surprise.

-

“Well, hello little Gracie. Was someone too excited to take her nap?” you cooed, lifting Gracie up from the stroller. Gracie immediately smiled as you held her towards your frame, facing Leah. “Hello, my little girl” Leah said, tapping her nose.

Your social worker, Anita, was finishing up the last paperwork you needed in order to bring her home. Gracie was your soon to be adopted daughter, at only 2 months old; she was the biggest sunshine, always being happy and smiley. “Isn’t she just adorable, baby?” Leah said, touching your back softly. You nodded along, busy admiring her little toothless grin with the biggest bluest eyes and her full head of dark brown hair.

Gracie had been removed from her birth mom immediately upon delivery. She was a 25 year old woman struggling with extensive substance abuse. This was why it was decided by the court that she wouldn’t have her any maternal rights over little Gracie, even before the birth. On the other side of the case, were you and Leah. You had been introduced to the adoption process a year ago, and had just a few months ago been added to the list of approved parents. The match between you, Leah and Gracie had been immediate. A few visits with Gracie, and the social workers were convinced that this was the right fit for her.

“Alright mommies, this is sadly the only things she owns. Most of her clothes belonged to her foster parents, and they didn’t want to let the clothes go. Something about being ready for the next placement” Anita shrugged, clearly feeling a combination of annoyance and embarrassment. She handed the backpack to Leah, who gave Anita a sad smile.

“We have plenty of clothes at home for her. The family, they are so excited to meet her. Gifts has been delivered daily since we announced that we were hopefully adding a little girl to our family. My mom was practically swooning over her pictures because she only has grandsons” Leah said, trying her best to fill emptiness of the air. Anita smiled as she nodded and let out a relieved sigh. Leah reached for the diaper bag you had brought along with the stroller, pulling out a little pink fleece suit with bears printed on them. The suit was handed over to you, and you started putting her feet into the outfit making her look even more adorable than before.

“Have you gotten her room in place yet? It must feel exciting to finally bring her home” Anita smiled, looking over at you who had just managed to get Gracie’s suit on. “Yes, Leah painted two room just in case the newborn voices her opinion about the interior design” you giggled, teasing Leah.

Leah playfully rolled her eyes at you before shaking her head. She couldn’t believe how soft she had gotten even before Gracie was yours.

“Actually, I painted two rooms in case she has an opinion about the layout of our home” Leah corrected, making you let out a few laughs.

“Mama is being silly isn’t she?” You cooed at your daughter who by now was ready to leave, all dressed up as a tiny yawn escaped her lips. Anita smiled at you, admiration sparkling in her eyes. This was the part of her job that she loved.

“So, are we set to leave once we sign the papers? The car is parked next to the closes parking lot, so it’s gonna be a little walk. But we love being outside, so you will learn to love it ” Leah said, smiling at Gracie.

-

A few months ago, you had gotten the call on a random Wednesday. Initially, you hadn’t answered your phone as you were in the middle of a workout with you and Leah’s team. It seemed rather unlikely that you would receive a call only a few weeks after being officially approved as adoption parents. Your phone had kept ringing for an extended period, for so long that when Leah went to the locker room to change her shoes; she heard your phone buzzing in your cubby. Initially she hadn’t thought much of it, assuming that it was your mother or brother’s girlfriend that wanted a chat, but for once; her curiosity sparked.

That lead to Leah sprinting out of the locker room across the stadium in a frantic attempt to locate you. “Y/N! Your phone! It’s ringing!”’she shouted out across the gym earning a few odd looks for her teammates.

She made her way over to you even jumping over a few pieces of equipment before handing the phone over to you. “Hello, Y/N Williamson speaking” you said, moving away from the crowd. The woman on the other end was a social worker, Anita, who was letting you know that just in a few weeks; a little girl would be needing parents, and you seemed to be a good fit.

That day, you and Leah were excused out of training early. It had been a discussion, a short one, but a discussion about the timing in the whole of this. It was summer, and the baby’s arrival was to be scheduled around September. Initially, you wanted an older child. Ideally around 3-4 years old, but a call to your parents was all that was needed before you felt confident that this was right for you; both your moms promised to help out on game days until she was a little older.

After the decision had been made, you rang up Anita who made arrangements for you to be notified of the birth. The plan was for you to meet Gracie just a few days past delivery before she would go into foster care for a few weeks until most of the paperwork had been processed through.

Leah had immediately taken to nesting after the call was over, and made an executive decision to pick a paint for your daughter‘s room. 2 hours later, you walked out of the store with everything you needed in terms of painting and preparation with a mission to paint Gracie’s room soft pink.

The following day, Leah had the day off while you had some partnership meetings to attend. When you arrived home that evening, instead of one pink room; you had two. “I didn’t know if she’d like the room upstairs better than the downstairs” Leah shrugged, paint on her nose. “You are spoiling her already, darling” you said, wiping her nose. “Oh, our daughter is gonna be spoiled in all the right ways love” Leah followed up, kissing your cheek.

-

“Actually, there is just one thing I wanted to discuss with you” Anita said, as she sighed visibly upset. “There is someone that wants to say goodbye to her, and I understand if you don’t want that”. Leah shook her head “of course she can say goodbye, it must be hard for a mother to let go of her child no matter the circumstances”.

Anita shifted in her chair, as you held Gracie close feeling worried about what would happen if her mother wanted her back. The adoption hadn’t gotten through just yet, but you had gotten temporary guardianship over her. “Well, it’s just that it’s not her mother, it’s her sis-“ Anita’s sentence was cut short by a loud bang and a little girl tumbling into the room.

“No, I need to say bye to my sissy before she’s gone forever and then she will never remember me!” The little girl yelled, working to get back up on her feet. A young woman followed behind her, looking stressed.

“Paisley, I told you we have to wait. Please come back here” she huffed, immediately grabbing the toddler who broke out a pout. You and Leah shared a look, both feeling rather confused on the situation. Gracie who was still in your arms, was lifted over to Leah before you slowly walked towards the little girl. The little girl almost instantly hid behind the woman’s legs, feeling scared.

“Hi Paisley, do you want to came and say goodbye to your sister?” You asked squatting down infront of her. Paisley nodded slowly, chewing on her pointing finger. She looked up at the woman who gave her a nod, and Paisley practically threw herself onto you. Your arms wrapped around her as you stood up, carrying her over to Leah who was now situated in the couch.

“Are you her new mommy?” Paisley asked, peaking over at her sister. Leah nodded slowly, holding Gracie so that Paisley could see her. “Yes, we are both her new mommies. My name is y/n and this with Gracie is Leah ” you introduced, sitting down next to Leah with Paisley in your lap.

“Is her name still gonna be Gracie? My social worker said that often new families give you a new name” Paisley asked, gently reaching forward to touch her sister cheek. “Yes, she’s still gonna be named Gracie” you confirmed, feeling sad about how kids get their names stripped from them.

“Woah, she’s lucky! When Anita find someone that wants me, then she says I’ll maybe have to get a new name. I hope someone will want me one day too. Do you have parents?” Paisley asked curiously, now feeling more relaxed in your arms. “Yes, I do”, you confirmed.

Paisley’s eyes widened, “Woah! So Gracie will have a grandma and a grandpa?” She asked, touching her sister’s hair. “Yes, she’ll even have nephews, aunts and uncles” you expressed, the warmth of you family filling your heart.

“Gracie, you are lucky” Paisley sighed, withdrawing her arm back. She scooted down to the floor again, moving to stand in front of Leah. “She’s so cute” Paisley squealed.

You and Leah shared a sad look. A night with a few glasses of wine and a sad movie about siblings losing each other had led to a promise of never spilling a pair of siblings, ever.

“Hey Paisley, how about I put Gracie on the playmat and you can play with her for a little while” Leah suggested, urging for you to get up with her. Paisley nodded eagerly, sitting down nicely on the mat before Leah placed Gracie next to her.

Anita stood by her desk, slightly reddish in the face clearly embarrassed. Leah looked at you, and you nodded thinking exactly what she was thinking. The pair of you moved to Anita’s desk.

“Anita, we cant just spilt a pair of siblings”’Leah sighed, looking over Paisley who was playing gently with Gracie making her giggle. Anita looked at you with sad eyes. “I understand” she said, reaching out of the backpack that had Gracie’s belongings in it. “I’ll see if I can find a foster family that wants to take in Paisley, she’s been rejected multiple times and families has sent her back because she’s a handful. I cannot imagine finding a family who wants her and a baby.” Anita said, sitting behind her desk. Her hands moved toward her face, before rubbing her face in distress.

You looked over at Leah, who stood admiring the two siblings. Guilt crept up on in a way that made it feel like she was being eaten alive.

“Leah, we can’t let this happen. We already have two already painted rooms” you whispered to her, “look at them, they need each other” you pleaded.

Leah looked like she was on edge about the idea, close to boarding the ship. “Buy baby, it’s a big responsibility. What if it’s too much?” Leah whispered, reaching for you hand. “It won’t be, we have our families and our teammates that we can lean on for support”. Leah still didn’t seem on board with the idea, but by the look of her face; you could see how she by every smile and giggle that Paisley pulled out of Gracie, she was one more thought away from agreeing with you.

“Mrs.Williamson, it’s full understandable that you won’t go through with this adoption. I will find someone to care for the pair of them this evening, that’s why Paisley came here regardless.” Anita apologetically said and that shot a spark in Leah.

“Wait, Paisley doesn’t have anywhere to go? No fosters?” Leah urged, suddenly seeming more onboard with the idea.

Anita sighed again, “no, sadly not. I got a call last night to pick her up asap, but I begged them to give me until today”.

Leah bit her teeth together thinking of the little blonde begin shuffled around between families for ages.

“You know what? We’ll take her” Leah spat out, looking at them. Anita broke out in a relieved smile.

“Wonderful, you can bring Gracie home now. Bianca, please take Paisley out to the playroom” Anita asked, making you and Leah feel confused.

Paisley looked up at Anita and Binca. Her whole body shifted, suddenly seeming like the smallest most unwanted being on the planet. Her eyes started filling with tears, slowly moving to where Bianca was situated.

“No, we are cleared to both foster and adopt, right? Is there any way we can bring Paisley with us too? As a fosterhome?” You suggested, hoping that Leah wouldn’t protest it and that you had read her correctly.

“Foster with the intent to adopt” Leah corrected, instantly grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze. You flashed her a shy smile, hoping that this wasn’t something you would regret.

“Mrs.Williamson, she’s a handful. Lots of energy, and she has caused several homes to quit fostering” Anita ushered, trying to keep her voice down.

“Respectfully, we both work as professional footballers. I’m sure there is a way to make her energy work in her favour.” Leah expressed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well,if you are sure; that settles it. Would you like to break the news to her while I make some quick calls?” Anita asked, pulling up her phone. You nodded eagerly, excited to go from a two person family to potentially being four.

You looked over at Leah while Anita excused herself out of the room with Bianca. The two girls were back on the playing mat together. Leah grabbed your hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Last chance to pull out, baby” you whispered, Leah shook her head. “My two little girls, our two daughters” she whispered, familiarising herself with the phrase.

“Hey Paisley” Leah said squatting down in front of her. “Yes? Is it time to go already? I’ve barely said goodbye!” Paisley complained, standing up before crossing her arms with a big pout on her face.

“How would you feel about coming home with us and Gracie?” Leah asked, awaiting the young blondes response. Paisley looked up at Leah as she tilted her head to the right, her facial expression confused.

“Like coming to visit? Like a sleepover?” Paisley asked, clearly thinking about what it would mean. Leah smiled again, brushing Paisley’s hair out of her face. “Like coming to stay at our home with your own room, and then we can see if we are able to make it forever” Leah confirmed, awaiting the girls response.

Paisley’s eyes widened, eyes becoming glossier by the second before she shot up and launched herself around Leah’s neck. “Like, I can call you mommy just like Gracie can? Or is that just for Gracie? That’s okay, I don’t mind calling you Leah and Y/N” Paisley urged, bouncing on the ground. Leah looked over at you, still holding the young girls frame. There was a gaze shared between the two of you. Life was about to take an unexpected turn, but perhaps that unexpected turn was just what you needed. Perhaps Paisley was gonna be the missing piece to your puzzle.

“You could call us whatever you like, P”

[acis-arts]

I really love your art, the color scheme you use is so fucking soft it makes me want to eat it

anyway my narilamb design: swap version because why not if you do this only with pictures, or any other reason, feel free to ignore this request

narinder in this au is, indeed, a little stinky feral black cat. he was decapitated like the lamb, so he covers his neck, and also wears a white veil, though it only covers his eyes. his outfit is basically his god outfit but with long sleeves to cover his arms, since while we was a prisoner he used to eat his own meat to not die of starvation. he brings to his god "presents" (aka pieces of their enemies)

Lambert, god of mercy and revenge, has three eyes, and a flower crown decorating their head. their horns are extremely pointy, and their teeth too. they weared during their captivity a metal collar that was ensured to four chains keeping them on their knees. they wear a long red fleece decorated with white symbols, and tunic under it.

Thank you! :3

Your designs sound very cool! I hope I got close to the way you imagined them with my drawing.

[spoofymcgee]

She feels Hermes arrive more than anything; the flutter of his wings against her skin. He's picked her bad side to appear on, and she's not sure whether it's forgetfulness–doubts it, as Hermes is shrewder than he likes to appear, but usually more considerate as well.

He doesn't say anything, though, content to be a presence sitting next to her and another pair of heels kicking off the side of the cliff.

Ithaca has become something of a hotspot for gods these days, and she doesn't know whether it's because of herself or Odysseus. Telemachus, perhaps, finding wayward deities off on his journey and sending them home for her to deal with. If it is, she might have to shake him next time he comes back.

*He'd have been better as your student," Athena says, finally, once they've watched Odysseus fleece two more sailors cocky enough to challenge the king, and sneak four coin pouches, six hats and nine knives off the spectators in the process. He'll give them all back at the end, but he seems like he's enjoying the challenge, and Penelope sits a polite distance away chatting with the captains' wives and occasionally glancing over to grin at him.

"Who?" Hermes says, like the answer isn't obvious. "Oh, Odysseus? Darling, where in the world did you get that conclusion from? Does Persephone have a new sort of flower she's growing, and if so, where can I get some?"

"Don't be an idiot," Athena tells him, but it doesn't come out half as annoyed as she'd meant. Damn, she really is going soft. "I mean it. Look, he's perfect for you, and you wouldn't have led him astray like I did."

"Do me a favor and don't try and foist your pupils off onto me," Hermes says, checking his nails in the sunlight. He's been down in the Levant again recently, she sees; they're colored a faint orange with darker, intricate designs twisting up his knuckles.

"I'm not," she says, feeling the feathers framing her face ruffle in indignation. "He's mine for as long as he'll have me. I'm only saying, if things were different..."

"But they're not," Hermes says flatly, looking up at her. "We live here and now, dear. Besides, if he was my student he would have been even sneakier, and no one would have taken that well. He wouldn't have made it past the age of twenty, and he wouldn't have been brave enough or good enough to protect his family."

"You can't know that," Athena protests, though her hand drifts absently to the edge of her scar.

"And neither can you," he points out, pulling one foot up to tuck under the opposite thigh. "So stop trying. Odysseus is home, Athena. By the looks of it, you are too. You're not doing anyone a favor by living in the past."

She looks down at her hands, twisting in her lap.

"You're a warrior," he says, voice softening. "You've never given up in your whole life. Don't let yourself lose this battle just because you're fighting your own brain."

The breeze is cool on her face, and she grits her teeth as matching tears slip off her chin and land on her chiton. "Alright."

"Good," Hermes says, and hits the cliff with his heel hard enough to send him twirling into the air, sandals fluttering. "Now, take me to where the olives are, I'm positively starving." He holds his hand out like a princess waiting to have it kissed, the other wrist pressed to his brow with his head thrown back, and she can't help but laugh. He's kind enough to ignore how wet it sounds.

"We can't have that, can we?" she says, and launches herself past him fast enough to send him spinning, and doesn't need to look back to tell he's chasing her–the playful outrage is loud enough even for her to hear.

[minkieater]

spiderhead → yj

tattoo artist!yeonjun x fem!reader

smut mdni, cheating, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship wc. ~6k

the buzz from tattoo guns spread across the room as if there were a swarm of bees  — the shop was busy today. yeonjun’s mouth tasted of tobacco and menthol, his favorite combination, his index and middle fingers stained with the scent from years of use. he rain a hand through his hair, feeling the ends tickle his neck, before burying both hands in the soft, fleece lined pocket of his hoodie. 

he made his way over to his station, checking his tools, cleaning up the area so he could prepare for his next client. the steps whirled in his head as they always did when he fixed his area: wash his hands, put gloves on, sterilize his tools, cover his equipment, disinfect all surfaces. he loved this part, the organization, having everything accessible to make his art easier to complete. 

god, yeonjun loved his fucking job. just the plain idea of him drawing and coloring on people’s bodies, having his art stay there forever, it was magical to him. yeonjun knew in high school that he wanted to be a tattoo artist — he bought a shitty tattoo gun online, spent his weekends drunk in beomgyu’s basement leaving wonky doodles on his friends in places no one would ever see. at parties, people would beg him to whip out the tattoo gun, implore him to etch small designs on their skin on the big leather couch in soobin’s parents’ house. 

those nights turned into lonely ones spent in his bedroom, cross hatching lines into fake skin on his desk, shading with pointillism in designs he’d seen on pinterest, smoke from his lit joint dancing into the air of his bedroom. he had a year long apprenticeship at a tattoo shop in the middle of brooklyn when he turned nineteen, he tried college for a year when he graduated high school but quickly realized it just wasn’t for him. now, four years later, he was thriving: he was booked, he was busy, he was a real fucking tattoo artist and made real fucking money. 

he grabbed his phone to check the time before he started disinfecting, only five more minutes before his client was supposed to show. he scrolled his lock screen, eyes thinning when he read the notifications. 

v: did u turn the lights off before u left v: if my electric bill is high again just know you’re paying that shit

his lips pulled into a line, thumbs moving a mile a minute. 

yj: yes i turned them off yj: u dont have to remind me every single day 

he locked his phone and set it face down on the counter that ran along the back of the shop, packed cabinets filled with saran wrap, disinfectant and ink caps underneath. he shook his head, irritation flooding his thoughts, he’d left the lights on one time and now he’ll never hear the end of it. 

well over a year now, together but still not quite official — on and off but pretty much living together, yeonjun has spent more time in your bushwick apartment than he has at his own downtown. granted the shop was closer to your apartment than his own, but he’s always liked your apartment more, anyway. tall ceilings, funky art, maps and concert posters on the walls, a unique touch to your living space with your red lacquered kitchen cabinets and dark wood accents where his own looked cheesy and cheap in comparison.

two bedrooms, one full bathroom and a separate room just for the television and couch, yeonjun thought you were fucking loaded when he first stepped foot in your apartment. it had to be your parents paying your bills, or maybe you were a nepo baby – this is new york, after all – but as your relationship grew and he learned more about your occupation, how much you truly made between high commission and tips, he’d never thought a hairstylist could make so much fucking money. 

both of you in your careers, working full time with the public, both creative people that spend their days creating art that lives on people’s bodies. your canvases were humans, walking, breathing pieces of scrap paper that you drew on, painted on, poked, cut, shaded. the two of you related to one another too much in too many areas, on too many levels, so many conversations about people and their critiques, their wishes, their families, their stories. if you and yeonjun could do anything, it was talk. 

you’d met on your twenty first birthday, a little over a month after yeonjun’s twenty second. you and your girl friends and coworkers he later learned circled up on the dance floor with you in the middle, rolling your hips to the beat of the song, head tipped back in a drunken haze and a cocktail in your hand. he eyed you from the bar, thinking nothing of it other than the fact that you were a drunk twenty one year old about to be obnoxiously loud in his ear all night. he sipped his glass of whiskey, neat, tattooed fingers wrapping around the glass that dripped sweat onto his palm. 

the bar was hot, too hot for the outfit he had on — oversized black hoodie with the hood over his head, black pants, boots on his feet. he was dressed for early november in new york, layered to fight off the chill of brooklyn, not for whatever the hell was going on in his favorite bar. 

you approached him first, slurring over your words, tucking your hair behind your ear which was already tucked. you batted your eyelashes, your eyes glossed over in intoxication — yeonjun was not biting, he wasn’t interested in the slightest. he gave you a tight lipped smile, clinked his glass with your own and turned his attention away from you, a small gesture to say what you’re looking for is not me, keep it moving.

but when you strolled into his shop two weeks later as a walk-in and yeonjun had a cancellation, only then was he taking the bait, the bait you had no idea you were dangling from a hook right in front of his own two eyes. you didn’t seem to recall your interaction on your birthday, you didn’t seem to recognize yeonjun at all and that only made him curious.

you asked for a ruler along your index finger, two lines to show the public what two inches really is. he laughed at that, a small puff of amusement leaving his perfect plump lips just as the words left yours. 

“is that stupid?” you asked, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed in question but your eyes wide and he swore he could see them shine as you looked up to him. he was taken then, from just that one look in your eyes – he knew he was in trouble.

“not at all,” he said as she shook his head, smile still dancing on his cheeks, “it’s funny, i’ll take you back.” 

you sat down on the bench, yeonjun went searching for a ruler in the cabinets lining the back of the shop. you spoke mindlessly about your job as he searched, immediately telling him a story about a client you had a few days ago who wanted a balayage and not highlights but they couldn’t decipher between the two — they insisted on highlights when what they were describing was clearly a balayage. you spoke with such enthusiasm, your mouth running a mile a minute, words spilling from your lips just as fast as you thought them. 

yeonjun had no idea what you were talking about but he knew you were adorable — much different from when you first tried to pick him up at that bar. your eyes are bright, words controlled, movements sharp and alert. what did stay the same was the confidence, your outward extrovertedness made it so yeonjun didn’t have to say much, just nodding and listening to your little story as he tried his best to keep his head on straight. 

“finger tattoos don’t last as long as they do on other parts of the body,” he interrupted as your story ended, finally pulling a small red plastic ruler from the cabinet to his left. 

you shrug, “i figured as much, my hands are in water a lot, too.” 

yeonjun sucked a breath in through his teeth, “that makes it even worse.” 

“so what, i have to come back and get it touched up, then? big deal,” your hands came up at your sides, shrugging altogether, “as long as you still work here when i have to get it touched up then it’s fine.” 

“already commending my work when i haven’t even done the tattoo yet?” yeonjun wears a lazy, teasing smile as he sits down on his stool, grabbing the arm rest for you to lay your forearm on. 

“who said i was talking about the tattoo?” yeonjun’s eyes shot up at you who was already wearing a smirk, his lips parted ever so slightly. he immediately cracked a smile, shaking his head as he looked back down to your hand. 

“that’s crazy,” he mumbled under his breath as he put the ruler up to your finger, then grabbed his pen from his tray to mark the inches. maybe you did know — maybe you were purposely dangling the bait, or maybe the two of you just had the same amount of interest in each other. maybe there was no bait to begin with.

“i don’t think it's crazy,” he didn’t expect you to hear him or respond, but it seems you don’t have a filter of any kind as you keep going, “you’re hot, i’m hot, we have a lot in common already.” 

“we have a lot in common?” he raised an eyebrow, looking up to you again after marking the second inch, he grabbed a different pen to mark the eighths. 

“we’re both creative, both work with the public, we have picky people as clients, have to listen to unrealistic expectations, both work in careers that aren’t super common — not common, maybe abnormal? or maybe i’m trying to say we can be abnormal because our careers aren’t super judgemental? appearance wise, i guess, whatever, anyways, we also both know how to talk to people, i can keep going…”

“so all we have in common are our careers?” he’s still playing along as he finishes marking out the lines, “how does that look?”

“looks good to me,” you say after a quick glance, barely an inspection of your finger, “pretty much, but our careers teach us a lot about ourselves. oh! and we can do art trades, i’ll do your hair and you give me tattoos.” 

“are you bribing me or pimping yourself out?” the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the smile that paints itself on your face feigns innocence, he’d save that look for his sketchbook later tonight.

“maybe a little bit of both. are either of them working?” you cocked your head to the side again, swinging the feet that hung from the bench ever so slightly, careful not to kick anything in front of you. yeonjun had to reel himself in.

yeonjun had to be honest — with himself, and you — it started working the moment you stepped into the shop. you had no visible tattoos, a casual outfit on, sweatpants and a tee shirt that left just a sliver of skin between the hems of your clothes. your hair was done but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, you didn’t seem like anything special off first glance– in fact, you seemed the exact opposite of his type, the girls he usually went for. yeonjun was just as confused with himself as he was enamored by you. 

“i don’t know, i think you might have to try a lil’ harder,” he faked a deciding face, eyebrows scrunched as he moved back in his stool, ushering for you to stand up. he looked at your finger from all angles, analyzing it as you stood to the side, lifting your hands, flexing your fingers as you stood. he was happy with his sketch, his outline, he was more then prepared to freehand a couple lines. 

“you should let me try harder over some drinks if the tattoo comes out good,” your eyes were trained on your hand as you followed his instructions, moving your hands into every position he asked for. 

yeonjun laughed at that, “if the tattoo comes out good? what, am i the one picking you up now?” 

you shrugged as he ushered you to sit back down, “you might be, i’m trying to find out.”

he nodded with his lips pursed, folded into a frown that wasn’t exuding any sort of negative reaction, more impressed than anything. “fair game.”

your tattoo came out flawless, the lines he free handed onto your finger came out straight, perfect in thickness. as easy as it seemed, you knew the talent it took, the patience and a steady hand needed for such precision. after you paid, tipping him generously, your flirting returned with vengeance.

“i think we hit it off if i’m being honest,” you smiled, showing all of your teeth to the black haired man behind the counter, “do you have anyone else after me?” 

he shook his head, “you’re my last, i had a cancellation.”

“oh my god– do you believe in fate? yeonjun, i think that’s what this is, i’m being so serious,” your eyes were wide, eyebrows shot up, smile wide. excitement bled from you, your veins, you were nothing but honest. so shameless, not a thought in your pretty little head that he’d reject you – he wasn’t sure if you’d care if he did. 

he laughed, something he seemed to do too much during your entire service, his head hanging low in front of him before he picked it back up, looking at you who was already staring expectantly at him. “i don’t, but maybe if we go get drinks you can change my mind.”

you raised your fists, “i’ve won.”

the bar was halfway to your apartment, almost smack ass between the tattoo shop and your place. you’d been there before with your girlfriends, once or twice since your birthday – you could finally join in on the fun. yeonjun was dressed in all black, you’d soon come to find out he was always dressed in all black, and he never looked like he got enough sleep. you seemed so bright next to him, with your hair and your clothes and the plush keychains attached to your purse. you looked like total opposites, when you knew you had much more in common than what meets the eye.  

that one night bled into the next year of your lives – something he was not expecting after your first interaction. it’s not like he’s never had a client try to bag him before, but something about you was different, it drove him insane that he couldn’t put a finger on it. he was used to playing games, always the winner, never the loser. he was used to confusion, being stuck in the inbetween, the gray area that sometimes came with relationships, or lack thereof. with you it was so straight forward, a slippery slope, not a hole he dug himself into but instead a well, one full of water, full of life. he never wanted to stop drinking from it, gulp after gulp, chugging until he was so full he thought he might spill over. 

the spilling didn’t come until six and a half months in. your first two months were every man’s wet dream – he had every inch of you, every fistful of perpetually iron-curled hair, every corner of plush skin burned to memory – on every surface of your apartment and his. 

in yeonjun’s past relationships, he never seemed to be the problem. if anything, he was the victim.

small fights to massive blown out arguments over petty shit, staying out too late with his coworkers at his favorite bar to beomgyu stealing him for a night out clubbing, missed texts and phone calls to going MIA for three days. yeonjun never seemed to understand what the issue was – petty arguments were never his thing, he’d rather stay silent than give into whatever the fuck his current plaything was yelling about this time. so what if he stayed out too late with his coworkers? he still came home. there’s no harm in a night out clubbing with his boys, she didn’t even know about the girl that was grinding against his dick all night, or the other one that had her lipstick smeared across his lips in the corner of the dark club. he went MIA for three days because his phone was dead, not because he had her number blocked. it was ridiculous, really, the things women would try and pin on him – yeonjun never seemed to think he was the issue at all. 

the thought never crossed yeonjun’s brain that these behaviors were learned, or that he could teach them to anyone else. he never thought that his pretty, bright eyed new girlfriend would turn into a different version of himself – if she did, he’d be grateful, he thought himself pretty fucking cool – yeonjun never thought any of his behaviors were bad, but when yeonjun got a taste of his own medicine he knew he met his match. 

he showed up at your apartment past midnight, drunk off his ass, clothes oozing whiskey, weed and burberry her. he let himself in with his key, the one you gave him after three months in, the one you told him to use whenever he wanted. he called out your name, searching from room to room, but you were nowhere to be found. he’d never shown up to an empty apartment, there’s never been a lack of you, cuddled up in a fuzzy robe, either under your duvet or sitting on the couch watching reruns of your favorite drama. yeonjun was confused, his dazed head couldn’t think up a proper reason for your absence, he decided to do what he absolutely fucking hated to be done to him. 

he called you about thirty six times, texted you about forty two times. he also left four voicemails, not one of them nice. 

he sat there on your couch – after a much needed shower, a bottle of water and a change of clothes you kept for him in your bottom drawer, he sobered up real quick. he felt more level headed, but he couldn’t ignore the anger that began to grow, a pit that sat heavy in his stomach: where the fuck were you? who were you with? 

you damn near fell into the room an hour later, keys falling to the floor after you ripped them out of the door. you giggled to yourself, your heels in your hands, fingers curled into the heel of your black pumps. the strapless, sparkly scrap of fabric he could barely call a dress was crooked, your hair that was always purposely styled to perfection was a mess, your red lipstick was smudged down your chin. yeonjun’s seen this scene before, he’s done it, he’s lived it.

“who fucked you?” were the first words that left his mouth as he stood in the living room, oversized black clothes hanging off his frame like hade’s robes. the breath that left his nostrils was hot, burning his cupid’s bow, his jaw locked with his usually plump lips scrunched to a thin line. 

you laughed – you fucking laughed. “you’re a fucking psychopath, junie. i just came back from a night with the girls!”

yeonjun was not buying it – he stepped closer. the stench of alcohol was masked by dior sauvage, a smell he knew too well, a smell that drifted past him as you nearly pushed him out of your way. yeonjun was dumbfounded and raging, his eyebrows furrowed together, his hands held out in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with them. 

his girl, his only girl – well, other than the girl he made out with earlier – he couldn’t fathom the thought of someone else’s hands on you, being so close to you that you came home smelling like him. he followed you to the bathroom.

you were already stripped down bare – no bra and no panties to be seen on the pile on the floor with that thin scrap of fabric, yeonjun couldn’t collect his thoughts fast enough, his rage was creeping up his spine, sitting in his stomach like food poisoning, threatening to come out whether he wanted it to or not.

“you’re lying,” was all he could get out as you brushed through your hair, putting it in a tight knot atop your head, a small smile still sitting on your cheeks. he didn’t sound angry enough, his voice wasn’t stable, his feelings weren’t enough to give his voice ground to stand on. 

“no i’m not,” you said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like your words were the honest to god truth. you turned to him, your best innocent look paired with that award winning smile, “wanna shower with me? or did you already when you came home from the club?”

yeonjun had a full body reaction, his eyebrows furrowed and his face scrunched up in disbelief and shock, for just a moment there he thought he might be insane. did he make that up? was the dior he smelled just remnants from being with beomgyu earlier? no, no he showered, that was all you. he was not insane. he stepped closer. 

the smell of a shower he’d taken just an hour ago filled the room, the body wash that you always used was the only scent he could decipher. he took a breath, “you fucked someone.”

“i think you might still be drunk, baby,” you wore a fake pout, raising your right hand to run your thumb across his bottom lip, “happy anniversary, by the way. six months!”

that was the start of everything – his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend was buried somewhere, six feet deep in wet soil, replaced with something akin to a fucking monster. when yeonjun first met you, you had told him you had so much in common, yeonjun didn’t believe it, didn’t see it. he thought the two of you were polar fucking opposites, yet he liked you anyway, liked that you introduced him to a new type of relationship. while yeonjun spent six months subconsciously teaching you his own behaviors, you spent the time purposely teaching him quite a few of your own. 

goodmorning texts to goodnight texts to facetime – yeonjun never did any of that shit before. yeonjun has never bought a single person a bouquet of flowers in his entire life. yet here you stood, his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend, in the middle of your salon surrounded by a herd of your coworkers with a bouquet signed ‘your junie <3 love you baby!’

his friends called him whipped, a simp, a cuck, every name in the fucking book because yeonjun adored you, and it was painfully obvious. you’d come to beomgyu’s garage, parading around in a mini skirt and your tiny little purse that yeonjun was sure only had lip gloss inside, getting him beers from the fridge and cracking them open, handing them to him with a smile and sitting straight on your throne: his lap. his friends adored you too, they couldn’t figure out what you saw in yeonjun – with his dark clothes, heavy tattoos that covered his body, bags under his eyes, black hair and too much metal through holes in his face. his friends were constantly flirting with you, getting you whatever you needed, they were the ones cracking beers and serving them to you, yet you were doing it for yeonjun. 

yeonjun was filled with pride, he loved it. a trophy they could look at but never touch. he’d never had this type of relationship before, someone so obsessed with him, someone willing to wait on him hand and foot, he slipped deeper and deeper into an emotion he’d never experienced before without even realizing it. 

the day he did realize it, that was when the true fun began, because while he was unconsciously slipping, swimming deeper into that well, you stood at the top, holding the rope, pulling bucket by bucket out of the well with that award winning, innocent smile etched into your skin. 

you weren’t kidding when you said you’d do art trades, even his coworkers knew your face by now, taehyun two stations down always offered his services when you sat down on yeonjun’s bench. you giggled and flipped your hair, saying why would i do that when my boyfriend’s a better artist than you?

god, yeonjun loved to hear those words leave your lips. it was a bit the two of you did, taehyun acted as if he was shot through the heart, a poisoned arrow slipping straight through his skin, and yeonjun could hear the sweet melody of your giggle through the shop. yeonjun has filled up one of your arms by now and half of the other– a garden, flowers, bees, butterflies, tattoos that were so undoubtedly you he couldn’t even make fun of you for them. he wouldn’t expect you to have anything else.

his favorite, though, was the YJ right above your hip. it was in yeonjun’s own handwriting, a doodle he marked on your skin for life, late at night after too many drinks – it was like he was in high school again. that was four months in. 

that night, yeonjun felt the closest thing to his entire world caving in on him – he needed to go. he stared at the scribble on your hip while his face was buried between your thighs, you were writhing above him, hands buried in his hair, you always looked so fucking gorgeous like that. instead of being focused on you, determined to push you over the edge like usual, yeonjun’s head was clouded – hazy. he wondered how a person he’d met by chance just a few months ago could become so important, so detrimental to his life, he feared he would be a shell of himself if you ever chose to leave him.

it terrified him. he’d never felt this way about anyone before.

before that night, your relationship was golden – yeonjun was something out of a dream, a hero, the prince in your story, you were convinced you’d spend your life with him. he was honest, he was smart, he told you everything that he had wrapped up in his complex, dark brain, and you accepted every word that came from his mouth, every thought that popped into his head.

when he left that night, hours after shoving a twelve gauge needle in your skin with ink the color of his hair, you didn’t stress. you woke with a panic, of course, where the hell did your boyfriend go? but after twelve hours of no response, a trip to his shop, a night spent in his favorite bar, hours bent over your ikea bed frame, you knew what this was. you recognized this fear, you saw straight through him, yeonjun wasn’t as masked as he thought himself out to be. you’d shared too much, you knew too much about one another for yeonjun to be anything but transparent. 

you paid attention. late nights, coming home smelling like another woman’s perfume, earrings that fell from his pocket when you did laundry, long and short pink and blonde and brown pieces of hair found around every inch of your apartment – you looked at the tattoo that sat above your hip, you knew there was no one else for you in the world. if yeonjun wanted to play the game, you’d play it too, you’d play it better. 

the first three or four or twenty two times you did it – yeonjun didn’t notice. you even sent him home in one of yeonjun’s tees, one of his favorites, one that you successfully convinced yeonjun he left at his own apartment. when he couldn’t find it there, it wasn’t your issue anymore – with half of your wardrobe in two different places, you’re bound to lose a shirt or two. 

it was only when you got sloppy, when you wanted him to notice, that he did. two months in, six and a half months after your relationship began, he’d caught you and you were so fucking close to convincing him that he didn’t. 

“we’re fucking done,” he was seething as you stepped out of the shower, wrapping a plush beige towel around your torso, no effort needed to keep yourself calm. 

“why’s that?” you continued to feign innocence, stepping in front of the mirror to start applying your skincare, not even glancing at the man who stood next to you, his hands balled into fists. 

“i know you fucked someone tonight,” his voice was stern, it was hideous on him. you loved the cool, calm yeonjun better – you loved your yeonjun, the one you spent endless nights with, looking through his sketchbook, where he showed you all of his doodles, his drawings, when he let himself be the most vulnerable. “there’s no use in denying it, v.”

“and what have you been doing for the past two months, yeonjun?” your head snapped to look at him, your voice matching his, cadence slipping into something more harsh, laying yourself bare for him. you supposed your time was up. his mouth opened and closed. 

“great,” his head dropped, low, sarcastic laughter slipping from his lips, “you fuck someone and blame it on me? project your cheating onto me?”

“there’s no use denying it, jun. have you talked to beomgyu? maybe you should ask him what he did after he dropped you off.”

you physically watched his face turn red – ears hot, crimson bubbling up from his chest to his throat to his face – you had to stop yourself from smiling. he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, and you slept like a baby. freshly fucked, coming down from a solid drunk, you felt brand new. 

it was a week before you saw him again – honestly, you were shocked it took that long. that gorgeous, long black hair that curled around his ears, peeked from the hem of his hoodie, you longed to touch it, feel it between your fingers. he looked like he hadn’t slept since the last time he saw you, his bags sat heavy, dark, in your entryway, key in hand. you wanted to take care of him, wanted him to get a good night’s rest – next to you. 

you sat on your couch, not a muscle to be moved in his direction, the two of you just stared at each other from across the room. moments went by, you’re sure maybe a full minute, then he was pacing towards you. 

“hello?” you asked in disbelief and concern before he was pulling you up by your wrists, smashing his lips against yours. his lips tasted of whiskey, neat, cigarette smoke, menthol. you thought maybe you were addicted to tobacco too from the way his mouth felt euphoric against yours, an old friend you’d missed. it’s only been a week but it could’ve been a year for all you knew. 

“you’re mine, you know that?” he’d asked between kisses, his mouth swallowing yours, his tongue stealing the words you couldn’t begin to think let alone speak. instead you nodded into his lips, fingers tangling in his hair, body forcing itself into his, you missed him. you missed his smell, his touch, the feeling of him against you, you missed everything. you never wanted to part from him again. 

he had you split open on the couch as he knelt on the floor, head between your thighs again, eyes trained on the YJ that sat on your hip. he hadn’t seen it in a week, his brand on you, his initials that were inked into your skin for the rest of your life – he missed being between your legs, missed tasting you, missed taking everything you had to fucking offer. he missed you, his other half, the monster he created, his comfort, his home.

yeonjun would be lying if he said he was willing to part ways with you, but he’d also be lying if he said he was willing to acknowledge to the full extent of what he felt for you. yeonjun felt betrayed, played, messed with, like you snuck into his brain and plucked every single thought out of his head and fucking warped it. god, he loved you. he was so scared.

he told you as he barreled into you, fucking you like he hated you, whispering those words in a choked breath over and over into the shell of your ear. he couldn’t believe he was admitting it, couldn’t believe he was saying those three little words – you’re different, you’re everything. he loved you.

the months to follow were dancing right on the edge, together, but not quite. apart, but were you ever really apart? every night, wrapped in your sheets or his sheets – always someone’s sheets, always together. you never discussed sleeping with beomgyu, yeonjun never brought it up again, he looked back at that moment in his head and all he saw was weakness, a time where he let you slip away – let you get away from him. you never spoke of it, but it was always there, between the two of you like a wall. 

that wall that stood between you was tall and rock solid, unlike the glass doors to yeonjun’s head, yeonjun’s thoughts, that wall of his was unbreakable – even when he came home smelling like burberry her again no argument in the world could pry that night out of him again.

you knew better this time than to try with beomgyu again, he hadn’t reached out since the night yeonjun left your apartment, you knew better than to try with anyone. instead of fighting fire with fire, you got distant, you spoke less, you asked less, you tried less. you became the ghost of his pretty, bright eyed girlfriend, one that had been to hell and back, one that learned from her mistakes. you became a reflection of yeonjun. 

yeonjun checked his phone after his client, only two hours had gone by, surprisingly enough. it was a solid first session for his client’s leg sleeve, but his bones were aching, his eyes sore from being focused for so long.

v: you left the fucking lights on

[joy-haver]

Last night, all the dockworkers of the East and Gulf Coasts stopped working, and declared that they won’t go back until they are promised a fair wage and stable employment.

I admire the courage, community building, and dedication that strikes like these require, and have the utmost respect for the organizers. If they win their demands, it will help raise the standards for workers across the board, make shipping safer, ensure easier transfer of products, and higher safety standards for workers and consumers alike.

As these companies fleece us of our wages and rob us in the stores, as poor and working class people do all the work while a few rich folks take all the gains, it is lovely to see some folks fighting back, and doing it at scale.

News outlets and fear mongers will say that this strike will raise prices. They say it will make your medication scarce, and formula hard to find. There is some truth to that. But it is also a narrative designed to make you spineless, selfish, and traitorous. The people telling you this do not care if you live or die. They don’t care about your medication. They only care that they don’t have to raise the pay of their employees. They only care that this might cost them money, keep them from buying a private island or a yacht.

Remember, it is not the dockworkers who are forcing this scarcity. The dockworkers know that if things go on as they are, scarcity will only grow. Wages will fall, no one will be able to afford the things that you are so scared of losing. Standards in shipping will fall, causing delays, improper storage of goods, and lost cargo. What they are doing is, in part, to prevent that.

Domestic supply of most necessities is high enough to withstand many months of strikes. Even if it runs out in stores, someone in the community probably has what you need. In times like these, using mutual aid efforts to meet our own needs and needs in our communities is a way we can stand in solidarity. Making baby food, sharing formula, distributing breast milk, converting school labs to medicine production, sharing stockpiles, these could save lives and ease the burden of the strike, letting the workers stand strong and without contention from our communities.

If you want this strike to end soon, the best thing you can do is show support to the dockworkers, lower demand on these goods, and put pressure on the bosses to accept their demands.

We can live in a better world. We just have to remember to be on each others team. The team of human liberation - not the team of corporate profit.

[kiwi]

I love Joe Cool Cat!! Question: did you use a particular pattern as a base or follow any specific set of design principles?

omg thank you for letting me talk abt puppets, i have been rabid

i followed this video to make the head shape and mouthplate (joe cool cats head is just flatter than the example, and i shaved down the jaw mouthplate a bit so that he has sort of an overbite, which left room for me to add fangs)

for the rest i winged it! its all stuff i found around the house so some of the materials arent ideal. the skin is felt which doesnt move well and makes him kinda stiff, so next time i definitely want to try fleece or fake fur

however the felt worked really well for the hands! its two flat hand shapes sandwiched together with a wire skeleton in between so theyre posable, like kermit the frog's. if you plan to make posable fingers though you should really use armature wire instead of random wire lying around like i did :( one of his fingers is broken already but it had a great grip before it busted. his other hand isnt attached to his vest at all, the fingers are just strong enough to hold it on his own! this leaves space for movement as the middle of his arm flaps around and makes him more lifelike

his body is just a simple rectangle of fabric made into a tube (like the sleeve of a shirt) and his arms are attached by safety pins so that they can be removed and replaced. the pins are hidden by his vest, which is also detached so that it can move naturally and allow for repairs. i learned that by looking at the notes from the jim henson team on display at the puppet museum in atlanta! :•) definitely a must visit if youre able

design wise, hes based on the vibes of the band The Stray Cats, especially their songs Stray Cat Strut and Nine Lives. id like to add more patches and buttons on his vest (the little pin he's wearing is made by covering a sewing button with fabric). the vest itself is a single piece with holes cut out for the arms because i was not about to follow a clothing pattern

things i would replace or do differently next time:

- more flexible fabric on the head. stiff felt doesnt work well!

- use stronger wire specifically meant for posing in the hands

- make the arms a little shorter and attach the pole by the wrist instead of the elbow. i wanted him to be kinda long and skinny but overdid it, and i thought i was clever by making the stick come out of his elbow. his movements look cool but hes tricky to maneuver, especially when trying to raise his hand to his face (arms too long and the stick often gets in the actual puppeteer's way)

- try using a little less hot glue and a little more sewing for ease of movement and repair

anyway yeah ive been super into learning about this stuff lately and im working on a blinking puppet next! i might be doing a small puppet show next month if i finish the other members in joe cool cat's band. if anybody has questions or wants to talk puppets dont be shy pls! im already talking my roommates ears off about it lol

[the-universal-sun]

humbly begging for more little stanley content

Sorry for the late reply! Things have gotten ahead of my lately. I’ll try to post quicker and more often!

-When Little, Lee likes wearing soft and baggy clothing. He likes having the ability to just bury himself in an oversized sweater when he’s playing, napping, or feeling bad. He also likes to flap the arms of the sweaters if they’re long enough. He can entertain himself for so long doing this, Ford actually managed to capture a 10 minute video of Lee just flapping the arms, giggling when they sometimes softly slap his face

-It’s because of this that he has so many sweaters and sweatshirts from both Mabel and Ford. Mabel knits him sweaters that are 3x his size, and Lee LOVES them. And Ford loves how adorable Lee looks in them, just swamped in the soft fleece and yarn, the various designs their grand niece incorporates in the sweaters. His favorite sweater to see Lee wear is a handmade dark blue one with he various Cryptids they’ve seen while traveling

-Lee’s favorite sweater is gray with dinosaurs on it. Of course it was made by Mabel using fur given to them by a Come-At-A-Body in New Hampshire. Lee likes how soft it is, it’s the type of soft that keeps your warmth in but feel cool and velvety when touched. Lee loves to just rub his face on it to feel how soft it is. Plus, Mabel put the dinosaurs from his book on it, so of course it’s his favorite!

-Ford mostly buys sweaters for his brother, his knitting skills aren’t as on par with Mabel’s, and he wants them to be perfect before he gifts his handmade sweaters to Lee. So he practices by making little sweaters for Poindexter and Shanklin 2. He tries to make them matchy-matchy with Lee’s sweaters, but they don’t always turn out that way. Lee loves the sweaters for his stuffies though!

-When he regresses, Ford will help him pick out a soft sweater to wear, and then Lee will make him help pick out sweaters for his toys. And then Lee will pick out a sweater for Ford, too! He needs to make sure they’re all nice and cozy in those cold Arctic Waters. If he’s feeling especially little, he’ll drag out the biggest sweater he has, it comes down to his knees, and just ball up inside of it while laying near Ford as he writes

-Ford has drawn so many pictures in his journal of Lee playing and dozing in his sweaters, he divides them between keeping them in his journal and putting them in a scrapbook. Sometimes he takes pictures to send to Dipper and Mabel, who (even though Dipper denies it) always eat it up and save the photos for their own scrapbook and journal

-For Lee, nothing beats curling up to nap in a sun spot, a big sweater pooling around him and keeping him all snuggly, his big brother’s arm curled tightly around him, keeping him close, and his stuffies tucked tightly into his arms

[aclowntiny]

Hihi

I’ve been thinking of requesting something for a while and saw ur recent post which reminded me to. Congrats on 400! ☺️

I’d like to request a meeting pirate!Ateez reaction, or if you’re not vibing with that Ateez sharing clothes with their s/o (either s/o wearing their clothes or them wearing their s/o’s clothes, I think both are cute!)

Thanks so much for your work and no pressure at all! Your stuff always makes me happy when it comes up on my timeline 🫶🫶

Thank you so much sweetie! Yes, I’m so glad you requested ☺️ that makes me so happy to hear you don’t even know 🥹🥹🥹💕💕💕 I love this idea so without further ado…

(I’m sorry for how delayed this was! The other one will just be on a separate imagine hehe 🏴‍☠️)

Ateez Sharing Clothes With Their S/O

Hongjoong

♡ Oh you know this man will lend you anything out of his closet you need to complete your look 👀 If you’re down for it, Hongjoong would enjoy being the one to dress you just to admire how amazing you look and hope you see it too! Every time he dresses you he tries to balance things he wants to see you in, your own style/tastes, and of course including at least one piece of his!

♡ Seeing you in his jacket? Heaven. You are not accepting any jackets from any other men, only his 😤 but don’t worry he’ll smile so big and give you heart eyes the whole time he drapes it over you, handing the other member’s jacket back.

♡ The more pieces he lends you, the more you appear outwardly his, and that makes his heart go crazy. He’ll get extra affectionate and protective, wrapping an arm around you and placing kisses on your cheek. “That looks better on you than on me,” he’ll tell you with a cheeky grin, sliding his arm around your waist.

♡ Slides a ring off his hand and onto yours 💗

♡ But also highkey if he likes a piece of your jewelry he may ask to borrow it!!! What, it would go perfectly with these shoes!

Seonghwa

♡ Some of Seonghwa’s clothes just become yours because he gives you his sweater when you’re cold and then lets you keep it 🥺

♡ Sweaters are his favorite because you look so cute and cozy in them! Especially if the sleeves are long on you and you do sweater paws, that’s just the cutest thing in the world to him! He’ll sometimes hold your hands through the sweater paws so you both get warm hands~

♡ Goofball steals a pair of your fuzzy socks one day because he likes them and you tease him that ew, don’t take those, now they’re ruined, but in reality the pattern just suits him more and he looks so cute in your fluffy little garments that you have to give him a kiss~

♡ You two basically trade pieces of jewelry, like he gets one of your favorite rings and you get one of his- it's yours and Seonghwa's version of swapping sim card trays!

♡ If you put on one of his shirts without him knowing, he'll come up behind you, arms snaking around you, and start teasing you. "Well, this is a nice shirt- where did you find this, hm?"

Yunho

♡ You didn’t know there was an upgrade to being given your boyfriend’s jacket but here we are: being given your boyfriend’s suit jacket.

♡ Yunho and you were attending a formal event and, well, he had a suit jacket and you didn’t, so when you got cold, he was draping you with designer formalwear of all things. You couldn’t help reaching up to feel the shoulders, smiling shyly. “You look great, maybe you should keep it.” Yunho winks, then laughs in spite of himself.

♡ You prefer his jackets, he prefers your scarves. What, they smell like you and are way softer than his big ol thick one?

♡ Sometimes you, instead of looking through a mess of clothing or just because you need a shirt, you grab one of Yunho’s button-ups and throw it on.

♡ Yunho.exe has stopped working. His hands will be on you faster than you can say Timbuktu 👀

Yeosang

♡ You got this huge fluffy wonderful robe drapey fleece cloud of a garment for bedtime when it was cold, and little did you know your boyfriend was going to fall in love with it.

♡ He asked to try it on, and the moment it covered him he pulled it tight, falling backwards onto the bed in bliss. Sure, you’d bought it for yourself, but Yeosang looked so cute, how could you say no?

♡ Compromise achieved: Yeosang wears the open-faced fleece wonder, you just lay on his chest and get wrapped up in it too 🩷

♡ You jokingly stole one of his sweaters as ‘revenge’, pulling it on to see how he reacted, if he fought you on it.

♡ Spoiler alert: he did not, only burst into a shy, loving smile and pull you into his side for a hug, telling you you’re so cute 🥺 you should’ve known with how much it takes to make him mad!

San

♡ Does that corny thing where he wraps both of you in one long scarf. You can hardly walk but it’s ok because San is so cute as he nuzzles into you from above the soft knit 💔

♡ You also wear his gloves a lot because you forget them so San throws an extra pair in his pockets just for you! His gloves are way softer than yours anyway.

♡ One day, you throw on one of his infamous muscle shirts and flex, both of you laughing but also…San’s lowkey blushing at the sight of you like that 🤭

♡ All of a sudden he’s stammering out ‘u-uh if you want that you can keep it. I mean it just looks really, really good and…’

♡ Since you liked his winter coat last season, he starts shopping for another in your favorite color and material so you can steal it. Smiles with such joy and pride as he drapes the garment over you, helping you into the sleeves, and you gush over how cozy it feels and how much you love it. Mission success.

Mingi

♡ You needed a shirt one day after swimming, so Mingi gave you an extra t-shirt. Joke was on him, though- you just wanted a Mingi shirt 😈

♡ The next time you guys hang out, you’re wearing it and his jaw drops at the way it fits your body, having not really seen it beneath the night sky and your towel the first time.

♡ Arms go right around your middle immediately, you are trapped in Mingi’s embrace don’t try to get out it’s impossible 😤 well ok it’s possible but then he’ll be sad 🥺

♡ Starts lifting it up slightly as if he thinks something different from usual is going to be under there lmao. Smiles so wide, loving, cheeky, and blissful all in one almost no matter how you react to that.

♡ You start surprising him by stealing his clothes and wearing them since you got such a good reaction the first time! Most of the time he just lets you keep them as long as he can get his hands on you~

Wooyoung

♡ Bro he steals your clothes

♡ Loves the way they smell! If you can’t see each other for any extended amount of time beyond, like, a few days or a week he wants something of yours to have with him because your scent helps him fall asleep. Also guilty of cuddling your clothes and pretending you’re there 😅

♡ He loves putting his clothes on you, especially tighter stuff from on-stage, and then telling you how hot you look in them! Buys you similar things to keep afterward even if you just wear them for him 👀

♡ Lives for corny couple outfits, so expect him to buy two of things so you can both wear it or give you something of his so that he can dress to complement! You'll probably have to stop him from straight-up just buying those corny shirts that say 'yours' and 'mine' or 'I'm his! I'm hers!' type of stuff because Wooyoung that's silly!!!

♡ You give him one of your favorite bracelets he's mentioned liking before to wear so he has a piece of you and Wooyoung just melts. Never takes that thing off unless he's showering or something. No other bracelets exist in Jung Wooyoung's eyes.

Jongho

♡ You guys are engaged in a jesting war over jacket custody

♡ He gave it to you one cold evening and you loved it so much, you joked about never wanting to give it back and he protested, laughing as you pouted, and you dug in your heels until you two were laughing like dorks over nothing. Now you two alternate wearing it a lot, but Jongho remains insistent that it’s his, you just take care of it.

♡ He steals and tries on a hat of yours one day, and as much as you laugh you think it suits him pretty well; suddenly the hat gets joint custody too.

♡ It may sound odd, but he gives you an old necklace of his he doesn't wear much anymore because he likes more traditional gifts like jewelry and then you'll have a memento of him! You're like sorry this is way less sentimental I got you a new watch lmao but don't worry, he needed one and he loves it 😊

♡ The one day you grab one of his shirts, though, something snaps in him and he can’t stop staring. You ask him what, starting to apologize for taking it, but he just shakes his head and holds up a halting hand. “No, don’t be sorry. I really like seeing you this way,” he says, eyes sweeping before meeting yours again.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [13]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader 18+ mdni - 6.4k words

The rumble of the convoy along your driveway is familiar. Never fails to turn you frigid. 

You have been here many times before. Waiting in the cage of your master suite, nose powdered and collarbones perfumed - listening in stiff silence as those vehicles rolled towards your door. Perhaps your husband, returning home from his business trips, expectant and eager for your soft company. Or perhaps his comrades, ready to leer at and accost you for your presence alone. You’d have to quietly gird yourself in the brief safety of your bedroom before you could face them. Deep breaths and self-encouragement. Just smile, you'd remind yourself, just be pretty and smile. 

Now, though, you don’t have the luxury of solitude, within which you could comfort yourself. You might have spurned the reticent Lieutenant’s presence in any situation but your own - yet he is now, fortuitously, your only shield. An impassive barrier between you and the swarm of sadists that encroach on you. 

Still you remain perched on the daybed, fingernails in your knees, head perked at the vibrations of the incoming trucks. You watch with your tongue in your teeth as Riley assesses the handgun in his palm, deftly popping out the magazine, flipping and inspecting, switching and reloading. Shoves it back in the black shoulder holster under his arm as he catches your eye.  

You find slight relief in his change of attire; now dressed as your protector as much as he purports to act like one. Wearing the thick black-and-navy fleece of your hired guards, the patch of their company emblem brandished on his chest. 

“You can’t talk,” you whisper, quiet out of an anxious habit. He tilts his head downward to hear you. “Remember, you can’t talk to them. You’ll give it away.”

“I won’t,” he replies bluntly, a grumble. “That means you’re going to have to do a lot of talking, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod cautiously. “I’m - I’m scared he won’t believe me.” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” When , he says. When you get to it. You hope it’s not a Freudian slip, a revelation of your inevitable discovery. 

"You're not going to be able to outgun them," you breathe, acknowledging that his only weapon is his nondescript handgun. 

He seems to find some amusement in that - releasing a huff of air as he turns to look out the open bedroom door. "Don't worry about that." 

You suppose he did, in fact, outgun the hundred-odd mercenaries that littered your estate - but in the dark and under stealth, he had surprise on his side. Judging by the sounds of the convoy, the many opening and closing vehicle doors, Sergei had a substantial retinue of soldiers in his company. You struggle to imagine Riley could overpower the quantity of armed men that you can hear piling in through your front door. His confidence may simply be fueled by a plan to escape and abandon you when things go awry. 

You hear their boots, too many boots, stomping with haste from every direction, from below and behind, near and far. The roar of an angered man echoes through the intestines of your mansion, carried up the stairs and down the hall; "Mia! Где ты?" Where are you?

With a deep breath, you glance at Riley for any indication of encouragement. He gives you merely a stiff nod. 

"Upstairs,” you call back weakly. 

Rapid in their climb, you listen to the marching as it reverberates down the hall - before you can swallow the fear in your throat three armoured men file into the master suite, long rifles raised and ready, they scan across the room in urgent inspection. 

In immediate pursuit follows the only man familiar to you - Sergei. In a doubtlessly designer puffer vest worn over his white button down, he bears a grimace of irate panic, creasing in his clean-shaven cheeks. 

"Пиздец." Fucking hell.

Glare landing on Victor's mutilated corpse, he coldly ignores you, steaming towards the body where it lies by the bed atop a puddle of dark blood. He rubs his jaw in apparent worry, head bowed to inspect the corpse, his other hand resting on his hip.  

Riley keeps a steady eye on the four adversaries as they sweep the room, his venomous glare squinting and tracking in careful suspicion. As though considering your vulnerability where you sit, he edges closer to you, moving on his back foot. There’s some kind of shelter in his shadow. Well-trained watchdog. 

One of Sergei's armed companions moves to stand beside him, swearing under his breath as he lowers his rifle to look at the cadaver. He murmurs to his superior; "Может нам позвонить Владимир?" Should we call Vladimir?

Sergei rigidly shakes his head. "Еще нет." Not yet. 

Rubbing the back of his reddening neck with a tense hand, he finally turns to face you - glowers at you with a frightening intensity, you feel yourself shrivel under the heat of it. Your heart surges as he approaches. Flutters in your ribs. You feel sick, it churns in your stomach and rises in your throat. 

“Какого хуя, Mia?” What the fuck, Mia? 

He storms in your direction, accusatory finger outstretched, and you fight the instinct to flee. "What happened?"

Switching to heavily accented English for you, it becomes intimidatingly evident how eagerly he wants every detail without risk of it being lost in translation. He thinks you can barely speak his language, after all. That you don't have the linguistic capacity to describe what happened in a way that is helpful to him. 

"Mia!" He bellows after a beat of silence, his eyes you once remembered as tired and listless now violently wide and bulging. You wince, vision beginning to blur with the tears that immediately swell at his aggression. "Tell me exactly what happened." 

With a quiet sob, you wipe your cheek with a shaky palm. "I - I was just in the, in the bathroom, and Victor was in bed... it was late, maybe after midnight. And I heard a crash, like, b-breaking glass. And, then, this kind of, shuffling, or, banging - and so I - I called for Victor, to see if he was okay, and-"

A stifled cry cuts off your trailing explanation, spilling tears fall to your knees as you attempt to regain your composure. 

"And, what?" Sergei urges, not a drop of sympathy in his tone. 

"There were gunshots as I came out of the bathroom - and I screamed - there were these, these two men, and they had guns. Victor was-” you sob, “he was already dead. I think he was - I couldn’t see close, but they had already shot him. Then the - the m-motherfucker shot him again while h-he was looking at me, like he just did it so that I’d see, so I could watch. I wanted to run b-but… I just froze, I couldn’t move, I just looked at them and cried - and he-”

“Who were they? Mia, what did they look like? What were they wearing?” 

“I don’t know,” you wailed, “they wore masks, their clothes were all black. But it was dark, and they didn’t talk much, but-” 

"What language were they speaking?" Sergei offers you no room to breathe, looming closer to you; you see him shoot a glance at your silent guard. 

"Russian," you answer obediently, wetly, "I think. It sounded Russian but - but I didn't understand them. It c-could've been - Ukrainian, or, Kastovian, or-"

He turns to address one of his gun-wielding comrades, interrupting you. "Они могли бы быть от Анастас, если бы были украинцами. Виктор разговаривал с Артемом?" They could be from Anastas if they were Ukrainian. Did Victor talk to Artem? 

They mutter in tense conversation for a hideous minute, tossing names between each other that you hadn't heard before, mentioning some phone call, or a meeting, or some supposed altercation between strangers. 

It means nothing to you, but you can feel the keen attention that Riley pays to every word they utter. You wonder if he knows every single name, bears the burden of intel on each of their atrocities. It's all so relevant, so crucial to him - whispers that until now you had blissfully ignored, to whom you had barely given a passing interest. A small, spiteful part of you finds satisfaction in how blatantly the two Russians spill their precarious information in the company of the very man responsible for their panic. 

"How many were there," Sergei suddenly barks, addressing you once again, and two of the soldiers in his company march abruptly out of the room. You hear distant yelling, supposing he has sent the rest of his men to search the entire property. "Are any of them still here?"

You shake your head. "I don't - I don't think so. It was quiet when I, when I woke up. I didn't look around, though, I - I haven't left this room. I don’t know how many there were."

Turning his attention to your watchdog, his sceptical anger shifts briefly from you. “Where were you for this, huh? Занят дрочить вместо того, чтобы делать свою чертову работу?” Busy jacking off instead of doing your fucking job?

Riley only huffs, standing near a head taller than the irate man beneath him. You hiccup, nervous, panicking for a hurried second as you attempt to think of a way to defend him from the interrogation. To prevent his need to speak.

“He can’t talk,” you mutter, sniffling, and in the seconds of subsequent silence you scramble to pull together any sensible justification. “Victor said he - he got his tongue cut out in Syria.” 

You had only passing knowledge of the Syrian war, from overhearing vague war stories spouted by other veteran mercenaries. You hope he won’t pry. How would you know anything about it, after all? 

“Ah. Настоящий герой.” A real hero, he grumbles facetiously. There’s a sudden crackle of quiet static, and Sergei is quick to tug a small radio from his vest pocket - a welcome interruption of his questioning, he turns to look out of the towering windows as he holds the radio closer to his face. 

“Внутри чисто. На данный момент двадцать восемь тел. Эти парни были чертовыми животными.” Inside all clear. Twenty-eight dead so far. These guys were fucking animals. 

Twenty-eight. More than the amount of sentries you had been aware were on duty. Did that include the cleaners? The chef? The groundskeeper? 

You feel sick. You can taste the acid. It makes you dizzy, suddenly, and you have to blink heavier to keep yourself from buckling over. 

Sergei converses droningly with the man over the line, their mutual reports fading into distant humming as your detachment only grows. Sweat beads on your forehead though your body shivers cold. 

His armed companion approaches you, then, after meticulously assessing the remainder of the room. With his rifle hung cavalierly from its sling over his shoulder, he plucks off his gloves, head bowed as he analyses you closely. You merely frown doubtfully at him, his proximity carries an accusatory air that makes your jaw tighten. 

“Похоже, они не торопились.” Looks like they took their time. 

Your inspector addresses Sergei casually, gaze fixed on your features but not meeting your eye. Seems to be remarking on the welts that riddle you. But, occupied, Sergei offers him no response. So he turns his questions to you. 

"What did they do?" He asks you crudely, accent thick.

You feel yourself defensively shrinking. "What?" 

He absently tucks his gloves into a pocket, with a slight tug in his top lip that conveys to you some sense of disgust. "Did they fuck you?"

"Excuse me?" You spit, scowling, the question alone worsens your churning nausea. 

He wears an expression of stiff impatience, and clarifies further; "Did they rape you." 

"How dare you," you immediately chide, straightening your back. "Who do you think you are?" 

You can only scoff, feign shock and disgust - you cling desperately to your station as it crumbles in your grip. You are Victor Zakhaev's wife, aren't you? How can a mere hired gun feel so emboldened to address you in such a foul, unbecoming way? 

A malignant sadness swells within your ribs. Victor would have flayed him living for asking such a question, for displaying such blatant disrespect. Only he had the right to talk to you like that. Now he is no more than a pile of lead and white meat. 

"So, they did," he remarks, a stoic cynicism in his tone. 

Anger is quick to engulf you, from a lingering ember to a swallowing flame. How sick must they all be, fantasising about how other men might have hurt you? In being so certain that any man in that position would do such a thing? Why would it matter, even if they had? Why would that be the first thing he thinks of?

The first interaction with these pricks after your husband was no longer there to dignify or protect you, and they had already assumed that you had been made unfaithful. A seething reminder that you are a cunt, a hole to be filled, and that is all that you are. 

"No, they didn't," you bark defensively, pushing yourself to stand, you glare up at him under his nose. "They didn't touch me." 

"Pft," he scoffs. "Look at you. They did more than touch you." 

"What is wrong with you?" Shedding any inclination to maintain your damsel demeanour, you resort to shouting. “How can you even suggest that?"

"If the killers were here for revenge, they would have fucked his bitch." 

Rationality failing you, you immediately swing an open hand into cheek, hurling it with as much speed and ferocity as your arm could muster - it collides with the side of his face in a clap of thunder, and he immediately recoils with an aggravated groan.

"Fucking degenerate asshole," you snarl amidst the assault, relishing in the white-hot sting that prickles in your palm after the impact. 

"Сука блять!" Fucking bitch!

Quick to retaliate, he lunges forward and clutches your throat with a vengeful hand; cheek red, eyes bulging. His sudden grip forces out a weak cough, you stumble slightly on your feet in the collision. Your heart flips with an all too familiar terror, a violent current of panic that surges from your core and renders you frigid. Routine instructs you to turn to wet clay. Absorb the blow, dampen its fury. 

But before a single word of de-escalation can be uttered, his hand is in an instant torn from your neck. Riley emerges from your periphery, then, wrenching your attacker's arm by the wrist, before viciously shoving him with enough force that he topples backward and lands on the carpet with a loud thud. In a heartbeat your hunter has his boot on his chest, handgun drawn, he aims it directly over the bewildered face of your interrogator. 

Finally breaking his attention from radio, Sergei marches over towards the commotion, braced to admonish both of the subordinates that fight over nothing. 

"Эй, эй! В чем, черт возьми, проблема?" Hey, hey! what's the fucking problem?

"Я ни хера не делал, ей надо на собаку намордник надеть." I didn't do shit, she needs to put a muzzle on her dog. 

You spot a twitch in the Lieutenant's knuckle, a near-imperceptible movement - and for a second your body stiffens in readiness for the explosion. He would do it, you're certain, more than willingly add another dead Russian to his list. You almost expect him to pull the trigger. What you didn't expect, though, was how committed he'd be to his artificial role. Already threatening the life of an aggressor for putting a hand on you like he was born for it. 

But to shoot him would put to ruin the entirety of his meticulously laid plan. Would light an inextinguishable fire that would burn you both. So you don the role of his employer, placing a gentle but stern hand on his side to disarm him. 

"That's enough," you order, voice shaky, "this isn't the time." 

He turns his masked head only slightly, his blond eyelashes blinking as he glares at you out of the corner of his eye. But, with a grunt, he follows your instruction and relents. Stands upright, removes his imprisoning boot from the man's torso, and tucks his weapon into the holster under his arm. 

"Чертов сумасшедший." Fucking lunatic , the man mutters, as he pushes himself to stand and attempts to brush the boot mark off his jacket. 

With a roll of his eyes and a flick of his hand, Sergei dismisses the remaining footmen and they march from the room in silence. He walks intently towards you, then, and puts a hand on your arm. Riley, hawk-eyed, watches closely - lingers in your periphery with his arms crossed. 

"We can get this cleaned up," Sergei explains under breath, calm yet stern. Switched back to the level-headedness you remember him for. "But there might be trouble, you understand." 

Hopeful his meaning was lost in translation, you frown worriedly. "What trouble - what do you mean?" 

"You, alone, without Victor," he grumbles. "You know… too much. So you have two options. You stay or die." 

Your lip begins to quiver. "I don't want to die." 

"No," he agrees. "I don't want that either." 

"What do I have to do?" You plead, "to stay?" 

"Don't disappear, mh? It will be easy to find you." Appearing to second guess his aggression, he relents with a sigh and looks at the ground. "You can stay with us, for now. Maria can put you in the guest room."  

Maria. His new wife. Didn’t take him long to find one. 

You whimper, and wipe your wet nose with the back of your hand. "I don't want to be in Russia," you sob. "Not while - they're still out there. They’ll - they might come back for me." 

He falls quiet in apparent thought for a moment. Considering your options, perhaps, or simply deciding whether or not to kill you and get the dirty work over and done with. In the brief silence you wait in anticipation, hoping he might come up with some more pleasant alternative. 

But the path of conversation you have navigated down has perfectly enabled your next suggestion. A chance to fulfil your part in the plan.

"I can - I could go to the summer house," you suggest softly, with a sniff. “Victor’s - the house in Kastovia." 

There's a glimmer of familiarity in his eye, his lips curl into a stern line. "Outside Verdansk?" 

You nod cautiously. 

"Mm," he considers, briefly turning to glance out of the open door - as though expecting to see Victor there, hoping for approval. Then he blinks at the floor. “Okay. Go there. Stay there.” 

You let out a breath of relief despite dire effort to restrain it. With a shaky whisper, you try not to thank him. “Okay.” 

He concludes the discussion with a stiff nod, looking over your shoulder. “What do you want to do with him?” 

You twist around to spot your husband, the man, body, to which he refers. “I-”

“Bury him?” He suggests dryly, and you shake your head, perhaps too eagerly. 

“No,” you mutter, “no - he wanted to be cremated.” 

A lie. He purses his lips in thought, but is quick to concede. “Okay,” he replies. “We’ll take care of it.” 

“Thank you,” you whimper, then swallow. 

“I’ll ask to ready the jet,” he declares coldly. “Go now. Get dressed.” 

You appear on the verge of keeling over as your Russian friend leaves the room. Ghost watches stiff-lipped as your knees tremble, close to buckling.

Some part of him is relieved that the Ultranationalist scum swarming the mansion have seemingly no interest in what you might have to say or contribute. Beyond a short stint of questioning from Sergei, it appears they have judged you incapable of assisting. 

Your perceived ineptitude and unimportance appears to have been helpful - a mere wife poses no threat of calculated treachery. Though, truthfully, he had expected a confrontation far graver than what he witnessed. Anticipated that a right-hand man the likes of Sergei Vasiliev would assume the worst of the last person to see his leader alive - that he would not have been above hurting you based on the guess alone.  

Instead, Ghost found himself unsettled, repulsed, by his hired drone’s willingness to put his hands on you. Surprised that he, some servile subordinate, felt emboldened to attack you; to interrogate you for sick gratification, some nauseating effort to understand whether your husband’s assassins might have raped you as he would have liked to. Ghost considers, at least, that he must have been attempting to discern whether the attack was a vendetta committed by someone of their ilk - other warlords and profiteers, mafia, perhaps - or an assassination, as it was, by the likes of himself.

Still, clearly, he has overestimated the ranking of a high-up’s wife. He had assumed those that served your husband would have kissed the ground you walked on. No, it seems that you are so much an accessory that even those supposedly beneath you are willing to assault you with no fear of consequence. 

Means he’ll have to up his game. Stand his ground. There’ll be more work for him than he expected. More curs to fend off. 

He watches as you place a shaky hand on the wall beside you, your shoulders rising as you inhale a weak breath. He takes a step towards you, and your head drops from your neck - in a panicked haste, you turn and dash towards the ensuite. 

“Oi-” He barks, charging after you on instinct. Remembers what happened the last time he let you venture into your bathroom unsupervised. 

He hears a wretch as he barges in after you, and finds you already collapsed over the toilet. 

“Jesus,” he grumbles, halting his pursuit. He stops in the doorframe and watches as your body lurches, listens to the splash of your vomit landing in the water. 

He rubs his brow with a rigid thumb. Supposes he can’t blame you. All caught up to you, has it? 

You heave again, cough violently - whatever you’re throwing up seems to run dry, nothing more lands in the toilet bowl but the wet and pained noises of your gagging continues. Seems your stomach is empty. He remembers he hasn’t fed you yet. 

“Y’alright?” He asks with a terse grunt, more concerned with getting you on that plane than how you are feeling. The sooner he gets you away from the sniffing mutts the better. 

You let out a wet groan, resting your cheek on the toilet seat. “I’m just - not feeling well.” 

His jaw clenches. “We need to move.” 

“I know,” you hiccup, “just give me a second.” 

“We don’t have a second.” 

“Please.” You surprise him with the earnestness in your whisper. “Please, just give me a second.” 

He can taste the guilt again. But there isn’t enough time for him to indulge you. He is confident in his ability to escape if shit hits the fan, to gun down the Russians that might get in his way as he makes his exit. But he can’t guarantee that he’d be able to get you out with him. He’ll leave you with the animals if he has to. He doesn’t want to have to. 

He spots a glass cup on the vanity, perched by one of the marble sinks. Rolls his eyes at himself as he goes to it, flicking the golden faucet to run cold and filling it a centimetre from the brim. He holds it by the rim as he approaches you, you flinch as you lift your head and realise his proximity. 

Your eyes flit to the glass in his hand, then to him. Wide with a genuine gratitude that makes his breath hitch. 

He wonders why he enjoys surprising you. He feels better existing in uncertainty, keeping his motives shrouded and hidden from you. He doesn’t like being knowable, especially by you. He can’t be too charitable, he reminds himself, as he can’t have you grow to expect that from him.

Still, he finds himself enjoying the way you look at him when he does you favours. Enjoys it in the same shameful way he enjoys a sip of liquor or a hit of nicotine.

You hesitantly take it from him. “Thank you.” 

He only releases a tense sigh, you take the glass to your lips and skull down the water in three deep gulps. You burp, then grimace, then immediately drop your head and the entire contents of the cup he had just offered you spills from your mouth and into the toilet.

“Fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” 

With a groan, you manage to shrug your shoulders. 

“What,” he pesters, frustration blooming. “Are you sick?” 

You chuff, as though you’d have said ‘obviously’ if you could. 

The thought crosses his mind, then, like a splinter - that your insect of a husband might have impregnated you. The image churns in his stomach like a sickness. Not only the image of the cretin fucking you, fucking you well enough to sow his seed - but the thought that you could have been carrying when Ghost abducted you, and restrained you, and tormented you, and waterboarded you. When Graves tortured you, bludgeoned you with closed fists like a rabid wife-beater. 

He can’t justify why the mere thought of a lump of cells in your belly makes him ill with both shame and fury. It disgusts him and enrages him. 

He can barely bring himself to even suggest it. With a grimace, he grits out; “Pregnant?” 

You turn your head, then, glowering at him from the corner of your tear-glossy eyes. “No.” 

Repulsion oozes from you as if resenting that you even had to consider it. He does his best to hide the relief that floods him at the confidence in your answer. 

“Positive?” He persists, reluctant to reveal his need for assurances. 

“Why do you fucking care? What difference would it make?” You seethe, “would you let me go if I was? Would it make you feel like a bad man?”

His nostrils flare. He’s grateful you can’t see his expression. “No.” 

“Thought not,” you grunt, then release a pent breath, tilting your head back into the toilet bowl. 

“Get it out,” he orders jadedly, after a stiff silence. Suddenly hungry for a cigarette to slow his pestering heart rate. “And hurry up.” 

Ghost shuts the door to your ensuite as he leaves. Decides you’re not in the state or position to do anything as stupid as your last escape attempt. So he sits himself on your daybed, rests his elbows on his knees, and aimlessly toys with his glock in his palm. Sixteen rounds in the clip, one chambered. He counts them again to keep his mind busy. Sixteen and one. 

His head perks up at the sound of heavy footsteps, and his eyes meet Vasiliev marching through the bedroom door like he owns the mansion he has intruded. 

His grip tightens around the handle of his pistol. He could shoot the fucker in the head, now, and strike another name of the list. Another objective completed. How many years had he been hunting this smug cunt? It would be so deliciously easy to get it over with. 

He bites on nothing and leans back in his seat. Leaves the gun in his lap. 

“Где она?” Where is she?

He asks it with an arrogance that makes Ghost seethe. He flicks his head towards the bathroom door. 

Vasiliev rolls his eyes, must have already forgotten that Ghost can’t talk. He reaches for the door handle, and in that second Ghost is standing. The Russian looks at him with disdain. 

“Что? Не хочешь, чтобы я заходил?” What, don’t want me going in?

Ghost has to hold his tongue between his teeth to prevent himself from erupting. All he can do is shake his head once, and resentfully tuck his handgun into the holster under his arm. Vasiliev only seems to find that amusing, he wears a smirk. 

The snivelling fuck. Looks proud of himself. Perhaps he’s more glad of your husband’s murder than he is letting you believe. He must only stand to gain. 

“Успокойся. Ты вел себя так, когда Виктор был рядом? Ему бы это не понравилось..” Settle down. Did you behave like this when Victor was around? He wouldn’t have liked that. 

He turns to let himself into your ensuite, and before Ghost moves to forcefully prevent him, the door opens fortuitously and you stand in its frame. Your eyes are red and hollow, skin glistening with a sheen of sticky sweat. You look horrifically ill. 

“Sorry,” you utter, meeting Ghost’s eye with a beleaguered concern, before looking bashfully at your supposed ally. “I’ll - I’ll get dressed now.”

Vasiliev nods and steps out of your way. “Mh. Your jet’s ready. We’ll drive you to the strip.” 

“Okay,” you nod. “I’ll be quick.”

You walk shakily past the two of them, jittery and unstable, before disappearing into a walk-in wardrobe. 

There is something wrong with you. Seriously wrong. Ghost can acknowledge his part in the sharp decline of your wellbeing, that you might be so rife with stress and devastation that it is manifesting physically in some sort of psychosomatic breakdown. 

But he recognises the vacancy in your stare, the twitching of your fingers, the sweat on the back of your neck. 

Ghost turns his flaming attention back to the warlord. Stands in the narrower neck of the suite with his arms crossed, a happily advantageous position. Vasiliev would have to shoulder past him to get to you. He’d fit, physically. But he isn’t brave enough, is he?

Instead, he stays put. Eyes Ghost like he’s solving a crossword. 

“Ты ведь преданный, не так ли?” You’re a loyal one, aren’t you?

Ghost runs his tongue over his teeth, but remains silent. 

“У нее закончатся деньги, ты знаешь. Она будет нищей через неделю. А потом что? Ты будешь Бросить как щенка.” She’ll run out of money, you know. In a week she’ll be destitute. Then what? You’ll toss her like a puppy. 

He tries not to snort at that, but even through his mask Vasiliev seems to detect his sentiment. Seems he underestimated the Russian’s perception. 

“Ты на что-то другое надеешься? Думаешь, ей нужен слуга без языка?” Hoping for something else, then? You think she’ll want a servant without a tongue? 

Money has rotted the pig’s brain, Ghost thinks to himself. Turned it into curdled milk. So far gone as to assume that pay and pussy are the only things that anyone could care about. Ghost’s glock feels heavy in its holster. 

Vasiliev only laughs at his own joke. 

“Ну, как только парни до нее доберутся, приходи ко мне за настоящей работой, а?” Well, once the boys get their hands on her, come to me for a real job, eh?

Even he confesses the obvious fate that befalls you. There’s something revolting about how cavalierly he admits it. Once they get to you. He offers you shelter but knows it will be temporary. Why even pretend to be decent if he has no interest in protecting you? In ensuring you might have a future beyond your cunt of a husband? 

Ghost is suddenly embarrassed of his fury. Feels the veins bulging in his temples, he blinks once and decides to turn his back to him. To find and nudge you. If he spends another minute in the proximity of Vasiliev and his maggots he won’t be able to muzzle himself.

“Ох ты, подхалим. Иди корми грудью и не тяни резину.” Oh, you sycophant. Go suckle then, and don’t drag it out.

He snorts at himself, and judging by the sound of his boots on the carpet, he leaves the room. For a moment Ghost looks forward to the respite of your summer house , so you call it, somewhere devoid of the vermin that have infested your palace. But he remembers his own plan as swiftly as he had forgotten it. Not long until he’ll be surrounded by the rat kings, forced to submit to them while surveying their every move. He’s made his bed. 

You’ve put on a structured black dress, firm at the waist and long-sleeved. The silhouette of a stepford wife with none of the cloying charm. The skirt meets your calves, which are wrapped in sheer nylon, and as he steps into the entrance of the closet you push your foot into a pointed and heeled boot. 

“Special occasion?” Ghost sneers, unwittingly letting the contempt that had been bubbling in his gullet slide through his teeth. 

You scoff as you pull the zip of your boot upward, a balancing hand clutching onto the shelf above you. “I’m a widow,” you murmur. “I need to look the part.” 

“Who gives a fuck what you look like? I’m not waiting around for you to powder your bloody nose.” 

You swivel sharply, then, a rigid expression in your tired and flustered face. “They do,” you spit, “ they give a fuck what I look like. I can’t have them treating me like some common whore with her leash cut. I’m above them. I have to be above them, or - or I’ll be underneath them.” 

He half-heartedly rolls his eyes. “You reckon you’re above your mate Sergei, do you?” 

“Not him,” you relent, “his mercenaries.” 

He grits his teeth at that. Guesses you’re right to be concerned about your image, to them. But if Vasiliev and his equals deem you a disposable cocksleeve regardless of your supposed status, why would their lessers believe any differently?

Seems your image is the only thing you have left. Sullied already, by the sounds of how they speak of you. 

“Put a coat on,” he orders brutishly, “we need to move.”

Ghost follows you closely, obediently, as you walk across the snow-powdered tarmac of your driveway, the pin-point heels of your leather boots clacking loudly with each step. You, in turn, follow Sergei and his retinue, to an awaiting SUV - glimmering and black, likely bulletproof and with doors as thick as a tank’s. 

He had snickered to himself when you put on your mink coat, ankle length and so plush you look like the animal yourself. You’ve even donned a fur ushanka. He’d have assumed you were a Russian oligarch if he spotted you from a mile away. 

Under the coat, and out of sight of the Ultranationlists that circled you like vultures, you stacked on as many necklaces and bracelets and rings as would fit on your extremities without looking like a pilferer. Literally dripping with diamonds, he had thought bitterly to himself, revolted at the prospect of so much wealth wrapped around the knuckle of a single finger. It was clear your intention, though. You’d lose access to your husband’s finances soon enough, either by the hand of your benefactors or with the wipe of your ties to them once, if, you’re shipped off to the U.K. Maybe you hope to pawn all those diamonds once you get there. 

One of Vasiliev’s footmen opens the back door of the SUV for you, seems they’re more polite in the company of so many others. You step inside like it’s habit, and the same man is quick to swing the door shut after you. 

But you stop it with a swift hand, it lands against your palm with a thud. The doorman gives it some slack, and you poke out your head. 

“Нет. Он приходит.” No. He comes.

He smiles behind his mask. Can’t help it. 

“Охраны много, мэм.” There’s plenty of security, ma’am. 

“Are you deaf?” You hiss, and with a grunt he submits. 

Ghost gives a facetious nod in thanks and brushes past, you shuffle over to the far seat to accommodate him. The door swings heavy and shuts with a clunk. Your perfume has already filled the interior like nerve gas. Vanilla and musk. He tries not to get drunk on it. 

He hears you unwind the window on your side, and watches as Vasiliev leans in through the opening. 

“No bags?” He asks bluntly, plucking a smoking cigarette from his teeth. Ghost’s mouth waters. Fights the urge to reach over and snatch it from him. 

“I have clothes there,” you answer quietly. 

Vasiliev simply takes an unsympathetic drag. “I’ll bring the - his ashes to you, when we come.” 

You nod weakly, then sniff, sucking in a solemn breath. “When will you?” 

“Tomorrow,” he declares confidently. “We can have the service then.” 

With a tuck of your hair behind your ear, you look at your knees. “Can you - can we have it the day after tomorrow? I just need - I would like some time, before everyone… before I have to see everyone.” 

He grunts impatiently, looking to the side as if checking for approval. “We have things to discuss, you understand,” he says bluntly, facing you. “We do not have time to wait.” 

Ghost remains dead silent, hoping Vasiliev will divulge more detail without prompt.

“I don’t understand,” you resist, he can hear the lump in your throat. Did you put it there on purpose? “Why do you need to discuss things at a funeral? It’s a funeral , Sergei.” 

“Victor was an important man, Mia,” he grits, frustrated to explain the obvious. “A lot will change with him gone. We can’t wait for you to feel better.” 

You whimper, wipe your nose. Even still Ghost is in awe of your ability to act. To lie on your feet. “Okay. Just - give me the day. Come in the evening, so I can get the, the house ready.”

“Fine,” he says. “В шесть вечера.” Six p.m.

He reels out of the window, then, and with a firm hand raps the side of the vehicle twice. With a rev of the engine, the car pulls off and you defeatedly close your passenger window. 

Once out of the line of sight of your ally and his soldiers, you keel forward. Burrow your face into your knees and claw at the back of your head, knotting your fingers into your damp hair. He can’t stand to look at you like that. Watching your turmoil manifest in demonstrative suffering. 

The silent driver sits in the car seat in front of him, thus giving him an excuse not to speak or acknowledge you. There’s nothing he could say to you, anyway, nothing that could make you feel any better. And why would he bother? Your emotions are as inconsequential to him as they are to your husband’s comrades, aren’t they. A nuisance and an impediment. 

He simply looks out of his window, into the darkness of the dense woods that your driveway carves through. Listens as you quietly cry into the fur of your coat.

He hopes you can pull it together. Not sure what he’ll do if you can’t. 

[thankspete]

Reunion | dob

Word Count: 4.6k Rating: M Summary: Doesn't matter how long you've waited for it; it's always worth it. | Also on Ao3! Warnings: (the usual, minors dni etc) praise, oral (m+f receiving), unprotected sex (+creampie), marking??, pretty boy is always in charge <3, overstimulation, brief somnophilia + masturbation mentions, they're so in love, no use of y/n as always A/N: this is my belated x(xx)mas gift to u. mwah ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

You couldn’t blame anyone but yourself, not really.

It was always like this. Maybe it would’ve worked if your back was flat against your mattress, in solitude at eleven at night. You always fell asleep, so content, within minutes. But succumbing to your desires, utilizing your free will to make yourself tremble and squirm during the daylight hours of three in the afternoon while he’s out there, so sexy and so unaware… it was over as soon as you turned the faucet to hot.

There was nothing like cumming in the shower; maybe it was the adrenaline of holding yourself upright at the risk of shattering the glass door or maybe it was the rough pulse setting of your showerhead. Who knows.

There couldn’t have been a better–more scorching–late spring afternoon after days of uncharacteristic gloom. Your late-morning was spent lounging by the pool, grazing on cubed pineapple and hiding greedy looks at Dylan’s body behind your sunglasses. It’d been nearly a week since you’d last had him; he was fresh off a red-eye from his sibling’s birthday celebrations on the east coast. The early flight, coupled with Tommy’s insistence on taking him to a show at a bar in the East Village last night, meant he was schlubbing around all day, falling in and out of a day-long nap. You could admit it was cute when he dozed off on the lounge chair, cap brim low on his face and chin on his chest, but it reached a breaking point when you were sprawled on the couch together, his large hand cupping your breast and a soft snore in your ear. His grip was loose, allowing you to slide easily from his arms, slink to your room, and grab your bathrobe.

Your skin felt warm when you stepped onto the cool tile, still deciding between waiting it out and dealing with the thud in your cunt. You stood beneath the stream, feeling the hot water funnel into the main line as the shower temperature quickly rose from frigid to steaming. You were focused at first, fingers diligently massaging shampoo into your scalp, but they roamed a little further while you scrubbed your torso. With a sigh, you reached for the chrome showerhead and twisted to change the water pressure. It’s quick, you thought. He’d likely still be asleep by the time you left the bathroom, so gorgeous but so unavailable. 

And it was quick, but it also left your knees rattling and head spinning from the thick, waterlogged air. Tiny shockwaves are still traveling up your body when you step out onto the plush bath mat, intensifying as the cold bathroom air rushes past your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. A tiny whine escapes your lips as you shimmy into your fleece bathrobe and wrap a towel around your head. Looking at yourself in the mirror is a struggle of its own, a visible warmth spread across your face and a well-bitten bottom lip alerting you to the levels of your own arousal. You grunt when you step away, attempting to designate your urges to after dinner, and instead thinking about if you need to take anything out of the freezer to defrost. 

“Hi,” Dylan’s soft greeting is a surprise when you step out of the bathroom into your shared bedroom. He’s lying on his side, head resting on his elongated arm and phone screen-down on the bed. His eyes look tired, but his silhouette glows in the light from the window. Dark green sweatpants hang low on his hips, exposing the elastic of his underwear. 

“Hi.” You hang your hair towel up behind the bathroom door and begin to walk towards him. “Looking for me?”

“Mmhm.” You twirl a lock of his chestnut hair around your pointer finger, enjoying the length before he inevitably buzzes it all off. “S’boring out there, every episode of Curb is the same.”

“Yeah?” He shifts, sitting up to swing his legs over the side of the bed and face you. “You know what happened during the episodes you were asleep for?” Your hand is in his and he pulls it to rest on his cheek. 

“Yeah.” He smiles up at you. “Larry David acts like an asshole, gets what he deserves, goofy end credits song, repeat.” You refrain from rolling your eyes as you settle into his lap, your knees on either side of his body.

“Hm. You’re right,” you mumble between pressing kisses into the scratchy skin of his cheek. One of his hands settles comfortably on your lower back. “That’s it? You came to find me because you were bored?”

“I missed you.” Dylan’s free hand travels up your thigh until he is forearm-deep beneath your robe. “Woke up an’ you were gone.” The water droplets on your skin provide no retaliation to his hot breath on your neck. Something about it makes you want to curve your spine to press your chest to his. Would he feel the rattle behind your breastbone? Could he feel the heat from between your legs, so deftly pressed against the lump in the front of his sweatpants? “Had a dream about you.”

You’re certain now you’re both on the same page, but you pull back and narrow your eyes at him anyway. “Just now?” He narrows his eyes right back at you, a playful smile teasing the corners of his lips. His eyes are a decadent shade of brown as they gaze sleepily into yours. 

“Maybe it’s been recurrent.” He shrugs as if he has no clue what you’re talking about, but you catch a glint of mischief in his look. His hands are moving now, one groping your outer thigh and the other fiddling with the fabric rope keeping your bathrobe tied shut. 

You almost fall into him at that moment. The flood between your legs only feels more and more apparent since you’d hooked the shower head to its mount and twisted the faucet tightly to the left. Instead of finding comfort against his mouth or alerting him to the wet spot you’re leaving in his lap, you blurt out, “You wanna tell me about it?”

“Would rather show you.” His lips lock onto yours, arms pressing your body into his, molding yourself around him. He’s diligent and in control, mouth firm and domineering against yours. His tongue is soft and wetter than yours, with access to it allowing you to taste a hint of sweetness and tobacco. His hands roam dutifully across the hems of your garment, pushing the fabric off your shoulder and loosening the belt around your waist. Dylan’s back falls to the bed, tugging you down with him. Your robe is splayed open now, caught on your shoulders and thighs. His mouth disconnects from yours to watch you, properly feel you softly grinding yourself against him. It’s almost enough to make you self conscious, but his gaze is always so soft when you’re at your most vulnerable. He doesn’t haphazardly grasp at your body as you lean over him; his hands are deliberately placed on your upper thighs, ghosting feather-light circles into your skin. The sensation makes you slightly ticklish, immediately sending electricity up your spine and goosebumps rippling across your skin. How he knew that would get your nipples pointed and directly in front of his face, you’d never know. You’re not being watched by Dylan, you’re being seen. “You like using me, huh angel?” It’s posed as a question, but you don’t need to answer. You just press your hands to his stomach, your center to the firm bulge in his pants. “Mine,” he says quietly to himself, greedily holding you by your hips and guiding your movements. It’s not enough, but you can feel a pool slowly form in your lower stomach as he works your cunt against his increasingly hard cock. His hips press harder into yours as he moves, fucking into you. You surrender control over your core to him entirely, letting him scrape his clothed cock into your swollen center, twitching when he’d move just right. Your nails leave crescent shaped marks as you hold tightly to his sides. You’re trembling, soft sighs escaping your lips with each swipe of his hips. “Is this really how you wanna cum, sweetheart? Like you’re a teenager again, can’t control yourself?” The condescension dripping from his tongue is almost enough to send you over the edge right then and there. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” You whimper pitifully as he halts your movements and pushes you onto your back. 

“Thought you’d take it as a compliment if I came on your pants.” Your breathing is shallow, eyes watching the way he leans over you, caging you onto the bed with his body.

“Mm.” Dylan’s thinking about it, even if he’s pretending to be preoccupied with touching you. The shift in his eye contact and slight bob in his throat is what gives him away. “Yeah… I have some other ideas, though.” He absentmindedly traces up your stomach, under your breasts, to your collarbone. “My dream, remember?” His tired eyes shine as they look down at you. He is deliberate in his touches, your skin sensitive and lower abdomen incredibly keyed-up. 

“I’ve been so good,” you pant, letting your hands roam across the firmness of his chest to his shoulders, then his triceps. “Missed you.”

“I believe it,” he says off-handedly, too busy determining whether to attack your collarbone with his tongue or his teeth. “Thank you for picking me up from the airport this morning.” The sentence comes out muffled; he chose teeth. 

“You’re so welcome,” you sigh. “But that’s not what I meant.” You hook your right knee around his thigh and he holds it in place. “You’ve been so busy snoozin’... I’m feeling a little neglected.” He licks his lips as he stares down at you. You’re looking up at him from beneath your lashes, seemingly too bashful for what stumbles from your mouth next. “Maybe it’s unfair, but I was hoping you’d fuck me when we got home this morning.” His eyes, calculating and a remarkably burnt umber color, remain steady as they bore into yours. He’s always so much better at this than you are. “Maybe in front of the mirror by the entryway.” You swallow. Your voice is small, mind distant with nothing but his body keeping you grounded in reality. “Or against the front door.” You guide his hand down your stomach, over your stubbly pubic mound to the dampness that has been accumulating for what feels like hours. It probably has been hours. His eyebrows shoot up. It was only seven in the morning when you’d gotten back, the golden warmth of sunrise peeking through the ornate crystal gaps in your wooden front door. Dylan looked beautiful in the light, especially with a duffel over his shoulder and raccoon circles around his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You feel yourself falling into your favorite dynamic as your senses become overloaded with him. Dylan is bigger than you’d think from afar, experiencing no issue trapping you between his arms and beneath his body; his gentle breathing, smelling faintly of spearmint and American Spirits, fans over your skin. He’s looking at you like you’re dinner, but something in his eyes tells you he’s going to savor it. “You’ve been so patient, haven’t you?” The hand you placed over your cunt is lazily spreading your pleasure between your folds, brushing past your clit and occasionally circling your trembling hole at excruciating intervals. His other hand travels everywhere, brushing wet hair from your face to ghosting around your neck and gently caressing your breasts. “All day, bet you were soaked for me the whole time, my good girl.” Your eyes roll back and you feel your chest cave in with your breath. “You could’ve said something, y’know.” It comes out almost like a purr and electricity zips up your spine.

“If you hadn’t passed out every fifteen minutes,” you bite. He pinches your nipple sharply between his pointer finger and thumb in response to your attitude, resulting in a yelp escaping your throat. Luckily, it’s the only punishment you get.

“Baby, you know what you want is always alright with me.” You swallow as you watch him intently, your eyes flickering between his eyes and lips, unsure of his next move. “You know how incredible it would’ve been,” he pauses his movements between your legs and shifts his arms to the sides of your head before continuing, “seeing you needing me, in my sleep, taking me like I know you can… to wake up to you messy, doe-eyed, and gagging all over me?” Your face is hot, you’re sweating, and you’re squirming under his firm gaze. “You’d like that too, huh? Be honest, my love. You trust me, don’t you?” His voice is satiny to your ears. Your vision is blurred by pure adrenaline and adoration. The dryness in your mouth prevents speech, but you nod weakly, ready to succumb to whatever he wants to do. “Say it.” His fingers press into your cheeks and puff your lips forward. “You’ll get anything you want as long as you keep talking, keep telling me how much you want it.” His hand rests gently on your mound, feeling like a promise.

“Yes.” It’s hoarse, but it’s there. “Yes, please.”

“I want to hear you, okay? I know you love it, angel, but I need to hear how good I can  make my pretty girl feel.” His voice falls to a whisper. “You don’t know how hard it is to be away from you.” Dylan is always like this after returning from a trip, thoughts jumbled from lustfully depraved and tenderly sweet, fighting urges that exist somewhere in between. “No one is like you…” He loses himself in the kisses he’s pressing to your shoulder, your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “No one can make me feel the way you do.” His hands move sporadically across your torso, grasping at your skin haphazardly. “Not in this lifetime, anyway.” 

You whine at his touch and words, head spinning but wholly devoted to him. “I love you.” It comes out quietly, a pledge kept solely between you two. A layer of static feels like it is embedded into the top layer of your skin. His fingers are gentle and precise; his pointer and middle finger nestle themselves comfortably around your clit, squeezing occasionally as he moves his fingers vertically. There’s no chance you’ll last under these conditions and there’s no way he doesn’t know it. You’re not in control of your movements against his fingers; you’d be embarrassed by the arhythmic pace of your hips, but you’re too honed in to his touch to care. You’re not even sure what you’re doing, but you know his eyes are illuminated by the light from the window and the look he’s giving you is all-consuming. You also know it feels good. “Dylan,” you whisper. You move your hands from his neck to his shoulder and bicep; he may like being scratched and squeezed, but it doesn't mean he wants a punctured jugular. “I don’t think–” A soft gasp bubbles up your throat. The sheer consistent repetitive movement of his fingers are  increasingly enough. 

“It’s okay… it’s okay.” Dylan’s mouth covers yours, almost overwhelmingly. His breath is hot as it mingles with yours, your tongue desperately needy in his mouth. The knee hooked around his thigh shifts to rest on his lower back. Your hand slides from his bicep, down the front of his chest rather clumsily until it reaches the elastic of his sweatpants. A frustrated rumble emanates from your chest. You’re surprised he’s had the self control to keep them on this long, especially given the tent he was pitching. Your hand breaches the drawstring, fingers dipping past the elastic of his underwear.  “You wan’ me to feel you, sweetheart?” He nips at your bottom lip, already so raw you taste a metallic warmth slowly dripping  into your mouth as soon as his teeth make contact. Something about the action and the sharp, but sweet flavor on your tongue feels carnal, your mind sinking to its most feral form. Your fingers dip entirely into his tight boxers, thumb spreading the stickiness from his slit to the bottom of his head. His hips jerk slightly to your touch and your second hand slinks to palm the hot girth in his pants. “Always so considerate, my girl’s always thinking of me.” You nod, out of breath and drunk on the feeling of his middle finger being smoothly inserted into your slick. When he’s successfully knuckle deep, he pulls out and reinserts, adding his pointer finger. You can’t control the sounds that leak from your mouth when he licks at the droplets of blood that have re-emerged from the cracks in your lips. “It’s okay, baby, don’t worry. Let go for me.” He taps his thumb on your bud and you grip tightly to his fingers. You feel ragged, tired from both incessantly thinking about being your boyfriend’s little fuck doll and actually following through on your shared desire. The pool in your lower stomach has only been expanding, tendrils of pleasure seeping up your back, through your limbs. There’s no way to hold on, not with his voice in your ear and his fingers in your cunt.  “Promise next time it’ll be around my cock, but I need you to come now.” With a final flick at your clit, at his instruction, the dam breaks. Your hips flick forward, back arching to press your stomach firmly into him. The trembling in your thighs feels like it rocks through your whole body. His fingers fuck you through it, the squelching noises almost embarrassingly sinful. You’re leaking as Dylan pulls his fingers out from your center, coated in your own creaminess. He presses them into your mouth, watching intently as you circle them with your tongue. He seems satisfied by your method, pulling the fingers out and replacing them with a quick peck. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, brushing against his with each breath. “My girl,” he breathes. “My girl, my good girl.” His thumb gently caresses the upper part of your cheek.. “I love you. You’re gonna give it to me again, sweetheart.”

“Off,” you mumble as your hands shakily tug at his underwear. He assists, shooing your hands away to swiftly remove himself of his garments. You use the shift in his weight and attention to your advantage, pushing Dylan onto his back. He’s gorgeous–looking angelically warm in the afternoon light and body hair deliciously untrimmed. You swallow the saliva that floods your mouth as your vision hones in on the twitching, sticky cock resting on his stomach. It’s pure instinct, the way you lean over his lower half, tongue readily lubricating his tip. You pump your spit down his shaft until you’re able to get the first four inches into your mouth.

“I don’t think this was part of my dream, pretty girl.” His verbal attempt at protest is weak while his hand is firmly in your still-damp hair, steadying your head to take him further. In response, you reshift your tongue’s focus to his head, while your saliva-coated hands tug at the base of his cock and balls. 

“It’s not a dream of yours to get head from me?” You look up at him for only a few seconds, caught in his lidded yet bemused gaze, before redirecting your attention back to your favorite plaything. 

“Definitely not what I meant. You’re…” He trails off and pulls your head up by your hair. His hand moves to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping spit off your chin. “Come here. Would rather finish inside of you.” There’s nothing he can say that you won’t agree to. Especially not the most fulfilling way of feeling his. You clamber up his torso and he sits up to meet you in the middle. You unceremoniously fist his dick, swiping his head through your folds and beginning to press it into your core. From your perspective, playtime is over; no need to drag it out further when it’s already been a week without each other. “Eht–! Tsk.” His hand is on your throat, lifting you slightly as he pulls his head out from your quivering hole. It falls onto his stomach with a wet, heavy thud. “Let me.” Your jaw is slack, breath whizzing past your lips as your pussy clenches at the loss of his stretch. He lets go of your neck, moving his hand down to the hollow of your collarbone. Gently, he pushes your shoulder, body falling backwards onto the bed. He towers over you, perfectly silhouetted in front of the window. He pauses after placing his hands on your inner thighs and spreading you, one knee perpendicular to your crotch and the other pulled up by your shoulder. His fingers glide across the smooth skin of your inner thighs without purpose.

You jokingly rasp, “Won’t let me be in charge, but you haven’t decided what you’re gonna do to me?” He shifts his gaze from your little box, gaping and thumping for him, and narrows his eyes at you.

“Debating if I’m gonna break my promise or not.” Your heart nearly stops.

“What do you mean?” The fingers on your left hand tangle with his as you stare, wide eyed at his pretty, stubbly face. There’s no possibility he wouldn’t finish the job, not by now. He crouches further down the bed, head nearly resting on your lower stomach.

“You think you can handle three today for me, sweetheart?” Oh. His face is so close, you can feel his cool breathing against your warm dampness. You swallow the saliva that has built up in your mouth. “I’m sorry. I’ll get to it eventually, I swear.” His fingers spread you open and he leaves a soft kiss on your clit. “Jus’ missed you. Please?”

“Yes,” you breathe. He wastes no time pressing his flat tongue along the entirety of your slick. “Whatever you want.” 

He groans in protest, the vibrations making you gasp. “Whatever you want.” Your hands find his hair, a little oily and just long enough that he looks ruggedly sexy when his beard is grown out. He’s going for the gold, suckling and circling your clit directly with his tongue, well aware that you’re sensitive enough to flood his mouth in under a minute if he plays his cards right. It’s an ego thing for him, knowing exactly how to take care of you. He’s certain no one could make you fall apart the way he can and today he would prove it to himself again. Prove it to you. “You’ve been so lonely without me, huh?” His tongue flicks slow down, but the pressure against your slit increases. “How many nights did you go to bed thinking the time difference fucked you over? Did you think of me when you couldn’t get me on the phone?”

“Dylan.” A wringing motion comes from deep inside of your gut, alerting you to your incoming orgasm.

“Answer me.” His stern voice cuts through the air and reverberates against your cunt. “I know your fingers aren’t enough. Were you left unsatisfied without me here to make you feel good?”

“Yes,” you pant. “I need you. All I can do is think about you when you’re gone. Please keep going, I need you.” He places his thumb right above your clit and pulls to stretch it upwards. With one final thick swipe of his tongue, he has your eyes rolling and fingers pulling his hair. His arms are wrapped around your thighs, pressing his face further into your flooding core as your hand holds him exactly where it feels best. He’s literally moaning into you as he laps you up, occasionally praising your receptiveness and taste. When you let go of his hair and begin to jerk your hips away from his face, he pulls away.

“Good?” He sits up and wipes his mouth on his forearm. You nod weakly, hands wobbly as you attempt to touch his knees. You’re pounding and leaking still, limbs incredibly heavy. With no hesitation, he presses his cock into your weary little hole, messy and slick from your cum and his spit. All of the air rushes from your lungs when he bottoms out. 

“S-so sensitive, Dyl,” you whine. 

“One more for me. You want it, don’t you?” You tighten around him as he pulls out and slowly presses back in. “Breathe. I’ll take you through it.” He reaches a comfortable pace, fast enough to override the overstimulated numbness but not painful in its force. Each deep thrust scrapes his pubic bone against your button, making you feel like you’re glitching in and out of existence.The pillow to your left disappears and, while still inside of you, Dylan lifts your hips to place it beneath you. You’re wide open for him now, hips tilted up as he changes his angle and begins to slap himself into you. “So good for me, taking me so well. You’re tired aren’t you, baby? Waitin’ on me all day…” Your noises only get louder as he pokes the fleshy roof of your cunt. “We’re almost done,” he coos. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you hiccup. You’re holding onto his forearms, still trembling. “Please, faster. I need it but it feels, I feel so–”

“Okay, honey. Just trust me, alright?” Dylan’s lips purse and a glob of saliva falls from his lips to where your bodies meet. He uses a finger to spread it around, then holds your hips by the curvature of your lower back. He grinds you against him with each full-length thrust, his spit messily coating your point of contact. He doesn’t even pull out anymore, just pushing himself as deeply as possible inside of you. Your ankles link together behind his back, pressing him so deep you can feel a tingly pressure next to your cervix. It almost hurts, the feeling shooting between your pussy and your brain. He spits again, harder this time, directly onto your clit. The pace of his hips combined with a quick pinch of his fingers sends you over the edge without warning. Your final orgasm rips a small cry from deep in your chest, whole body vibrating as you clench around the hot girth inside of you. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, your body feeling tight and loose at the same time, alive and dead. In purgatory, maybe. “Fuck.” He grunts and presses himself as deeply as he can, spurting hot stickiness as your orgasm milks him. “‘It’s like you were made for me, swear to God.” Your body relaxes as he claims you, filling you to satisfaction. He pumps into you a few times, coating your inner and outer cunt with his essence. His body covers yours completely, kissing you as he continues to lazily thrust. Your hands roam his back, arms, and hair as he continues to purposelessly move inside of you. It’s hard to take a deep breath; you’re still trying to address the trembling in your limbs and stretch in your core. 

“Missed you.” It’s all you can muster. Your brain and body are composed of nothing but mush and Dylan.

“Missed you.” He’s smiling, eyes shining happily as they look at your weary face.

“Can we cuddle?” He nods and almost laughs, pressing a final kiss to your cheek. The air feels cold against you when he sits up and pulls out.

“Stay right there, gonna get a towel.” He squeezes your hand as he stands from the bed. You watch him saunter towards the bathroom and your eyes snap all the way open when he grabs the towel you’d been using for your hair.

“Dylan–!”

ermmm anyway so. ty for reading <3 as always, i'll love u forever if u like, rb, and/or lmk what u think :) (this is a sideblog so i cant respond to replies but i see them and ily)

[onbearfeet]

It's all Jake!

My second Moon Knight bear design is off to his new home, so I can post his glamor shots. Say hi to Jake Lockley!

His body is fleece with a cotton cloak. He's snuggly, 100% machine washable, and only as murdery as he wants to be.

If you'd like a handmade Jake (or Marc, or Steven) of your very own, you can order one from my Etsy shop.

(I am not responsible for any bad guys he may or may not stab en route. Jake's gonna Jake.)

[lookninjas]

So for those who've known me since we were all Glee blogs, you might remember that at one point, I did a fic based on the Persephone/Hades mythology (as one does). I then wrote another fic taking a slightly sideways view of that story that made it bleaker (as one does). Then they gave Blaine a brother and I wrote a version of the second story that incorporated a brother character and also started to interpolate some elements of the Orpheus myth (as one does). Then things started getting a little off the rails and I stopped putting things up on Ao3 because I could tell it had completely stopped being fic. But I kept going, because I was having fun and doing research and playing with the lovely interconnectedness of Greek mythology (did you know that there's versions of the quest for the golden fleece that have both Orpheus and Atalanta among the Argonauts?) and also exploring concepts that I find perenially fascinating, like death and family and love and how stories change in the telling and change over time. In the end, I wound up with seven stories that I thought were pretty good, and that I might want to do something with someday.

And then I didn't do anything.

For a long time.

I don't want to say how long, but if you go back to my Ao3 and find the word "Pomegranates" in the titles, you can figure it out.

I thought about doing something. I picked the stories up every so often, reread them. Went "Hey, that's good. I should do something with them." And then I didn't do anything. At one point, I had someone design a cover for the ebook version. I have no idea when I did it and have no idea where it is, but I know it happened and it was a cool cover and I'm very sorry I lost track of it (I did pay for it, at least). At another point, @seldnei did some beta work on one story. And then it just sat. And sat.

And then this past year I picked the stories back up for the umpteenth time, and I read them, and I cried because if you leave your work alone for long enough, the love comes back and you can cry over your own shit again (true story!).

And I made a decision: It was getting done. My one and only New Year's Resolution, 2025.

It's not even February.

I have no idea where we're going from here. Maybe some people will like it. Hopefully some people like it. Hopefully at least @seldnei likes it, but ideally some other people as well. (Maybe hopefully not too many people, but we'll see). But I put it out there. I have advertised it. People who know me in real life know I did this, which is a whole other ball of weird, but I did that. It's been done.

I did the damn thing.

And now I'm going to do my Latvian app, write a poem, and get three sentences in on the other story.

[boombox-fuckboy]

Hey, @t0tally-n0t-3m0, figured this might be easier to read as a post. Here's 24 pods with nonbinary lead characters to get you started. There's more out there, so if anyone wants to add on, go for it.

Additional Postage Required: (Sci-Fi) Adventures of an interstellar courier who starts to get glimpses of the past from their packages.

Anamnesis (on the Tin Can Audio feed): (Mystery, Weird Fiction) Someone wakes in a temple in an empty town with no memory. Short, really nice sound design.

Badlands Cola: (Mystery, Supernatural & Horror elements) big city PI Sunny is hired to find information on a rural cult leader, and is drawn into a world of strange radio, horse enthusiasts, and dinosaur bones.

The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio (one of two leads, you'll meet them halfway in): (Supernatural, Weird) Two workers for an Ohio dead letter office read the strange confiscated mail their organisation collects, and do some follow up investigation.

either: (Weird Fiction, Sci-Fi, Romance) An explosion at a duck factory sends a pet robot to another reality, connecting two very different (but both lonely) people.

Hello From The Hallowoods: (Supernatural Horror) A dramatic entity beyond your comprehension visits your nightmares to tell stories of the people (in varying degrees of human and alive) that inhabit the strange, deadly, and beautiful Hallowoods.

Inn Between: (Fantasy, Adventure) Ever wondered what the party gets up to at the tavern between D&D sessions? (Not a tabletop).

Jar of Rebuke: (Supernatural, Horror elements) An unkillable amnesiac scientist (they die, just have a hard time staying dead) investigates weird entities, makes friends, and eats a lot of tasty food in the strange town he lives in.

Khôra Podcast: (Sci-Fi, Adventure) Somewhere between inspired by and adapted from greek mythology, a space adventure following four mythological figures on their search for the golden fleece.

Less is Morgue: (Comedy, Horror elements) A ghoul and a ghost host a podcast about whatever they please in the ghoul's mom's basement, and manage to get off topic anyway.

Light Hearts: (Slice-of-Life, Supernatural elements) Three friends run a lightly haunted queer café. Upbeat and wholesome.

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality: (Weird Fiction, Supernatural, Horror elements) A friendly AI tour guide leads you on a tour of the Mistholme Museum, explaining the strange and often alternatural story behind each item. (To be clear, the nb lead is an AI with no concept of gender, but the creator is NB also and it is far from the only nb character.)

Monstrous Agonies: (Advice, Supernatural) An interpersonal advice show for supernatural entities and other people living liminally in the modern world.

ROGUEMAKER: (Sci-fi, Whodunnit) A commercial space flight explodes and passengers are left isolated in the escape pods, only connected for minutes at a time and unsure what happened, or why.

Second Star to the Left: (Sci-Fi) Audio logs of a colonist sent to a new world and her communications with the minder in charge of keeping her alive.

Sidequesting: (Fantasy) A wholesome podcast following Rion, an adventurer with a difference: they only do sidequests.

SINKHOLE: (Sci-fi, Weird Fiction) Forum posts from a data restoration community in a near future where the human brain is its own computer and one city hosts a massive void.

Skyjacks: Courier's Call: (Tabletop, Fantasy) Three young postal workers aboard a skyship go on various adventures. Kid-friendly but enjoyable for all ages.

The Starport Inn: (Supernatural, Mystery) An FBI agent sent to a rural town to solve a disappearance finds they've walked into something much stranger.

The Supernatural Protection Agency: (Supernatural) Call logs for a helpline that aims to solve the supernatural problems plaguing your life.

Tell No Tales: (Supernatural, Horror elements) Leo Quinn, secretary to the man in charge of the world's leading ghost removal service, interviews various ghosts in an attempt to create a device capable of actually recording them, in the hopes of taking down the company they work for.

Trial and Error: (Sci-Fi) Interviews with various AI as a scientist attempts to make sense of spontaneous machine sentience.

Under the Electric Stars: (Sci-Fi) A courier's failed heist to help their AI friend/navigator pulls them into a world of crime organisations and unethical science.

The Weird: (Tabletop, Supernatural, Comedy, Horror elements) The two staff members at The Department of the Weird travel America in their shitty Ford Fiesta to investigate various strange happenings

[thegayneapigs]

We are excited to announce that we are brand ambassadors for Comfy Critter Pet Beds! ✨

Leo & Lyra love this Cozy Corner! It’s one of the few things they will actually share, and is the perfect place for their lazy afternoon naps. The replaceable potty pads inside make it easy to keep clean. And moms are obsessed with this dino/taco fleece pattern! 🦕🌮

If you have followed us for any amount of time, you’ll recognize a lot of Comfy Critter products among our photos. We have been fans for many years! They are SO cute, soft, and highly durable; and a staple in our guinea pigs’ homes. We also love supporting a women-owned and operated business. Heather is super friendly, and she designs the most amazing custom products! 💖

Check out her store, and use the code THEGAYNEAPIGS at checkout for 25% off your purchase! ✨

[manic-maniac-man]

HUgE Jan 2013

Undercoverism Mouton Coat

"Because I feel a dark fantasy on the inside of the mouton." This fall/winter (UNDERCOVERISM) mouton coat has the fur side, which is normally on the inside, on the outside. When I asked designer Jun Takahashi about the reason for this, he explained it in his own unique way. This unique piece, which focuses on the texture of the material, has a character-like look and is somewhat reminiscent of *GRACE. This may also be a factor in the dark fantasy that he describes.

The design is based on a mod coat. The designer was particularly keen to create a soft image. Indeed, by using double-faced mouton inside out, it has a solid yet soft impression. Meanwhile, in addition to the strong visual impact, the details are also interesting. The buttons are of different colours and shapes, a distinctive detail of this season's collection, and the coat also features removable coyote fur and a wire around the edge of the hood, allowing you to adjust the shape and matching it with the high stand collar. Fleece is used inside the pockets to keep your hands warm and to increase protection against the cold.

Another point is that this mouton coat, with its elegance that is characteristic of (UNDERCOVERISM), does not have the clumsy feel that is common with conventional heavy mouton outerwear. Another big attraction is that it retains the heavy presence that is the characteristic of the material, while also giving it a unique worldly feel. In addition, it is made loosely, so you can enjoy layering it. It is an immediate hit that will keep you warm in the middle of winter. We highly recommend it as a large addition to your wardrobe.

Undercover undercoverism Mouton Coat ¥315,000