#every day I think about textiles—

[courfeyracs-swordcane]

4, 6, and 20 for Alonzo Ballad Brothers??

4) What color or colors do you most associate with your OC?

Blue!! Mostly bc his uniform band (to signify what level/department he’s in) is blue but also that’s a Blue Guy

(SIDEBAR FOR WORLDBUILDING TANGENT— it’s a whole thing with the RF that ppl in most departments get to basically decide what they wear, you’re issued a standard uniform that a lot of ppl (Alonzo.) just go with but you’re also free to riff off of that basically as much as you want as long as you keep the colored band around the waist of your jacket so ppl know where you go)(the standard uniform also comes w light knee-pads built into the pants in the same color as the band but those are optional)

PICTURED (left to right):

1. Kyrie’s only outfit is her customized uniform from when she was the RF’s special little mascot guy lmaooo (jacket got repossessed when she got arrested bc it still had the band on it so she’s technically impersonating a federal employee)

2. El is the only guy here who’s not a current or former RF employee and his jacket is a handmedown from the convent next to the tower so there’s no band on it! (Ditto the knees on the handmade pants)

3. There is not a mad science department for Ari’s band to correspond to so theirs on their lab coat is blank— ditto the knees on their sweats but they ripped those out and replaced them anyway (the band on their more. professional. uniform for their financial department front desk position is pink)

4. An also gets funky w their uniform! They used to have a more vermillion-and-gold color scheme when they had the special little mascot guy band, but they swapped for grey-purple-black when they got promoted since that didn’t really go with the black management band.

5. Alonzo’s basic ass uniform for the sword-for-hire department vs the security department 😔 his ass is NOT interesting.

(Also in-universe blue is the mourning color because of St Miri but nobody really holds to that anymore and also it’s definitely more of a thing in the city on the other side of the lake)(so it’s not really relevant but his ass IS doomed by the narrative)

6) Any flowers you associate with your OC?

(Couldn’t find any good pictures of this genre red poppy rip)

20) What hobbies does your OC have?

NONE. That’s part of his issue lmao he has NO hobbies and NO friends he goes to WORK and then he goes HOME. and sometimes he goes to hang out with his sister (while he’s on the clock)(bc sometimes his job is supposed to be Hunting Her For Sport) and/or his boyfriend (on his days off) but neither of those really count as hobbies? When he’s at home he washes his uniform (for his job) every day bc he has sensory issues and he does paperwork (for his job) but those are also not hobbies. HOWEVER. I do think playing some kind of racquetball as recreation would fix him.

[teaboot]

I feel like if you're using a lot of disposable plastic bags in your day to day life, you've gotta do something sustainable to make up for it. Like using bamboo toilet paper or eco friendly cat litter or something, yknow

Honestly I exaggerate for comedic effect, while I DO routinely use ziplock bags to hold spaghetti I cook maybe once a month and the bag itself is usually for freezer storage. I actually throw out maybe one bag a week? I DO hate washing plates and tupperware and junk but that usually just means I eat sandwiches without a plate.

I agree though that needless waste should be avoided, and I do avoid it- biodegradable bags and recyclables, empty butter tubs used to store leftovers, etc.

This said, though, not applicable necessarily for myself but for a lot of others- I feel that it's importat to remember that there are many people who legitimately NEED things like plastic straws, or catheters, or pre-packaged foods

And the idea that that's a moral failing that individuals need to personally make up for when a single billionaire blows out more CO2 in a long weekend than I will in my whole life on a superjet meet-cute in the Bolivian rainforest between humvee drag races funded by the river-polluting textiles plants they planted in a third world country to avoid EPA laws and give an entire village stillbirths and stomach cancer is an idea that those very same bigwigs have spent a LOT of time and money investing in planting in the public psyche.

Like- Glass bottles are infinitely recyclable, so why are so many drinks in plastic now? Loads of drinks manufacturers used to buy them back and clean them for re-use, so why did they stop? If they chose to make something out of a limited and environmentally irresponsible material, why is it my failing to track down a correct process of disposal for them? What if there are none in my area? Do I lobby for more recycling plants in my area? Do I set aside some of my limited time outside the pain factory of my job- which I have more than one of, thanks to rising costs of things just like that drink I just emptied- to properly dispose of this company's waste FOR them?

Say coca-cola just rolled up to your town and started dumping millions of empty plastic bottles in the street, going, "wow, you should really think about building and staffing a recycling depot, it would be really shameful of you to just put these in the trash." When companies purposefully use materials with limited lifespans- because yes, even plastic can only be reused so many times- and tell you it's your own fault if it harms the environment- that's essentially what they're doing, just with more steps.

Yes, its important to be as environmentally concious as we can in our day to day life, but responsible sustainability is not catholicism. We don't get good boy points from our lord and savior Captain Planet every time the average low-income household gathers together to hold hands and repent for a single-use plastic that allows them to access something they need.

Entire families could eat trees and shit dead lithium batteries for years and still not do as much damage to the planet as an average dye plant or braindead celebrity does in a week just for fun, and I'm mad about it

...this went on longer than intended.

TL/DR: DO recycle and minimize waste, but don't beat yourself up over the little waste you can't avoid, and follow the money.

EDIT: Part 2

[nasa]

NASA Inspires Your Crafty Creations for World Embroidery Day

It’s amazing what you can do with a little needle and thread! For #WorldEmbroideryDay, we asked what NASA imagery inspired you. You responded with a variety of embroidered creations, highlighting our different areas of study.

Here’s what we found:

Webb’s Carina Nebula

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, created this embroidered piece inspired by Webb’s Carina Nebula image. Captured in infrared light, this image revealed for the first time previously invisible areas of star birth. Credit: Wendy Edwards, NASA. Pattern credit: Clare Bray, Climbing Goat Designs

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, first learned cross stitch in middle school where she had to pick rotating electives and cross stitch/embroidery was one of the options.  “When I look up to the stars and think about how incredibly, incomprehensibly big it is out there in the universe, I’m reminded that the universe isn’t ‘out there’ at all. We’re in it,” she said. Her latest piece focused on Webb’s image release of the Carina Nebula. The image showcased the telescope’s ability to peer through cosmic dust, shedding new light on how stars form.

Ocean Color Imagery: Exploring the North Caspian Sea

Danielle Currie of Satellite Stitches created a piece inspired by the Caspian Sea, taken by NASA’s ocean color satellites. Credit: Danielle Currie/Satellite Stitches

Danielle Currie is an environmental professional who resides in New Brunswick, Canada. She began embroidering at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic as a hobby to take her mind off the stress of the unknown. Danielle’s piece is titled “46.69, 50.43,” named after the coordinates of the area of the northern Caspian Sea captured by LandSat8 in 2019.

An image of the Caspian Sea captured by Landsat 8 in 2019. Credit: NASA

Two Hubble Images of the Pillars of Creation, 1995 and 2015

Melissa Cole of Star Stuff Stitching created an embroidery piece based on the Hubble image Pillars of Creation released in 1995. Credit: Melissa Cole, Star Stuff Stitching

Melissa Cole is an award-winning fiber artist from Philadelphia, PA, USA, inspired by the beauty and vastness of the universe. They began creating their own cross stitch patterns at 14, while living with their grandparents in rural Michigan, using colored pencils and graph paper.  The Pillars of Creation (Eagle Nebula, M16), released by the Hubble Telescope in 1995 when Melissa was just 11 years old, captured the imagination of a young person in a rural, religious setting, with limited access to science education.

Lauren Wright Vartanian of the shop Neurons and Nebulas created this piece inspired by the Hubble Space Telescope’s 2015 25th anniversary re-capture of the Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Lauren Wright Vartanian, Neurons and Nebulas

Lauren Wright Vartanian of Guelph, Ontario Canada considers herself a huge space nerd. She’s a multidisciplinary artist who took up hand sewing after the birth of her daughter. She’s currently working on the illustrations for a science themed alphabet book, made entirely out of textile art. It is being published by Firefly Books and comes out in the fall of 2024. Lauren said she was enamored by the original Pillars image released by Hubble in 1995. When Hubble released a higher resolution capture in 2015, she fell in love even further! This is her tribute to those well-known images.

James Webb Telescope Captures Pillars of Creation

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art, created a rectangular version of Webb’s Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art

Darci Lenker of Norman, Oklahoma started embroidery in college more than 20 years ago, but mainly only used it as an embellishment for her other fiber works. In 2015, she started a daily embroidery project where she planned to do one one-inch circle of embroidery every day for a year.  She did a collection of miniature thread painted galaxies and nebulas for Science Museum Oklahoma in 2019. Lenker said she had previously embroidered the Hubble Telescope’s image of Pillars of Creation and was excited to see the new Webb Telescope image of the same thing. Lenker could not wait to stitch the same piece with bolder, more vivid colors.

Milky Way

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art was inspired by NASA’s imaging of the Milky Way Galaxy. Credit: Darci Lenker

In this piece, Lenker became inspired by the Milky Way Galaxy, which is organized into spiral arms of giant stars that illuminate interstellar gas and dust. The Sun is in a finger called the Orion Spur.

The Cosmic Microwave Background

This image shows an embroidery design based on the cosmic microwave background, created by Jessica Campbell, who runs Astrostitches. Inside a tan wooden frame, a colorful oval is stitched onto a black background in shades of blue, green, yellow, and a little bit of red. Credit: Jessica Campbell/ Astrostitches

Jessica Campbell obtained her PhD in astrophysics from the University of Toronto studying interstellar dust and magnetic fields in the Milky Way Galaxy. Jessica promptly taught herself how to cross-stitch in March 2020 and has since enjoyed turning astronomical observations into realistic cross-stitches. Her piece was inspired by the cosmic microwave background, which displays the oldest light in the universe.

The full-sky image of the temperature fluctuations (shown as color differences) in the cosmic microwave background, made from nine years of WMAP observations. These are the seeds of galaxies, from a time when the universe was under 400,000 years old. Credit: NASA/WMAP Science Team

GISSTEMP: NASA’s Yearly Temperature Release

Katy Mersmann, a NASA social media specialist, created this embroidered piece based on NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS) global annual temperature record. Earth’s average surface temperature in 2020 tied with 2016 as the warmest year on record. Credit: Katy Mersmann, NASA

Katy Mersmann is a social media specialist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Md. She started embroidering when she was in graduate school. Many of her pieces are inspired by her work as a communicator. With climate data in particular, she was inspired by the researchers who are doing the work to understand how the planet is changing. The GISTEMP piece above is based on a data visualization of 2020 global temperature anomalies, still currently tied for the warmest year on record.

In addition to embroidery, NASA continues to inspire art in all forms. Check out other creative takes with Landsat Crafts and the James Webb Space telescope public art gallery.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[paper-mario-wiki]

this video made me laugh, and i wanted to post it on tumblr with some kind of caption, so here's the caption:

i think it's interesting how transient ownership over things has become in "meme" and content creation spheres. im thinking now about this video in particular. im thinking about how i downloaded it off of a tweet reacting to another post. they probably downloaded it from someone else, who got it from someone else, who got it from someone who decided to put a simple edit on a youtube video to have it speed up gradually as it progresses. that youtube video, before that, was made by someone who used this character someone else made-- a character whose identity is ubiquitous enough for it to be expected that the audience just know who they are and what they're from. along the way, as this piece of digital textile has been passed around, ripped from its original tapestry and defaced again and again to fit the intent of the current owner's message, there's been no credit given to any additive measures that brought this post into being, nor is much expected. there is a noticeable difference in meme spaces where the same level of "credit the artist" is not necessarily expected for these edits which i would consider natural descendants of the animutations of the early oughts (through the youtube poop genus, of course). i find it fascinating that these-- speaking objectively-- complex and abstract messages that take measurable effort to learn how to create, are taken for granted. they simply exist as tokens within a human ecosystem, like seashells or coins. these things just float from person to person, and everybody has just sorta grown to expect it because there's so many of them being made every single day, and so many of them are being more and more blatantly derivative. including this! this post is incredibly derivative! it's derivative of all those people who hadn't been credited because they didn't credit each other, and likely wouldn't be terribly cross with me that i didn't go out of my way to credit them. i think that's fascinating.

alternative caption:

logging into a business meeting but i forgot to turn off my vtuber software

[ye-olde-cider]

So I'm trying to make folk linen pants from sowing to sewing.

Second post (here's first)

It's been about 60 days since sowing (it's 22nd of June). It's looking so pretty and started blooming about 55th day. I've been watering it one or two wheelbarrows of every 2 weeks, which I thought would be too little but it's growing pretty good. It's still not that high (about over the knee) and I doubt it'll get much higher sadly. That means lower grade of fibers but whatever. It'll be fine.

Every now and again there are parts laying down and I've been seeing some hares running about so they probably hide in it tramping down the plants. But it gets up no problem so all good. Maybe next time I'll put up a little fence around it.

Also idk when should I harvest it bc all the info is about oil flax, not textile flax, and even then it's contradictory sometimes. But either way it's around 100-120th day, so we're still only halfway.

Next up I need to start thinking about scuthing it, and it requires some equipment. But it's easy enough to build on my own probably. It should be something like this flax-brake:

And then this kind of metal comb, which I'll make just by densly putting nails in a blank:

So yeah, that's the plans for the near future. Here's a bonus flax video if you stayed till the end ❤️

[txttletale]

genuine question: how do you reconcile the fact that trying to return to a "superior" past way of doing things is an inherently reactionary way to think or act with the fact that some things now seem so much worse than they used to be? i try not to fall into the trap of idealising the past, but the more i learn about certain topics -- notably the textiles industry, and the current mass reliance on planned obsolescence of cheap, polyester clothing that goes straight to landfill when it's done -- i struggle with how that's in any way better, or even equivalent, to what came before

i mean obviously the specifics of e.g. fast fashion are indeed awful. however i think its good to remember that before the invention of mass textile production most clothes were made by women engaged in backbreaking unpaid domestic labour and that not being the case anymore is pretty good. the point of not being a reactionary is not to accept a whiggish view of history where everything now is the best it's ever been in every way, but rather to locate the solutions to problems within the present day conditions and work towards a future, rather than a past, where those problems can be eradicated.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal. 

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that. 

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie. 

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods. 

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips. 

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight. 

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time. 

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday. 

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life. 

And on Sundays? 

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care. 

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness. 

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation. 

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat. 

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook. 

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts. 

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah. 

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady. 

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air. 

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. 

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking. 

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm." 

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours. 

Puts his basket down. 

Stands too close. 

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him. 

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar? 

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around. 

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine. 

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent? 

That's... kind of pathetic, actually. 

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About." 

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense. 

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely. 

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield. 

The same way you use sarcasm as one. 

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is. 

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster,  "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything. 

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you. 

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman. 

A widow. 

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries. 

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine. 

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate. 

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh. 

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine. 

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition. 

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent. 

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking. 

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question. 

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this. 

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why? 

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close. 

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are. 

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. 

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that. 

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you. 

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades. 

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction. 

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read. 

Neither of you moves. 

His eyes dart between both of your pupils. 

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling. 

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird. 

This whole morning has been weird. 

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it. 

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces. 

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets. 

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb. 

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face. 

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned? 

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes. 

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side. 

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker. 

You don't ask. Not your business. 

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall. 

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?" 

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what? 

Surprise? 

Interest? 

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number. 

Ah. Barnes & Noble. 

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care. 

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs. 

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket. 

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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[mtchee]

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold - [Katsuki Bakugo] SOULMATE SERIES | GN

blurb:

You've got the cranky egoist in 1A as your soulmate. Deemed as an 'extra' in his straight laced life, you've resigned yourself to covering your soul words and sealing your lips, becoming U.A's first year general course prodigy, the silent designer. Despite his distasteful character and colourful atittude, as one of Bakugo's primary costume creators, you work to your utmost to satisfy beyond your client's needs. It's unfortunate that despite your title, the angry pompom won't take a goddamn hint from your silence. When you even go out of your way to avoid him, you start to think that he knows you a little too well despite never having uttered a word.

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, [name] is a general course student, swearing, sassy [name], lowkey enemies to lovers, you hate him, he likes your attitude, onesided e2l??, i know nothing about textiles and design except the bare minimum, [name] and bakugo are kinda cute why am i eating this up omg, [name] tormenting bakugo with bright pink and ribbons

| masterlist | boku no hero academia collection |

[2.5k]

Avoiding Katsuki Bakugo has been a piece of cake.

The guy has such an inflamed ego that he expects the people to part for him wherever he walks.

You met him when the hero course first years were scheduled to mix with the costume design students to discuss both the practical and fashionable output of their hero costumes.

You'd been one of the main designer's for Bakugo's suit, with two others having asissted you in its curation. From his original sketch, you'd syphoned the relevant materials for the prototype, your colleagues aiding in the stitching and detail while you further assessed how it could potentially enhance the use of his quirk.

'Beat it, extra.'

The words had tingled on the back of your neck after he growled at you before you could consult him on his gauntlets' latest design. You had swiftly looked him up and down with disgust at his audaciousness before slapping your sketchpad on the table in front of him and storming off.

You remember hearing the maniacal laughter of his friends while one of your other classmate's (the designer of Shoji's suit) shakily explained to him your presence.

You'd had much better things to do that day, but had decided to go out of your way to personally discuss with him his preference in design and utility so you wouldn't have to go back and forth with various prototypes.

Instead, you got cussed out before saying a single word; what an utter waste of your generous time.

Like hell you were going to deal with a soulmate like that.

You started wearing a thick, velvet choker to hide your golden inked soul words.

Since then, you'd sent your assistants to deliver any sort of message to him. With them doing your communicative bidding, you could put your full focus on the active improvement of his hero costume.

When it would come back burnt from training, you would change and reinforce its material until it was fire resistant. When it got ripped, you would reasses its durability. When his gauntlets got in the way, you would restructure them for better mobility and control.

One day when one of your assistants reluctantly relayed to you Bakugo's irrational displeasure with the pigment of his headpiece (for the seventh time), you'd sent it back hot pink with a black and white frilly ribbon.

He broke your lab door the same day.

Since then, when you'd send off your poor assistants in sacrifice, he'd rattle them and demand for you to face him personally.

You ignored him, but then when your classes started mingling more you couldn't get away from him quick enough.

One of your classmates would sweat in a panic off to the side as you worked at your bench tirelessly with thinned lips and an irk whilst Bakugo yelled and threw a hissyfit at your every move.

"What the hell is that supposed to be? Spandex?!"

"That looks like a lump of shit."

"God, it's ugly."

"Whaddya using that for? Weakass bullshit cloth."

"STOP MAKING IT PINK!"

"No way would that work with my quirk!"

"I'd blow that to smithereens easy."

You had to stop yourself from throwing your sketchpad at him most days. But sometimes you caved and summoned a roll of pink ribbon to stuff in his loud mouth.

He spat it at you and yelled even more, but that single moment of peace and his reddened face made it worth it.

On occasion, you would be lucky and actually get a few decent conversations out of him. His mouth was still foul, but his volume would be acceptable, and his suggestions surprisingly competent and reasonable.

On those days, he would leave with his voice intact, and you with one step closer to the final product.

Your impeccable work ethic and skills and Bakugo's mild decency lead you way ahead of the others in your unit. Eventually, you started having enough time to help out with some of the other hero costumes too--with the permission of both the creator and wearer, of course.

They've all been more than thrilled to work alongside U.A's renouned silent designer.

Although you worked quietly, you made more of an effort to communicate personally with the heroes in training regarding their costumes.

Most were surprised at that, having only known you to work alone and to commune from afar as you've done with Bakugo.

While word of your ingenius spread, unfortunately so too did your most recent work relations.

Bakugo didn't seem to find it funny that you talked to everyone but him.

So you threw all your stationary at him when he stormed into your design lab to make it everyone's problem.

But more specifically, to make it your problem.

"Miss me, nerd?"

Your scathing glare did nothing to Bakugo's arrogant smirk as he waltzes his way past everyone to your work bench.

You narrowly snatch up your latest prototype sketches before he sets down a pair of cold drinks on the table. The condensation drips down, pooling on its surface.

"This it?" He casually quirks up a brow at the strip of hard textured fabric and metal atop your bench. He picks up one of the drinks and slurps from its straw obnoxiously to get on your nerves, "hm, doesn't look like shit this time."

Lately you've been redesigning his utility belt to match the clasps between his protective gloves and gauntlets, additionally extending it to hold extra grenades that activate through his quirk. You've already sent in a request to the support department for those.

"Put ribbons on it like you did last week and I'll kill you."

You fight back a petty smile, recalling the pretty little pompoms decorating the numerous tiny pink bows stitched to each belt loop. He scoffs at your poorly concealed pleasure, and you turn your nose up at him, biting the inside of your cheek mischieviously.

He narrows his eyes at you before rolling them, placing his drink down way too close to your precious papers--again--and resting his cheek on his fist boredly.

Your lips twitch downward in ire at his intrusion of your space, but you work around him nontheless. You don't blink when he cusses as he smacks away a scrap of fabric you toss at him in casual vengeance.

"When's this gonna be done anyway--quit it. I've got a mission in Shinjuku next week." Bakugo snatches a pen you throw at him in mid-air.

You shrug at him, not your problem, but hold up two fingers anyway.

"Two days, huh," He clicks his tongue, "you slackin'?"

He cackles demonically while you log a chunk of stainless steel at his head.

Swear to god--you're gonna make his whole suit neon pink!

He visits you again after his mission, which is evidently successful judging by the fat cocky smirk on his face as he approaches while you stitch up a hero costume from class 1-B.

You deadpan at him as he drops a take away paper bag at the corner of your work bench. Then he tosses his empty utility belt over your most recent handiwork.

"Clasp blasted off."

Bakugo makes himself at home in the spinny chair opposite you, leaning back and putting his boots on the desk as he snags a tasty pastry from the paper bag before pushing it towards you.

An eyebrow twitches as you stare at the no longer existing metal clasp on the support item. A square char mark is left where it would've been. The belt is otherwise untouched.

What, was he aiming for it or something?

Scrunching your nose at him distastefully, you flick the belt off the costume you had been working on and resume your stitching.

"Oi! What about me!?"

You shoot him a sharp glare that makes him scoff. He pipes down nontheless, settling back into his chair with a roll of his eyes and a grumble.

Bakugo's visitations become more frequent.

At this point in time, his hero costume shouldn't need any more major improvements or adjustments until the start of your second year. And yet he's coming in what seems like every other day for any single little thing that bothers him.

Hell, he even comes in to bug you about repaires--you don't do repaires. But he argues that he doesn't want anyone but you 'touching his shit', as he so eloquently explains.

He's come in for his belt clasp six times now, his visor for four, his gauntlets for five, and for the sole of his boots thrice.

The bottom of his fucking shoes.

He can eat your sparkly, bow tied, hot pink and purple swirled shit.

He doesn't even need you anymore!

You're just some stupid non-hero extra. The hell is his deal now?

Bakugo's come in angry today.

He's normally angry, but it's different this time.

You watch him wearily from the corner of your eye as you type out a risk assessment at your desk. School's finished now, but you've been putting this off for a bit, and wanted to get it done while you were still feeling productive.

Less than ten minutes after the last bell rang out and everyone left for the day, Bakugo had come barging in with a stiffer than usual scowl and a dissatisfied furrow in his brows.

But he's been silent.

Bakugo's never been silent.

He sits in the seat adjacent to you, leant all the way into the backrest with his arms tightly crossed and his eyes narrowed, boring into your form.

Each time you glance at him you look away in a hurry as you meet his gaze.

Okay, now it's getting to you...

Slowly, your fingers stop typing, unable to function properly under the intensity of his stare. You don't look at him this time though, and you sweatdrop uncomfortably.

The tension causes your skin to prick, and you tug at your choker discomposibly. The velvet rubs at your skin, irritating it.

You jump when he suddenly speaks.

"What's up with you, huh?" He says it more like a statement, "you're so damn quiet it's eery. Say something."

You give him a disgruntled look.

Is he for real? Is that what his tantrum is about? He can go eat grass.

You turn your attention back onto your laptop, typing again.

He growls at that.

"Don't ignore me, damnit! I know you can say shit!"

Oh, and the shit I would say. You snicker to yourself, but that only seems to tick him off more.

"[name], answer me."

Your stomach drops--he's never called you by your name, let alone your first name. You glance at him again; Bakugo leans forwards with his elbows on his knees, eyes piercing you with a threatening intensity that sends off warning bells in your head.

You look back at him once you grasp the gravity of his tone.

Your annoyed frown fades, and your features soften as to prompt him. He takes in a deep breath, gaze flicking up and down your form as he processes his thoughts first.

He meets your eyes again with a determined resolve.

"I know you're my soulmate."

Fuck, what.

Bakugo scowls when you visibly stiffen, shock coursing your system.

"Get over yourself, you ain't slick. 'S why you've been runnin' from me." He crosses his arms across his chest, lips firmly downturned at your lack of verbal response.

Ice freezes your blood and your gaze flicks away from him apprehensively. What exactly is he expecting from this? Bakugo is a cocky bastard.

An egocentric prick with the means to flaunt it. He's one of the top students in the hero course and he knows it--what the hell does he want from you?

You feel your temper flare.

So what if he knows your soulmates? He obviously thinks he's too good for this shit; fuck fate and all that it stands for, you're just some side character behind him, just like he's said.

You aren't shit to him, and if he thinks he can actually do better than you, well then you know that you can. Who is he to pick and choose who he deserves? In that case, you know what, yeah, he's right, because you deserve better than him any day-

"What?" Bakugo's unappreciated tone fans the flames of the rapidly burning thread containing your tolerance, "still silent?"

"Shut up, asshole! You think you're too good for shit!" Your outburst as you slamming your hands down atop your work bench, the few utensils scattered about clattering in tandem with the vibration, "I'm not just some side piece you can bulldoze! I know my worth, even if you can't fathom it, you eighth-grade-syndrome twit!"

A tense silence settles over the room, and his eyes harden as you stare him down with an unwavering resolve.

Bakugo's lips twitch.

And then he's cackling like a hyena.

You flinch at the abrupt switch, scrambling to process whether you should feel glad or offended that he doesn't seem to be taking your words to heart.

You know for a fact you would not beat Katsuki Bakugo in a fight.

You shiver at the thought, and he beats his fist on the edge of the table as he recovers from his laughter. He lets out a long winded breath, wiping an exaggerated tear from his eye which you deadpan at.

"Ah, damn," Bakugo snorts, "we're really meant to be, eh?" He lifts up the edge of his loose shirt just enough to reveal the glowing golden words inked vertically on his toned waist, "knew there was a reason I could tolerate you more."

"Ditto." You spit out despite the relief flooding you as he stays put. You rub the back of your neck subconsciously.

He eyes the movement skeptically before motioning for you to move towards him. You scrunch your nose at him but oblige when he clicks his tongue irratedly. You've tested his patience enough already.

Once you're close enough he yanks you down and unclasps your velvet choker. You emit a scandalised gasp, feeling naked without it.

"Hey!"

"Give it up," He drawls, "get over yourself."

Bakugo latches a hand around your nape, pulling you forward so your head is bent level with his chest, and your face flushes. Both your hands grip at the armrests of the chair, caging him in as you fight not to fall off balance.

"Ack-" You choke at the feeling of him ever so gently tracing beneath the words on the back of your neck, "-stop that!"

He huffs a laugh, and his breath pans over your skin.

His eyes soften ever so slightly, "You're not jus' some extra, you know..." He lets you up. He ignores the imbuing embarrassment that pairs with the subtle blush tinting his cheeks.

You mull over his words for a second, pushing yourself back to face him head on. You blink slowly, registering his meaning. A gentle warmth settles across your cheeks, and a quiet glee bubbles inside you.

"Yeah?"

Although you bite back a smile, there's a hopeful glimmer in your eyes.

Bakugo grins, "Yeah," and places a reassuring hand atop your head, "not my soulmate."

[applejusue]

Farmhand ──  Ellie Williams ౨ৎ˚₊

tldr; the farmer's daughter c/w: religion, angst, comfort w /c: 3k

a/n: get cosy, it's a long one ☕𝜗𝜚

Part I. Part II. Part III.

Out here, you had few friends. The closest you'd get to girls your age was when you followed your father into town on his rickety cart while he ran an errand. You'd walk around in an airy sundress, unbothered by the dirt that stained the hem. But that isn't to say you didn't enjoy pretty things — quite the opposite. Every time you saw an elderly woman sipping tea in a cafe or a mercantile window, the reflection almost tempted you with hints of softer textiles.

You'd been brought up thankful, grateful for what you had. And yet even that comfort of gentle murmurs and handshakes on a Sunday morning didn't make up for what you felt like you were missing. A few girls stood near a street corner, oggling some roadside workers. Their infectious giggles almost brought a smile to your own lips, not that you'd ever felt any particular interest in the boys who floated through town. It was they that always had your focus. The rosy cheeks, the whisper of exchanges, and the fun it seemed to create.

As a silent reminder that you should have been watching the cart, your horse's brush against your arm diverted your attention. You sighed, turning to look behind you as you heard your father's voice once more. He was with a waddie, it seemed, someone with speckled skin and a dusty hat covering his- her eyes. The soft flesh in your ribcage fluttered only slightly at the curious scene. A tan glazed her arms and neck, a slightly red hue to her cheeks from long hours in the blazing heat. Her furrowed brow made her look serious, and it made you smile.

──

"Who was that?"

The question floated through your lips before you could think of keeping them in. With his gloved hands still leading the mare home at a steady trot, your father turned to face you with an arched brow.

"The woman you were talking to... is that a friend of yours?"

You added, feeling your bottom lift with every bump on the dry road. With a soft chuckle, your father shook his head, raising his forearm to wipe some of the dust from his face.

"She's no friend of mine, petal, she's looking for work.."

Oh. It made sense, you supposed. Though you'd never known another girl to look for work. Up ahead, you could make out a group of crows perched on a branch. Even they seemed to be taunting you. You looked at your father; he was growing older, and in spite of his stubbornness, he needed help around the ranch. You nurtured the animals often, but when it came to the fields and repairs, you were at a loss. So tentatively, maybe even selfishly, you spoke up.

"It's not such a bad idea, you know you can't keep a handle on the farm yourself.."

Your father grumbled in a half-hearted protest, but even he couldn't deny his steadily growing back pain or the fact that he was more winded these days. He scratched his scruffy jaw with his gloved hand with an expression that at least gave you a little bit of hope. I'll think about it.

Soon the fences were in sight, and you were wondering what it would be like to have someone else here whilst you trotted up to your loft in the little farmhouse. The comb glided easily through your hair while the sun split open like an egg, painting the skies orange. She was still on your mind. That sullen brow, the way she shook your father's hand with that southern politeness, the way the sweat had made her skin glisten despite the dirt that covered it.

It made you feel sick.

Jealousy was the closest thing you could compare it to, but even then, it was softer, more of a dull ache than a sharp sting. As you rolled the pearls between your fingers, you felt comforted by the gentle glow of the candlelight surrounding the faithful beads that adorned your dresser. Taking them from the little silver plate, you carried them to your bedside, sinking to your knees.

──

Feathers fluttered around your ankles as you tossed grains for the chickens, a cool morning breeze biting your skin. You chuckled at some of them battling over mere scratch mix, crouching to let some of the babies feed from your palm. A horse tied by the fencepost caught your eye though. Not one owned by you. As your eyes followed the wheat fields and the thrushes, you were able to spot your father trudging alongside another person. Another person.

It made your heart flutter, but you still had other morning chores to complete. You couldn't simply abandon all order over a farmhand. So, while you were tending to the cows in the filthy barn, you found yourself dusting down your skirt and keeping your hair somewhat clean with a handkerchief tied over it. You led your old girls back out into the fields with gentleness after filling two buckets with milk. You had a bond with each of the animals here, something that exasperated your father whenever he needed to sell or stock up on meat.

By one of the sheep pens, you saw her as you trudged up the muddy trail with the two heavy tins. A strange kind of nervousness tightened your lips, pooling into your stomach. Wearing a calfskin coat that cuffed near her wrists, she was squatting against the muck while using a small toolbox to fix the fence gate. Since most of her face was hidden by her hazel, scruffy fringe, you simply continued to walk; she probably wouldn't notice you.

However, she lifted her head as you got closer, her sullen eyes examining you so intently that you nearly stopped moving. When you went on, she nodded gently, and you did the same.

"Ma'am.."

The greeting was simple, polite, efficient. And like that she got back to work, her gloved hands nailing some more screws into the post. You felt like it was too late to speak, so you just kept walking.

Your hands moved efficiently as you split the milk buckets into glass bottles, though your thoughts were elsewhere entirely. You'd run out of chores, excuses to be outside in somewhat close quarters. Yet still the feeling of being close to someone else was too tempting, so you sat on the porch with your book. You truly were reading, between glances at the stranger as she pottered about carrying hay bales or wooden planks.

──

Ellie took respite in the cold morning, the bitter air stinging her freckled cheeks. She preferred the cold to the summer heat that she knew would blister her skin once afternoon came. After drifting from town to town without any luck, Ellie was grateful for the work no matter how demanding. There was lots to be done around the ranch, from mucking out horses to fixing fences and tending to the fields. It was exhausting, but it was secure, doing things with her hands.

She was carrying wooden posts down the muddy path when she noticed you, the farmer's daughter, sitting on the porch. Ellie knew it wasn't polite to stare, but she couldn't help the way your dress bunched around your legs. Despite the cold air, she felt a sickening heat trickle down her collar when your eyes met hers. She kept walking.

The last, last damn thing she needed was that.

When she met your eyes and hardly gave you a glance, a tiny sting of rejection pricked at your skin. You carried what was left of your pride back into the house, instead settling for the armchair by the fireplace. Your hand curled around the rood that hung from your neck, a habit while you read. It felt different now though, the cool metal searing your fingertips.

──

You'd hoped that at least a friendship might bloom between you, just something to kill the ache of loneliness that haunted the ranch. Nothing such came. She was curt, not cold but distant. Your attempts at bringing her a cold beer or a sandwich met with the same 'thanks, ma'am' or a 'you're too kind, darlin', which sometimes let your heart lift with the smallest hope that she might be warming to you. But then she'd go back to work without another word until the next time you came to her.

And so you continued to feed the animals, collect the milk, and gather the apples. The mundane routine left too much time for you to think, to wonder what you weren't doing right. She was your age; you'd learnt that from your father, like most other things about her. You knew she came from St. Botolphs, and that she didn't like heights.

It was hard to convince yourself that it wasn't you, especially when your father seemed to get along with her just fine. You'd sometimes hear them laughing; he'd pat her on the back and pay her. Sometimes they'd drink on the porch after a long day's work or argue over the best way to tie the crates. She'd even started sleeping out back in the barn on a dusty mattress, knowing she'd have to be back here at dawn anyways.

It made you feel it again, that not-jealous ache. It made it hard to sleep some nights, especially when you were haunted by those dark eyes and the glimmer of satisfaction on her face when she got the job done.

Your feet hit the cool wooden floor as you padded down the hall, your nightgown hanging to your ankles. The faces in frames along your walls watched you, your head bowed in respect like you'd done since you were a kid. Habit, you suppose. You passed your father's room, where he slept peacefully, and down the staircase. You headed to the kitchen, lighting a small candle that sat on the wooden bench.

You sat for some time, watching the flame flutter as soft tears of wax rolled down her bodice. Your tired haze was broken by a rattling at the backdoor. In moments you were standing, a rolling pin in hand, your nearest though limited form of defence. When the door pushed open, though, it wasn't a bandit or the devil sent to scorn your troubled mind. It was her, and she seemed just as startled.

Ellie noticed your hand trembling around a rolling pin, and her dark eyes grew softer, or maybe that was just the candlelight.

"Didn't mean to startle you, darlin.."

Her voice came hushed, all too aware of your father who slept upstairs. An unsteady sigh left your lips as you set away the pin, and all of a sudden you felt way too revealed in your nightgown. You pushed down the silver stinging just above your breast, your eyes trying to meet hers. Though it seemed pointless, her gaze drifting like it always did.

"What are you doing?"

Your voice was quiet, a hint of resignation in it as you sat back against the wooden bench. The candle flickered against her speckled skin, bringing out a honey in her iris that you never noticed before.

"M' lookin' for a gauze, if you got any. Figured I rolled across a nail or somethin' in my sleep, woke up and my arm was busted up.."

Tugging off her flannel, she was left in an old wifebeater that'd probably seen a few lifetimes. Her warm skin made your eyes flicker, but your attention was quickly captured by her left arm. Down the side and along the back was a trail of dark crimson, an ugly but pretty surface gash resting above her elbow. You weren't sure why, but you moved closer, turning her arm like you had a right to do so while you inspected the damage. Ellie's eyes burned into you, her body rigid.

Feeling the heat of her gaze, you released her arm, instead moving to the medicine cabinet. Ellie took a seat on the bench, rubbing a hand through her unkempt hair while following your every movement. The soft swish of your nightdress. When you returned her eyes flickered away, back to the ground like a respectful young lady.

Ellie reached to take the gauze, planning on heading back to the barn and praying she didn't die of tetanus. Absolutely not. You batted her away with the back of your hand, taking a seat next to her on the bench with a bottle of whiskey. Bringing the candle closer you got a better view of the damage, your tired eyes roaming the expanse of lean muscle and tanned freckles.

"S' way too late for you to be up takin' care of me, I can handle it.."

Ellie insisted, her voice a bit softer now even if it was gruff. Maybe it was the time of night, or the fact that you looked so downhearted. You shook your head, dampening the cloth with alcohol to gently press against the skin. She stayed taut, her jaw tightening with each burn of the drink. Her skin was nice against your hands, even if it was rougher than most. The quietness begged for resolution, for some sort of explanation.

"You don't like being 'round me much.. I rub you the wrong way?"

Your voice was a tentative whisper, almost like you thought you'd said it in your head. But you hadn't, and soon her eyes met yours for the first time since she'd passed you on the porch. You felt like the wax, melting downward against soft skin and a hot trigger. This time it was you that looked away, your fingers twitching as you started to wrap the thin fabric around her arm.

Ellie was no good with words, hell she was no good with people in general. She felt she'd have better luck calming a kicking horse than comforting a pretty girl. Ellie couldn't just tell you that she kows your routine by heart, that your cooking is the best she'd ever had, or that she wonders how soft your dresses are when she'd lay in the old barn.

"S' nothing like that darlin.."

Her voice is a warm whisper, her eyes flickering to your unsteady hands and the silver cross that dangled just above your breast, glinting in the candlelight. She swallows.

"You don't even look at me, n' here I've been trying to be friends.."

Your eyes dared to meet hers now, and all of a sudden it felt too close, too intimate. You were still holding her arm in your lap, her face tilted downward with that damn frown. It was so frustrating, the sting, the ache that you felt whenever she was around. And yet as those dark hazel eyes stayed lock into yours, her pained expression gave away something that you hadn't considered.

That she felt it too.

Your cheek grew hot as her calloused hand moved to touch it, carefully, like she was worried she'd smear the portrait infront of her. Your heart was wracking your ribs, you'd swear she could hear it from where she sat. Ellie's voice was a whisper, a thinly veiled restraint.

"I look at you, darlin'.. every time I get the damn chance.."

You hadn't even noticed your eyes prickling with tears until they began to leak down your face. Her thumb brushed each one away, and you'd never had anyone look at you the way she was. There was that ache again, the feeling in your gut that this wasn't right, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that you just wanted company.

Without meaning, your eyes flickered to her lips. They looked dry, no matter how many times Ellie licked them when she got nervous. You found it difficult to breathe, aware of every single point of contact where her body was touching yours. Her cold hand had moved to your temple, the only reprise from the burning you felt. It felt like heat, it felt like sin and yet her numbing touch offered you a solace, like that cool morning breeze.

"It's alright, s' alright.."

Ellie's arm moved around you, and the moment your face hit her chest it all seemed to go quiet. She smelled like hay, like springwater or dewy leafs. The ache faded, replaced instead by something soft, something warm that cushioned around your heart. Ellie was still rigid, but you had a feeling she was just like that. Hesitantly your fingers held onto her, and you could've sworn she was smelling your hair.

With a gentle hand Ellie guided your head upward, she'd stare all night if you'd let her. The warm candlelight made your skin glow, your puffy eyes making your dark lashes stand out even more. Her gaze flickered to that glint of silver, and she tucked it beneath the laced collar of your dress. Her calloused hand was still supporting your crown, and with a lick of her bottom lip she slowly leaned down.

When her lips met yours it was the most tender thing you'd ever felt. They were in fact dry, but they moved against yours like they were introducing themselves to you. And so with your father upstairs, a candle burning out on the bench, you kissed her back. Your mouths grew familiar, a fluttering in your stomach as your hands waded through her hair. It was a few minutes before you felt them part, Ellie kissing your chin politely. When she pulled away she almost looked shy, with that serious brow that still made you smile.

a/n: thanks for reading honey, honestly I adore fics with a country setting so stay put for the next part ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[azullumi]

Sorry but your thoughts on designer! Reader X Aventurine?

Like, I want to dress this peacock into so much staff, from tailored expensive suits with unbelievably beautiful patterns to the fucking dresses. (Rine in dress Rine in dress *trembles chews on chair*.)

Or maybe make him a living mannequin when he has free time? Like look at this man, the perfect waist. (new art new art omg)

It's like, so unrelated to IPC that maybe Aventurine would even find peace in having a Reader from a simple world (yeah simple fashion world of course yeah...)

Anyways, if it's boring or silly, you can just delete it!! It's okay, place your needs and desires first!

Cheese for you. 🧀

"the way you look tonight" ; aventurine

summary — you just get along with him so well and he just adores you so much.

pairing — aventurine (w/ fashion designer! reader)

tags — established relationship, fluff, not proofread, 1k words ; headcanons

note — i hope u like this nonnieee!! and thank you for the cheese 🧀 hopefully, he wasn't ooc in this one omgosh also this reminded me of the costume i have to make and i haven't started yet hahahaha?? this is day 3 of writing for this man until i have him.

Aventurine likes to adorn himself in expensive jewelry and clothing, to dress himself with extravagant accessories and jewelries (Have you seen the rings on his hands? His watch? The bracelets on his wrists?); that was a well-known fact. So when he met you for the first time as he visited a certain planet whose main trading point was fabric, textiles, clothing, and everything related to fashion, the relationship that will soon blossom will be inevitable. You just get along with him so well and he just adores you so much—it was like a match-made in the universe.

From then on, whenever he has the time to do so, he’ll arrange visits to your planet. It could be surprise visits or ones planned between you two (it’s mostly just him messaging you that he misses you so he’s planning on stopping by soon). Nevertheless, you love seeing him, love the way he always greets you with a hug and a kiss when he sees you. He’ll always bring you presents every time he comes by. Souvenirs from another planet, trinkets and charms that he thinks you would like, and occasionally, patterns, fabrics, clothes, and such.

Aventurine doesn’t mind you using him as your model—he was your muse, after all. He doesn’t mind having to stand still as you take his measurements or see which color suits him better by repeatedly alternating two different fabrics against his skin (it’s like a free color analysis). All the while, he’s entertained by just you talking to yourself and seemingly troubled.

“Hm, I think this one looks good, don’t you think?” You say as you fall into deep thought, holding the fabrics in your hand. You stand in front of the blond-haired man who just watches you the whole time with a relaxed look on his face—his soft gaze follows your every movement and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “No, wait, but this one looks nice too. Why is it so hard to decide?”

You fall into silence, into deep thought, and Aventurine simply waits for your next move. He’s like a living mannequin but he doesn’t complain, afraid that he’ll break your focus if he speaks at this moment.

“What do you think?” Finally, you looked at him. He doesn’t answer immediately, but instead, he smiles and tucks a few strands of hair behind your ear.

“Have you eaten already?” He’ll ask, caressing the of your cheek so sweetly, so gently. A lull of a touch and you can’t help but to lean against his hand to seek more of his kindness. You’ll answer him with a hesitant tone, “I wasn’t asking that though…” He could immediately tell the answer with just the tone of your voice and the way you avert your gaze away from him.

“How about we go out and eat first? I have a reservation for the both of us at the restaurant down the street. They serve your favorites.”

He just likes watching you as you work; eyebrows scrunched, eyes focused, and gaze unwavering as you concentrate on what you’re doing. Occasionally, he’ll watch over your shoulder as you sketch a new design. If you have long hair, he’ll tie it back for you so that you won’t be bothered by your strands obstructing your sight. Sometimes, he’ll massage your shoulders as he kisses the crown of your head. However, when it’s already late at night, he’ll ask you to go to bed with him already while peppering your face with kisses until you’ll let go of your pencil and give in to his words.

Aw, you can’t afford to buy the fabric? You don’t have enough money to buy the pattern that you like? Everything is too expensive? Fortunately for you, this man is willing to spend millions—or even trillions—of credits just to get you what you want and need. You just have to ask and he’ll provide without hesitation. You’re worried about how you’ll repay him? Just a kiss will do.  A fair and perfect price for it all, right?

While Aventurine brings you to casinos with him, you also bring him to watch fashion shows with you—majority of the whole show, however, he would just be watching you and adoring the way your eyes sparkle and your expression brightens. You’ll ask him how the show was and which one he likes best and he doesn’t know how to answer your question, only thinking of how you looked so lovely at the moment.

PHOTOS OF HIS OUTFITS OF THE DAY!! He’ll randomly send you pictures of him standing in front of a mirror in just a simple pose as he shows you what he’s wearing to work. He likes it whenever you compliment him—tell him he looks good, that he looks amazing in the suit you’ve made, that he looks so handsome and you wish to kiss him. (i’m an avid believer of aventurine having words of affirmation as one of his love languages)

It’s undeniable that he looks good in everything that he wears, much more if it's made by your hands. He wears the clothes you tailored for him or the outfits you have planned for him, seemingly showing them off in a rather subtle yet loud way. He’ll occasionally adjust the cuffs of his wrist, fix his tie even though it’s not even messy, or anything that would grab the attention of the person he’s talking to so that they’ll bring it up in a conversation; “Stop adjusting your coat, Aventurine. I know (Name) designed it for you.” A certain silver-haired girl would say and the man adorned with your work would only answer with: “Aren’t they so talented?”

MATCHING CLOTHING (hello?! i know i already mentioned the matching things in my previous work BUT MATCHING CLOTHING WITH HIM!!), especially ones that you’ve designed and tailored for the both of you. Whenever the both of you are going out for a date, he’ll ask what color you’re going for today or what you’re wearing so that he can match you. Be surprised or not, but the bouquet of flowers he bought for you would also match the palette of your clothes.

The first time you proposed the idea of him wearing a dress, he was baffled and somewhat confused. One minute, you were talking about the design of a suit and asking for his opinion on the matter and the next, you’re asking him what he thinks of dresses. Before he knew it, he was with you, choosing among the many collections of dresses that you have garnered in either your closet or boutique. How could he say ‘no’ to you, eyes wide with expectation and gleaming like the surface of a jewel, how could he ever say ‘no’?

Everything was just so simple with you—a form of escape, a way of running away from the thoughts that binds him. Every moment that he spends with you eases him of the worries, of the stress, of the chains that holds him as if he was a flightless bird born in a cage (you were simply his solace). In your presence, he’ll find tranquility inked into the softness of your skin and he’ll murmur his wishes along the lines of your soul; he wishes everything was this warm and easy.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works

[clotheshorsepodcast]

NEW EPISODE ALERT!

The seemingly small things we can do as individuals are actually really radical, impactful, and important.  Whether that’s mending our clothes, calling our representatives, boycotting big brands and shopping small and secondhand instead…even just cutting back on our consumption of single use plastics We don’t need huge organizations or big accounts/influencers to make change in the world.  We need each other. We need our communities. And we need more of the small but radical things we do every day to become the norm!

Throughout this year, I’m going to be sharing episodes about different things you can do in your community that seem small, but create positive impact. And I am super excited about this week's guest, Scout of Radical Sew Club! Described as “a safe space to learn how to sew and repair textiles while in community,” Radical Sewing Club is a weekly meetup held in LA.  I’m so excited for you to meet Scout because while mending and sewing is often dismissed as unimportant, unskilled work, we know that is completely untrue! And Scout is going to share what they have learned along the way that can help you start your own mending and sewing club in your community! We will be talking about important things like venue, cost, materials, and even how a typical Radical Sewing Club evening plays out.

Along the way we are going to talk about lots of other important things, including the following questions:

🧵 Has capitalism taken away sources of joy for us (only to try to replace it all with shopping)? How do we get those back?

🧵 Why is the lack of third spaces an issue that impacts people of all ages?

🧵 Why is building community sometimes as simple as knowing your neighbors? And how has capitalism made that more difficult?

🧵 Why is it actually super radical to repair fast fashion?

🧵 And how many people do we really need to push back and make serious change in this world?

My mission this year is get us all motivated to do good things in difficult times.  If you’re doing something in your community that you think would be great for other people to introduce in their area, get in touch!

REDUCE REFUSE RESIST!

[wandixx]

one-shot snippet

Duke was running out of fumes to run on. The last few days would be exhausting if it was just vigilante or just civilian stuff but no, he had to have it both. Because of Arkham break out, he had been called in three nights in a row, not for a whole patrol but he couldn't exactly sleep it off during the day like others did, especially not in a week when every teacher decided they needed to have test or quiz or what not. Naps meant he wasn't as sleep-deprived as he could be but he needed far more. But he couldn't because crime in Gotham never sleeps so he had normal patrol to finish and there were about two hours left.

Would something bad happen if he just stopped for a moment and laid on a roof? Ten up to fifteen minutes. It was a slow day too…

Yeah, no, he deserved a moment to rest and if something disastrous was to happen in the meantime he would shame other Bats for not giving him enough time to sleep.

It certainly said something that he found gravel covering this roof to be quite comfortable. He set a timer for ten minutes and let himself close his eyes.

When the loud screech of the timer jolted him awake, he was suddenly fully aware that he wasn't alone anymore. He sat up a little too quickly.

"Oh, you're awake" white white-haired girl around Damian's age chimed, sitting cross-legged just a few feet away from him. She wore something that could only be described as a lab safety hazmat suit, white and black with popping green accents. When had Gotham gotten a new vigilante/villain/whoever the girl was? "Good, I just returned from a snack hunt," she added, gesturing at a big textile bag lying next to her. Duke didn't have enough brainpower to do anything more than ask.

"What?"

The girl shrugged, take-out from BatBurger in her hand.

"You look like you have a bad day if not a few days, so I've got you my cousin's bad day combo or at least the closest thing I could. BatBurger burger isn't as good as NastyBurger but you certainly have better fries" As she spoke, a second take-out bag, 1 liter bottle of energy drink, juice bottle of the same size, and pack of convenience store brownies joined greasy paper bag sealed with a sticker.

"Is your cousin a speedster?" Excuse Duke, it was a totally valid question, he saw with his bare eyes both Wally West and Bart Allen when they visited Manor. No one else would be able to stomach the amount of food they inhaled during their stays.

"Nah, we're not that fast or that hungry. Though I think I may get closer to the speed of sound." So, clearly, a meta if white hair and weir aura that let his eyes rest weren't enough indication "My cousin when he has a bad few days often forgets to eat so this combo has to help with there too. But I'll steal your fries of course."

Duke was not going to look a gift horse in the teeth, so he grabbed one bag and tore it open. There was a classic combo with bigger fries and NightWings inside.

"Thank you…" he trailed off, hoping that the girl would take a clue and introduce herself but she didn't. She just drowned her fries in ketchup and started munching. She had her own juice.

"My cousin always said that each part of this combo has a different purpose." she explained instead, slightly muffled because of the fries in her mouth "This" she gestured towards the fast food meal "is to soothe your stomach. This "she tapped energy drink "is to soothe your brain and kick it back online. This "she raised a bottle of juice "is to soothe your taste buds because energy drinks are war crime against them and this "she nudged brownies "is to soothe your heart because Ancients damn it, this day is awful and you deserve it. At least that's what he told me when I had day bad enough to deserve that" she shrugged, licking ketchup of her finger. Suddenly she froze "You aren't allergic, are you?

"No, I'm not" he confessed bewildered.

"Good"

For a long moment, they sat in silence, devouring food the little girl brought. Duke distantly wondered if this was how the night shift spent their snack breaks. It felt nice.

He was finishing his part of the brownies when the girl spoke up again.

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yeah," he was a little surprised to realize that t it was true. He'll have to note down what she put in this 'bad day combo'. "Thank you"

"Don't mention it." she shrugged with a general gesture of dismissal "You're one of my cousin's favorite heroes because you're vaguely his age and handle Gotham alone during the day and I quote "She did honest or God air quotes at that" 'As only hero in Amity-' which is a lie by the way, Val is doing great and even if he suddenly got problem with how she feels about his alter ego, he still has Sam and Tuck even if they're usually more of moral support. And I helped when I visited, so no, he isn't the only one. Anyway as he said 'As the only hero in Amity, my heart goes out for anyone who deals with this type of bullshit so Dani if you absolutely have to prank heroes, leave them out of it, especially Signal, he can't be older than Jazz, he doesn't need any more mess to handle.' All aliens and lanterns are also off-limits because he is a space nerd. But you aren't space-related so I'm like 80% percent sure he has a celebrity crush on you" She slurped more juice, unbothered.

Duke was thankful he wasn't swallowing anything because for sure she would choke. He took a split second to consider addressing… this whole situation and choose against it. He was not ready to be anyone's celebrity crush.

"Your name is Danny?" he asked instead.

"Dani" she corrected" with an I"

"Ok. It's nice to meet you Dani-with-an-I" She giggled, nodding her head slightly.

"It's nice to meet you too Signal"

Duke stood up, stretching a little. Dani joined him after hastily putting all the trash in her bag. She was a little higher than expected.

"I have to get back to my patrol"

"Cool," she drifted back a bit, making him realize that she was floating a few inches above the ground. She fixed her bag on her arm.

"Hey, can I hang out a little bit more? My cousin will go green out of jealousy when I tell him" she added with a mischievous smirk but Duke could tell there was more to it. He took a moment to consider it, which apparently made the girl nervous "I can be invisible the whole time, like before." she offered, disappearing in the meantime. He could still tell where she was, because of her heat signature, and aura but for regular people, she would be no different than the surrounding air.

"Yeah, you can hang around and you don't have to be invisible. Just don't get in my way when I have to actually do some fighting."

She popped back to the visible spectrum and pouted like Damian whenever he got benched.

" I can fight, y'know? I stopped mugging on a snack run."

It was ten goddamn minutes, how could she get so much food and stop a mugging in such a short time?!

Oh, right, superspeed. Still, impressive.

"I haven't seen it" he started, channeling all Dick-trying-to-wrangle-Damian-into-socially-acceptable-activity' energy he could muster "So I don't know how you fight or even what powers you have. If we tried to fight together we would trip over each other" It was a bare-faced lie, Bat Training made sure of that but he knew for a fact that if he said anything else, the girl would be mad and probably did her own thing.

Was that what Bruce thought about all of them?

Oh no.

Dani still looked displeased but after a moment of consideration, she nodded with a defeated sigh.

Suddenly she straightened like she got struck by lightning and whipped around.

"Wha-"

She just shushed raising her finger to her mouth. Duke did indeed quieten.

"I have enhanced hearing" she whispered "There is a mugging somewhere this way."

"Let's go then" he shot his grapple, waving his other hand at Dani to come with him before he jumped off the roof. He heard the girl giggle as she flew right after him.

" After this, you'll show me the coolest gargoyles, okay? Sam asked for photos"

"Okay"

It seemed that the end of this patrol wouldn't be as bad as the start was. Hopefully.

And afterward, he was going to lock himself in his room until the sky fell or he was well rested.

Yeah, that was a good plan.

*******

how do you like it?

[trafficblrpositivityproject]

The queue is empty right now! After several hundred asks, I am all out! (✨0✨)

I would like to send out a thank you from me to all of you. Thank you all for helping me out with this project and uplifting other members of the fan base. Thank you for sharing this blog’s introductory post and helping me on my mission. Thanks to everyone who has sent in asks about me and this project. This blog literally cannot function without the help and love from all of you, so I thank you for helping me keep it running so far!

This project will continue for as long as you are willing to send in asks to it! If you have been thinking of submitting an ask, now is the time!

If you want some ideas, here are things you can send asks about.

• Your favorite artists and writers, of course! You are all very good at this so far. If you want to specifically highlight certain pieces or art or writing, go ahead! I will not take links or imbedded images—I do not want to be reposting or accidentally open the door for people to send me spam links—but if you want to describe them, that would be fine.

• Creators of less “popular” types of media like cosplay, songs, collages and web weaves, textiles, and anything else I’m missing! These art forms do not always get as much attention, so all the more reason to send them love!

• Your favorite theorists and analysts! Share about your favorite theories as well, and why you like them!

• Your friends! “My friend [URL] is really cool” is a very good ask! Not everyone submitted here needs to be a creator, or be here because they’re a creator. I do not want people to think that this blog is just for people who are “famous,” anyone can submit asks about anyone for any reason.

• Similar, people who have supported you. Friends who brought you into the series, people who regularly leave nice tags and engage with your work. Send some love back to the people who have been cheering you on!

• Events and zines! The fandom could not survive without the work of event weeks/months and zines. And I definitely do not mind being free advertising for the events and zines you all are in ;)

• Former members of the fandom who are no longer active or have moved fandoms. If they used to enjoy life series and have since moved on, they still count.

And I will remind you I am perfectly happy to take submissions on people with a degree or two of separation from trafficblr. Hermitblr and Empiresblr accounts, or bloggers posting about other overlapping SMPs and series like POW and MCC. Or participants in fan made Life Series. As long as there is some sort of overlap, I will not be fact checking.

Repeating the same person who has already been submitted is also fine. If you wanted to send me the same person every single day for a month I would not stop you. Just keep your ask positive and include fewer than 5 people, and we are golden.

All I want is to make this fandom a little more positive. I thank you all again so much for helping me so far, and if this is as far as I go, I will feel very satisfied with how we have done.

Thank you again, everyone, from the ferryman! <3

[pxnsneverland]

Heartbreak Hotel | austin!elvis x oc (part 4)

(gif source: austinbutlermischief)

plot summary: Angel Casteel is a small town girl who lucked into working as a costume designer at a film studio. Unfortunately, her confidence in herself wavers as she is assigned to work with Elvis on his latest motion picture. Overcome by his star power at first, she slowly starts to realize there is a man behind the fame, a man she understands. But as they grow closer, the world grows more turbulent, especially Elvis's world. Will this Angel be able to save Elvis from himself and the people around him? Or will getting mixed up in his word prove to be her downfall as well?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

pairings: austin!elvis x oc

word count: 2198

warnings/notes: N/A

Chapter 4: Behind the Music

After a few days, it seemed strange not going to see Elvis on set every morning. Angel found myself with an unusually large amount of free time. This newfound freedom, however, gave Angel the opportunity to dive back into her own passions which had been somewhat sidelined during the intense filming schedule. She spent hours in her small studio, her fingers dancing over textiles and sketches as she conjured up new designs. Between meetings and recordings for a Christmas album he didn’t even want to continue doing, Elvis sought refuge in Angel's studio. The space was serene and flooded with natural light, the walls draped with fabrics of all textures and colors. It was worlds away from the glittering harshness of the showbiz industry that continually tried to mold Elvis into something he was not. As Angel worked, Elvis would often sit quietly in a corner, strumming his guitar lightly, sometimes humming along to whatever tune floated into his mind.

One afternoon, as Elvis watched her sketching a new pattern, he broke the silence with an unexpected suggestion. “Angel, baby,” he started tentatively, “Once all the contracts are up and everything is resolved here, the Colonel is talkin’ about goin’ back to performin’. Movin’ to Las Vegas.”

Angel paused her sketching, her pencil hovering mid-air as she processed his words. The thought of Las Vegas—a city of bright lights and endless nights—seemed so far removed from the quiet intimacy of their current moments. She looked up at him, trying to read his expression. "Las Vegas, huh?" she said softly, laying down her pencil.

“Yeah, Las Vegas. It’s a good place to start up my music again, getting away from LA and leave ‘movie star Elvis’ behind.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself it was a good move as well as her. “I want you to come with me.”

Angel felt her heart skip a beat at the invitation, the gravity of his words sinking in. She had only been in LA a short while herself, chasing something more than her old country town. She had thought getting a job at the production studio had been that ‘something more’. Until Elvis came into her life. Now, with Elvis’s proposal hanging in the air between them, a new chapter seemed to be beckoning. She hesitated for a moment, the threads of her previous life tugging at her heartstrings. “That’s a…big step, Elvis.”

Elvis watched her carefully, his eyes searching hers for any hint of what she might be thinking. “I know it’s big, darlin’. But I ain’t just talkin’ about Vegas. I’m talkin’ about us. You and me, takin’ on the world together. I can’t imagine bein’ anywhere without you.”

His words wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Angel took a deep breath. She set her pencil down fully and moved towards him, her hands reaching out to grasp his. “You really mean that?”

“Every word,” he affirmed earnestly, capturing her hands in his own and holding them tight.

Angel looked around the studio, at the creations that represented her dreams and aspirations. Could she really leave all this behind? Yet, looking back at Elvis, she realized that he *was* her dream now, inextricably woven into the fabric of her future. She smiled, the decision suddenly clear in her mind. "Alright, Elvis.”

Elvis exhaled a sigh of relief, his face breaking into a wide grin. “You won’t regret it, Angel. I promise you that.” He pulled her into his arms.

*************************************

Half of Angel’s apartment was already packed in preparation for her upcoming move to Las Vegas even if some of Elvis' description of it seemed much too excessive for her. The boxes piled high in the small living room, each labeled with meticulous care: 'Kitchen stuff', 'Sketchbooks', 'Fabric'. Angel moved among them, her heart a mixture of excitement and apprehension. As she folded another of her delicate designs into a box marked 'Studio', she paused, holding the fabric against her cheek. The texture was familiar, comforting. In that moment, the doorbell rang, pulling her from her reverie. She set the fabric down gently and walked over to open the door. Standing there, with a lopsided grin was Elvis. His eyes sparkled with that familiar mischievous glint as he saw the chaos of her half-packed apartment.

“What are you doing here?” Angel asked returning his grin.

“I was hopin’ to pull you away from all this packing.” He kissed her briefly on the lips. “I want you to come somewhere with me today.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.” He motioned behind him and there was a car waiting with a driver.

Angel hesitated, glancing back at the mountain of boxes that still needed her attention. But the allure of an unexpected adventure with Elvis was too tempting to resist. With a playful sigh, she grabbed her purse and followed him out the door.

For the whole of the hour-long car trip, Angel pleaded with Elvis to reveal their destination. With a devilish grin on his face, he continued encouraging her to be patient. As the car continued driving up the mountain, past trees, plants, and the odd cactus, she eventually gave up asking. The road curved and twisted through the landscape, each turn revealing breathtaking vistas that Angel had only ever seen in photographs. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow over everything. The car finally slowed to a stop behind the Hollywood sign. Elvis got out first then opened the door for Angel extending his hand to assist her out the vehicle. She strolled to the 'O' and stared out the center onto the metropolis. It was stunning in appearance, enormous in size, and all encompassing.

Elvis stood beside her, his presence a comforting constant. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close as they both took in the expansive view. “I wanted to show you this,” he said softly, his voice tinged with emotion.

Angel turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. “It’s beautiful, Elvis. But why here?”

He smiled. “I used to come here a lot when I first moved to Los Angeles. Things seem so simple and quiet up here.” He sat down in the crook of the 'O' and leaned back. He took her hand. “I’ve arranged a meetin’. Jerry told me about these guys he had met goin’ out one night. They’re called Binder and Bones. He kept sayin’ ‘You gotta meet these guys, E.P.! They’re the ones who put James Brown and the Rolling Stones on stage. You gotta meet ‘em’. When we were talkin’ in the trailer about me gettin’ back to myself and all…I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give ‘em a call.”

Angel sat beside him, her heart beating with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. The idea of Elvis reconnecting with his musical roots and stepping back onto the stage was thrilling, yet the uncertainty of it all weighed heavily on her. "Binder and Bones, huh?" she mused aloud, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

Elvis squeezed her hand gently, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city below. "Yeah, they're supposed to be real innovators in the music scene.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “The Colonel doesn’t know about this, does he?”

A pack of cigarettes appeared from Elvis's pocket. With his lips, he drew one out and lit it. He exhaled the cigarette smoke. “No, he doesn’t. And I’d like to keep it that way for now. He’s got his own ideas about what my comeback should look like, but I need to do this my way.”

Angel nodded. “Well, I don’t have any objections. You know how I feel about that man.”

Elvis chuckled softly, the smoke curling up into the air between them. "I know, darlin'. That's why I'm doing this with you by my side. You understand me more than anybody else."

“Who knows what’s better for Elvis Presley than Elvis Presley, right?”

Elvis grinned, that familiar twinkle lighting up his eyes. “My angel…with you, I think I can finally get things right.” He drew her in and brushed their lips together.

They separated when they heard footsteps approaching. Jerry approached then along with two guys: Binder and Bones. It was clear that all three of them meant business. Angel withdrew her hand from Elvis's. His chest rose and fell as he looked out at the cityscape again.

The guys came to a complete halt. “Mr. Binder, Mr. Howe, this is Mr. Elvis Presley and Ms. Angel Casteel.”

Angel gave a friendly nod to each of them. Elvis pretended for a second that he didn't notice their presence. He looked immersed in what he was seeing. Then he spoke, “When I first came to Hollywood, I would come up here and sit for hours. Right over there…” From where he was seated, the Griffith Observatory was readily visible across the distance. “...that’s where they shot Rebel Without A Cause. Man, I used to dream of bein’ a great actor like Jimmy Dean. The sign was beautiful then.” He stopped to examine the rusty metal that was only visible from this vantage point. “And now…Feels as though lots of things are like that these days. Broke down, beat up. Rotten.”

Elvis removed his sunglasses and proceeded. “I really like what you guys did, putting James Brown and the Stones together.”

Binder responded right away. “We’re, uh…big fans of yours, too. It’s just that, Mr. Presley, we don’t usually—”

“Oh, Elvis.”

“Elvis, uh…” Binder continued, “Christmas specials aren’t really our thing.”

That made Elvis grin knowingly. “I know.” His grin, however, was short-lived and rapidly faded. “Tell me honestly, where do you boys think my career’s at right now?” 

Both Binder and Bones gazed at one other, their silence revealing their reluctance to speak. Bones answered, “Well, it’s…”

“It’s in the toilet, Elvis,” Binder said. He gave Angel a sidelong look. “Sorry for the terminology, ma’am.”

Angel gave a small smile, showing that she took no offense. She appreciated the honesty; it was something Elvis desperately needed if he was going to make a real comeback.

“My girl may look like a lady, but she’s tough.” Elvis laughed and gave Angel a knowing grin before returning to the conversation. “Oh Lord. I knew you were the right guys for this job. You know, back when I was starting out, some people wanted to put me in jail or even kill me, ‘cause of the way I was movin’.” He dismounted from his perch and began to stroll. He stopped when he reached a beam holding up one of the letters and rested against it. “So they cut my hair, put me in a uniform and they sent me away.” Once again, Elvis's mind was wandering off into the past. “That killed my mother. And ever since then…I’ve been lost.”

Angel approached Elvis and placed a protective arm over his forearm. “Elvis…”

He lowered his head and smiled at her. “I’m alright, darlin’.” Elvis turned to see Binder and Bones, who were still listening intently.  “When you’re lost, people take advantage. It wasn’t until an angel came into my life...that I realized how truly lost I was. I need you fellas to help me get back to who I really am.” His tone was pleading rather than assertive.

“And who are you, Elvis?” Binder inquired, peering upward through his oversized sunglasses.

“Well, he sure as hell ain’t someone who sings Christmas songs by a fireplace in a wool sweater,” Angel commented with her hands on her hips. Both Binder and Bones laughed nervously to themselves, then quickly resumed their serious businesslike demeanor.

“And what does the Colonel think?” Bones asked.

“I don’t give a damn what the Colonel thinks,” Elvis answered back.

That appeared to arouse both producers's attention as they exchanged happy glances. They agreed to film Elvis's special and confirmed it with a handshake.

“We’ll start drawing up plans,” Binder said, “Set designs and everything and we’ll run them by you. I promise you’re not going to regret this.”

“No matter if it works out or not, I don’t regret anythin’,' ' Elvis declared.

Jerry waved farewell as he led Binder and Bones back to their vehicle at the top of the hill. When everyone else was gone, Angel grabbed Elvis and threw her arms around his neck. He buried his face in her shoulder stroking calming circles all over her back. They held each other for what seemed like an eternity. Elvis took a step back to look her directly in the eye, but his hands remained planted firmly on her waist. “This is gonna be big, baby doll. I can feel it. Bigger than anythin’ anyone has ever done before.” He pulled strands of hair out of her face. “But no matter what happens, I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you, understand?”

Angel chuckled a little. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

Elvis drew her in for a close kiss on the forehead and then lingered there. He took a long breath in. “Nothin’.”

Stay tuned for part 5!! Click HERE to view!

[mylanguage13]

Week 6: Mending Over Buying

If you told your grandparents that mending clothes is now considered a “climate-positive action,” they’d probably laugh. Back in the day, fixing up torn clothes wasn’t some bold environmental statement; it was just common sense. Clothes were expensive, and people made them last. Every household had a sewing kit, often stored in an old cookie tin on top of a cupboard. Mending was simply a necessity.

Fast Fashion: Cheap, Trendy, and Designed to Fall Apart

Fast forward to today, and things have completely flipped. Thanks to fast fashion, clothes have never been cheaper or more disposable. Why bother sewing a ripped shirt when you can replace it for the price of a cup of coffee? Fashion brands flood stores with trendy, poorly made clothes, designed to fall apart quickly so you’ll keep buying more (Bau 2017). As a result, the fashion industry generates more than 92 million tons of waste each year, while clothing production consumes approximately 79 trillion liters of water (Niinimäki et al. 2020). The industry create new styles at a ridiculous pace, encouraging us to constantly refresh our wardrobes and throw out the “old” stuff (even if it’s only been worn a few times).

Fast Fashion’s Biggest Scam: Making Us Stop Caring

But here’s the real problem: fast fashion hasn’t just made clothes disposable, it’s made our connection to them disposable too. Most of us have no idea how our clothes are made, who makes them, or what it takes to create a single garment. More disturbingly, we don’t care. When something tears or wears out, we don’t think about fixing it because we’ve been trained to see it as replaceable. And that’s exactly how fashion brands want it. This mindset comes from advertising that promotes the idea that new is always better than old (Bau 2017). The less we care, the more we consume.

As The Guardian puts it, our disconnect from the things we own has left many of us feeling alienated. Karl Marx once said that for work to be fulfilling, it has to be meaningful, honest, and effective. The same goes for the things we own (Martin 2021). When we replace well-made, personal belongings with mass-produced junk, we lose our sense of connection to the things around us. We don’t see clothes as valuable anymore, just as stuff to cycle through. It’s all about chasing the next trend and never actually be satisfied with what we already have.

Mending is a Quiet Rebellion

Mending is a quiet act of rebellion against all of this. It’s a way of saying, "No, I don’t need to keep buying just because a brand told me to." When you repair your clothes, you’re taking control. You’re refusing to throw something away just because a tiny rip appeared. And honestly? Mended clothes look cool. Visible stitches, patches, and embroidery make each piece unique; something mass production can’t replicate (Jones & Girouard 2021). It’s not just about making clothes last longer; it’s about rejecting the idea that you need to buy new things all the time to feel stylish.

The fashion industry thrives on making us feel like we’re always behind, always needing more (Williams 2022). But what if we stopped playing along? Mending is not only about sustainability but also about taking back power from an industry that survives by making us feel inadequate.

So grab a needle. Repair the damage; not just to your clothes, but to the way we see fashion itself.

References

Bau, M 2017, Fast fashion and disposable item culture: The drivers and the effects on end consumers and environment, 5 May, Helsinki Metropolia University of Applied Sciences.

Jones, L & Girouard, A 2021, ‘Patching Textiles’, Creativity and Cognition.

Martin, M 2021, Mend your clothes and do yourself some good, the Guardian.

Niinimäki, K, Peters, G, Dahlbo, H, Perry, P, Rissanen, T & Gwilt, A 2020, ‘The Environmental Price of Fast Fashion’, Nature Reviews Earth & Environment, vol. 1, no. 4, pp. 189–200.

Williams, E 2022, ‘Appalling or Advantageous? Exploring the Impacts of Fast Fashion from Environmental, Social, and Economic Perspectives’, Journal for Global Business and Community, vol. 13, no. 1.

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 67: A Chosen Target

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/739551758747090944/american-woman-thomas-shelby-x-american-oc?source=share

In the next few days I ease my mind by getting some things squared away. Abel and Franz’s contracts are cleared so now it’s a matter of shipping out their textile products. I also wish to inform Thomas about Zipporah’s case but each meeting is called short before I can. So I decide to drive to Arrow House after this luncheon.

Right now Polly and Ada made me take a mandatory break and join them for an early bite to eat. It seems a bit out of place now that most people don’t have much loose change to spend. I’m taking this as an occasion to distribute some of my own good fortune to the bar we’re meeting in. Something else I notice is Ada’s growing belly.

“So Verena, how was Germany?” Polly asks as she sips her tea.

I twirl a spoon in my hand. “The country was a nice change of scenery. I met friends. Some old, some new.”

This gets Ada’s attention. “Oh?”

“Zipporah, a girl I met back home a few years ago, has to move just because her family’s Jewish. I’m going to ask Thomas if there’s something we can do to send aid. Not just to her but to other traveling Jews.”

This information leads the two Shelby women to exchange worried glances. For good reason, too. Their Romani ties won’t go unnoticed by those bastards either.

“That sounds like a perfect idea,” Polly compliments and takes a bite of her meal.

“Did you meet anyone else?” Ada questions, changing the topic.

“One comes to mind. A sailor. His name is Nathaniel Winston. He claims to have met my uncle before.”

There it is. The wheels are spinning in her head again, just like Thomas. Only instead of business ploys she thinks of more personal matters.

“So… This Nathaniel Winston… Is he single?”

Clamp.

I set the spoon down and grab my coat, placing my end of the bill on the table. No. I am not discussing this again. Meanwhile poor Polly looks confused at my sudden movement.

“I knew it,” I mutter, not bothering to face Ada as I throw on my coat. “I knew you’d ask.”

She scoffs. “I’m just saying-”

“God, Ada!” I blurt, throwing my arms up. “Must every man I meet be a love interest?”

Her eyes flash. “You are too stubborn to move on!”

“We have more important things to worry about!” I bark, earning some odd looks from the people seated around us.

Polly keeps calm and folds her hands together. “You still love Tommy.”

Something in me bursts. “Yes! I still love that handsome bastard and for whatever God-damn reason I cannot move on! So let’s drop it, shall we?”

I grip my purse and storm to the door. First moeder, then Uncle Colon, now this? Is there anywhere I can go without being judged?

“Verena,” Polly calls softly.

I cringe with guilt and contained rage, turning to face the older woman. “I’m sorry, Polly. I’ll see you later. Komm, Dílis.”

The canine jumps up and trots behind me. I’m sure Ada’s watching with disapproval. No, I cannot replace human companionship with a pet. But for now that’s all I have!

Keep walking. Keep walking. Get in the car. Start driving. I put my Bentley in drive and all but floor it out of Birmingham, heading straight to Arrow House. Maybe there my personal life won’t be poked and prodded.

By the time I get to Arrow House it’s mid afternoon. Today’s weather has stayed clear and still, adding assistance to my traveling. I park off to the side and march up the front steps, straight to the door. After a few moments of knocking the door opens and Frances lets me inside.

“I apologize for showing up unannounced but I have some matters to discuss with Mr. Shelby.”

“He is in his study,” the housekeeper informs me after giving Dílis a doubtful look . “Please wait here.”

She leaves me in the parlor and in no less than a minute later Charlie scampers down the stairs. He notices us and his jaw drops.

“You got a dog?” Charlie marvels and holds his hand out for the pup to sniff.

“His name is Dílis. Go on, you can pet him.”

The Shelby boy doesn’t hesitate and starts giggling when Dílis starts licking his face. 

“Peng.” The dog flops down and understands to play dead, causing Charlie to clap appraisingly. “Braver hund.”

Ruff! His high-pitched puppy bark echoes throughout the house.

“Ruhig, Dílis.” He stops barking but still whines anxiously. This past week’s lessons have been adding up.

“Verena?”

Thomas’ voice draws me to the hallway where he’s waiting. “Dílis, platz. Zit. ” The dog stops and plops down on the floor. “Can you watch him, Charlie? I need to speak to your dad.”

Charlie nods eagerly and I follow Thomas into the library. He doesn’t seem fazed by leaving his son with Dílis. In fact he seems to still be calm and collected as he’s been all week. I’d almost say he looks tired. As I take a seat across from him I keep expecting Lizzie to slink out. I imagine she still wonders why I’m useful. I'd say it’s because I offer overseas connections and a peace of mind. But all because I simply try to hold Thomas’ hand I’m a deceitful witch to her.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Thomas asks as he sits at his desk. "Was it just to please Charlie with your new canine associate?”

“Not entirely,” I remark. “I’ve been meaning to request resources to distribute to immigrants.”

Thomas shows surprise. “Immigrants?”

“Ask any stationed officer or transport official. Any cab driver or port sailor,” I reply sternly. “There are more and more immigrants leaving Europe to avoid the Nazis. One of my friends is leaving for Boston just because her family is Jewish. I am requesting to send supplies to these travelers.”

Just like Polly and Ada, his face grows dark at the mention of the monstrous group. Instead of answering he reaches into his desk and pulls out a clean sheet of paper.

“Which setup locations are you suggesting?” He asks, pen at the ready.

“Oh! Um, I thought of London, obviously, and maybe some other ports heading out of Europe. Maybe some on the East Coast for incoming travelers.”

Thomas jots down some notes and slips the paper next to the phone. “It will be done. I’ll make the call later.”

Under his breath I hear him mutter something like “Mosley can go to Hell” but I don’t press further. Thomas still looks tired. No wonder he’s postponing the call. He probably needs to rest. Maybe… Oh, what the Hell. Why not?

“Would you like me to watch Charlie for the afternoon?”

Thomas, half hunched over on his desk, looks up with worn eyes. “You’d do that?”

I push aside my grudge for him and smile. “Of course. It’ll be just like old times. And you look exhausted.”

The man sighs and calls for his son. Charlie’s footsteps get closer and both him and Dílis walk in. The boy has an uneasy grimace as if he’s about to be scolded.

“Hey, Charlie. You’re going to spend the day with Veena, alright?”

Thomas’ son looks between me and his vader. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, Charlie,” Thomas assures. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Your dad needs to take a nap,” I explain and rub Thomas’ shoulder.

“Daddy’s tired?”

“Yes. So you have to deal with- me!”

I kneel down and start tickling the boy’s sides, causing him to stiffen and let out spasms of giggling. Dílis gets agitated too and starts barking.

“Ah! St-Stop!” Charlie titters and I raise him up.

“There’s that smile.” I poke his cheek. “Whaddya say to a walk in the woods?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never gone past the stream.”

“Then let’s go exploring!” I encourage and start leading him out.

“Not too far,” Thomas warns. “It's still dangerous to let you two go without protection.”

“Fine. We’ll be careful. We’ve got Dílis. Just make sure to at least try to sleep,” I implore and usher Charlie into the hallway.

Dílis runs ahead and Charlie hurries upstairs to grab a jacket. I set down my purse and request an outdoors jacket of my own. Ten minutes later we’re bundled up and marching through the thick grass in the pasture. Dílis wanders in front but keeps close by. Charlie picks out a sturdy walking stick and keeps walking on and off the stone walls.

“This is it,” he points out when we get to a frozen stream. I dunno what’s past it.”

“It’s still on the property so we can keep going. How about we check out those trees?” I point to where the stream leads to a thicket of ash trees in the distance.

“Okay.”

We jump over the short wall and walk alongside the water. Dílis disappointedly tries lapping the ice and has to keep walking. Charlie helps distract him by finding a small stick for them to play fetch with. When we reach the thicket we all take a seat on some boulders next to the stream.

“This is pretty,” Charlie observes, looking out at the clearing behind us.

“Yes it is,” I agree. “God has provided a beautiful early winter. I’m sure this place is lovely in the spring.”

“Veena… Is daddy okay?”

That catches me off guard. What kind of question is that? Has Thomas really been so distant as to allow his son to be concerned for him? Charlie is still so young to be thinking this way.

I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your vader loves you very much, Charlie. He’s just been really busy.”

He looks down and runs his fingers over the coarse rock. “Are you going to leave again?”

He is growing up. And I can’t let him see how sad it makes me. “Someday.” Time to change things up. “Have you ever seen a tulip?”

Charlie perks up with interest. “No. What’s that?”

“It’s a flower. A popular flower in the Netherlands. Next spring I’ll bring some bulbs for you to plant.”

“My classmate David is Dutch,” Charlie reports. “I told him I’m part Irish.”

“And a Gypsy, don’t forget.” I point a finger at him. “I see you’ve begun to observe more. Just like your vader.”

Charlie smiles proudly but something makes him hesitate again. “When will you leave?”

I frown. “Why all this talk of me leaving, Charlie?”

He looks down again. “Daddy’s happier when you’re here.”

Happier. There have been few times in the past years when I have seen Thomas look anything remotely close to happy. How can Charlie figure out how me being around makes him happy? I know that in the past I felt glad to be wanted by Thomas but now there is no reason for him to want me around.

“Your vader is a busy man. He needs help to get things done and that’s when I come to visit.”

Charlie nods but still doesn’t fully agree. He must live a very cold domestic life if my small visits offer highlighted excitement. I guess Lizzie can’t do everything.

Arf! 

“Dílis, what is it?”

The canine’s ears perk up and he stands alert, facing the edge of the thick tree line.

Grrr. His high-pitched yip turns into a low snarl. Something’s here. Maybe a deer or- Someone. Two men. Two men step out and quietly approach. Both are wearing brown jackets and caps. They’re trespassing. I’m unarmed! Do they know I’ve spotted them yet? They’re not carrying visible guns but I’m not waiting around to find out.

I grab Charlie and sink behind the boulder. “Gib Laut!”

Rr-raw-raw-ruh! Dílis follows orders and speaks a fierce, gruff bark. Maybe that will caution them to keep away.

“What’s wrong with Dílis?” Charlie asks, trying to squirm away.

“Charlie. Listen to me very carefully.” I hold his face still so he can pay attention. “You need to go behind the trees and run home. Find your vader. Tell him to come here. Run. Run as fast as you can and don’t stop until you find him. Can you do that?”

Charlie spots something behind me and his eyes widen. “Who is that?”

“Charlie, go! Run- Ah!”

Someone grips my hair and yanks me onto my back. Charlie jumps away and all I can see are the treetops above me. My pulse jumps and adrenaline rushes through as one of the men tightly grabs my arm and pulls out a hunting knife.

“Maybe Shelby will finally come to his senses when we scruff up another one of their employees- A woman. Get the message across that Thomas Shelby’s time in the world is running low.”

I hear the other one let out a small groan. “This feels wrong.”

The clutch on my arm tightens. “She’s still with the Peaky Blinders.”

“Dílis!” I gasp. “Fass! Attack!”

The canine lets out a deep growl and I feel the man behind me jump back, pulling me with him. The other one lets out a cry and sounds to be running away.

“Mangy mutt!”

“Get this fucking beast off me!” 

I tug away and crawl to a nearby tree, trying to get a grip on the situation. One man is running scared but the other one with the knife is still trying to escape Dílis’ attack.

“Leave her alone!”

My stomach drops. Charlie is still here. He runs over and pitches a rock at brute’s head. It doesn’t do much except make him drop the knife.

“Ch-Charlie- Run!” I order. “Dílis! Lauf!”

The dog jumps back and takes off after Charlie towards the house. Go! Go! He needs to protect Charlie. Now if I can just grab the knife-!

“Damn mutt ripped a hole in my leg!” The man roars and punches me square in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. “Time to finish the job.”

“Let go of me, you bastard!” I wheeze.

“Wo-hoa!” The man taunts, smiling like a madman. “Listen to that accent! She’s American!”

Ah!

He sticks the blade in my side and my scream rings out through the forest, sending birds flying. Warm blood spills down me and soaks my brown coat. In a fit of adrenaline I use my remaining strength to punch the bloke right in the crotch, sending him doubling over. 

Rr-raw-raw-ruh!

The man gasps and tries crawling away from the sound of Dílis’ bark. “It’s back!”

From the frozen ground I look up and see Charlie run over, and behind him is Thomas running at a full sprint. He sees the man on the ground and pulls out his gun.

“Charlie!” I heave and pull him out of the way. “Duck your head. Close your eyes-!”

Bam!

The bullet flies straight into the man's head, forming a perfect hole in his forehead. Charlie recognizes the loud noise and clings tighter.

“Don’t look. Keep your head tucked in. It’s alright.” With a blurring vision I see Dílis hovering over me and sense him prodding my face with his nose. “Braver hund. Good dog, Dílis.”

“Charles!” Thomas’ voice gets closer and I feel his wide frame kneel down next to us. “Verena- Are you hurt?”

“Take Charlie-” I wince and gently push Charlie away so he doesn’t get blood on him. “There’s another one…”

Thomas immediately sees the red and inspects the source. “You’re cut.”

“‘S fine… He went that way…” I try to point but my hand is starting to shake. So tired…

“Verena! Stay with me!” Thomas orders and begins grabbing me up to carry me.

It’s not a fatal wound but it’s not a light scratch either. Hm. How could one stab make someone so tired? My mind weaves in and out of consciousness, flashing images of being taken to a bed and getting stitched up by a blank face in a mask. So tired…

“You’re awake!” Charlie’s voice cheers.

I am? Why hadn’t I been before? My eyes open slowly and I take in my surroundings. We’re back at Arrow House in a spare bedroom. There’s a fire burning. Dílis is perched next to one side of the bed while Charlie is on the other. There’s light seeping in from the drapes. How much time has passed?

“You slept all day. Daddy brought you here and had a doctor fix you last night.”

Fix me. I reach down and pull back the dense cotton covers, revealing a large amount of gauze wrapped around me. So it was not a hallucination.

“You were very fearless yesterday, Charlie,” I praise and reach for his hand. “But please promise me that next time you will run when I tell you.”

His brown eyes drop and he looks disappointed. “I was just trying to be brave.”

I stroke a piece of hair away from his face.  “I know, I know. You’re just like your vader. But being brave doesn’t mean you need to fight. Courage stems in many forms.” I pat his cheek. “Don’t grow up too fast, Charlie.”

Arf! Dílis puts his two front paws on the bed and licks my face.

“Yes, yes! You were very brave too, Dílis. Braver hund.”

A noise catches my attention and I look over at the door. Thomas is here. From the look on his face I can tell he’s weary of seeing this scene again. Someone being injured and lying helpless in a bed. He quietly walks in and puts a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

“Is the party in here, eh?”

I offer his son one last grateful smile. “Just saying goodnight.”

The young Shelby’s face tenses for a second. “Goed- Goedenacht, Verena.”

My eyes light up at his use of Dutch. “Goedenacht, Charlie.”

Thomas lifts him off the bed and sends him off. When Charlie is gone he kneels down and faces me with soft eyes.

“I can’t thank you enough-”

“Stop, Thomas. I did what anyone would do. It’s your son who should be praised. He stood up for me. He has your spirit.”

“You still saved him,” Thomas implies.

“He saved me.” I give a small chuckle. “Of all the times to leave my gun in my purse.” Thomas doesn’t laugh along so I look him up and down. “How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows rise and he cracks a small grin. “Me? You just got stabbed. You’re lucky your lung wasn’t punctured.”

I show him an exaggerated look of my own. “When you walked in here you look like you'd just seen a ghost.” 

Ghost is a different word to him. It makes him hesitate. I don’t want him overthinking again so I ask the big question.

“Who the Hell were they?”

“Billy Boys. They disobeyed our truce. They’re both dead now, and I’m going to have a word with Jimmy fucking McCavern.” Thomas’ darkened face looks up. “I am so sorry.”

People can probably count on their hand how many times Thomas Shelby has apologized. I told him once before that he owes me a multitude of apologies. This one, however, is not engraved with his fault. Anyone can attack me at any time. 

“I should have known to expect this,” I admit softly.

He runs a hand over his forehead. “Yeah but you don’t deserve this, love.”

“There’s nothing you can do to change it. I agreed to a contract to be a Shelby employee, and in doing so I chose to paint a target on my forehead. What’s important is that Charlie is alright.”

Thomas sighs again and glances at an old Bible placed on the side table. “Does the Lord almighty have an answer for this?”

“God is not afraid of your questions,” I murmur, my eyes growing heavy again. “If you would like to know something you need only ask Him yourself.”

Thomas stands up and I feel his calloused hand on mine. “You’re tired. Get lots of rest, love.” Dílis jumps up and curls up near my feet. Before I drift off I hear Thomas say one final praise. “Braver hund.”

General POV

How could he have let this happen? How did this happen? This truce is getting worse by the week. The sooner McCavern and Mosley are dead the better. If they think they are free to rough up his men, his employees, of all people Verena, they are damn wrong.

Verena’s dog lets out a small whine before Thomas leaves the room. He takes one last glance at her, cursing himself for ever offering her a contract. Colon was right. He did make Verena think she owed him and now she’s addicted to this lifestyle, same as he is. He really is a bastard for making her his employee, and now it's turned her into a target. As it pains him to think of her leaving, the idea of Verena's dismissal begins to form in his head.

Seeing red drip from her clothes is a sight Thomas wants to forget entirely. The light threatened to leave her eyes last night. He shutters at the thought as he closes the door.

The tired gangster treads down the hall to Charlie’s room, where he finds his son hunched over on the bed.

“‘Ello, Charlie. Ready to sleep, eh? You’ve had a long day.”

“God helped us.”

Thomas’ thoughts freeze. “What did you say?”

“God helped us stop the bad guys yesterday,” the child babbles and crawls into the sheets.

The comment makes Thomas chuckle. “Verena’s told you about God, eh?”

“Yeah. Like how Uncle Arthur talks of Him. Verena’s told me about how mummy and Uncle John are with Him now too.”

Right there Thomas sees his son growing up. Maybe he never did have a suitable mother after Grace died, but he’s been taught in faith to remember her. It makes Thomas wonder. Is it possible to teach faith? Or are we born with an inner sense to it? Either way, there are spirits that guided them in these recent hours.

@sherbitdibdab @meadows5