#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.

[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 (1)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part One: Yield Strength (see series)

Summary: Steve gets to meet his favorite designer, and you get a surprise visitor at work.

Warnings: none. Maybe a bit of creepy behavior but not from Steve. Yes, I did just want to use the leather jacket gif for shiggles. What's it to ya? WC 3355

Steve Rogers hates stuffy functions. He hates the brown-nosing. He hates trying to convince people who have everything to give scraps to people with nothing. He hates watching the excess and indulgence, even when he knows it ends up giving something to those in need. He hates it. He hates the whole lot of these stupid, asinine—

Steve takes a breath and smooths his hand down the buttery fabric of a double-breasted jacket hanging next to his intended garment.

Ok, fine, he hates the functions, but he actually enjoys the dressing up part.

He didn’t used to. No. The only outfit outside of his Cap suit that ever truly fit him—before or after the serum—was his SSR uniform, and coming from a time of nothing, Steve accepted that as a huge win.

And then he woke up in this world of excess and—what do they call it? Fast-fashion?— realized that what should be easier to acquire was much, much harder to find: room to breathe.

Steve may roll his eyes at Tony’s custom everything, but he admits internally that at least Stark’s comfortable all the time. Steve would settle for being comfortable in his own skin.

This helps though, this gloriously draped, stiff in a supportive way, heavy in a grounding way, and shapely button down. He doesn’t need a whole suit tonight; it’s not that kind of event. In fact, Steve wasn’t specifically invited. He heard Tony talking about the new collection by the designer of this shirt—which happens to be the label for 90% of Steve’s dressier clothing at this point—and Steve outright volunteered himself to go with Tony.

See, Steve Rogers is now a big, broad guy, and it’s been an adjustment, as well as plain difficult, to gather a wardrobe that isn’t custom tailored due to his sheer size and proportions. The team jokes about his tight shirts, but if he buys things large enough for his shoulders, his waist swims in fabric. Steve had to live off of stretchy clothing for the first three years he was out of the ice. He wasn’t out of his Cap suit long enough for the investment to be worthwhile. Then it took another several years before he discovered Tovarich.

The man must know what it’s like to be big and broad, that’s for sure. Steve may not be much for high fashion, but he’s genuinely gotten so much comfort and enjoyment out of Mr. Tovarich’s work that Steve wants to thank him personally. For once, being Captain America is a good card to play to ensure he gets to meet the designer.

Steve adjusts his rolled sleeves a bit in the mirror, smirking at himself for being a bit of a dandy concerning his look right now, but he’s determined to have a good time out with Tony. It’s just a fashion show. How difficult can it be?

Really damn difficult, that’s what it is.

Steve isn’t prepared for the bizarre press interest in who is there instead of what is being shown. He’s used to cameras flashing at him—especially because the bright and loud pops of flashes were much worse in the ‘40s—but Steve’s in awe of the models’ complete indifference while walking a straight line with a straight face in some of the simplest, most magnificent men’s wear he’s ever seen.

If all he had to do was tick boxes on a list to order things, Steve would be in big trouble with a full bingo card and an empty wallet. It’d be worth it though.

Tony tries to talk to him every so often, but the music is outrageously loud. Steve can’t hear a thing.

He gets tapped on the shoulder by some women sitting behind him, and they try to say some more things he can’t hear.

Everyone rises to clap, and Steve joins in, overwhelmed by the fast pace of all the outfits on repeat, when the man on his other side accidentally elbows Steve and drops his program. The paper flutters to land in front of Tony’s feet, so Steve picks it up, hands it back, and the man makes an appreciative face before gesturing vaguely at the runway and mouthing his admiration. Steve nods and smiles, happy he’s not the only one fanboying over clothes.

The lights change in the venue. The photography and clapping stop. Tony starts yammering on about an after party, but Steve wants to meet the designer.

“Oh, Cap, that walk-and-wave was as close as you’re getting today. Tovarich is a hot commodity. I’ll just get you a fitting sometime.” He clamps a hand onto Steve’s shoulder and tilts his head toward the refreshments. “Shall we?”

Darn. Steve should have done more research on how fashion shows work, but he hates how invasive online snooping feels. It was fine when he was catching up on history and historical figures. However, most of the ‘news’ now is not news at all, so he avoids searching for information that way. He doesn’t ask question about Mr. Tovarich because, in theory, it’s none of Steve’s business and Steve may or may not be slightly ashamed at how obsessed he is with something as trivial as clothing.

Fashion is not something he thought about until very, very recently. The most time he’s spent worried about what he puts on is his tac suit, and the main features of that are being blade resistant and bullet proof. Those things don’t exactly interest him so much as they are in his best interest.

So Steve is rather disappointed by the outcome of the evening, but he’ll manage. For once, he’s got a tiny bright light of something to look forward to in the form of a few more dress shirts and a very sharp vest.

He goes on with life as usual.

Months later and they’re doing this thing.

It’s called the Hellfire Gala, and apparently, it’s a big, big deal. Steve’s told everyone goes all out, that he’ll need to be dressed to the nines, and he realizes this is his opportunity.

Tony’s elated to make the arrangements for him with the Tovarich Atélier and plans to go with him. He wouldn’t stop grumbling about how awkward Steve might be, raving that he can’t have Steve getting a bad rap under his clout, so Steve shows up nervous.

Tony sends a text saying he’s running late. Of course he is, today of all days.

Steve shuts his eyes and lowers his head in gratitude that there are only two seamstresses when he first arrives. The ladies—one older and one younger—offer refreshments and ask a few questions about the event and what styles he might be interested in. He explains the getup needs to highlight the ‘Cap’ persona since the gala is a celebration of their work as Avengers, but other than that, it’s the-sky’s-the-limit for Tovarich.

The younger seamstress smiles at that and calls it ‘fun.’

Sure. That’s one word for it. Steve would also call it daunting.

As instructed, he stands on a small platform while the ladies bustle about speaking quietly to each other. Steve hears Tony ring the reception bell before any measurements have started, and he heaves out a sigh of relief.

“In time for the good stuff, am I?” Stark winks.

“Always perfectly welcome, Mr. Stark,” you, the younger woman, say politely. “Would you care for anything to drink?”

“Uh,” Tony smooths his hand down his current suit front, eyes flickering to Steve, “have you met me?”

Your smile widens. “Dominica, please,” you signal to your coworker.

Between your fingers, you’ve folded a scrap of paper, something you scribbled while Steve stood awkwardly on the pedestal (which isn’t to say he has stopped standing awkwardly), and Tony snatches the paper from your grasp, unfolding it to make a challenging, inquisitive face.

Steve huffs and glares, praying his friend doesn’t start hitting on Tovarich’s employee before the man even shows up. Steve isn’t the one to be worried about.

Stark takes Dominica’s proffered tumbler of brown liquor, saying nothing.

You are a ninja with the tape measure, gentle hands sliding over his chest and waist and—Steve swallows—his hips, all while rattling off numbers…which no one writes down. Steve moves his arms and legs when told. When you’re kneeling on the edge of the platform, eye level with his crotch, Steve decides to distract himself and get some answers.

“I’ve been looking forward to my first meeting with Mr. Tovarich. When might he arrive?”

Tony clears his throat, wincing. “Not possible, buddy.”

Steve tenses.

“I thought that—“

“You can’t meet him for the the first time.” Tony holds up a hand before Steve can move. “You already did. She’s measuring the distance between your balls and the floor.”

Steve startles out a ‘what,’ snapping his legs shut with your hand between his thighs.

“Captain Steve Rogers, please meet your favorite designer,” Tony beams, shoving his tongue against the inside of his cheek and hiking up his eyebrows.

Steve shrinks, face burning.

“Hello, Captain Rogers,” you introduce yourself with a lovely smile, “I will…need my hand to make your suit, sir.”

His open-mouthed impression of a fish is cut short by standing at attention, releasing the seal of his thighs. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“Very polite,” you mutter before turning to Tony. “Mr. Stark, was that entirely necessary?”

“For the look alone, yes. My god, I’ll pay you again just to watch now that he knows.”

You push off the platform and practically skip over to Tony, reading over his shoulder. “How did I do?”

Tony looks at the piece of paper. “Damn it. Spot on,” Tony grunts.

“And that means…?”

“That I leave you alone for the rest of the consult,” Tony whines. “Fine, but make it worth it, buddy. Lady gets paid by the hour.” He snaps his fingers playfully. “Dominica, let’s take room two, my dear.”

Steve’s not sure what to do with his hands and mistakenly remains up high on the pedestal while you pull out a notebook and sit at a small table.

“Oh!” You look up at him with tender, lively eyes. “You may step down now.”

He feet seem to thunder to the floor even against the carpet. “I didn’t mean to—I just assumed that—I’m sorry, Misses—”

“It’s Miss,” you correct him. “And don’t worry. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last. Have a seat, Captain.”

“Steve.”

“Steve,” you correct yourself this time. “I’ll tell you a secret. I prefer that most people assume a man runs this business. You get to see people’s true colors when they finally find out.”

That doesn’t help Steve’s hot flush of embarrassment.

“You are one of the good ones. I can tell,” you add, adjusting to a fresh page in the notebook and marking the top corner.

In the silence Steve asks, “so you already knew my size?”

“You aren’t so different from my standard cut.”

“No,” he allows. Of course, he should have known that seeing as everything he buys from your label fits him so well. He kicks himself internally while trying not to frown at his slip up. It is, however, easy to keep a smile while basking in the glow of yours.

You pop your shoulder up into a shrug, lips morphing into a wry tease. “And I’m pretty good at what I do.”

Amazing, Steve thinks to himself. You’re amazing…at what you do.

Your elbow rests against the table, hand cupping your jaw as you hold Steve’s gaze.

“Some even call me a master of the male form.”

His swallow is deafening, which only makes you happier, and he looks down at his knee, rubbing his pant leg while his face heats.

“But for today’s purposes—“ you lean back in your chair, twirling your pencil playfully, a magic wand in your brilliant hands “—why don’t you tell me what makes me your favorite designer so I can make you my favorite client?”

Why’d you have to be so pretty? Why do you need him for so few fittings?

Steve has to stop himself from spending a Tony Stark-sized fortune on clothing for the pleasure of walking into your store and seeing you alone—well, in the hope of seeing you at all. Dominica is very sweet, sassy in a hard ass mom kind of way, and she’s one of four total assistants you have at the shop. Steve’s met three of them.

There’s just only one of you, and you’re busy.

Between his duties with the Avengers, actually sleeping, and debating with himself about what constitutes looking desperate, Steve is lucky to have caught you in-house only half the times he visits.

And then he tore a shirt. In fact, he tore three shirts, and to his credit, two of them were by accident. The third…uh, there’s a chance that when Steve exclaimed “oh shoot, I didn’t see that nail poking out” that he 100% saw that nail and deliberately brushed himself against that wall. He also may or may not have deliberately done it in front of Tony, faking that it was no big deal, because now he has the excuse that Tony is the one who told him to go see you.

Yeah, Steve agrees, if you say so.

He’s all excitement and nerves again when he rounds the corner of your street, but then the adrenaline shoots through Steve’s veins for a different reason.

A squad car has jumped the curb in front of your shop, lights flashing, doors left open, and Steve can hear lots of tense voices.

It’s a stressful enough day without the uninvited guest. Not many people—who know how you work and are not assholes—would dare to show up within a month of the Spring Show, without an appointment, and demand a rush job.

A rush job on a custom suit that you explicitly said could not be rushed before its scheduled time, mind you, but the surprise visitor doesn’t care.

Richard Fisk is broad. He has dirty blond hair that falls in front of his eyes when he tilts his head to smile. He often travels with a whole team of other imposing men.

The son of Wilson ‘Kingpin’ Fisk, however, is a prime example of personality souring good looks. Where it’s bashful and adorable that Steve Rogers hides his smile, Richard barely bridles his menacing entitlement.

You hate him, but he’s not a person you can outright refuse. He makes all of your assistants uncomfortable. Fisk is needlessly hostile to Tarik, who is thankfully not here today; he’s a creepy dick to Abby, who you insist stays in the fitting room with Anja, your longtime client who trusts you to push the envelope tastefully for a redheaded woman in her sixties; and he almost made Jules quit because he couldn’t follow instructions during a consult. Dominica stands in as the perfect buffer when she’s here, but the eldest of the Tovarich Atélier employees is currently on the other side of the city for a VIP delivery.

Your busy, busy day just got much harder.

His trio of beefy entourage flanks Fisk at the front of your shop.

“Here for my suit, sugar,” he drawls, flicking his used toothpick into a corner on the floor.

He eyes Abby as she shuts herself and Anja away from his direct ire, and although this leaves you alone, it stops your worry for their safety in addition to your own.

“As it stipulates in the commission, we take at least—“

“Those little hands are free now, I see,” he spits, stepping within an few inches of your face. His breath is foul and hot.

The aggression has you stumbling back, smashing into a side table and knocking a box of supplies to the ground.

“How ‘bout you get to work.”

You take in a heavy, fortifying, and quiet gasp. “Per your order, the fabric is manufactured off-site because teal is not a standard color. It takes time to produce. This was made very clear when you signed.”

Fisk flashes that menacing smile. “We can wait. One of these fine men can…keep you focused till you do your job.”

The condescending tone and disrespect of your work ethic spark flames of rage in your gut. Even though terror still simmers beneath, it’s too easy to let an insult fly.

“You’re lucky I’m even making it. The all white one last summer was a stretch, but teal? On you? Not something you can pull off.”

He lunges forward again. “Keep up the cheek, and I’ll lock you in my basement until I get everything I—“

“Ma’am,” a cop bursts through the shop door, “we got a call…” The officer goes quiet after one look at Fisk.

Abby must have phoned after hearing you knock supplies down, and you’re grateful, yes, but police are of little help with this guy. Cops wouldn’t dare ruffle Kingpin’s feathers or his awful son’s by proxy, but if you roll over now, you’ll never get back out from under him.

The only way forward is to put your foot down.

“Mr. Fisk, I wouldn’t make you a black and white striped three-piece if you did chain me in a basement. You’re a spring, and I have standards.”

“Ma’am,” the officer warns, his partner standing nervously in the open doorway.

“What kind of professional would I be if I let you walk around looking like a mental asylum inmate? I’m doing you a favor!”

Richard brandishes another toothpick. “The customer is always right, sugar.”

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid to taunt him and yell. Being insulted and diminished doesn’t make you want to be smart though; it makes you want to be right.

Your hands ball into fists of fear and rage. “It’s my name on the label,” you bark, “and I could just refund you to get you the hell out!”

Now you’ve really done it.

The boy gangster’s face twists and his oral fixation goes limp in disbelief. No one talks to Richard Fisk that way, least of all women.

His men step between both the cops and their boss, leaving Fisk himself to grab a solid wood tie box from the nearest counter and fling it at your face.

Your arms fly up to block it, but nothing ever connects, nor is there a crash behind you.

An officer’s voice wavers from across the room. “Uh, I’m sure this can all be worked out. No need to…start anything.”

You’re ashamed to say that your hands are shaking when they return to your sides and reveal an entirely different bulky blond.

Steve Rogers casually holds the caught box in his hands, staring daggers as he shifts squarely in front of you to block Fisk.

“This doesn’t concern you, Captain,” the bully grunts. “Piss off.”

Steve strides forward to replace the box neatly and plants himself inches from Fisk’s face.

“Can’t do that. She’s expecting me.” He turns back to you. “Ready?” Steve asks with a tight smile.

You swallow down one iota of your alarm and clear your throat.

“Yes—” the word cracks but you hope familiarity will scare off Fisk for now “—thank you, Steve.”

That seems to be Captain America’s cue to handle everyone else at odds in the storefront. By the time you get control of your trembling limbs, Steve has shown Fisk the door and promised the officers that you’ll be looked after.

Abby peeks out of the fitting room, surprised to see only Steve.

“Did they send you instead?”

She opens the door wider for Anja to see.

The redhead quirks an eyebrow. “Call the police more often, honey. They’ve upped their game.”

The now bashful, broad blond tilts his head, rogue hair falling across his face. His blue eyes sparkle beneath long lashes while he apologizes for lying, but you can’t for the life of you figure out why he’d feel guilty.

“I…” Steve stumbles. “I don’t have an appointment. I just wanted to see you.”

Currently estimating four parts to this grumbling into the ether but who knows. I clearly cannot be trusted to estimate length anymore...

[Next Part]

You can find more to read on my Main Masterlist! For readers under 18, please see the Light Masterlist which contains all-age-friendly works.

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @femefetalelevelingup @darsynia

[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

[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.

[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!)

[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?

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

AGH FASHION DESIGNER SUGURU AND MODEL SATORU W A NEW INTERN DESIGNER UNDER THEIR WING 😞😞☹️ - 🌺

WAHHHH I LOVE THIS 🥺🥺🥺 the pining and flirting and slowburn of it all… model!satoru and his favorite designer suguru geto, both of them undeniably skilled and born with an eye for fashion….. well-known and adored……..

designer!suguru who gets tasked with showing you the ropes, who’s always so patient and kind despite your inexperience. diligent with his teaching but also so laidback, so easy to talk to… he looks intimidating, but he’s so polite that you can’t help but swoon a little. and he admires your enthusiasm so much…… grows fond of you soooo quickly bc you’re just such a breath of fresh air compared to the divas he’s forced to work with all the time. he thinks you’ve got real potential and he wants to nurture it.

and ofc you end up running into model!satoru eventually…. bc he’s always hanging around suguru whenever he gets the chance. and he’s maybe a little jealous that you’re hogging so much of his personal designer’s attention, but… he also thinks you’re so cute . T_T like a little puppy following suguru around… so excited to be apart of what you’ve dreamed of for so many years……… he looks into your eyes and sees the same sparkle he had before he made it big, and it makes his heart race.

yeah . i’m just thinking abt the peaceful coffee breaks with suguru….. how he’d insist on paying for your drink, ”since he’s your senior” (he wants to be your favorite </3)…… and how he’d just be so protective over his little intern. don’t get me started on the close proximity with satoru when you’re taking his measurements, the glance and smile he sends your way during an impromptu shoot… the way he always calls for you with a sweet coo of ”how’s my favorite intern doing today?”

😔😔😔 yeahhhhhh. they make me feel ill.

[starrspice]

Take this silly Idea I had

Sun and Moon are famous fashion designers and are known to be rather high maintenance and demanding.

Meanwhile Y/N is forced to take a position as their personal assistant (if they don't stick with the internship they don't graduate)

They run Y/N ragged and drive them crazy with their outrageous demands.

[manal-ghorab99]

My forgotten children🙍 go into the unknown⁉️

Please do not skip the video.

Don't leave my children to the unknown.

📝Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #184 ) and the butterfly project (#1117).

donate here 🎁

@omegaversereloaded @noble-kale @paparoach @butterflyfritillary @galactic-mermaid @neptunerings @heydreamchild @myceliacrochet @buttercuparry @girlinafairytale @jezior0 @nabulsi27 @aflamethatneverdies @meshitsukai @gatorinanicesuit @saesyndrome @yakourinka @theyaoiconnoisseur @shineypebble @meatcute @operationladybug @saintverse @septiphadrean @imjustheretotrytohelp @stupidpop @pathogenic @fuyunoakegata @gakupo7 @fearfylsymmetry @clamorybus @rhubarbspring @eremes @marsmartens @eelthekruppe @volfoss @femmefitz @seekerofthesightlessway @somewhatlargerobot @miluciole @iamabrokentooth @unwinni3 @earthyumgiggles @rosawo7 @jaylung101 @palhelp @tiredguyswag @innovatorbunny @heliopixels

[ssongsboo]

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─────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────

⟢ 부드럽고 달콤한 숨결이 .ᐟ

the room smelled faintly of leather and fresh fabric, the soft glow of the overhead light catching on spools of thread and scattered sketches. jay sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his fingers flying over a sketchpad as he designed with single-minded focus. you stood nearby, feeling out of place but oddly flattered by his insistence that you had to be the one to help him finish this piece.

“alright,” he finally said, spinning his chair toward you with a small smirk. “come here. let’s see if this works.”

you hesitated before stepping closer, and jay’s eyes swept over you critically- not unkindly, but intensely, like you were something precious he needed to perfect. he held up a pastel pink fabric, the sheen of it catching the light, and then reached for you, draping it across your shoulders. his fingers brushed your skin as he adjusted the fabric, and the simple touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“hold still.” he murmured, standing to his full height. you could feel his breath ghosting over your ear as he moved around you, pinning the fabric in place. “this color looks so pretty on you. i knew it would.”

his tone was casual, but the way his fingers lingered at your collarbone betrayed him. you swallowed hard, heat blooming in your chest as he stepped back, tilting his head to survey his work.

“it’s…good,” you managed, your voice quieter than you intended.

jay chuckled, low and deep, his dark eyes meeting yours. “good? it’s perfect.” he reached out again, this time brushing your hair aside to get a better look at your neck. “but something’s missing.”

his fingers slid over the fabric, smoothing it down your shoulder, and you couldn’t help the sharp inhale that escaped. jay paused, his lips twitching into a sly grin. “am i making you nervous?”

“no….” you stammered, but the way your body betrayed you was impossible to hide.

“hmm.” he moved closer, his voice dropping an octave. “you’re not a very good liar.”

your heart raced as he leaned in, his hands still on your shoulders, the fabric forgotten. “jay,” you started, but his name came out shaky, a plea rather than a protest.

he tilted his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “you’ve been staring at me all night. did you think i wouldn’t notice?”

you opened your mouth to deny it, but his fingers trailed down your arms, leaving a burning trail in their wake. “i wasn’t-”

“don’t.” he interrupted, turning you to face him fully. his eyes were dark, full of something you couldn’t name, and when his hands settled firmly on your waist, you stopped breathing altogether.

“i’ve been trying to focus, but you’re making it impossible.” he purred, his voice husky and thick with something more than frustration. “do you even know what you do to me?”

the tension snapped like a thread pulled too tight, and before you could think, jay closed the distance, his lips crashing into yours. the kiss was desperate, messy, his hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

you melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as the fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled onto the floor. whatever he’d been working on no longer mattered- at least not tonight.

[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

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[hoaneybee]

Sunday Honkai Star Rail Fanart <3

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (2)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Two: Strain Curve (see previous or series)

IMPORTANT: I forgot to mention and link that this started with an anon ask, so I should give them credit for the idea. Here's where this all started! Additionally, Richard Fisk is an actual Marvel character and the son of Kingpin. All that is straight out of the comics (and animated shows), down to the horrible color choices.

Summary: Steve shelters you from Fisk while attempting to hide the truth from Tony. He's not a great liar...but how much of this is really fake?

Warnings for fluffy fluff of the 21st-fluffery with a teeny bit of angst, 100% idiots in love! Also a quick disclaimer about me knowing exactly diddlysquat about fashion design. I binged 'Next In Fashion' and so this is the best I got lol... WC 4066

You watch Steve blush at your attempted smile. He paws at the back of his head before gathering another confession.

“Actually, I do have—I mean, yes, I wanted to see you, but uh—“ he rushes over to fetch a paper bag he must have stashed as he snuck in behind the cops “—I did have a reason to come.”

In the bag, you find three shirts, and your smile turns more genuine.

“Of course, you did. How romantic.”

You’re still awash with adrenaline; there’s no filter to keep your teasing at bay. You can barely pick up that you said anything anyway.

Steve shrugs, looking down to take back the shirts as Abby returns with a glass of water for you. “Not my best move.”

You chug the water, loudly, unable to regulate how desperately you need it. Abby gently pries Steve’s shirts from his tense arms.

“Right.” Steve rolls his shoulders out, straightening and clearly falling into Captain mode. “We need to get you somewhere safe. I just have to make a few calls and—“

“Don’t tell Stark,” you blurt, hand instinctively grabbing the wrist that holds his phone ready. “I’m sorry. That sounded like an order, just…please don’t tell Mr. Stark.” Tony can’t know that Fisk has been using you as a tailor as well. He can’t. 

Alarm and curiosity flicker behind Steve’s blue eyes, but he hides it well immediately. “Ok. I’ll—” he makes no move to take his arm back “—think of something.”

“And I have three clients left…for the day.”

Abby tsks you from behind though it’s the truth. The empty glass rattles on the tabletop with your faint tremor.

Steve thinks for a prolonged, squinting moment. “After work then. I’ll pick you up.”

You run off adrenaline and butterflies the rest of the day, and yes, whatever liquids or snacks Abby and Dominica (when she returns from her errand) put into your hand along the way, but mostly it’s the fluttering anticipation of Steve that floats you through.

And then he’s back and it’s already dark outside.

“Oh shit,” you burst, politely showing Mr. Chen out while Steve waits his turn to get in the door. He says nothing, but Captain America lowers his head in disapproval at your curse. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. Let me grab some things.”

You race up the stairs to the apartment over the shop. Your clientele and brand used to be small enough that you could keep those two sides of life separate, but slowly, your work has crept into your living space. Now you survive from a dresser, a hanging rack, and a Murphy bed that doubles as a small desk when it’s upright against the wall.

Not much of an existence, but it’s very practical.

You’re shuffling around with an overnight bag and a dump tote to grab mostly work things and two changes of clothes. One of your assistants can bring you more stuff if/when necessary, but it feels presumptive to think you’ll live out of a safe house for long.

“So…working to live or living to work?”

You jump at Steve’s deep voice from the open doorway. He looks around at the hodgepodge of work benches and mannequins lining the walls.

“It’s a fluid and evolving situation,” you admit, sweeping several binders of fabric swatches and sketch pads into the tote. You eye a work-in-progress on one of the dummies and decide against trying to take it. Too bulky.

In order not to keep Steve waiting, you hand over the tote and head to the car, texting Abby and Dominica instructions the whole drive. Steve assures you that you’ll still have wifi and freedom to communicate, so you don’t have to clear fittings and consults off the books. It simply won’t be wise to invite welcome clients into where you’re staying.

Admittedly, that’s very generous considering you could have been looking at a blackout, witness-protection level of hiding.

You’re still on your phone when Steve opens your car door, and you shuffle with your duffel, his feet at the edge of your periphery to follow. It doesn’t register that you walk down a long hall. It doesn’t register that there’s an elevator ride and another voice. It doesn’t register that you’re looking at a kind of hostel-esque apartment inside another building until you ask if there’s a space you’ll be able to spread out for work.

Steve glows with pride that he thought of that and walks you to a conference room…surrounded by glass…overlooking a 30-story high view of the city.

You’re in the Avengers Tower, formerly Stark Tower.

“Wait, he’s not supposed to know.”

Steve gets your confusion right away. “Tony doesn’t, but without filing paperwork stating the reason you need a safe house, this was the best—“

“Sheers!” the booming voice of one Tony Stark reverberates across 360 degrees of windows. “I thought it might be you.”

“Might be me for what?” you ask as innocently as possible.

“As Capsicles’ first, of course.”

Steve hangs his head while his pal claps him on the back.

“First use of his guest pass that is. Granted, I’ve been saying for years we need an in-house tailor, but no takers…” Stark fake-punches Steve’s shoulder. “Way to break the ice, buddy. I’m proud of you. What happened? You noticed you’re both workaholics and needed your girl…closer to get closer, did you? Good call.”

Steve shoots wary eyes your way, silently praying you ignore that remark or maybe checking you’re okay with the implication. The way Stark says ‘your girl’ as if he’s heard it several times before though…

“Something like that,” you shrug. 

“At least he finally asked you. I kept telling him to shit or get off the pot.”

“Language,” you hiss quietly.

The men look a little shocked for a split second before slowly turning to each other, a silent conversation passed in the empty space over your head. Whatever just happened seems to have really convinced Tony because a wry smile flickers beneath his sinking, pale sunglasses. Yes, of course, Tony Stark is wearing sunglasses at night, just as, of course, Captain America is willingly deceiving Stark to be your fake boyfriend. 

“Romeo,” the building’s namesake coos. “Training them young, I see.”

Steve’s jaw and neck tighten, a raging flush creeping up his pale skin, but he doesn’t argue. Stark buys the ploy, which is great, but in reality, Steve doesn’t even have your personal number.

Tony lifts his hands in surrender and starts retreating to the door. “Look, I hate to take credit—“

“No, you don’t.”

Incredulous, sagging eyebrows dip below his frames. “—but I am very, very good.” He points a finger back and forth between you and Steve. “You’re welcome.”

He tries to peek under a pile of sketches atop your work tote, and you rush to slap your hand down. Stark might see the other designs you’re working on, and just like he can’t know about Fisk, he can’t know about those.

“Fine.” Tony puts his hands up again. “I’m going.”

Steve steps to your side, apology loud in his eyes, and asks if he can make you tea or something stronger, ya know, because Tony has that effect on people.

“Yeah—“ you stare off toward the elevators where Stark remains lurking “—he’s still there,” you whisper.

Steve huffs a laugh and shifts to bridge the mere inches left between you, his hand gently landing on your upper arm and planting a kiss on your forehead like a breeze.

“Better make it look good then.”

Turns out you need tea and food.

You’d been so reliant on your assistants for nourishment that you forgot dinner. Steve sees; he has it covered. Instead of winding down after a trying day, however, you get a rush of energy, and you can’t squander the chance to make crucial adjustments. Every minute counts in the lead-up to Fashion Week.

“May I join you?” Steve asks, ready to walk away with his meal in hand should you prefer. “I won’t take up much space.” He looks down at his shoes and up the two inches above his head to the top of the doorframe. “Ok, much more space,” he corrects.

“You wanted to leave me alone?”

He bites back a smile and shakes his head, settling into the least cluttered corner.

He chats excitedly as you both eat, but after failing to pry some answers about Fisk from you,—‘are you often threatened by clients?’ and ‘can you steer him in another designer’s direction?’—Steve slips away to grab his own art supplies.

You’ve barely looked up until you get a surge of inspiration and search for your colored pencils under the pile of templates. How did they get all the way over there? Since when are red and grey so worn down? Weren’t you needing to replace both blues soon?

“Those in your way? I can move them?”

Steve stops sketching, holding a yellow pencil, the only color missing from the tin. That’s when you realize. He uses the same brand of pencils you do—tools made of quality materials but nothing overly fancy.

“No need,” you marvel. “I just mistook them for my own.”

Steve sweeps a large hand out in offering. “Mistake away.”

You can’t help it. You chew your lip to calm your grin. He’s simply a very giving man who enjoys simple things. It’s refreshing.

“Or we could trade? We seem to use the opposite colors the most.”

“Right,” Steve laughs, “I went on a tear trying for Sam’s suit in-flight. Never turned out.” Shaking his head dislodges a lock of hair, so he runs his fingers through the strategic coif.

“Hmm,” you hum absently, engrossed by his picturesque appearance, “my drawings are more like guidelines for my imagination. No need to be precise.”

“A sentiment I’ve heard many times before.” He slides the tin closer to the midway point between you. “I just want to do beauty justice, which sounds pretentious but…

“Point is—“ Steve lifts his gaze to you with a soft shrug “—use whatever you like.”

You thought your work habits were grueling, but poor Steve flits around at all hours of the day and night with workouts, training, meetings, and missions. He mostly gets to do drive-by waves of ‘hello’ as he travels the building past your glass bubble, always with a smile, always with a tinge of something else. He’s an easy man to read: you can tell when he’s fatigued (in spirit though, not body), you can tell when he’s irritated from stress, and you can tell when he wants to linger but has to go.

It’s incredibly cute. Steve Rogers is just so damn cute.

You continue with business as usual as best you can, video calling during consults and the most critical fittings. Clients aren’t exactly happy with your absence, but they don’t dare complain when the alternative is waiting another month for you to schedule in person. Besides, there are oftentimes you step away from routine appointments to focus on creating new lines.

Dominica is allowed to walk right in with any of your requested supplies since she’s delivered to Stark several times before. She stays for a few hours to touch base. She assures you that Tarik is no longer unnerved by the police car that sits at the curb outside the atélier’s front door. Apparently, Abby takes the cops coffee a couple times a day.

All in all, it’s going well.

One day, you think Steve is showing up for one of your ‘sketch sessions’—where he sits in his own chair somewhere around the huge oval table and quietly works alongside you—but not today.

“They…it’s…” Steve plants his feet on the carpet across from you and looks behind him nervously. Anytime other people are near the room, he walks right over to you to kiss your cheek, a show to keep up the appearance of actually being a couple, but it’s late enough that no one is around. “We do movie night—we’re doing movie ni—we’re watching a movie if you’d like to join?”

You’re tempted to tease him, ask ‘where’s my kiss’ or something that makes that fiery blush creep up Steve’s face, but you grin back. “Sure. I could use the break.”

Honestly, no, you should be hammering out some details for the lapels of this blazer, but ehh, you’re also tired of staring at the same damn jacket.

Of course, this means the lot of them save you and Steve seats beside each other on a couch. You two have only ever sat in chairs in front of or separated by a table, so figuring out how to curl up next to the man you are not dating is an adventure in micro-expressions. You share a look that lasts about two seconds but contains a forty-five-minute discussion of how far is okay to take this and agree that you want to keep up the charade.

Thus, Steve lifts his arm to drape across your shoulders, and you lean into his chest.

It’s a good fit, good enough that you wake up two hours later not knowing what the movie was about and starting to sweat from being so close to his very warm body.

Maybe it’s the eye convo or maybe napping directly on him tells Steve how comfortable you are with him, but either way, he changes to giving a kiss on the cheek or forehead every instance he sees you, no exceptions.

After a week of remaining on the same floor of the same skyscraper and doing nothing but working, sleeping, and movie-sleeping, you’re at your wit’s end, longingly staring out the window at the city below.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asks as he enters the conference room. Forehead kiss this time. His lips feel soft and warm as they ghost over your skin.

“Stuck,” you mutter.

His hand smooths across your back. “Well, how do you normally get unstuck?”

“I go for a walk through the park.” You know you can’t go outside, but it’s difficult to wrangle every bit of bitterness at your captivity. You appreciate all Steve is doing to make it so Fisk can’t get to you, but you need fresh air.

Steve sighs like he’s mad at himself before spinning around the room. “Right.” He grabs your hand. “Come with me.”

In the elevator, Steve explains that in keeping with the eco-friendly intent of the new clean energy tower, Tony made half of the rooftop a greenhouse and the other half a garden. The walking paths are all moss-covered, but there are no benches. Just outside the elevator doors are folding chairs, and Steve grabs two.

On separate chairs with no table in sight, you two watch the sunset on the other side of the building from your work room. You take in a big breath of the chilly air and shiver, completely content to experience freedom away from climate control, but Steve rushes back into the greenhouse to retrieve a blanket from the stack beside the chairs.

“Here ya go,” he stumbles, leaning to tuck the fabric around you. “I should have brought us tea or something,” but when he makes to leave this time, you take his hand.

“You’ll miss it.” He’s probably seen the view from here a million times before, but you don’t want him to go. “Stay,” you say in a whisper.

Steve visibly softens, shoulders dropping, eyes alight. “Yeah?” He sits again and looks at the nearly cloudless sky. “Yeah.” He slouches to get comfy in the small and unsupportive chair, but he looks so at home bathed in the warm pink light. “Each time’s a bit different but—“ he turns to you, smiling “—this one’s better.”

Since the sunset sit-down, Steve makes a point to pry you away from the work area when he has time to hang out with you. The couch isn’t actually far away from the conference room, but it does mean you get to sit together, your feet in his lap while he reads a book, listening to his commentary on the author’s points or sketching aimlessly for fun.

The whole thing feels like a bizarre vacation, some alternate reality where your home life intersects with superheroes. Tony Stark may have been a sometimes-client, but he never let you attempt anything more custom than a three-piece suit. 

You’re not complaining; it’s just weird that Captain America is so average when his uniform comes off. He sinks his face into his palm when he’s sleepy. His yawn is outrageously adorable for how big the man is. He absently holds your ankles steady in his lap when he shifts on the cushions. His eyelids droop, and he repeats paragraphs when he can no longer keep his place on the page.

Steve Rogers could not be more normal, and for this reason, you find him extraordinary.

He gets dressed every morning while you’re there, no sweatpants, no workout wear—or, what did Sam call it? Athleisure? That’s not a word, right?—except for when Steve is actively working out. He thinks it’s too on-the-nose to wear your designs in front of you for days on end, but that limits his options significantly, considering how much of his wardrobe sports a Tovarich label. Good jeans and a black sweater will have to do because today he’s playing model.

It seems the mannequin Dominica hauled in for you isn’t close to the right proportions for your client so Steve volunteered, rewarded immediately with a gorgeous, toothy smile that made his heart thump against his ribcage.

Steve’s chatty but can’t help it.

There was one conversation a few days ago that unlocked so many memories he thought he’d lost.

While he peeked at a few of your sketches, you asked him about clothing in the 40s, and he took your notepad to doodle a bit. Steve drew a common dress from memory to show you girls he grew up with, the pleats and cinches in their exact spots because—now that he has your full and rapt attention—he thinks it’s important.

He’s had to recall maps, battle maneuvers, building layouts, and evil plans more times than he can count; no one’s ever asked him how his mother styled her hair or which shoes she wore to work at the hospital.

They’re just shoes, but Steve sat misty-eyed describing how Ma tied her laces a very specific way, the way she taught him to, the way he still ties them to this very day. He hadn’t thought of why in so long, and ever since, little details keep flooding back.

“Buck used to never tuck in his shirts,” Steve laughs as you nudge his arms higher to check his range of motion in the shoulders. “He’d fix the front half and leave a tail out in the back.”

You chuckle at that. “Unacceptable for proper ol’ Stevie,” you muse.

“No, it was not—“ he drops his head in shame “—and I’d remind him every time.” Steve spins, prompted by the pull of your hands at his waist. His face is on fire, but he promised to help you. He just has to ’suffer’ through your touch, he supposes.

How horrible…

“Sharp dresser, were you? Not a hair out of place?”

“Yes, ma’am, or…at least for my size I was.”

You’re deep in thought, pulling the bottom hem to check how it lays at his hips, checking the lining before buttoning him up. “These might be too flashy,” you mumble. “Gosh, I hope he likes this color.”

“Why not? It’s stunning,” Steve jumps too eagerly at the chance to praise the barely purple fabric. It’s that kind of illusion hue that might look black, navy, or its true shade in different lights.

“And the buttons?” you prod.

He tilts one of the stamped, dark nickel rounds to see the embellishment. “I’d consider that a signature touch of the Tovarich brand,” he beams.

Your elation is contagious until an ear-splitting alarm sounds overhead. You’re so startled you spring backward into a rolling chair and topple to the floor.

Steve scrambles to help you right yourself while the wailing screech continues, but he knows that noise.

Emergency.

He has to go.

You’re holding your elbow, flashing him a thumbs up, and Steve feels terrible yelling to ensure you’re okay.

Agents race past the glass walls, and he really has to run so off he goes, jacket still on.

An incredibly long seventeen hours later, Steve is returning to his room only to notice you’ve fallen asleep at the conference table. He’s pleased there is no bandage on your elbow, so the fall was no worse than bruising, but he refuses to leave you there.

Slowly peeling your face and hands from your drafting paper, Steve wrestles your flopping arms and limp legs into a solid hold to carry you to your own room.

You don’t wake up, not fully, only enough to grip the shoulder strap of his shield harness as he gently lowers you onto the unmade bed. Luckily, your MO is to kick off your shoes when concentrating on work, so once you release the leather attached to him, he pulls the covers over you.

He kisses your temple. “Night, Button,” he whispers like a secret, and for now, it is.

You simply sigh and turn deeper into the pillow.

Steve purposefully finds you at breakfast to ask if you’d want to get lunch with him. Yes, it would just be in the cafeteria on the lower levels, and yes, you two have already shared many meals, but in his mind, this is the actual ask, the question of ‘will you go out with me’ instead of just ‘are you hungry at this reasonable time and may I be hungry in your vicinity.’

It’s stupid, he knows. He’s anxious for your answer anyway.

Steve has a very love/hate relationship with having you essentially trapped in the Tower. On the one hand, you’re starved for interaction and the choice of your surroundings. On the other hand, he gets you all to himself. He’s ashamed of how much he enjoys that perk. Somewhere deep inside, he hopes whatever Fisk is after is never resolved, but that’s wishful—and terribly selfish—thinking.

Just in case going on a deliberate date with him isn’t offer enough, Steve can return your client’s jacket. He hung it in his locker when changing into the tactical suit. It’s safe, but he’ll get it after his debrief. That’s a good excuse. That’ll work.

You’re happy and excited, only making him more nervous, but it’s progress. He’s done ‘round noon after the long meeting scheduled to start in, yikes, fifteen minutes, and you quickly agree. Steve floats on cloud nine, bouncing his foot until dismissed so he can rush back up to you.

He isn’t expecting to see Tony in your bubble.

“You don’t know me, Stark. How dare you!” Your face twists in fury. “Screw this,” you shout, frantic in grabbing your essentials from the table. “I don’t answer to you. I don't need this. Someone else will get my things.”

Steve doesn’t understand why you won’t meet his eye or speak to him as you barrel past. He’s too stunned to follow you to the elevator, it feels imposing to race down and corner you in the lobby, but he marches up to Tony with wide eyes.

“What the hell happened?”

Tony waves him off, cagy and dismissive, rushing off upstairs to his lab, and Steve almost asks if this is about Fisk. If it’s not and he blabs, then you’ll definitely be angry at him. If he grills Tony too much, there might be something that gives away that Steve lied about having a significant other as his guest for two weeks. If Steve admits that he doesn’t even have your number, the jig is 100% up.

But he knows you have his number, he knows he still has a jacket you’ll want back, and he knows one thing he’s incredibly good at.

So Steve waits, ready to apologize, ready to grovel, ready to yell at Tony for whatever. He is just ready and waiting.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @darsynia

[Next Part]

[Light Masterlist; Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[hearts4golbach]

Get the Angles Right!

chapter 3.

pairing:

Johnnie Guilbert x Fem!Reader.

warnings:

none

"Well, good morning, Johnnie." You locked your apartment door. "How was the meeting?"

"long and really fucking boring, obviously." he smiled at you. "How'd you sleep?"

you pressed the button on the elevator. "I couldn't. my mind was flooded with ideas for you. it was crazy. I filled up a third of my notebook."

"I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing." Johnnie laughed.

"I think it's good. who need sleep, anyway?" You smirked, shooting him a wink before stepping out of the elevator. "The first place I wanna show you is right up the street."

"Okay," he hummed as he walked next to you. "Despite all of the nasty shit, New York is really pretty."

"Yeah," you agreed. "I like the aesthetic of it all. it makes me feel more professional, like I'm in a movie. it's good motivation, sometimes."

"I'll have to come back and visit again."

in all honesty, you had forgotten he didn't live here in the first place. your heart ached. you looked away from him as you recollected yourself. "Yeah, you should." You shot him a fake smile and turned your head back towards the path.

you paused before speaking again. "My dream is to open my own store, some day." You looked at the vacant building across the street. "I mean, I'd make less singled out designs. some shit that anyone can walk in and buy, you know?"

he followed your gaze to the building across the street. "What would you name it?"

"probably something a lot cooler than L/n Designs, but you know. I may be creative with fabrics, but not with names." You sighed and laughed at yourself. "Maybe my boring name is why my clothes don't catch people's attention."

he shrugged. "I mean, I don't know jack shit about fashion or the fashion industry, but I'm sure it just takes time like everything else."

"You're right. It does." You took a step closer to him. "You're pretty fashionable for someone who apparently knows nothing about it."

"I kind of just throw together whatever is in my closet." he laughed. "I've been dressing like this since middle school, y/n."

"Me too! I mean, whenever I go out I'm dressed up but 90% of the clothes I wear are pajamas." You pointed towards the shop coming up. "This is it."

"Wait, what even is it? you never told me where we're going." Johnnie squinted in an attempt to read the sign.

"Wow, you put a lot of trust into me. it's a record store. not one of those big corporate shits that only sell today's top pop record vinyls, but you'll see." You cut yourself off, not wanting to spoil it.

he opened the door for you. you thanked him and walked in. "The quote unquote emo section is my favorite. whenever I actually want to buy a record, I always find one of my favorite albums. I'm not sure if everything in this section is actually emo, but, yeah."

you flicked through the selection, finding the 'Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge' album that comes with a red record.

"Oh, shit." Johnnie mumbled as you pulled it out of the selection.

"i know! I'd blast this shit whenever I was younger. to be fair, I still do." you laughed. "I'll have to come back and snag this one in my free time. I don't want to carry it around all day."

Johnnie began looking through the next part of that section. "damn, I really fucking underestimated this place." he pulled out the album 'Pretty. Odd.' by Panic! at the Disco. it was just a normal, black record.

"I love panic! I've never seen pretty odd here before." he handed it to you, and you flipped it towards the back.

he looked at you with a soft smile. he admired your excited facial expression. "yeah, me too." he said softly.

you looked back at him. the eye contact lasted what felt like hours, and it was electric. you shook your head softly. "Uh, yeah. they also have shit like vintage concert posters and tee shirts. of course, they're all expensive as fuck so I've never gone out of my way to get them. they're cool to look at, though."

Johnnie followed you to the back of the store. his eyes were wide as he looked over the countless posters that were hanging on the wall, each one overlapping another. "how does someone even get all of this shit?"

"I don't know, donations or people sell them, I guess." you shrugged.

the twi of you walked around towards the alternative pop section. you and Johnnie reached at the same time. your hand fell on top of his. you hesitated before pulling it away. "God, how many times are we going to do that?" You joked.

he shrugged, his face red. "it's whatever, I don't really mind."

you tried to hide your smile. "Me, either." You flipped through the first few. "Look, melanie martinez. do you know her?" You asked, handing him the 'Cry Baby' album with a baby pink and blue record.

"I've heard of her, yeah. I've never really listened to her, though." he looked at the back. "these song names are sick as fuck, though."

"you should check her out," you mention, putting the record back in its place.

you two left the store. "There's this small cafe across the street. if you're interested, we can stop and get coffee or something. it's on me this time, by the way."

"Yeah, let's go." he smiled

you pressed the button for the crosswalk. the light changed, signaling you to go. you began to step forward before Johnnie grabbed your arm and pulled you back. you watched in shock as a car whipped past you.

"fuck, don't scare me like that, y/n. i can't have you getting hit by a car right in fucking front of me." his hand stayed rested on your arm.

you turned around to look at him. "im sorry. maybe I should pay more attention." You laughed nervously.

"Don't worry about it, just glad you're okay." his hand slid down your arm and gripped your hand. he shook it gently before dropping it.

you carefully crossed the street with Johnnie glued to your side.

whenever you reached the cafe, he held the door open for you. "Thank you. apparently, this place is family owned and shit. it's really good, I go here all the time. I usually get a mocha frappuccino and a croissant. what do you want?"

he walked up to stand beside you and scanned over the menu. "Hot chocolate?"

you hummed, "I've never had it here before. Do you want a croissant, too?"

he nodded. "Yeah, sure."

you instructed him to go pick a seat, and you would order. he walked off, and you walked up to the counter.

"Hi! what can I get started for you?" The woman had a cheerful smile. she was older, probably in her late 50s.

"Can I get two croissants, a hot chocolate, and a mocha frap? both medium, please." You smiled back as you pulled out your card.

"Yes, ma'am. your total is on the screen, swipe whenever you're ready."

you paid the bill. she took your name for the order, and you went back to sit with Johnnie.

"everyone seems really fucking nice here." he mentioned. he looked away from the window to make eye contact with you.

you shrugged. "more or less. it depends where you go. that's why I have my signature spots." You smiled and sat at the seat across from him. "Is everyone a dick in LA or something?"

he shrugged. "People don't really interact with each other, to be honest. but not everyone is like that. it just feels like it's rare to find someone who is actually nice."

"Maybe you're just looking at it the wrong way. everyone is nice in their own way of showing it, or at least that's what my mother used to tell me." you explained. "I always try to see the good in people."

his bright blue eyes were excentuated by the sun. "that's actually a really fucking good way to look at it. damn, I never thought about that."

you shrugged. the woman called your name, and you went to go grab your order. it was on a small tray, which made it easier to carry everything.

you passed Johnnie his hot chocolate and croissant, then took your own. he took a sip of his hot chocolate. the taste made him raise his eyebrows. "this is actually really good. wanna try?"

"yeah, wanna try mine?"

you traded drink and took a sip of eachothers. the hot chocolate was really good.