#fashion designer!reader

[munsonsmixtapes]

Sew Far, Sew Good

model!Eddie x fem!fashion designer!reader

summary: your designs are finally being showcased in a magazine, but it turns out that you slept with the model the night before

cw: MDNI (18+) backseat make out session, Eddie sucks on readers tits, reader receives a hickey

Not proofread!

You entered the building, nerves building up in your stomach. You were so excited but nervous to finally see your designs on someone who wasn’t yourself or one of your friends. The rumor was that they had actually gotten Eddie Munson to do it and you couldn’t have been more honored to have the biggest male model wear your clothes.

You greeted everyone you passed and they all returned warm smiles as you headed towards where you needed to be. The place was packed and it seemed like they all had a job to do which made you feel better than everything that was being done was for you and your photo shoot.

After looping around in a circle and asking for multiple directions, you finally got where you had been instructed to go and Wren, the photographer rushed towards you with open arms. Thank god, someone who was a hugger.

“There she is!” She smiled and pulled you into a tight hug has if you had been old friends and you took it, grateful for the gesture.

“Hey!” You greeted, pulling away. “I’m not late am I?”

“Yes and no.”

“Yes and no?” How could it be both?

“Yes, technically, but no because the model isn’t even here.” Of course.

“He’s not?” You didn’t know why you were surprised. He had a very bad reputation including being late to everything including thing like being late to his job where he was getting paid.

“No, he’s not. He’s in his way, but I heard that he was out late last night.” Another thing was that he was almost always getting drunk, even the night before a shoot. What a walking stereotype.

You were about to panic when someone bumped into you, causing you to spill the coffee you were holding. The brown liquid spread all over the floor and you just stood there, making no move to clean it up. You were moved out of the way as someone came with a roll of paper towels to clean up the mess.

You turned around to see who you had run into and you gasped. It was the guy who you had hooked up with the night before. He was the model?? He was Eddie Munson? You couldn’t blame yourself for not recognizing him since both the bar and his apartment had very low lighting. And the beard he had been sporting had been shaved, making him look much younger than he was.

“What are you doing here?” You asked at the same time.

“You’re wearing my designs,” you answered.

“And I’m the model.” Right, of course. You knew that. But everything was starting to feel like something out of a movie. Of course the one time you intend on having a one night stand, it turned out that you were going to be working together.

“You lied to me.” You crossed your arms over your chest and he mimicked your actions, forming his eyes into a glare.

“How?”

“You said your name was Ed.” You felt ridiculous for calling him for something as silly as that, but you just felt like you should have been upset.

“It’s a nickname for Eddie so it wasn’t a lie. And you’re one to talk, you said your name was Daisy.” You supposed you couldn’t blame him for that one, but you only did that for your safety.

“Because I’ve learned to not give people my real name because they get a little crazy.” Eddie only scoffed at that.

“I’d hate to break up this reunion, but we’re running behind, so can we get this started?” Wren interrupted. You turned to her, suddenly remembering why you were there. This was way more important than some stupid spat with someone you didn’t even know.

Eddie was pulled off to wardrobe and you just stood there, seeing that Wren was talking to you, but not hearing the words that were coming out of her mouth. You were too in shock. You didn’t know why, but it was surprising. Out of all the losers you had been with, you had finally gotten someone who had made a name for himself.

All of a sudden, you were being led to wardrobe because they wanted your input on the outfits Eddie was going to be put in and you put on a smile, trying your best to forget the events of the night before. You could still hear Eddie’s moans, his mouth licking and sucking on your cunt, the way he fucked you senseless until you were sure that you couldn’t walk.

The head of the department showed you the rack and let you pick what you wanted Eddie to wear for the first set of photos. You settled on your favorite. It was a black suit covered in black sequins that took you fucking hours to do and it made everyone who had tried it on look like a dream.

You turned away as the woman helped Eddie into the suit even though you were sure that he wouldn’t have minded and the fact that you had seen all of him only hours before. But this was a professional setting and you both needed to be as such even though it was not professional in the slightest to sleep with people you were working with.

Once Eddie was dressed, you turned back around and your eyes lit up. You were convinced that he was able to pull off anything and it was almost unfair. The suit fit like a glove, almost as if he was made for him. It looked so good and you were eager to see what it looked like with the hair and makeup that had yet to be done.

You headed back to the shoot area and waited for Eddie to be ready. Over time, your anger at each other had dissipated and your attraction had only grown. There was something about seeing him in the stuff that you designed made you wet.

He emerged from hair and makeup and you were sure that your underwear couldn’t get any more damp. His hair was teased in a messy look and black eyeshadow was packed into his eyelids with eyeliner lining his waterline.

He moved to the backdrop and Wren headed over to the camera to get things started. Watching Eddie pose, it was clear why he had become such a big name in the industry. He was a natural and it was obvious that the camera loved him.

And he was so complimentary, letting you know exactly how much he loved every single article of clothing. You didn’t even care if he was just trying to flatter you, you were so close to letting him take everything home. It had been collecting dust in your closet anyway.

No wonder everyone was so impressed by him. Maybe the rumors were all untrue. Sure, he had been late, but he had more than made up for it for his behavior. He was so nice to everyone working on the shoot, thanking them for their work and making them laugh.

After a long day and multiple outfits later, the shoot was over and you and Eddie gushed over the photos. His hand rested on your back as he whispered in your ear, being nothing but sweet, telling how much he liked the outfits. So, that was how he ended up taking them all home, promising to wear them any chance he got.

So, the two of you left the building hand in hand, feeling good with the results of the shoot and you lingered at his car, neither one of you wanting to be the one to say goodbye first. You couldn’t. Not when he looked so fucking hot in his makeup, the red lipstick and gloss making his lips so much more inviting. Not when he had a perfectly good backseat that both of you could fit in.

You grabbed him by his shirt and pressed your lips to his roughly, Eddie taking no time to respond to it, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulders while the other rested against your back. You were both so desperate for each other, wanting to take whatever you could. Your hands went to his jaw, moving his head so you could have more access to his mouth as you licked into it.

He pushed you against the car and brought your tongue between his lips and gave it a suck which caused you to let out a whimper which caused a tent to form in his pants. He had wanted to hear that sound since you had made it the night before, the exact noise had been ringing in his ears ever since.

Eddie gave your tongue one more suck which elicited a moan from you, causing him to pull away before opening the door to the backseat. You nodded and slid across the seat, him following you before slamming the door closed. You both kicked off your socks and shoes and Eddie unbuttoned your shirt as he laid you down in the backseat.

“No bra, hm? How scandalous.”

“Left it at your place remember?” He did remember. The lacy thing was still on the floor of his room. “It doesn’t matter, though anyway. It’ll just slow it down.”His lips immediately went to your chest as he gave your tits some love, licking and sucking your nipples, just as he did the night before.

“God, I love your tits,” he said, his breathing labored and his voice raspy. He was so hot that it was almost unfair. He mouth was on your nipple again as he licked and sucked again, warming you up before he brought the thing between his teeth giving it a pull.

“Oh, my god,” you moaned and he bit down harder, loving to hear the sounds that escaped your lips. “Fuck, you really know what you’re doing.”

“I remember what you like,” he winked and move onto your other nipple, pulling it between his teeth and biting down the hardest that he could without actually hurting you. He kissed his way down to your stomach and you thought he was going to pull off your pants, but he didn’t. He just moved his way back before attaching his lips to yours in a bruising kiss.

He licked into your mouth and you wrapped your mouth around it, giving it a suck. He whimpered at the sensation then quickly pulled away, giving you a glare.

“Hey,” he whined. “That’s my move.”

“You’re just mad that I do it better than you.” You did, you really did. He’d let you steal his moves any time.

“Oh, honey, you do everything better than me,” he winked and pulled off his shirt before pressing his lips to yours again, softer this time.

He put his full weight on top of you, his hands grabbing onto yours, intertwining your fingers together. His lips were so soft despite them being chapped and they tasted just as good as they did the night before with the mixture of tobacco and mint. How that combination tasted so good, you had no idea.

Eddie kissed you until you both were breathless and his lips moved down to your neck and he pressed open-mouthed kisses to the skin before giving it a gentle suck, just light enough for you to let out a gasp. Eddie then sucked a little harder and you moaned, maybe a little too loudly, but he was eating it up.

He loved your moans. They were always an indicator that he was doing things right. He has slept with more women he could count, but none of them had ever been as enthusiastic as you had, not even with making out with him. They were all just eager for his dick, but he had admired that you were different from them.

His teeth grazed the sensitive spot and you moaned even louder, his dick getting even harder at the sound. You felt it against you and your pussy got even more wet at the thought of him getting inside you, but you didn’t have it in you at the moment.

“Oh, Eddie,” you moaned and he took that as an invitation to continue, letting his teeth slide against the sensitive spot even harder. “So good.”

He gave the spot another suck, this one, the hardest hi could manage and your hands moved to his back, digging your fingers into the skin. As he licked and sucked, you continued to moan, eventually scratching up and down his back and he was loving it.

Once he felt like he marked you up enough, he pulled you into another kiss, this one softer and sweeter than all of the others. His lips moved against yours, as if he had all the time in the word as his head moved this way and that, wanting to reach every part of your lips that he could.

Eddie then pulled away, the two of you breathing heavily and looked down at you, still loving the way you looked with his lipstick smeared all over you. He’d definitely have to do that more often. That was, if you’d give him another chance. Maybe he’d take you on a date. And maybe if that date went well, he’d be able to call you his girlfriend. He would’ve liked that. He would have liked that a lot.

He laid his head on your chest and your hands moved up to his hair, scratching his head. Maybe if you had played your card right, he’d give you another chance. Maybe he’d take you on a date. And maybe if that date went well, you’d be able to call him your boyfriend. You would’ve liked that. You would have liked that a lot.

[v3n1ce-bxtch]

💋𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔞 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔥💋

Jack Harlow X Fashion Designer!Reader

IN WHICH

Jack Harlow’s on the hunt for the perfect girl to star in his “Hello Miss Johnson” music video, and while scrolling through Instagram, he stumbles across her profile. She’s a Y2K-loving fashion designer who’s always serving looks and attitude. At first, they keep their feelings for each other under wraps, but one day, she finally breaks the silence—and everything changes.

A/N: Ik the quality is ass lol

Taglist: @tylerjeauxburreaux9 @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @itsyagirljaz @harlowsbby @harlowcomehome @iheartjh @firstclasswithharlow @babiefries @ikeepitlight

A/N: how do we like this???

[speckle-meow-meow]

Can you write Ciel with a fem s/o who is a fashion designer?

Sure!

You were the talk of every fashion designer and company at the moment

Your clothes made a mark on history

You designed clothes for both men and women and those in between.

That's how you met your boyfriend!

He was looking for a new wardrobe for the summer and thought to give you a chance

You did remarkably well especially for his standards

Everything looked elegant while still movable

You even made accessories for those outfits along with accessories for his cane

Many companies want you to fail and for you to be forgotten but not with Ciel here

After you start courting he makes sure your business thrives

He even has you make some clothes for the stuffed animals his company makes

Plus his butler likes you to so your in good hands dearie~

{Thank you anon for this request! This will probably be my last request for the week, you can still send in stuff but it won't get out till later! Anyways as always hearts and reblogs are always welcomed along with questions, comments, and requests!}

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (Finale)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Five: Reversal Point (see previous or series)

Summary: The big day (and date) has arrived. Tonight is the Hellfire Gala!

Warnings for floof, fuff, foofin', double-floofery, and death by fluff. WC 3872

(art by DonAguillo on Facebook)

You’re nervous, but it’s hard not to be.

Steve sent a text five minutes ago saying he’s almost to the shop, so instead of pacing around upstairs, you made your way down and are locking up.

Above you flutters the reflective blue tarp over the window Steve broke into nearly two weeks ago, but that only makes you smile.

The whirlwind of a successful show—one where not only did you kill it on stage, no one actually died—has brought a wave of press and a lovely flood of new clientele, men who would never have thought to bother with your designs when they’d only ever seen you cater to bulky physiques. It’s an honor (and a testament to the efficacy of Tony Stark’s stupid manipulation) to dress more and more unique souls, but you’ve been left no time to handle the ‘break-in’ damage.

The media buzz keeps you busy enough that all four of your employees have been at work at least six days a week, in addition to finishing the trimmings of Captain America’s suit for this Gala and creating an entirely new gown of your own. People can’t stop talking about the fashionable woman fielding bullets with no training. Lately, the press likes to think of you as the amateur engineer version of Black Widow. You’ve been dubbed the ‘Red Weaver’ by some shitty blog that got traction in the messy aftermath of your show.

You couldn’t really care less. You got to spend the night and day after Fisk’s attack isolated in your upstairs bubble of a studio with Steve Rogers.

The new nickname, however, gave you the idea for your dress. You knew you would want to compliment Steve’s patriotic palette, but since you’re not very well going to rewear the gown from your show, you’ve leaned into the Red Weaver/Black Widow persona and built an ombre gown. It has a cheeky casualness compared to your date’s formal three-piece, double-breasted, matching overcoat ensemble.

[Image offered as example, not reflective of Reader's race, size, shape, or skin tone.]

It’s all very fancy and promotable.

In truth, you prefer ‘Button,’ specifically being Steve’s Button, and tonight that is exactly and entirely what you get to be: a button on Cap’s handsome arm.

It’s Hellfire Night.

There’s a crackle of road gravel as the limousine pulls right up to your curb, but you don’t see Steve first. Sam Wilson pops his head and torso out of the sunroof with a beaming white smile.

“Ah yes, the woman of the hour,” he coos before glancing back down into the backseat. “Close your mouth, buddy. You’re gonna swallow a bug.”

You giggle and approach the shiny black car. The door latch opens from the inside.

“You look ama—“

Thud. Steve whacks his head on the door rim trying to step out.

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” You make it to him just as Steve stands up straight on the sidewalk.

It’s easy and instinctive, meant to be, the way his hands settle against your arms and sweep down to hold your delicately gloved hands.

“You’re stunning,” Steve whispers.

“That’s not a concussion talking?”

“He’ll survive,” Sam yells from inside the car. “Pretty sure he ran through several solid walls just to get to the showers after our run.”

“It was one glass door and I didn’t see it close after Davis,” Steve barks over his shoulder. 

You tick your head up toward your apartment. “You and the windows, handsome. Not friends, huh?”

He rolls his glittering blue eyes playfully, huffing, “Don’t you start.” Steve releases your hands and straightens his jacket. “How do I look? Do I have designer’s approval?”

You shimmy his tie a little tighter. “Yes,” you sigh, “always perfect.”

Steve’s grin matches Sam’s as he helps you into the limo. On the relatively short drive over to the venue, since Wilson is there, too, Steve holds your hand over his thigh and runs his bare thumb over your red glove. You can’t for the life of you pay attention to their conversation, so you gaze back and forth from the city lights to their glow and shadow flickering over Steve’s face.

The wonderful thing about this ‘first’ date is you and Steve are already baptized by fire; in every crisis, you’ve complimented each other. He hopes to protect you but doesn’t treat you like a fragile innocent. You admire him but don’t stand on the sidelines. Best of both your worlds, together, in harmony. (Also, you’ve already kissed so there’s definitely chemistry.)

You’re happy tonight is about him. Captain America has been a pillar of the superhero movement and a cornerstone of the Avengers team for over a decade (and famous for a fair few before that), so you squeeze his hand in encouragement when Sam lets himself out onto the red carpet first.

You can hear the roar of paparazzi in the seconds the door is open and shut.

Steve, in no hurry at all, shifts in his seat and studies your face with soft eyes.

“I don’t want to…” his gaze darts down to your lips and back “…mess up your makeup,” he finishes, tongue darting to wet his own.

You don’t let him get away with just a hope this time, cupping his face and planting a huge smooch square on his beautiful pout.

“Waterproof,” you tease. Your finger sweeps over his not-reddened—but not unaffected—lips, and you wait the extra few seconds for Steve to snap out of his distraction and clear his throat.

“Right,” he breathes. “Will you hand me my cloak and I’ll help you out?”

“Sure thing, Handsome.”

Captain America steps out into a flashing sea of people, a navy blue suit with red pinstripes sculpting his frame. His grey vest, skinny black tie, and neutral, muted shirt all harken back to his original army days, and you offer the statement of the whole getup when he turns back around.

He tosses the red satin-lined, bold blue trench coat loosely over his broad shoulders and holds out a hand for your to take.

Steve’s eyes never leave you.

There are questions shouted incoherently in the chaos, but step by step, you two make it to the entryway.

You jump when you hear a voice much closer and clearer than the press.

“Sheers!” Tony wastes no time holding out his hand, but not to shake. In between two fingers is a folded paper, and he peers at you over his trademark shades.

Knowing he won’t lay off until you answer, you pluck the offer from his grasp, read it, and shove the bit into his breast pocket.

“What is this, Tony?” Steve tries to ask.

“No,” you answer simply. You curl around Steve’s arm and nudge him to lead you both inside.

The billionaire playboy is not pleased to lose, his face falling in a flat line of disappointment, but he doesn’t follow. You doubt that’ll be the last you’ll see him tonight.

Imagine the most extravagant and enchanting display. Stark has put that to shame.

You’re practically blinded by the opulence, but of course, everyone in the building knows and loves Steve Rogers, so even the foyer is the start of a dozen conversations. You expect the shaking hands. You expect questions to focus on him. What you don’t expect is how he introduces you to every single agent, mutant, and superhero to cross your path.

This gorgeous lady…this stunner here…this beauty…

This is my genius date.

Then there’s the response.

“Oh, I know who Tovarich is.”

“Don’t worry! She’s already a legend.”

“I’ve watched every show a dozen times on YouTube.”

“I’d just die to be wearing something of yours!”

Whenever someone gushes about your dress or Steve’s suit, he preens and echos every flattery. Steve’s enthusiasm seems directly linked to his obvious habit of ‘bragging’ about you at work, and he easily folds you into conversation like you’ve always been by his side. It’s not fake. He’s animated, comfortable, and downright loving.

Your heart races with a contact high from so much praise.

At one point mid-mingle in the ballroom, a hand lands on your other shoulder.

“Stark,” you say, turning away from Steve and several agents’ small talk. “To what do I owe—oh!”

Another piece of paper. He’s insistent. He waits with impatient arms wrapped over his chest and stares at Steve whilst you mull over his proposal.

“My god, you’ve managed to keep him the second sexiest man in the building while completely covering his ass. That’s talent.”

You open the paper, shake your head, and return it. “I know. How else do I stake my claim?”

Tony, obviously believing himself the first among sexy men in the joint, checks his watch and grumbles.

“One day you’ll call me ‘Tony,’” he mutters. “Alright, Sheers. You drive a hard bargain. Give me twenty minutes,” and he’s off like a shot, phone to his ear.

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. The gesture is a cocoon of comfort with his long coat still on, his grip gentle and steady, fingers fiddling with the layering of black tulle as it puffs out from beneath your thick belt.

“Everything ok?” he whispers in your ear, kissing your temple.

“Oh yes,” you sigh, moving to lace your own hold around him, “man just can’t read a room.”

You’re not sure when or how it happens—given the blur of hundreds of people spread out through a dozen rooms—but as the event wears on, Steve finds you seats, brings over food to share, hangs his coat over the back of the chair, and folds his jacket as well. He specifically asks if it’s ok to take out his cufflinks in order to roll up his sleeves.

“Don’t want to ruin the look,” he jokes.

Carefully, you remove your gloves and offer to style him all over again.

Steve smiles, leans in, and flips his wrist over, letting you deftly remove the cufflink which he just now notices is an exact match to your earrings.

As you fold over one starched sleeve, he smirks.

“Thank you.”

You’re precise with your task, and at first, he doesn’t elaborate. The venue is bustling, people all around, even a trio who sat at the other side of the round table, but Steve’s blue eyes are only on you. Each exposed forearm flexes to aid your work, and during your finishing touches, he lets his fingers brush your lap.

You’re about to ask what he’s thanking you for when the look in his eyes stops you hot.

Steve reaches out, running his knuckles behind your mirroring earrings and letting his skin graze yours. He fluffs up the tulle around your wide collar. “Just…wanted to contribute,” he whispers in the din of the party, blushing, his fingers lingering across your collarbone.

“Capybara,” Stark bursts from behind you again, “I can see the bottom of the lady’s glass. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”

Steve shoves his sleeve up a smidge higher like a nervous tick and winks at you, squeezing your knee gently through your skirts.

“I was just going to refill them, Tony. Cool your jets.” He heads to the bar in the next room over.

Stark unceremoniously drops into the chair behind you, sliding a third, folded paper over the tablecloth.

“Final offer. I think you’ll find it…tempting,” he says darkly.

You open the note and try to keep your face neutral until Stark also points his phone screen at you. He lets you flick through a string of pictures.

“And this is a done deal?” you clarify. “Not a hypothetical?”

“Yes, why else would it have taken me—“ he checks his watch again “—what?—thirty-two minutes to secure? I’m losing my touch…”

You feel light-headed with the possibility. Tony Stark really has outdone himself this time, and yes, he has finally read the room—read you—correctly. It’s perfect. You’d be a fool not to accept.

Stark raps his knuckle triumphantly on the table once you nod.

“Talk contracts tomorrow?”

“No,” you laugh, biting your red lips, “not tomorrow, Tony. But soon.”

“These glasses—“ Stark taps the thick wire and acetate rim of his spectacles “—now have video confirmation of your verbal agreement. So that’s a handshake deal. No take-backsies.” He stands just as Steve returns.

You’re settled by a quick peck to your temple when Steve leans to place two icy drinks on the tablecloth.

Stark hasn’t wiped the smug look off his face.

“What do you want? A pinkie promise?” you bite sweetly.

“Unnecessary,” he scoffs, “but for reference, I want a coat like that—“ he points to Steve’s chair “—in red and gold, obviously, and now, I leave you with the knowledge that I win. You called me ‘Tony.’”

Stark winks and puffs out his chest, smoothing a ringed hand over his velvet lapels.

“Tah-tah. Oh, and don’t you two dare sneak off before my speech.” He holds you and Steve’s gazes for a long, forceful second. “Excellent.”

“What on Earth was that about?” Steve ponders, nudging his chair under the table but coincidentally closer to you. “Everything alright? What’s he been bothering you with?”

You’re too curious to go into it without some confirmation.

Casually, you pick up your drink and clink glasses with your date, thinking about whether you can call him your boyfriend yet, wondering if you’ve just overplayed your hand.

“You grew up in Brooklyn, right?” you start. “Do you miss it?”

Steve sighs and looks longingly into the distance. “All the time,” he says with a soft smile. “I suppose the neighborhood isn’t the same—maybe not even close—but it still feels like home every time I get over there.”

You try not to let the dewy tumbler slip through your clammy fingers. “How often is that?”

“It’s not even far.” Steve knits his eyebrows in shame. “Too long between visits, but…that separation—not being at that Tower and enjoying the feel of normal life—that is nice while I’m there. Why do you ask? You ever been?”

“Of course,” you shrug, “like passing through. Nothing… long-term.”

Oh boy, you’ve got to steel your nerves. You wiggle into the upholstered seat, taking a few fortifying gulps.

“Tony has just succeeded in recruiting me,” you admit.

“Ah, I see.” Except, Steve clearly doesn’t see the connection. He simply gathers his attention back to you instead of his far-off reverie. “How many zeros did you make him add since we walked in the door?”

Here we go, you think. “Words. I made him add words, but he finally got me.”

Steve snorts. “Did you make him change ‘million’ to ‘billion?’”

This could go very well or very poorly. It’s technically your first date, but you’ve defeated a villain together, spent weeks sharing everything from meals to colored pencils to sunset sit-downs, and might be working closely long-term. If you can’t admit what you want for your future now, when can you?

“No—“ you fiddle with one of your gloves on the table “—he changed ‘billion’ to ‘Brooklyn.’”

Steve stops moving entirely, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand.

“An address,” you clarify. “Tony’s secured me a house in Brooklyn. I’ll have my own place. I won’t live where I work anymore.”

Steve’s expression morphs constantly as if he’s trying to cover up a bad poker face. “That’s wonderful,” he says warily, with just shy of a grimace. “Better than I’ve managed to do in ten years…”

You take a sip and clear your throat. This is hard to fathom saying to Captain America in a building full of people who can do anything and have whatever they want.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say…I know it’s…early on…but—“ you scoot in your seat until your knees touch Steve’s thigh “—you’d be welcome to visit—to stay—if you want.”

He’s silent. The music ramps up in time with your heart rate.

“You know, just so you can have that separation whenever. I saw the pictures. It certainly has enough bedrooms that—“

Steve bursts out laughing, shocking himself if how quickly he claps a hand over his mouth is any indication. It’s a bad time for a fit of giggles, but that’s exactly what takes him over. When he moves his hand, it lands on your trembling one, pressing down into your lap. His huge frame continues to shake, racked by contagious jubilee, and after he’s tried to stop, to calm down, to form words—twice—and failed, you break, too.

What exactly you’re laughing at, you have no idea, but apparently, your proposal of sorts is wildly amusing to your date.

“You’re right,” you backtrack in between nervous peels. “It’s ridiculous. Just forget I—“

“No, no,” he finally manages, squeezing your hand again. “That’s not—I didn’t mean to laugh at that. It’s just…it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He tilts your chin up to force your eyes to meet his.

“I think Tony might be dangling you in front of me like a carrot.”

“I promise I don’t have an agenda,” you offer.

He shakes his head gently, one of the longer strands of his golden hair falling across his face. “No. Just a job. Button sewing buttons in Brooklyn for the betterment of a billionaire,” Steve jokes quietly, playing with your palm, his rough fingertips tracing every line, callus, and joint of yours.

“Your Button,” you add, “suiting up superheroes in exchange for a Handsome fee.”

“Your Handsome,” he corrects, brushing over the rapid pulse at your wrist.

“Well then…” you’re frozen in his endless sky eyes, thirty-thousand-feet high on possibilities “…my Handsome deserves a home, too, don’t you think?”

Steve’s only answer is to lunge, locking his fingers behind your neck to hold your lips steady when he is anything but.

A few younger mutants start cheering and shouting for Cap to ‘get it,’ but you simply smile into his kiss because Steve isn’t at all concerned about your lipstick anymore.

He pulls back less than an inch, thumbs petting the thin bit of bare skin behind your ears. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Your breaths mingle, but you don’t open your eyes. “It was always real for me, Steve.”

The pressure of his hold increases as you are pulled back to his lips.

“Me—“ kiss “—too.” Another kiss. “Me too.”

Before you drown completely in the bottomless pit of his affection, however, you remember that you two are supposed to stay decent until after Stark’s speech. You don’t know how long that is scheduled from now, but you won’t last lip-locked with Captain America like this.

You push your forehead to knock you apart. “We should—“

Steve shoots backward, at immediate attention. “Go see the house?!” He bounces with impatience like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I—well, I was going to say dance,” you chuckle, licking the taste of him from your surely faded but  freshly swollen pout, “but I suppose—“

“No, you’re right. Of course.” Steve blushes furiously and scrambles out of his chair. “That was stupid. Forget I said that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, taking his hand to be led off to the open floor.

EPILOGUE

“And then Uncle Tony threw his hands up—“ Steve pulls his baby’s legs into the air playfully while happy shrieks ring out “—and welcomed our teammate, the Red Weaver herself—“ he wiggles the onesie back up a squishy little body “—Miss Tovarich.”

He fake-cheers very, very quietly. “The crowd went wild.”

Enormous blue eyes meet equally joyous cerulean.

“Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking, but that was before Mommy was Misses Rogers.”

Steve dramatically heaves the freshly changed baby into his arms.

“Gosh, you’re so big.” There’s babbling in reply. “Another story? Okay. I think we’ve got time for one more…”

He returns to the living room where you work at the table, sketches spread out, a shared tin of colored pencils open in the center. “When’s Abby coming?” he asks.

“Any minute now,” you mutter with a wink. “Won’t take too long to get ready after that.”

“Alrighty!” Steve sits in the adjacent chair. “I’ll tell ya the first moment I knew she was the one.” 

Your child faces you, balanced on your husband’s lap as he eyes your work not-so-subtly.

Steve describes the night of your Spring Show, how he expected to be blown away, how he didn’t expect to have his whole life flash before his eyes.

“See, that’s when I knew Momma loved me for everything I am and ever was.” He matches your sweet smile across the cluttered surface. “She had no need to prove herself. She didn’t even know I would be there. She did it all anyway.

“That’s what makes your mom the best,” he says, kissing a soft, fuzzy head. “She makes the only best for your outsides because she sees who’s inside.” He taps the baby’s tummy. “Right there. She sees beauty in there—“ giggles “—and makes sure everyone else sees, too. The whole world. She knows there is no one mold for everyone and celebrates them all. She lets them shine.”

Steve lowers his voice fondly.

“She let me shine through.”

By now he’s told you many times over, but that show—to see how he was born appreciated and glorified—healed a fissure within Steve Rogers he had not known was only connected by a rotting bridge. What he was made into by Erskine’s formula…there’s nothing wrong with him this way, but so few people in his life have ever proved the original truth to Steve.

There was nothing wrong with him before.

“That’s right, little love,” you lean over to tease your husband. “And Mommy lets Daddy wear all the sweatpants he wants because he’s comfy. He deserves to be comfy…and he looks very good in them.”

Steve chuckles, bouncing his tiny charge with the movement. “And Daddy lets Mommy measure him whenever she wants.” 

You gasp in faux scandalization, placing the gray back in the single, shared case of colored pencils between you.

“Also, most importantly—“ you point a finger at a tiny, button nose and crossed eyes “—in this house, we never give Tony Stark credit for anything.”

“Uncle Tony hates not getting credit,” Steve agrees. “And Momma loves driving him nuts.”

The doorbell rings.

You pop up from the table. “It’s the little things in life…”

Abby takes the little Rogers into the family room to play while you and Steve get ready for one of those stuffy events, the ones that are a little less terrible when you suffer through them together, the ones suffered through in style.

With a final shift of his tie and flip of his collar, you pet your ringed fingers down his chest.

“Making this look good, Handsome.”

“Thanks to you, Button.”

“Anytime.” Steve leans his forehead against yours.

“Always.”

After a few calm breaths, you squeeze his shoulders to head out to the waiting car, shutting the front door of your Brooklyn home, leaving the hall light on over the family photo: the Man With A Plan in blue, the Red Weaver, and their beautiful baby in a pure white christening gown.

A/N: *incoherent weeping noises* I don't even know what to say yet, so I'll come back to it. Thank you so much for reading! 💚💜

Taglist: @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @awkwardgiraffe726 @femefetalelevelingup

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[writersblockiskillingme]

I need more Jann x reader.

Like reader being fashion designer and u know they are talking and all and like each other.

Like write whatever you want just those things include pls

The Muse | Jan Rozmanowski/Jann

Pairing: Jan Rozmanowski/Jann x reader (fashion designer!reader)

Summary: Your next job was do design a new costume for a possible Eurovision star, but you never expected to fall in love with anything more than just his performance.

Warning/s: possible grammar and spelling mistakes, short fic

Author's note: This one was long overdue, but it's finally here. I'm sorry that it's too short, but I do hope that you like it! Enjoy!

You were surrounded by mess. But, just to humor yourself so you could feel a little bit better about your situation, you loved to call this kind of mess a "creative/organized mess". Like I said, it made you feel a little bit better. So now, as you looked around the room you were currently in, you couldn't help but to sigh in exhaustion.

You were answering phone calls and writing your ideas and drawing sketches for your newest designs. You were just so swarmed with work, you didn't even have time to go out sometimes. So yeah, you could say that your social life was nonexistent.

It didn't help you when your boss practically broke down the door as he barged in your office. He told you that he had a new job for you and at first you felt like you seriously wanted to murder yourself. You had enough stuff to do as it is and you were really hoping that nothing was going to pile on. Guess you were wrong.

But on the second thought, you didn't find your new task to be as bad as you thought that it would be once you finally found out what was going on. Your newest task/job was to design a special costume for a possible competition in Eurovision song contest 2023. You already got the person's measurements and you even got the pictures along with the measurements and everything else that you could possibly need.

Later that day, the moon was already hight up in the middle of the sky and it felt like it was there just so it could mock your tiredness from work. With another heavy sigh and a cup of coffee in your right hand you slouched down on your chair by your desk in the office. You placed the cup of coffee on the table and started to open your files. You opened the file about your newest costumer. More precisely, you were looking for the pictures your boss gave you along with the folder.

It was safe to say that it felt like your last breath was knocked out of your lungs. The guy for whom you were supposed to design the costume for Eurovision song contest was bloody handsome. No. That was too weak of the word to express his looks. He was gorgeous. Even that was barely enough. He was tall as heck and his eyes were so hypnotizing, it enchanted you. His hair was long, darker brown, and it was perfectly falling onto his shoulders. You flipped throw some of the pictures and you got an idea. The way that he was looking fight into the camera, it did something to you. It felt as if he was staring right into your soul. On that photo he was also wearing eyeliner and that's what gave you the idea. The dark, hypnotizing look with few drops of liquid eyeliner.

You quickly grabbed your pencil and your sketchbook, placing the photos and his measurements in front of you as you threw yourself into your work. You started to draw the mannequin first. Then you started to draw the design for the costume. You started out with plain leather jacket and leather jeans. You decided that everything should be black. After you had that, you started to think of the way to make it stand out.

And that's when you rememberd something. You could just use something silver. At first you thought about putting jewelry on the costume, but you didn't want it to stop there. You picked up your pencil once again after taking a few, well more than a few, laps around your office. You took your sketch book, too, and you started to draw silver chains all over the costume.

You looked out of your window as you drew the last line on the costume and noticed that sun was slowly rising. You quickly grabbed a mannequin and some fabric and chains, and basically everything that you needed as you continued to work on it. After two hours your work was finally done.

The next day you were on your way to the studio where Jan Rozmanowski was supposed to meet you and was supposed to try on the costume for the first time. You carried the costume out of your car after you paked it not that far away from the entrance of the studio. Then you started to walk in through the door. You took the first turn to the left, just like you were told to do and there he was in all his glory.

You thought that he looked even better in person and once his eyes found yours you felt like there was no air in the room for a few seconds.

"Hello." You greeted him, a little bit nervously. "My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and I'm a fashion designer that had to design the clothes for your performance."

"Hi!" He greeted you cheerfully as he approached you to give you a hug, that took you a bit off guard, but you were happy to return the hug none the less. "So nice to meet you, I'm Jan Rozmanowski or just Jann."

After the introduction and everything, you gave him the costume so he could try it on. Luckily, it fit perfectly.

Over the time, you would come to his performance and you would talk after, but not just about the clothes or the performance or about that. You were talking about all the personal stuff. You were talking to each other like you knew each other forever. It was silly truly, but you felt like you were slowly but surely falling in love. You really liked him and you were hoping that somehow he liked you more than a friend, too.

Jan would buy you a bunch of your favorite flowers as a thank you for everything that you did to help him. He would call you to get coffee with him. He also always, no matter what, invited you to his every rihursal, every gig, every performance. And you were always there.

After he found out that he will be presenting Poland in Eurovision he got so excited that, as soon as he could, he jumped down from the stage and kissed you.

Soon enough you started to date. You were his inspiration and he was yours, too. You were deeply in love with your muse.

[hoaneybee]

Sunday Honkai Star Rail Fanart

[oct0bra1ns]

GN reader, but they wear lipstick, a little nsfw (barely there tbh) unedited because exams :")

Yandere Fashion designer who's trying out a new line of lipsticks for his collection and who else but to test it on you? You are after all this favorite model. It's not his fault your lips are so smooth, so delectable and besides, what's the harm in stealing a few kisses from someone who belongs to him.

Yandere Fashion designer hums quietly, admiring the way you've settled on his lap, letting him try out the lipsticks, he didn't need to try it out on you considering he brought them only because he thought it would look good on you.

He tilts your head up gently, leaning in. "Hold still Sweetheart." He murmured, voice firm.

"You know I can do this myself, right?" You tease, shifting in his lap to settle down.

He arched an eyebrow, gently tilting your face upwards."I'm aware dearest but I'll accept nothing less than perfect. Stay still."

Yandere Fashion designer could smell scent of your perfume, the one he had brought you shortly after recruiting you for him. The lipstick hovered over your lips before he glided it along your lower lips, making sure it it was flawless.

Yandere Fashion designer leaned back,hands still holding on to your jaw, admiring the shade on your lips, the way your lips seemed so soft and for a moment, he wondered what they'd feel like pressed against his.

"You, my dear, are my centerpiece. Every other label will be out there mourning the fact that they don't have you." He said as his thumb grazed against your lower lip. All his life he was convinced there was no love for anyone in his heart except for fashion, yet here you were, proving him wrong.

Desire pooled in his stomach as his eyes swept over you, the way you were looking at him, the way your lips slightly parted, the way you were wearing the clothes he made for you.

Yandere Fashion designer leaned in, lips brushing over yours as he pulled you into a kiss not wanting to wait any longer. He deepened the kiss as his hands slid over your waist pulling you closer.

Yandere Fashion designer smirked against you as he heard you gasp, moving against him, watching you grow more needier with each passing second.

He pulls away, smirking at your whines, admiring the way lipstick had smudged.

"You planned this, didn't you?" You ask, soft gasps leaving you as your hand moved to open his shirt.

"Perhaps." He murmured, letting you unbutton his shirt. "I do hope you have your day cleared sweetheart because I will take my time."

[seobinghard]

FASHION DESIGNER!HONGJOONG x PA!READER

imagine being designer!joong's personal assistant. yeah, your life's hell. is the pay good? not even. you're only doing it for the experience because a year of working for kim hongjoong opens a million doors for the rest of your career—at least that's what you heard from the grapevine (linkedin), and they're right. your boss, as pedantic as he is handsome, is a 'somebody'; a book of the industry's most valuable contacts.

the hours are gruelling; long nights, early starts.

and don't get you started on the four am fittings and god forbid, seoul fashion week. hell on earth. there's no such thing as sleep, oh no, hongjoong will put you on iv drips if he has to keep you awake. and he did—thrice (he fed you steak and bought you prada afterwards tho).

sometimes, he'll call you at three in the morning for cappuccino—searing hot, and of course, you deliver because you're—get this—competent. yes, the brightest of all the pa's joong's ever had. anything he wants. you produce. archive rick owens, sixteen skirts from calvin klein, "get jarrod from dsquared on the phone", unreleased gq, "find out if byeon wooseok's attending the vogue afterparty"—anything he wants, you deliver on a silver platter with a crisp white napkin on the side.

hongjoong convinces himself the reason he's kept you around for this long is because you're good at what you do, not because he has a soft spot for you or anything, no, no.

until he accidentally overhears you whispering to your stylist friends about leaving the job. leaving him.

his heart sinks. in rage and betrayal.

you're in joong's car, he's driving today. weird, you thought. you always drove.

"heard you wanna quit," he mutters. it's not a question.

you swallow the shock on your face. how did he find out? "what? me? no way!" that totally sounded convincing. you turn towards the window, cringing.

hongjoong chuckles, "you're a shit liar." there's something in the air you can't quit comprehend. unspoken tension; it feels intimate, warm. "i know it hasn't been easy for you. but if you're planning to quit, don't." the next thing he says leaves you breathless. "i need you."

you don't know what to say. you want to scream at him; yell in his face to stop being hot and cold with you, stop sending you on cappuccino runs at three am, stop treating you like shit then buying you prada afterwards AHHH—but alas, he's your boss. a hot one too. makes you nervous. so you spit out the first thing that's been on your mind since you first took this job.

"ten percent raise," you blurt out meekly.

hongjoong nods, as if he's known. "how bout fifteen, and come to paris fashion week with me?" he glances at you, eyes expecting. this time, it's a question.

"do i get to keep the designer gifts and pr packages?" you press, feeling a bit cheeky.

hongjoong smiles, "you know i always let you."

"put it in writing."

his eye twitches. you little–

m.list

[heartofjasmina]

Fashion designer Bakugou who sees you at his favorite cafe one morning. Your clothes are comfortable and colorful, but they obscure the beauty of your body he tells himself. So he marches over to you, wearing all black and a skull tshirt with heavy combat boots. It doesn't help that he's also drop dead gorgeous, so when he hovers over you and breathes out. "Let me undress you." Your brain short circuits. "I can dress you much better, let me." He doesn't so much ask as he commands, so you find yourself nodding along, unsure why he's interested in you in the first place.

When you get back to his studio he's measuring your figure, his large hot hands skimming over your breasts, your hips, your waist. The more he discovers, your waist would fit perfectly in his hands, and your tits are begging him to taste, the more he struggles to keep professional. He just wanted to have you as a model, he swears to himself. But when he's measuring your ass, he starts to lose it.

"Who the fuck let you out of the house in those grandma clothes when your body is this fucking amazing?"

The words slip out of him in a huff, and you blush bright red. "I-I don't wear grandma clothes." You try to defend yourself, but looking around his studio at the slinky tight fit dresses with corsets and plunging necklines, you realize that yeah- maybe you do wear grandma clothes.

"Just wait until I design something for you, you're going to look even more beautiful. Especially as my date." He's never been nervous asking someone out before, but damnit your curves and sweet, shy personality were a combination he was loathe to let go.

"Your date?" You felt like you were struggling to breathe. The super hot designer wanted to go on a date with you? You knew you were bigger, its not like you're oblivious. But never once did he make you feel lesser for being fat, he just seemed upset that you tried to hide yourself.

"If you'll have me." His voice was suddenly softer, his red eyes gentle as he looks up at you from where he's on his knees, the measuring bunched in his fist.

"Yes." You breathe out, knowing this chance encounter would change your life.

[xoxoyenn]

DRUNK REGRETS

⌗ sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

၄၃ — (sweetheart!reader comes home from a party drunk and her darling girlfriend takes care of her.)

You barely make it to the couch before collapsing onto it with a groan, burying your face into the cushions. The world is spinning. You swear you can still hear the bass from last night’s party thumping in your skull.

And then, like a guardian angel in an oversized sweater, Sabrina appears.

“Oh, babe…” Her voice is soft, laced with amusement but mostly concern. She crouches beside you, brushing stray strands of hair from your clammy forehead. “I told you not to let Liv pick your drinks.”

You whine in response, curling further into yourself. “I didn’t let her. She just—she just handed me stuff, and I was too weak to say no.”

Sabrina chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re a sweetheart, baby, but you have to learn the power of no.”

“I’ll practice,” you mumble. “Tomorrow.”

She shakes her head, amused, before slipping an arm under your shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get you in bed before you pass out here.”

It takes some effort, mostly from her, but she manages to guide you to your shared bedroom. You practically melt onto the bed, sighing dramatically as she tucks you in.

“You’re an angel,” you murmur, voice muffled by the pillow.

“I know.” She smirks, pressing another kiss to your cheek. Then, she disappears into the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later with a glass of water and some Advil. “Here, baby. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

You grumble but obey, swallowing the pills with a grimace. Sabrina watches you with a fond smile, her fingers absentmindedly tracing soothing patterns on your arm.

“You’re being so nice to me,” you mumble sleepily. “Do you—do you secretly like it when I’m a mess?”

Sabrina laughs, climbing into bed beside you. “No, I just love you. Even when you smell like tequila and regret.”

You hum in contentment, nuzzling into her warmth. “Best girlfriend ever.”

She pulls you close, letting you rest your head against her chest. “I know, sweetheart.”

And with her heartbeat in your ear and her fingers gently stroking your back, you drift off, safe and loved—even in your hungover misery.

[der7py]

Yandere Fashion Designer x reader

While visiting your favorite fashion designer, something seemed off. He seemed off. More panicky, more scrambled than usual. Why? Where was that cool and calm collected Antonio? Well, he was right behind you.

Warnings: People pleasing, forced isolation, panicked motions, kidnapping, deranged thoughts, extreme paranoia, guilty conscious, extreme self-neglect, locked doors, locked windows, paranoia, very minor violence, chloroform wipes, slight guilt-tripping, paranoid thoughts

You knocked on his door, the rain downpouring on you and your raincoat. That's all the weather ever was nowadays. Just rain and more rain. Which meant that little mister fashion designer was cooped up in his office all day. "Antonio! If you don't open the door, I'm gonna break in through your window!" You yelled, knocking on his door again as you tapped your foot. Finally, you heard some shuffling around. Took him long enough! As the door opened, you were met with a very disheveled Antonio. His blonde hair was a complete mess, a pencil stuck in it. Or maybe it was originally behind his ear. His eyes were wide yet the bags under them were heavy. His shirt was unbuttoned, and a tape measure hung around his neck with his sleeves rolled up.

"Y/n! I uh... I didn't expect you to come over." He said nervously, attempting to fix his messy hair, which just made it worse. You looked him over, cringing at his state of mind and appearance. You reached a hand up, pulling out a cut piece of silk out of his hair. "Yeah... completely unrelated question... how much sleep have you been getting? And have you seen what grass looks like?" You jokingly asked, which received a glare from your friend. "Haha. Very funny. Now, did you come here because you missed me, or did you come here to belittle me?" He questioned, leaning against the door with his arm. That brought a smile to your face. At least he hadn't completely lost it.

You jokingly punched his arm, letting yourself in as you took your raincoat off. "There's that sass! Was starting to think you had completely lost it in here." Antonio rolled his eyes, shutting the door and locking it as he moved past you towards the kitchen. "Don't mind the mess. I've been working on a new spring collection, so I haven't had time to properly clean." He said, moving towards his kettle to make some tea. You noticed the messy state of his usually clean house. Papers scattered across the floor, fabric loosely thrown around, and some books collecting dust. His window blinds were shut, and his door had gotten a new lock now that you looked at it. It looked like it had several new locks now.

"Hey, uh... buddy?" You started, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. The state of his kitchen wasn't much better either. You knew he wasn't a hoarder. And it didn't look like that either. It looked like somebody's mental state. "What's uh... what's with the new locks on the door? Worried somebody's gonna come and snatch your stuff?" You somewhat jokingly said, which immediately caused him to slam down the kettle and turn around. "Snatch who? Snatch what? I'm not paranoid. You're the paranoid one! I'm completely sane. Stop accusing me of things you have no evidence of." He rambled, a crazed look in his eyes before he took in a deep breath. "Sorry. I've been on edge lately. Guess being cooped up in my office hasn't been the best, huh?" He laughed, turning back around to finish making tea.

Well, that was weird. He never had outbursts like that. Was his mental state okay? You awkwardly laughed it off with him, but your mind was preoccupied. Eventually, he poured you both some tea, sitting down himself. "I guess nerves haven't done well for me. I keep thinking this new collection will flop." He said, trying to excuse his sudden outburst. You frowned, setting a hand on his as he sipped his tea. "Yeah, I get that. But don't dress so much, okay?" You said, giving him a smile before sipping your own tea. He smiled back, taking in a deep breath before standing up. "Would you like to see the collection?" He asked, which earned a nod from you. You stood up, following him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his office. As he opened the door, you were met with multiple fashion dummies, beautiful clothes hanging on them.

"With all the rain, I thought I'd make my spring collection rain themed." He said casually, looking at the designs he made. You slowly touched them, feeling the soft fabric. You could tell he put a lot of work into what he made and that he wasn't like most fast fashion companies who just threw something cheap out and then moved on. There was actual skill in these outfits. You always knew he was talented. He always had been talented. But this, actually feeling and seeing his work up close, really showed you, his skill. "This is fantastic." You mumbled, looking back at him with awe. You kept forgetting that he could just make things like this out of thin air. "Antonio this dress with the glitter is amazing! And it doesn't even feel grimy and gross! How did you even manage this-" You started, but as you turned around; he was gone.

"Antonio? Buddy? Where'd you go?" You asked, peeking your head out the doorway as you looked around the corner. Where did he go? You decided to wait a little longer, maybe he had to use the bathroom, or take an important phone call from his boss! But he always told you if he was going somewhere, even if he was going to go open a window because the house was stuffy. After about 15 minutes of waiting, you were getting worried. You needed to go find him. You left the room, venturing down the hallway to try to and find your beloved fashion designer. But something looked different. The windows. They were locked.

You walked over to the window, attempting to open the big window where his book corner/think station was. But it wouldn't open. "Antonio? What's wrong with your windows?" You called out, but no answer came. No calm and warming voice to soothe your fears. You walked downstairs, and the same thing happened. The windows were locked. And that mega lock door? Sealed nice and tight. Fuck it. You needed to leave. Maybe this was just a new way of saying his social battery was gone and he needed some space. "Antonio I'm gonna go home now. I'll see you tomorrow?" As you turned around to try and pry the locked door open, a cloth was suddenly shoved against your nose and mouth, and two strong arms wrapped around you.

"No. No, you can't leave." A familiar voice said, and you knew it was Antonio. "I have done everything to make you want to be with me. What am I doing wrong?" He asked, his voice shaky as he started to laugh. "Is this house not quiet enough? Do I scare you? Is my job too demanding? I promise I'll make you a whole collection. I'll make all your clothes for you! Would that be enough!?" You were starting to lose unconscious, and it was too late to fight him now. How had you not seen the signs? The locked doors, the people pleasing over the past few weeks, the begging for you to stay longer. You just chalked it up to him being lonely and scared. But you should've know.

Your eyes slowly closed, and your body went limp in his arms. You didn't know where you would end up after you woke up. But something in your gut told you, you wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

"I'll keep you safe. I promise. I'll make you so happy, so loved, so cherished, you'll never want to leave. I'm sorry it had to come to this. But I love you too much. Forgive me."

[m1nsur0]

[JTTW OC: 智平] They never announced they were officially together during the journey, they just started to exclusively wear coordinated outfits and expected everyone else to get the hint.

(click for quality) (click this for wukong solo post!)

[v3n1ce-bxtch]

💋𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔞 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔥💋

#2

Warnings: cussing, kinda suggestive

Taglist: @tylerjeauxburreaux9 @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @itsyagirljaz @harlowsbby @harlowcomehome @iheartjh @firstclasswithharlow @babiefries @ikeepitlight

[dandibuni]

me when bills:

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (4)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Four: Necking Region (see previous or series)

Summary: Chaos erupts at your Spring Show, but Steve is right there...at your feet.

Warnings for canon-level violence, Tony Stark's sass (obvi), kithes, and one hella-badass AND fluffy Reader! WC 4259

For you, handsome.

Handsome? Steve can work with that.

Even in the fresh dark, he schools his face in hopes to hide the nerves fluttering beneath his skin. Steve is determined to talk to you after the show, and he won’t get waylaid like in the fall. He’ll order three of everything that crosses the stage just to spend time with you again.

Quality time.

That he pays for.

Shoot, is he making it weird? Is that better than lying?

The music cue is deafening, and Steve jumps almost imperceptibly in his seat. 

Yikes, he’s a nervous wreck. He adjust the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat in the split second while the noise is drowned out and the place is still dark, but when the lights come back up, Steve Rogers’ heart stops.

It’s like…it’s like he’s looking into the past through one of Wanda’s magic visions.

His heart swells even as his chest tightens. There’s a sharp tingle behind his sinuses but he can’t look away. He blinks away the discomfort. 

Each silhouette triggers a long lost memory because they’re him. You would have seen him.

He remembers buying children’s clothes sometimes. For a long time, his ma resewed every seam in every pair of slacks. After she died, he just rolled up the hem and tightened his belt.

Of course, your models look nothing like that. They look striking and regal. They are meant to be seen. He can tell by their faces they want to be seen in your clothes, and Steve’s proud to even know you.

He grew up stuffing newspaper in his shoes. Now, your name and men who look like him—like he used to—will be in the newspaper. You’ll be on the cover for this.

Steve compulsively sweeps his hand over his hair and his eyes fall to his lap, concealing a dopey smile. He thinks this is the single most fantastic surprise of his life…

Then he sees the tenth model.

A slight, blond man in a crisp, collarless white shirt, navy jacket, and red pants struts down the platform, and the audience goes nuts. He’s certain a monitor would register his heart completely stopping for the entire walk, but Steve can only feel right now. He can’t think. His unfocused eyes wonder to the shadow where you were before, but he can’t even see.

The group does a whole second, swift run-through, but he’s not there anymore.

You emerge in this red, white, and blue masterpiece of a gown, perfectly complimenting the coloring of the last model, and Steve’s mind, body, and soul are on fire.

He watches you cup the face of your model and beam a wide smile, leaning down to him. You kiss that slight man’s cheek, and Steve has an out-of-body—or original-body—experience that shudders his large frame. 

His mind runs away, picturing working and relaxing beside you for all things, sketching, reading, resting, but he’s little again and your face is exactly the same. You don’t look at him any differently. He’s just Steve, either way, both ways, any way, and always. 

It’s only when the person next to him bumps Steve that he, too, pops off his seat for your standing ovation. He gets lost in the joy written all over your face, clapping his hands so hard his palms sting, but he will cheer you on until he’s worn them to the bone just to—

Your face falls as the underlying noise changes in the venue.

He knows that sound.

Steve understood why flashbulb photography triggered veterans like gunfire, but nowadays there’s no mistaking the difference. Those are bullets, and someone is pointing guns directly into your event space.

The room is already in complete chaos when Steve turns toward the intrusion. Guests scatter everywhere in every direction, some so disoriented they run at the shots.

Steve whips out his phone and yells over the din for F.R.I.D.A.Y to call emergency services, police and medical, to his location, then starts what should be an easy, ten-foot journey, but you’re practically across an ocean.

The music hasn’t stopped. People closest to the neck of the stage are still clapping, unsuspecting of the crowd knocking them down in search of two stage doors locked from the other side.

Something is off though because nothing Steve sees is impacted until he swivels back, shoved off kilter by two terrified women who tilt his gaze higher.

The panels of sheer fabric he thought were moody decor are fielding bullets like baseballs in a practice net. He’s never witnessed anything quite like it, but at least it means Steve has time to get to you. He has to move you off the stage so you aren’t so easy of a target.

Smacked around like a pinball in high speed machine, Steve hastily rushes to the rose-rimmed platform, barely missing your ankle in his reach and shouting for your attention.

He thinks you’ve heard when you spin, but it’s too late. Someone has breeched the protective panels, and any temporary structures throughout the venue start exploding from a hailstorm of semi-automatic fire.

Steve checks that the stage doors have been unlocked. Guests are getting out, but the bottleneck is slow. Your models are stuck on the stage, their path blocked by fallen scaffolding and sparking lights. You need to get the hell down, so he raises a hand to call for you again.

And then…

And then there’s an enormous arch of navy and red, centered by the glowing star on your chest.

And then a bullet streaks across the silvery mesh on your stomach.

A gunman has come around your shield, and Steve’s seeing red—well, more red—as he scans to see you unharmed.

Screw that guy.

Steve vaults over the stage, decks the gunman square in the jaw, and waits till the limp body rests motionless against a fallen chair.

He looks up to see you, not smiling but not upset. You’re waving for the trapped models to come closer to the barrier before meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Go get ‘em.“ You pull at the cuff of your filigreed sleeve, ticking your head to signal Steve should, too. “You’re dressed for it.”

He studies the buttons on his jacket, those unique ones at his wrists that hold concentric circles like his shield…or so he thought. Now he realizes, they aren’t just buttons; they are activation buttons.

He grabs his forearms to press both, feeling a gentle tingle spread.

His eyes snap back up to yours.

“Oh.”

You wink at him before all automated function of his body takes over, and Steve runs headlong for the goons with guns, wearing naught but a shockingly-useful suit separate and the ghost of his same goofy smile.

You think he’s handsome.

 Steve tucks and rolls behind one fabric screen, clocking the location of one gunman by the muzzle flare through the fabric. He rushes and drops one—two—three more until he sees a small grouping split off from a masked man’s side.

It’s Richard Fisk in a shock-white suit and with completely obscured face, but it’s absolutely ‘The Rose’ with a perfect blood-red bloom stuffed in his lapel.

The goons will stop if the boss goes down, Steve knows. He’s seen it a hundred times before, so he grabs the sidearm of the man he just leveled and fires at Fisk’s leg.

The bullet lands exactly where intended but hits like no more than a crowd-suppressant beanbag.

“Is that the best you can do, Captain?”

Great. You made Fisk a bulletproof suit, too.

Steve jumps behind the nearest screen, losing ground but crouching beside one of the other unconscious gunmen. A can of tear gas is strapped to the guy’s chest, and Steve just acts.

Fisk howls like a banshee, ripping the bizarre purple and black striped mask off his face to gasp for air and cough.

The Rose laughs, cocky and taunting. “You brought morals to a gunfight. You don’t even have your frisbee.”

Fisk sprays bullets randomly in the direction from which he saw the canister fly, and Steve sprints, sliding on his knees all the way to Fisk’s feet, arms up and shoved together as if he’s wearing his Wakandan guards. He feels some rounds bounce off his chest, hardly slowing him down, but the sound of bullets as they ricochet off his sleeves is intense. No doubt, Fisk would have landed multiple kill shots.

Armed police file in the entrance and scream for the goons to put their weapons down and their hands up.

Another coughing fit pauses Fisk’s assault. Steve chances opening his arms and swings immediately for the sneering, twisted face above him.

The man spins with the concussive force. Just before Fisk collapses in a makeshift bed of hot ammo shells and cold rose petals, Steve stands and adjusts his jacket.

“No—“ his hand smoothes over pristine and unfrayed midnight “—but I brought style.”

Iron Man swoops in to land on the other side of Richard Fisk’s body.

“Damn it, I didn’t get that on video. Can we reset and you say that line again?”

“Tony,” Steve warns.

“What?! It was so good, buddy. No seriously, I’m proud of that—“ Steve turns to check on you, watching the fabric of your skirt flutter back down to drape across the runway “—dare I say it’s my influence. I want proof you—“

“Tony,” Steve shouts again. Finally, the music is turned off from the media console.

“All clear,” Tony yells with his hands cupping his mouth. “Where’s your ‘girlfriend?’” He relaxes his arms after air-quoting and gives Steve a once-over. “Don’t think I don’t know you cut me in line for that.” 

Steve fiddles with his cuffs, attempting to swallow a blush and failing. He presses the buttons again. The tingling stops.

Tony frowns, pointing an accusatory finger as he watches Steve shrug. “That’s favoritism, and I thought you were better than that.” He turns deeper into the venue, screaming, “Sheers! You good?”

There’s no audible answer, so the pair make their way past the decimated decor.

Titanium boots crunch against the floor. “Looks more like my first dates than yours.”

“For the love of god, Tony, please…” but Steve is suddenly engrossed, rounding one last screen to see your models and several guests nervously huddled at your legs, your arms reaching out to comfort each and every one.

So strong. So soft. That’s you. That’s what you create.

“Hey,” you say with a huge breath and a soft sweet smile as Steve approaches.

He makes his way straight to your feet and holds out his hands. “Hey.”

“Hey?” Tony blurts, watching Steve lift you down by the waist like a princess. “Hey?? Yeah, sure. Cool. I love being upstaged. It’s not like I didn’t offer to fund this shit a year ago—“

“Language,” you and Steve say simultaneously.

“—or anything. No big deal.” Tony scoffs. “When else would I be perfectly within my rights to swear? We have to talk about this is my point.” He waves his gauntlet in the general area of you and clucks his tongue.

“Any other day, Stark.”

Tony, however, doesn’t need others to be as amused as he is. “Admit it. I’m an inspiration.”

“To find alternatives? To find feasible, reproducible options?” You break away from Steve’s grasp to step closer to Tony. “Yes, I did that. We can’t all be covered in nanotech.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cost prohibitive,” you rage.

Steve stands ready to catch you, seeing the way your energy wilts after each sentence and that you can’t keep your hand up without them shaking.

Tony snorts. “What? Speak english.”

“Speak average,” you whip back, but before a staring contest can ensue, Abby pounces to swing you into a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re okay!”

You’re distracted by your assistant while Steve scopes out the venue, noting the triage area and cops beginning to take statements from unharmed guests.

Knowing Steve will ask, Tony interjects. “No major injuries. Mostly just bruises and sprains from people trampling each other.”

That’s incredible considering the pools of spent shells all on one particular side of those tall panels. They must be made of the same material—

“Stop fondling, Tony.” Steve smacks his friend’s hands off your skirts.

“I’ll have you know I’m fondling in the interest of science,” his friend hisses comically. He does drop the fabric though. “Fine. Then I’ll just be taking your jacket as payment.”

“Payment for what?”

“Letting you escort the lady home and bypassing the lovely, lengthy interviews the boys in blue are gonna want.“

It takes Steve all of three seconds to consider.

“Deal,” he agrees, imagining that with a crowd this size, you’d be busy until the wee hours of the morning, wringing your hands as you repeat yourself a dozen times, wrapped in a wool blanket, exhausted. He shrugs off the blazer quickly before any of the other officers come to speak with you and tucks one arm around yours to tell you the plan.

Abby encourages the escape.

Steve’s thrilled he did not walk to the event. He took a car in order to line up in the red carpet procession—as awful as he finds the practice—and luckily, the driver is still ready and able to maneuver the vehicle past a sea of police cruisers.

Seeing as most of your bodice and sleeves are sheer, you curl inward for warmth instead of lean against the cool leather of the backseat. Normally, Steve would offer his jacket, but in lieu of any decent layers to peel off for you, he drapes his arm over your shoulders. The flashing red and blue lights fade in the distance as you sink comfortably against his chest.

“So…” Steve starts, quiet and casual, “Tony wasn’t supposed to know you’d already sold Richard Fisk a bulletproof suit, huh?”

He can see your eyes are still open, staring out the window, but you don’t respond right away.

“Originally, I’d basically made a very thin kevlar, and that…wasn’t the end goal, so I made a few suits for a steep price to try for, well, what you saw tonight. Stark isn’t exactly subtle.” You shift an accusatory glance up to Steve momentarily. “Three days after Dominica delivered Fisk’s first suit, none other than the Tony Stark comes into my store asking questions. He tried to get me to develop under Stark Industries, wanted my work to be exclusive—and I’m sure completely under his own brand—so I said no. This was all spoken in hypotheticals, mind you. ‘Hypothetically,’ if I worked for him, the mob couldn’t get me, and ‘hypothetically,’ he could help speed my research along. He tried a few different times, too. I thought he was parading you in as bait at first.”

“You thought I was…what?”

“I thought Stark brought in the cute guy who looks perfect in my designs as some sort of dangling carrot to work for him.”

Steve’s floored.

“When did you know I wasn’t a plant?”

“Oh, one second after seeing your face. Nobody with an agenda is that good at looking clueless.”

He’d be offended if it weren’t entirely true. Steve had absolutely zero idea what to do or say being fitted and consulted on for civilian clothes, and he thought he was supposed to be meeting a man that whole time. However, he would not put it past Tony to have intended he be bait with no warning, and in fact, this would count as the greatest ‘long game’ Stark has ever played. Steve wouldn’t have needed more incentive to get close to you.

“Yeah, I invented the stuff,” you continue with a shrug and a yawn, “but he doesn’t own me and I like designing all sorts of things. I think that’s…”

Your voice trails off before Steve prods. “What?”

“I think that’s why he goaded me about my typical line. I told him I wouldn’t be pigeonholed into dressing superheroes, so I would look like a hypocrite if I still only made clothes for—“ you sit up and fake a deep, arrogant voice “—shiny, blond beefcakes.”

Steve’s hand slaps his forehead. Tony absolutely used those exact words.

“So I engineered the stuff alone and overhauled my entire collection in the last two weeks. That’s what Stark does, right? Control you without really controlling you.”

“It’s called being manipulative, and he and I have had several conversations about it,” Steve grumbles.

You’ve hit a second wind of energy but fiddle with your lap before asking, “what did you think of the show?”

Steve sits up straighter and clears his throat.

“Ya know,” you quickly interject, “prior to it becoming the Battle of Skylight Square.”

Just as Steve opens his mouth the car stops. The driver announces you’ve arrived at the atelier and thus your upstairs apartment.

Steve steps out and realizes the police car usually stationed at the curb is no longer there, likely called away to the scene earlier. He dismisses his driver for the evening and makes the executive decision to stay as your guard the rest of the night.

You shuffle to the front door, exclaiming that the real piece de resistance of your gown is your pockets from which you brandish your keys. Steve’s grateful you’re animated (if a little loopy) and distracted while his mind scurries to form words.

He can’t express what he saw and felt when he looked on that stage, so he hums in agreement with your rant on pockets and follows behind you, hands on your hips as you struggle to walk up the staircase.

You pause on the first step and peek at him over your shoulder.

“So…’Button,’ huh?”

He blushes furiously and focuses on your balance when you won’t. The dress train is long enough to require he lift it so he can see the stairs beneath his own feet. You two climb slowly.

“Well,” Steve blusters, repositioning the layers so one of his hands on your hip sits under your own hand that lifts the front bustle, “‘Handsome,’ right?”

One step up. You snort. “You say that like it’s odd that I’m attracted to you, but I think I thoroughly proved that tonight, mister.”

Another step up, and you’re about three-quarters of the way there.

Steve can’t hold back anymore though, not even till the top of one flight.

He uses his grip to spin you around and nudges his foot under your skirts, rising to the stair just below you. You’ve dropped all else and grabbed onto him for balance, cupping his cheeks like he saw you do earlier tonight. You have to lean down to him as his whole being screams ‘let me kiss you.’

Steve has a distinctly in-body experience, all his imaginings of touching a woman so sweetly and in exactly the way he would have a century ago come to fruition right there.

With a hard-working girl after a fight with a bully, just as it should be.

He loses track of his hands amongst the tangled yards of your dress, but your lips are soft and perfect. He ascends a few inches more by way of his tip toes and clings to the railing for balance. Steve has the fleeting thought that he might inadvertently be yanking you toward him with a palm over your ass—not on it because he can barely tell there is even a body part there—so he moves his hand up for assurances. Up is safer. Up is more gentlemanly. He teeters both on his toes and on the cusp of gentlemanly given how lost Steve is in devouring you.

Stunning and innovative as they are, your skirts are prohibitively fluffy, and Steve feels more and more of your weight resting on him, those last dregs of adrenaline draining away. He pulls back, ghosting a peck on your still eagerly pursed lips.

“Let’s get you comfy, Button,” he husks, rolling his thumb back and forth between what he now realizes are your shoulder blades.

You nod, your forehead against his, and although he’d normally think it forward, his desire to take care of you wins out, deliberately finding your thigh to coax your legs around him.

He carries you the rest of the way, nearly tripping but laughing the whole journey. “Sure it saved some people,” he jokes, “but then ‘bout took me down, so…”

He deposits you by your closet and goes to make you a very sweet herbal tea while you change. He’s surprised when you emerge dressed down with sweats for him in hand. 

“Menswear designer,” you remind him simply.

Even though it was never technically real until this moment, Steve falls back into the routine of kissing your temple so easily as he passes off the mug and heads to the tiny bathroom. 

When he returns though, you have a familiar thousand-mile stare.

He tries to change the subject, to get you talking about something other than today, tonight, and tomorrow. He draws a blank until the shuffle of paper sounds beneath his hand. It just so happens that on your dining table—or should he say, your work desk?—is a sketch for his Gala outfit. 

“Would you come with me?”

You hum softly in question.

“I mean, as my date. Will you go on a date with me? To this Hellfire thing?” 

The distance in your eyes shrinks until it’s just him and you. A smile blooms across your strained face.

“Yes. I’d like that,” you say softly before taking a huge breath that seems to physically toss weight off your hunched form. “Whatever shall I wear though…”

“Not to give you extra work,” Steve chuckles back, “but I know this great designer.”

You laugh into your tea, both hands around the ceramic, holding on for dear life.

“Should I open a window? You probably could use some more fresh air,” he offers. 

“Oh, they’re painted shut, possibly since before I was born, but we could go to the roof?” 

He’s not sure if that’s a commentary on you finding him lurking up there last week, but it’s a fine idea nonetheless. “Chairs?” 

You look around and counter. “Pillows?”

Steve takes another moment to think while you gather, and he ends up holding several cushions and your tea. As you both continue up the much tinier staircase to the access door, something occurs to him. 

“Wait, did you give me a prototype that was untested?”

You laugh nervously. “Um—“ you use your butt to open the door “—well, see, if anyone’s gonna be fine should a bulletproof and bullet repellant material fail, it’ll be a super soldier, right?” 

“So I was your guinea pig?!”

“I’m sorry,” you burst sarcastically. “You got a free, custom jacket—which you chose to wear to my show, might I add—and what would you have had ready without my ‘untested prototype?’” 

Steve makes doe eyes in the dark, ambient light pollution. “I just thought you cared about my safety there for a minute…” 

“I cared for everyone’s safety,” you chirp in retaliation for his heavy guilting. “I made those panels just in case, but I was never, ever going to cancel my whole show on the assumption Fisk would pull a stunt like that. Forgive me for not living my life in fear of what that lunatic, second-rate kingpin might do!” 

He shrugs at that, dropping his pillows in a makeshift seat pattern right beside yours. “Fair point.” 

There’s a comfortable silence while you sip your cooling tea. 

“Should have made myself one,” Steve laments in a soft breath. 

“Sweet, chivalrous beefcake,” you whisper, shaking your head. 

“Tony really said that, didn’t he?” 

“I think he wanted me to know he is my competition for your affection.”

“You aren’t…” Steve stops himself. He was going to say you and Tony are not competitors at all, but that isn’t true on multiple levels. He swivels to scoop up your legs and settle them over his lap, just like he used to on the couch at the Tower, and you squeak, clutching your sloshing tea. One of his hands circles your hip to rest at the top of one leg. The other lands at the strip of bare skin where your sweats don’t touch the ankle of your slip-on shoes. His pinky flicks over the fleece lining, rounding out his mental measurements of your body. For now.

“There is no competition,” his concludes in a low, deep tone. “You win.”

You stare up at him with glassy eyes now, in awe of something he can’t see but hopes to earn. This time it’s your expression that pleads for him, and he leans in for another lingering, thorough kiss.

Steve licks the sweet taste off his lips. “Should’ve made another tea,” he repeats.

Your eyes open again slowly, sleepily, reminding him of that daydream of waking up next to you and breakfast in bed.

He sneaks another peck before you can forms words.

“Is this a bad time to tell you…that I forgot my keys and the door shut all the way?”

Steve looks over incredulously at that stupid exit and sighs, scratching his jaw.

“It’s, uh, about as bad as—“ he debates admitting what he’s about to “—well, I can, I mean I could get us back in, but…” He glances over the side of the building. “How do you feel about sleeping with a window open, or rather, no window?”

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @darsynia @femefetalelevelingup

[Last Part]

A/N: probably not as well edited as it should be, but meh, I'm too excited to release this out into the wild! Comments, keysmashes, and asks always welcome. Thank you for reading!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[dollishmehrayan]

FAMOUS FASHION DESIGNER ── .✦ ౨ৎ

a/n: a anon request (here) thought of this because why not and now we’re running up and new!

(tags: batboys x famous fashion!fem!reader) (non-comedy, a request)

#BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

- Bruce would respect your work, of course, but his deep-seated desire to protect you from the dangers of the vigilante life might make him overly cautious around you.

- He admires your ability to juggle both a successful career and maintain a life outside the public eye. However, he might find your fame a little too much for his liking.

- Bruce would frequently give you advice about public image, though he might not always understand the intricacies of the fashion world. His attempts to help you stay “low-key” could lead to some interesting clashes when you ignore his advice for the sake of creativity.

- Even though he keeps his distance emotionally, Bruce’s underlying support would be there—whether it’s subtly clearing paths for you at high-profile events or pulling strings to make sure you’re protected during risky fashion shows.

#DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

- Dick would totally be your biggest cheerleader. He’d attend your shows, sit front row, and gush over how amazing you look in every outfit. He’s your unofficial ambassador in Gotham.

- He loves how you balance being both stylish and authentic. If you're out in public together, he's the one holding your hand while flashing his famous grin, proudly showing off your connection.

- Dick loves hearing your ideas for design, and he would often try to convince you to design something for him—though he'd probably want a superhero version of it (he just wants nightwing merch 😞)

- He’d love surprising you with flowers or rare vintage pieces as a way of showing appreciation for your work.

#JASON TODD ── .✦

- Jason has a complicated relationship with fame. He’d definitely be a little reluctant to dive into the world of the media that you’re part of, but he respects your talent.

- He’s drawn to how independent and self-sufficient you are. As someone who’s been through a lot, he sees a lot of strength in you that aligns with his own struggles.

- Jason might surprise you by buying something from your collection, but it would be a limited edition or something very bold that stands out. He’d love a darker, edgier piece that’s still functional (you had to convince him to not fill his fucking closet with leather jackets)

- When it comes to fashion shows, he’d be your quiet supporter in the background, always watching your back while you’re in the spotlight. He’d prefer to be near you but stay out of the media’s glare.

#TIM DRAKE ── .✦

- Tim would absolutely admire your business sense. He’d be impressed by how you manage the complexities of being a famous designer while keeping your personal life secure.

- He would offer his expertise on marketing, analytics, and tech side of things, maybe even help you design a cutting-edge website or app to engage with your fans.

- While he might not be as openly affectionate as Dick or Jason, Tim would show his support by attending your shows, helping out behind the scenes, or even sending you design critiques (in a non-judgmental, constructive way).

- He’d be interested in the logic behind your designs and how you conceptualize your collections, seeing it as a kind of puzzle to solve.

#DAMIAN WAYNE (aged up) ── .✦

- Damian would initially be skeptical of the fashion world and would likely think it’s an unnecessary distraction from what really matters. However, he can’t help but be impressed by your discipline and work ethic.

- While he doesn’t understand the appeal of fame, he respects your skill and will quietly defend you against anyone who criticizes your designs.

- Damian would always want you to wear something practical, but he has a certain fascination with your ability to make anything look elegant, even if it’s just casual attire.

- He might buy you a piece of rare armor or something useful from his own collection as a way of blending his world with yours. It’s his way of saying he sees the importance of your craft—even if he’s not vocal about it, just so he can mix it up yk?