#polyester curtains

[justthatspiffy]

i saw this post yesterday about the structure of medieval gowns and it's rad and i love to know that, but it felt like the premise of the post was 'so now you know how to construct your princess dresses'

and i simply. do they know we are living not in a mini ice age? we are actually living in the opposite of that? also to afford yards upon yards of quality fabric was and still is a great show of wealth or at least disposable income?

[jessiarts]

POLY FUCKING ESTER!!!

[jamesnick1]

Buy Broadcloth Pillow

You’ve come to the right place to Buy Broadcloth Pillow. This one's for all the home decor aficionados: each pillow is incredibly soft to the touch and comes in 5 different sizes with removable fill material. Broadcloth is a soft, lightweight fabric made of cotton and wool that is both beautiful and versatile. For more info visit our website.

[qiansifangsuzhougroup]

Pure Polyester luxury dope dye IFR jacquard curtain fabric

[brightgreendandelions]

i'm looking over curtains on ikea, and is it normal for all of them to be made from plastic?? like what if i order them, and instead get something crumbly like a shower curtain...

[tesmare]

TRANSFORM YOUR HOME DECOR WITH CUSHION COVERS AND CURTAINS

These are just a few ways you can use cushion covers and curtains to transform the look and feel of your home decor. With a little creativity and experimentation, you can create a stylish and inviting space that reflects your personal taste and style.

Add a pop of color: Use cushion covers and curtains in bold, bright hues to add a splash of color to a neutral room.

Create a focal point: Use cushion covers and curtains featuring an eye-catching print or pattern to draw attention to a specific area of a room.

Layer textures: Mix and match different textures, such as cotton, silk, and velvet, to add depth and interest to a room.

Incorporate patterns: Use patterned cushion covers and curtains to add visual interest and character to a room. Mix and match different patterns for a unique and eclectic look.

Create a cohesive look: Coordinate the colors of your cushion covers and curtains to create a cohesive color scheme that ties the room together.

Introduction: The Magic of Cushion Covers and Curtains in Home Decor.

Cushion covers and curtains may seem like small details, but they can have a big impact on the overall look and feel of a room. These simple home decor items can be used to add color, texture, and pattern to a space, creating a cohesive and stylish look. Whether you're looking to add a pop of color to a neutral room or create a focal point with an eye-catching pattern, cushion covers and curtains are a versatile and affordable way to transform your home decor. In this blog post, we'll explore the magic of cushion covers and curtains and show you how to use them to add style and personality to your home. So, Cushion covers and curtains are a simple and affordable way to give your home a fresh new look and make it feel like a brand new space.

How to Choose the Right Cushion Covers & Curtains for Your Home Design Style.

When it comes to choosing cushion covers and curtains for your home, it's important to consider your personal design style and the overall aesthetic of the room. Here are a few tips to help you select the right cushion covers and curtains for your home:

Consider your design style: Do you prefer a traditional, modern, or bohemian aesthetic? Your design style should be reflected in the colors, patterns, and textures of your cushion covers and curtains.

Think about the room's purpose: Consider the purpose of the room and the mood you want to create. For example, a bedroom should have a relaxing and soothing atmosphere, while a living room should be warm and inviting.

Coordinate with existing decor: Consider the colors and patterns of your existing decor when choosing cushion covers and curtains. This will help create a cohesive look throughout the room.

Play with patterns: Mix and match different patterns, like geometric and floral, to add visual interest and character to a room.

Layer textures: Incorporate different textures, like cotton, silk, and velvet, to add depth and dimension to a room.

Don't be afraid to experiment: Don't be afraid to experiment with different colors, patterns, and textures. You can always change your cushion covers and curtains if you don't like the final look.

Ultimately, the key to choosing the right cushion covers and curtains for your home is to have fun and let your personal style shine through. With a little creativity and experimentation, you can create a space that reflects your unique taste and personality.

Tips to Maximize Comfort & Aesthetics with Cushion Covers and Curtains

Use cushion covers and curtains to control light and temperature: Cushion covers and curtains can help to control the amount of natural light that enters a room, creating a comfortable and inviting atmosphere. Heavy drapes and curtains can be used to block out sunlight and keep a room cool during the summer, while sheer or light-colored curtains can be used to let in natural light and create a bright and airy space.

Incorporate patterns and colors that promote relaxation: Certain patterns and colors can have a calming effect on the mind and body. For example, blue, green, and purple hues are known to be soothing, while geometric patterns can be energizing. Consider incorporating these colors and patterns into your cushion covers and curtains to create a relaxing and comfortable atmosphere.

Mix and match cushion covers and curtains to create visual interest: Mixing and matching different patterns, colors, and textures in your cushion covers and curtains can add visual interest and character to a room. This can create a sense of warmth and cosines, making the space more inviting and comfortable.

Remember that comfort is not only physical, but also mental, the right cushion covers, and curtains can change the way a room feels, and make it more inviting, cosy and relaxing. Experiment with different colors, patterns and textures to create a space that you will enjoy spending time in.

Best Ideas for Creative Decoration Using Cushion Covers and Curtains

Create a statement wall: Use cushion covers and curtains featuring a bold and colorful print or pattern to create a statement wall. This can be a great way to add visual interest and character to a room and can be a focal point for the space.

Mix and match patterns: Mix and match different patterns in cushion covers and curtains to create a unique and eclectic look. This can add visual interest and character to a room and can be a great way to incorporate different colors and textures.

Add texture: Use cushion covers and curtains in different textures, like cotton, silk, and velvet, to add depth and interest to a room. This can create a warm and inviting atmosphere, and can be a great way to add character to a space.

Create a theme: Use cushion covers and curtains to create a theme in a room. For example, use coastal-inspired patterns and colors in a beachy room, or use rustic patterns and colors in a cabin-inspired room. This can be a great way to create a cohesive and cohesive look throughout a space.

These are just a few ideas for creative decoration using cushion covers and Luxury curtains. With a little creativity and experimentation, you can use these simple home decor items to add style and personality to your home and create a space that reflects your unique taste and style.

If you are looking to buy gorgeous, high-quality Luxury curtains and, cushion covers  then you need to check out tesmare.com. Our beautiful, premium cushion covers are stylish and will last for a very Short time. Tesmare have an extensive collection that is also affordable and made of authentic material which makes them great value for money. Available in a variety of colors and designs so that one can easily find something that suits their personality and preferences.

[magpiepills]

The Layover

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f reader x f reader’s friend x Santi Garcia

Word count: 1k

Summary: you and your friend meet a couple guys on their way back to Florida from Colombia. One thing leads to another and you end up at a motel.

Warnings: SMUT! PIV, oral f receiving, fingering, ff, kissing, facials, creampies, masturbation, unsafe sex, sex with strangers. No beta no editing no proofreading, NO PLOT JUST PORN

A word from the author: idk man. You tell me.

Here’s my masterlist

The pink-red light of the neon MOTEL sign blinked against the window, partly obscured by the glare of the bedside lamp. No one had bothered to close the curtains. Just like no one had bothered to take off the cigarette burnt polyester bedspread. You’d all bundled in, talking and laughing and kisses smacking against skin, and once you were inside Frankie, the taller and quieter of the two men had switched on the lamp and unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, leaving his belt buckle swinging beside his bulge.

Santi was busy kissing your friend, and you took off your shirt. The room was cold and your nipples were already hard, inviting Frankie to suck one sharply into his mouth, scraping it against his teeth as you slid your hand up and down the generous heft of his cock through his jeans.

“That’s enough,” he smacked your ass and followed it with a squeeze that grazed your pussy. “I want you both undressed and on the bed.”

You exchanged a look with your friend, who looked at Santi, the shorter, flirtier friend and he unzipped her skirt and gave her a playful push toward the bed.

Frankie was sitting toward the headboard of the too-firm double bed, pants off, grey tshirt tossed over the lampshade, and turgid member in his hand. He stroked himself base to tip, watching you and your beautiful, shy friend with menace in his big, dark eyes. You pulled her onto the bed with you, and on your knees before the near stranger, you kissed her. You touched each other, stroked each other's hair and necks and tits. Santi looked on, cock in hand, thumb hooked around the thick base as he cradled his balls.

“Lay down,” Frankie instructed, showing you how he wanted you, side by side, heads at the foot of the bed, knees bent.

He admired you for a moment, two naked women, last names he never bothered to ask, first names he wasn’t entirely confident he knew, totally bare and spread out, serving themselves on a platter for him. His cock throbbed. “Perfect.”

He swiped his fingers over your pussy, covering them in his slick before doing the same to your friend. He turned his attention back to you, slurping your pussy, spreading you open with two tick fingers, going straight for your clit only for a moment before stopping.

He took your hand and put it on your girlfriend’s pussy. “Can’t have her feelin’ left out.”

He went back to your cunt, licking, sucking, covering his patchy beard and the tip of his beautiful, curved nose in your arousal.

He gave you one finger, then two, pumping them as he lapped at your clit.

You slid two of your fingers into your friend and pressed your palm against her clit. It was no match for what Frankie could do, but Santi liked it.

“She going to make you come, hermosa? You going to come together? I know Fish has her close. She can’t even keep her eyes open.”

He was right. You were close, and with a few more pointed swirls over you clit you came hard.

“Got something on your face, Frank,” Santiago laughed and Frankie wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smiling proudly at how hard he was able to make you come.

He turned his attention to your friend, shuffling between her legs to kiss her, dipping his tongue into her mouth so she could taste you. He fucked her deep and slow while she pinched her eyebrows together at the stinging stretch of his cock. When she relaxed, he sped up, snapping his hips down into her as she keened and scratched at his shoulders.

Santi stroked his cock faster in the chair, edging himself while his best friend fucked the girls from the airport bar.

You leaned over and kissed your friend again, moaning into each other’s mouths while you gently rubbed your clit, mixing her wetness with yours, teetering on the edge of overstimulation, but not near ready to let the fun end.

You sucked her nipple, rubbed her clit, and encouraged her. “You look so hot taking his cock. He feels good doesn’t he? Got you nice and full.”

Frankie watched you, teeth bared, grunting as he pounded into her, watching his friend watch him.

Your friend came, legs shaking and back arching off the bed. You felt her clit twitch under your fingers.

Frankie pulled out of her, slick and creamy with her cum, and turned back to you. He sank in slow, grumbling at your tightness, glad for how wet you were to ease his way. He bottomed out and pulsed his hips against yours, making you cry out at the feeling of him so deep, so thick inside you.

Santi came to stand over you, still jerking himself, but allowing your friend to suck and lick his heavy balls as she rubbed her pussy with one hand and yours with the other.

She turned her head to kiss you, and as she licked into your mouth, you came hard on Frankie’s cock.

“Ohh fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.” The sounds in the room were obscene, wet, squelching sounds, skin against skin, and the uninhibited moaning you can only get away with in a run down motel with two men you just met.

As Frankie filled you with what felt like a gallon of cum, Santi aimed his own release onto your face. His seed splattered onto your cheeks and nose and lips, but you didn’t stop kissing your friend. You tasted his cum in your mouths and licked the rest from each other's faces, sharing it in deep, passionate kisses.

Frankie and Santi panted, softening cocks hanging heavy, exposed and unashamed.

“I wanted you to come inside me,” your friend pouted to Frankie. He looked at her with exaggerated sympathy and scooped an errant glob of cum from her chin and fed it to her. “If you want my cum, you can eat it out of your girlfriend’s cunt.”

[wileys-russo]

https://www.tumblr.com/wileys-russo/747469515079778304/1-if-i-was-her-gf-best-believe-that-entire-flight

perhaps a tiny cheeky blurb about annoying her like that on the flight 😌🙏🏼

in flight entertainment II a.putellas

you stifled a laugh as your girlfriend finally joined you downstairs, luggage in hand which was left at the front door beside your own, her prized LV makeup caddy carefully balanced on top making you roll your eyes.

but it was her current pre flight outfit that had your giggles setting in.

normally you'd not dare to question whatever it was the spanish captain put on her body given that it could be a burlap sack and she'd manage to make it look good.

plus, you were more than happy to raid her closet at will.

though today the case was that both of you sponsored by nike were headed to an event in paris for a launch and the unveiling of alexia's statue, and so you'd both been sent your outfits for the entire trip separately.

assuming you'd both be sent the same you hadn't really worried to show one another the contents of your packages, but now it was coming to light that was most certainly not the case.

you ducked out of sight as she busied herself clearly checking off a list on her phone, if there was something the footballer swore by it was a list, you cleared your throat and took a seat on the sofa.

"ale!" you yelled from the living room, the blonde hurrying in with a concerned look tossed your way at the volume of your shout for her. "qué pasa?" the taller girl asked with a frown as you pretended to look intently at something on your phone screen.

"did you see the news? there is a viral plague of moths in barcelona! they have been eating curtains, fabric furniture, shoes, cotton, polyester-" you looked up at that point and gasped dramatically.

"dios mio mi amor it is too late, they have attacked you!" you pointed as her once genuinely concerned look melted into a displeased glare. the teasing was directed at the fact that her current outfit of choice, a bright pink nike hooded sweatsuit, something the girl often lived in when pottering around your shared home in winter.

but there was something different about this one in the fact that it was, seemingly intentionally, full of holes. all the same size and scattered around every inch of the set.

mind you, you weren't complaining about the slivers of tanned skin which popped out through these holes but you were far too consumed in how amusing it was over anything else.

but your girlfriend clearly did not share that view.

"you are not funny bebé." the blonde grumbled, shoving you to fall back down onto the sofa as you stood and she passed you headed for the kitchen.

"i hope you emailed nike and told them your outfit came damaged amor." you called out with a snicker, squealing as she balled up and threw at you the hand towel she'd just use to wipe her washed hands on and it landed on your head.

"alexia!" you huffed, shooting her a glare now as she simply winked and ducked down, rummaging around in the cupboard beneath the sink for something.

grabbing the damp hand towel before it stained the sofa you rolled your eyes and followed after her, seeing an opportunity as a smile curled onto your lips.

carefully twirling up the hand towel in your hand you walked past the blonde and struck, snapping the towel against her ass with a satisfying crack as she almost fell forward into the cupboard in shock.

"it slipped!" you smiled innocently, tossing it onto the counter as your girlfriend stood and glared you down. "no!" you laughed as she lunged at you, ducking under her arm and racing off as her footsteps sounded quickly after you.

"alexia!" you laughed louder as she caught you, arms snaking around your waist and lifting you into the air before collapsing onto the sofa, twisting around so your back met the cushions and she hovered over you.

"idiota." the blonde tutted, flicking your nose playfully with a shake of her head. "i saw an opportunity and took it mi vida, can you blame me? you'd have done the same!" you smiled reaching up to poke at her own nose as your girlfriend hummed, unable to really argue that point.

"you look good in pink, i miss when your hair matched." you spoke softer, arms wrapping around her neck as her legs settled either side of your hips baring a little more of her weight on top of you.

alexia only smiled at that, leaning down to peck your lips a few times, your hand moving to cradle the back of her head and encourage it deepen a little to which the taller girl paid no objections.

you exhaled and closed your eyes with a happy smile as the blondes lips lazily trailed kisses down your neck now instead, large hands settling on your waist as her thumbs rubbed small circles into your hips.

"can i ask you something cari?" you questioned after a few minutes as her head popped up, nodding down at you curiously. "do you feel...holy today?" you grinned, sticking your finger through one of the tears in the hoodie and poking at her shoulder.

"hey come back, baby!" you laughed as she immediately pushed up and off of you with a scowl and a shake of her head. "the car will be here in five minutes, levántate!" the catalan called over her shoulder before jogging back upstairs.

~

"amor." alexia warned as your finger hooked through one of the holes in her back, tracing the tattoos which appeared in tiny slivers. you ignored her, continuing to tug and poke and pull at the holes revealing more and more inked up skin.

"para eso!" the midfielder groaned, hand reaching around her back to push you away. "comportarse." the blonde clicked her tongue, her own fingers looping through the belt loops of the parachute pants you had on and drawing your body into hers.

"its not my fault you're like a big blonde beautiful walking fidget toy." you mumbled into her shoulder, the taller girl looking down at you with a confused frown as you chuckled and repeated the phrase back to her in spanish.

"hola sal!" you called out to your teammate as she arrived, handing off her luggage to be stored as the tall girl greeted you both with a hug. "just get out of bed capitana?" salma grinned teasingly poking at alexia who sighed deeply, pushing you away and making a beeline for the jet as soon as it was called for boarding.

"moths attacked our house, put holes in all her clothing." you tutted with a shake of your head, salma laughing as you fell into step with one another following after alexia into the jet.

you gave your girlfriend a look of mock offence as you sat in the seat directly across from her and she rolled her eyes, kicking her as a slightly smile tugged at the blondes lips and she looked out the window.

declining the offer of a drink from the air hostess you tensed ever so slightly as the engines roared to life, alexia noticing right away knowing you were fine once up in the air but take offs always had you a little apprehensive.

"nena, ven aquí." the girl nudged you with her foot, spreading her legs a little more and tapping her lap, eyebrows knitted together with concern. "estoy bien." you shook your head with a small smile, embarrassed that this still bothered you after so many years.

"bebita." alexia called for your attention again, starting to launch into a story from her childhood as a means to distract you, tapping her foot against yours anytime your eyes would stray toward the window.

your stomach lurched and you death gripped the arm chairs either side of you as the wheels left the tarmac, alexia talking even faster and louder and continuing to keep your gaze locked with hers.

finally the seatbelt sign flicked off and with one final dip of your stomach the plane seemed to settle, now flying smoothly as you exhaled shakily and loosened your grip, muscles relaxing.

again your girlfriend spread a little and tapped her lap, pouting dramatically as you shook your head and with a roll of your eyes unclipped yourself and stood.

"much better." alexia mumbled as you sat down on her lap, kissing your shoulder lazily and relaxing back into her chair. you busied yourself speaking with salma and a few members of the team but eventually you grew bored.

it was barely a two hour flight but you were restless, your girlfriend easily having fallen asleep as you felt the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest behind you.

shuffling a little more so you were wedged into the side of the seat you felt alexia stir but rolled your eyes as still hers remained shut, it astounded you that she never found any struggles with falling asleep at the drop of a hat.

so naturally, you found a way to entertain yourself.

you started off by just counting all the tiny holes in your girlfriends sweatsuit, but when that failed to ease your growing boredom it turned a little more physical, your pointer finger poking in and out of them instead.

"mi amor, stop." alexia mumbled tiredly, hand grabbing your wrist and pulling it away, eyes remaining closed. but of course, you continued, moving from the holes in her arm to the holes along her legs, tugging at them.

"bebita." alexia warned, cracking one eye open and raising an eyebrow as you smiled, pecking her lips and moving to poke at the holes in her hood which was draped over her head, finger digging into her neck.

"no." alexia woke properly now, grabbing your hand and holding it in her much larger one, tugging it down to rest against your leg as her eyes closed again. so naturally with your other hand you continued, poking this time at the holes around her torso.

you felt her jolt beneath you as you prodded at a particularly sensitive part of her ribcage, a strange noise halfway between a snort and a laugh leaving her mouth as you dug in a little harder with a grin.

"no no no amor por favor-" alexia begged as you tugged your other hand free, fingers digging into the tiny tears and poking and prodding causing her to laugh and wriggle beneath you.

though the taller girl with her muscular build quickly regained control over the situation, capturing your hands with her own and pinning them to the arm chairs.

you heard her catch her breath with a slight wheeze, your head slumping back to her shoulder and kissing her cheek before she turned and looked down at you with an annoyed glare.

"i love you." you promised sincerely, watching as a soft smile melted into her features and she let your hands go, lightly smacking your forehead before kissing it and repeating the three words back to you.

"what can i say cariño...my life without you is just, one big hole." you quipped teasingly, sticking a finger through the slit in her hood and jamming it into her ear as she huffed and yanked your hand away.

"alexia!" you squealed quietly as she bit your shoulder, pinching your hip with a shake of her head, her hand coming to grab your jaw so you were locked eye to eye, a slight smirk on the older girls own face.

"bebita i am going to make sure that we leave you behind in paris."

[bitterrfruit]

he wakes you up

waking up hungover after letting a cocky scottish stranger spend the night. indie sleaze!Soap x reader, no cw. 1.4k words, mdni an: never posted a part 2 to my old fic trainspotting, but i wrote a good chunk of it. sleazy brow ring johnny is still close to my heart so i thought i'd share a bit of it <3

You wake up slowly, sweatily, mouth dry and fuzzy like you had swallowed a lump of cotton – so delirious, for a moment, that you expect to hear your mother calling for you to hurry up or you’ll miss the bus.  

No, instead, you hear the sparkling white noise of running water. Can’t be rain, because the sun beams brightly through your open window – directly onto your face, blinding you, sending you spinning as you tug your thin pillow and hold it over your head to shield yourself.  

Groaning, your brain throbs swollen and heavy, your skull an iron vice. You force yourself to sit upright, hoping your feet on the ground will calm the swelling nausea, turbulent in the pit of your stomach. It doesn’t.  

Bathroom. Bathroom.  

You leap out of bed, sprinting to the door of the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that separates your and Katie’s bedrooms. Throwing it open, you tumble to the toilet, hair unfortunately coating the toilet seat as your abdomen lurches noisily – tossing a pitiful spoonful of pink, cherry-flavoured vomit into the clear water with a foul splash. Ew.  

The shower is running, you realise, in the subsequent post-puke calm. You would have expected Katie to say something to your intrusion, but after a year of living together you have very few boundaries left. You wonder what time she might’ve come home during the night – suppose the bloke she went home with must have been a disappointment if she didn’t even stay till morning. No surprises there.  

You hear the thud of the shower lever and the water shuts off. After a few deep breaths, you build up the strength to apologise for barging in, sitting on your knees on the tiled floor.  

“Sorry – hic – couldn’t hold it in,” you burp, rubbing your forehead, tearing off a piece of loo paper to wipe your nose. “How was–” 

“Mornin’, hen,” comes the low voice of a man, tired and gravelly. “How ye feelin’?”  

Not fucking Katie.  

You cock your head back in shock, swiping your matted hair from your face, as your eyes shoot to the polyester shower curtain being tugged open with a screech.  

Hairy legs jut out from the cubicle, big feet land on the shaggy bathmat. Your eyes follow them upward, thick thighs, rippling muscle under a layer of flesh and furry skin. Until your stare hitches on the cock hanging brazenly from a fine carpet of brown curls – thick from base to tip, uncircumcised but its meaty pink head exposed, a hefty vein running down the length of it. Looks heavy even soft.  

You choke on any words you might be able to utter – jumping from shock, to fear, to awe, back to confusion. Who… 

“Eyes up here, bunny.” He teases you, that gruff voice barely familiar.  

A response suddenly comes to you, remembering it vaguely, and your lips form the words as if it were a realisation.  

“They’re just as pretty,” you croak, staring into the void of space before you finally glance at the man’s face.  

The shaven head, the brow ring, the glint of that golden tooth sparkling from the cocky smile that puckers dimples into his cheeks – now, yes, you somewhat remember him.  

“Ah, good. Y’do remember.”  

Suddenly humiliated, realising how much of a fucking mess you must be – you look down at yourself, seeing your vastly oversized Strokes band tee that you do not remember putting on. Nor do you remember getting out of the miniscule body suit you had worn to the party, nor peeling off the fishnets that had been flossing you from front to back for the duration of the blurry evening.  

There’s probably makeup smudged into racoon-like circles around your eyes, there must be smears of your pink lip-gloss in the corners of your mouth. If you weren't so ill, you'd run and hide from him.

“Did I-” you stammer aloud, attempting to connect the dots. “Were you at the party?”  

He tuts, huffing disappointedly, as he reaches for the yellow floral towel hanging on the rail. Katie’s towel.  

“Och, dear,” he grunts facetiously, as he rubs it vigorously over his head, patting under his chin, chest, arms. Doesn’t seem to bother asking as he uses it to dry his balls, mammoth dick flopping around shamelessly as he does so. Your cheeks burn pink.  

“You weren’t?”  

“If I’m honest, hen,” he remarks, as he ties the towel nonchalantly around his hips, tucks it in just above his mound. Still brandishes that happy trail, and the sharp angled creases below his abs that carve from his hips to his cock. “Ye got me feelin’ a bit guilty.”  

“Why?” You swallow, doing your best to stop ogling him like a little animal.  “Did we…”  

He snorts. “You wish.”  

You frown, suddenly failing to suppress the admonishing smirk that curls in your lips. “We didn’t do anything?”  

He shrugs, rubbing the top of his buzzed head with his palm. “We had a wee bit o’fun,” he admits, a twinge of shame in his rumbling throat, “but no, nothing too regrettable.”  

You find yourself weirdly disappointed. “Why not?”  

And your slightly dissatisfied query seems to lift some weight from his shoulders, he returns with a grin. “You were a bit steamed, hen,” he says. “would’ve been dodgy of me to stick it in ye while y’were like that, eh?”  

“Mm,” you nod, concealing your chagrin, the memory of running into him on the road suddenly flies back to you, colliding with you like a slap.  

A complete stranger. Naked (mostly) in your bathroom.  

“Didn’t expect you’d be such a gentleman,” you gripe, a tad facetious. 

He smiles. “Disappointed, are ye?” He jibes, tilting his head. “Y’were definitely disappointed last night. Poor wee thing. Got all whiney.”  

You flush hot as that memory slithers back to you, too. Cheeks aren’t the only thing that burn at the thought. You suddenly harken back to the weight of his palm on your cunt, the mocking pressure of the heel of his palm grinding against your clit. Your stomach drops at the memory. 

“Did not,” you murmur.  

“Uh-huh,” he chuckles at you, sauntering in your direction, he holds out a hand for you. You smile bashfully as you take it, and he lifts you to your feet so deftly you’re almost lifted into the air. “Feelin’ alright?” 

You’re a little dizzy after standing so quick, you blink heavily as you swallow. “Mm. Been better,” you huff, “I probably look like shit.”  

He frowns at that, tutting in disapproval as his raffish eyes linger on your lips – you lick them, worried there might be a speck of residual puke in the corner of your mouth.  

“Ye’re havin’ me on,” he chides, disapproval in his tone.  

“Am I?” You groan, wiping under your eyes with your fingertips in the hopes of swiping away some running makeup.  

He shakes his head. “Far too pretty to be talkin’ like that, bunny.” 

With a grimace, then a snicker, you glance downward at the chipped pink glitter on your toenails. “That’s nice, but–” 

“Psh,” he immediately cuts you off. “Don’t y’believe me?”  

Reeling in awkward embarrassment, you cross your arms, digging nails into your biceps as you look everywhere but him. Through a strained chuckle, you answer, “Not really.” 

His attention is almost intimidating; an unwavering, low-lidded glare as a smirk tugs in his lips. Tucks a hooked finger under your chin, coaxing your head to lift just slightly enough to look along your nose at him.  

From his throat, he rumbles, 

“Need me to show ye how pretty y’are, hen?” 

Your skin turns molten, glowing and pliant, eyes glossy and eager as you stare up at him through clumped lashes. He simply wears that snide little grin, proud of himself, only growing prouder as he notices how flustered he’s made you. Fuck! 

Lips part to let words free but they turn sticky on your tongue, and he brushes your chin with his thumb.  

“Look at’cha,” he sneers, letting go of your face; using the tip of his thick finger to sweep a rogue hair from your forehead with a gentleness that you’re earnestly surprised he’s capable of. His tenderness is fleeting, though, because he chuckles; “Too easy.”  

Jaw agape, you only laugh as you cover your eyes with your palms. “God, you’re such a dickhead.”  

He hums, a giggle, swaggering around you before swinging a quick smack on your ass, making you yip – casual and in passing, such a brash show of lude badinage that you can only gawk at him as he wanders into your room.  

“S’why you invited me in, in’t it?”  

Crossing your arms, you follow him sheepishly, squinting as you step into morning sunlight. “I don’t think I can remember why I invited you in, to be honest.”  

“Mm, well,” he grumbles, “I’ll have t’remind ye, won’t I?”

[aloesarchives]

JJK Drabble #2

Tw/Warnings: Fem!Reader, Fluff, Fluff Brainrot, Domesticity, Family Man Toji, Usage of Wife and Mom, JJK Oc added

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

Reader: Female, Usage of Wife and Mom

AU: Modern/"Toji Lives" Au

(A/N): I'm back! Well, kinda of. Long story short, dealt w/college stuff and had a health scare that kept me away from writing. Also had a mini burnout too. More is explained here!

Thinking about Toji taking up crocheting and knitting because he saw how expensive yet cheaply made certain items like blankets are made. So he buys a simple set to try it out, following Youtube tutorials and watching videos for ideas. Once he masters the basics, Toji is LOCKED IN once again. Making full on hand-made blankets, scarves, hats, mittens/gloves, stuffed animals, covers/cases, bags, scrunchies, even damn rugs. Anything you ask him for, he’ll make it. This ends up being very practical to Toji because he saves so much money by just making them at home himself. It has to be the premium, natural, good quality type. Organic cotton, wool, cashmere, alpaca/llamas, silk, linen, mohair, bamboo, hemp, all of that. Tell him about polyester or something and he tells you to put that shit back. He buys the premium yarn nearby, locally, or gets them imported internationally. Gets every and any colors because he never wants to be limited when making his projects.

There was a throw blanket you wanted for the couch but it was expensive and the size was a lot smaller than you hoped. The next day, you come home to see Toji making it for you. The same color but better quality and inexpensive, and it was the size you wanted too. You were happy and amazed that he made it within a day. Living off your praise and approval, Toji just makes everything. Since he can’t get carpal tunnel or arthritis, his hands and wrists never get tired from working. Though, his posture does get bad and his back aches from being hunched over. The blanket in your bedroom with Toji? He made that shit with fucking love and care. He actually made multiple ones depending on the weather and season. 

Man has even made throw pillows, regular pillows, water bottle cases, table cloths, coasters, bags, cushions, and made your own curtains. I mentioned before that everything in your home was either made, customized, or renovated by Toji. This stays TRUE because almost all the pillows and blankets in the house are his creation. The blankets and pillows that cover Megumi and Tsumiki’s beds? All Toji. Both pillows and blankets match each other and are in respective colors for the two. Megumi has one at his dorm because it gets cold over there and he hates sleeping in the cold. 

If you are a stuffed animal fiend, like me, you ask Toji to make you any stuffed animal you want. Definitely make squishmallow dupes for you if you asked him. In your personal room/office, there’s a pile of stuffed animals in the corner from Toji that you pluck one from the pile and hold it while relaxing or walking around the house. The ones he loves to make are bees, dragons, whales, dolphins and dogs. And they’re so soft and huggable, you squeeze them all the time. Toji just grins to himself knowing the things he makes brings you and the kids happiness.

Toji “Anything my wife wants, my wife gets. No questions asked” Fushiguro

It’s normal for you to come home to see Toji crocheting/knitting away at something. You either find him in three places at home: the engawa in front of the courtyard and garden, the family room with the shoji doors open, or in his personal room/office. Mostly, he sits outside sitting on the engawa working away at something. It makes him work better, or so he says. Makes his own needles and hooks because of his big hands. Megumi still has his crocheted stuffed puppy when he was younger, still going strong even though it’s been worn down from love. Tsumiki has all the Sanrio characters knitted/crocheted as gifts from Toji.

Tsumiki always wears her hair up in a ponytail, Toji makes her scrunchies in her favorite designs and colors. Her favorite cardigans and pullover sweaters that keep her warm during fall and winter were made by Toji because he wanted to try making outerwear. Luckily it worked in his favor. Tsumiki asked Toji if he could make her a tote bag because she needed a bag for outings. She comes home from school one day to see three of them in different sizes. She has those cute little flower keychains on her school bag and outing bags too because she asked Papa Toji for them. The massive white and blue circle rug in her room is from Toji.

Megumi’s winter scarf, earmuffs, and hat are made by Toji too. Megumi will never admit it out loud but he appreciates that Toji made it for him. They keep him and he doesn’t feel the wind chills nipping at his face. Megumi also appreciates his dad for making his stuffed animals. I’m projecting here but Toji made a set of plush stuffed animals after his shadows. His divine dogs, all of them. Megumi keeps them on his stuffed animal net in the top corner above his bed. Megumi wears a jacket and hoodie made by Toji all year round because of how versatile they are. In general, they’re Megumi’s favorite clothes to wear too.

Thinking about asking Toji to make a present for Nobara and Yuuji on their birthdays. You asked Nobara what her favorite color and style was while Yuuji said he wanted a new hoodie. Toji makes them pretty fast and the two are in love with their gifts. Nobara is wearing her bag EVERYWHERE, and I mean, EVERYWHERE she goes. Yuuji, like Megumi, ends up loving his hoodie that you always see him wear when he’s in casual clothes. Since Nanako and Mimiko grew up with Megumi and Tsumiki, one of Nanako’s cardigans and a pair of her socks are made by Toji while Mimiko only has a random plushie Toji made for her when she was younger because Suguru had to clean the other one.

Not me thinking about how Tsumiki, Megumi, and Mayumi(JJK OC) baby blankets are handmade by Toji himself with their own individual design and patterns. Megumi and Tsumiki’s are still in good condition even though they were lovingly used by the two throughout their whole life. Their baby hats, socks, and certain outfits were all made by him. He keeps them all in individual boxes to not lose them. Gets sentimental and nostalgic that you catch him staring as he holds the small clothes in his big hands. Reminiscing about Megumi and Tsumiki being babies and small children, now realizing that they are growing up before his eyes.

God, all of it is thoroughly well knitted and crocheted that people thought you bought it from a store. “No, actually my husband made it for me. Isn’t he skillful and amazing?” Your friends and co-workers lowkey ask you if Toji is willing to take commissions for them. They’ll pay for it obviously but they want good quality home-made items Toji makes which gives you an idea. You asked Toji if he considered making orders for other people besides his family. He did think about it but he said he would get overwhelmed when receiving orders and packing them up. You asked him if dealing with the orders and packaging them would help him change his mind. So you unintentionally set up a small business with Toji. His shop consists of blankets, bags and baskets of any kind, pot holders, rugs, coverings, and pillows. It runs where one week is for receiving orders, one month is for making them, and another month to send them out. Making a spreadsheet/list for Toji to show what he needs to make. Probably gets finished with all the orders in two weeks or something.

For some reason, Toji wears eye-glasses when he knits and crochets. You don’t know why but it makes him more handsome that your brain rots/short circuits every time you see him working away. He got you all flustered and down bad it’s insane(but absolutely valid). But you don’t understand why he would need them since he already has better vision and eye-sight than 99% of the population.

“Honey, since when do you need glasses?”

“I need it so I don’t strain my eyes when working on them?”

“Can you, like, squint? You already have 20/10 vision. You don’t need glasses when you have superhuman vision, Baby.”

“Doll, just because I have good eye-sight doesn’t mean my eyes aren’t as sensitive. My eyes are still bugged by light, shit hurts and gives me headaches. Anyway, can you pass me the blue yarn in front of ya?”

Megumi and Tsumiki always see you with their Toji. You’re chilling and minding your own business with their baby sister napping away while Toji is working away at a rug because he is bored. Even though he’s been doing this since they were young, the two still can’t get over how their dad can make a king-sized blanket(start to finish) in four hours. Or when they come home from school and see Toji finishing up on a big and long green dragon, turning to Megumi and Tsumiki asking them, “Do you two think your mom would like this?” Or they could be chilling then Toji asks them to try on the projects he finished to see how they look. Tsumiki and Megumi are his main critics, you are too but you aren’t bothered by certain details to criticize Toji’s projects so he leaves it to the kids.

Mayumi(JJK OC) is chilling by Toji as he’s working away, either sleeping away or playing with her stuffed animals close within sight. Being the three year old she is, she sometimes hides underneath the unfinished blankets and pops up from under to surprise Toji. Papa Toji gives his iconic DILF chuckle that has you  GEEKING and GIGGLING like a damn school girl when you get the chance to hear it every time. He just pats her head, calling her a little rascal or princess, then resumes.

I’m projecting once again but you know those cute crochet dolls? Like the ones with the big black eyes, big head, small body, and no mouth? Toji made those of the entire family. There’s one of himself in his iconic black compression shirt, white sweatpants, and kung fu slippers. He added a little scar too where his mouth would be. Then there is your’s, all pretty and pristine with your iconic outfit. Toji getting your colors and features down to the bone. Next is Megumi and Tsumiki, literal carbon copies of their real versions. Toji said Megumi’s hair was the hardest part to make lol. Then Mayumi’s doll is later added once she’s born. The mini Fushiguro Doll set sits on the top shelf of a pristine black display case, next to the tv, in the family room. 

He’s the type of guy you wouldn’t expect to be good at a skill like this then later found out he’s an absolute master and god among men. Toji doesn’t parade around craftsmanship because he knows how some guys have fragile egos. But he won’t shy away when people ask him about his work. Pulls out his phone to show people the things he made with two needles, one crochet hook, and a shit load of yarn.

Satoru, being the shitter he is, tries to tease and bully Toji about it. To which you reprimand and scold him for it. But Toji doesn’t care about dealing with his antics because it’s a practical skill and keeps him out of trouble. Then you remind Satoru that his winter scarf he always wears was made, the one you gifted him for his 18th birthday, was made by Toji at your request. Satoru never wore any scarf because he thought you made it for him. But for you to tell him Toji actually made it for him, Satoru shuts himself up and doesn’t shit on Toji anymore.

Toji loves it when his family uses/wears the things that he made. Usually wears a goofy smile or grin on his face to conceal his prideful yet satisfied self, knowing his creations are appreciated and loved by his family.

Tag List:

@luqueam @ploylulla @tqd4455 @wolywolymoley @captainbabybear @ravenswife

Tag List(@ w/ no links):

@szillx @g0th1xac1d @SleppyAnn @kneelarhmstrung

[couldsewyouastitch]

The Spaces Between [Joel Miller]

pairings: no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader wordcount: 3.5K ish warnings: toxic relationship, implied sexual content, mentions of deceased spouse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mild profanity, themes of loneliness and emotional pain, brief mentions of blood and violence, alcohol consumption, allusions to financial hardship, alternate universe

a/n: it started as a blurb and ended up being 3K. wasn’t planning on posting this as i’m working on the secret santa story, but i changed my mind. hope you enjoy it, tell me what you think. reblog and heart, leave a comment or slide into my dms.

main blog: savedyounine | discord: saveyouanine

masterlist

Autumn arrives overnight, like someone flipped a switch and the whole world changed from green to gold while no one was looking.

Joel drives home with the windows down, breathing air that smells like wood smoke and wet leaves. The stop sign looms red and he slows, braking harder than strictly necessary, just to feel the truck respond to his hand; just to impose his will on something in this world.

His thoughts drift to you, as they always do in the in-between—those restless spaces caught between day and night, between the world and the small, stolen corners you’ve carved out together.

You’ll be clocking out right about now, peeling off that ugly brown polyester dress like it’s a second skin you’ve been dying to shed. He knows how much you hate it. He’s seen the way you claw at the collar when you think no one’s watching, like it’s some cruel, small thing choking the air out of you. You’ll then give Glenda that tired smile—thin, practiced, the kind that doesn’t even bother trying to touch your eyes—before slipping out the back door.

That door sticks, you told him once. You’d laughed when he asked why you always smelled faintly of coffee grounds and fryer grease. "Gotta shove it with my hip to get it loose," you’d said, and then you showed him—with that little twist of your body that nearly made him grab you right there in the parking lot.

There’s probably some kind of metaphor in that door, he thinks as he navigates these dark, empty streets. Something about how you’re always pushing, always forcing your way through things that don’t want to give. Always fighting against some invisible weight, something tethering you to this small, tired life you’re stuck living. It’s like you’ve been shoving at it so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like to walk through a door that opens without a fight.

What a pair you make, he thinks, almost bitterly. Him with his calloused hands and the bullet scar on his thigh, you with your night shifts and your secret cigarettes. His nightmares smell like blood and metal. Yours probably smell like scorched bacon grease and the sour stink of other people’s messes.

And Joel doesn’t know, not really, if this thing between you, if it’s just a habit or something more—two broken things that fit together because they don’t fit anywhere else. For love, for him, has always felt like a sharp edge—something to be gripped carefully, bled on quietly. He wonders if you feel it too, the way it cuts. Maybe that’s why you never ask him to stay. Maybe that’s why he never does.

And tonight, just like any other time, you’ll be waiting for him. But there's no rush. It's not like the early days, all frantic hands and panting breaths in the cab of his truck, trying to work a leg free of your jeans without concussing yourself on the steering wheel.

Now it’s a slower kind of hunger, deeper, heavier—an ache that settles in your chest, the way an old break throbs before the storm hits. And yet, he never stays over, even though he knows the curve of your spine better than his own heartbeat.

Old dog, new tricks, all that bullshit. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Like a goddamn cliché.

—

Winter hits like a gut punch. It always does. Joel wakes to the dull, gray light slipping through the crack in his blackout curtains and the distant grind of city plows against asphalt. From the bed, all he can see is white. The radiator clatters and hisses like it’s falling apart, but it’s warm, so he doesn’t bother kicking it. He didn’t dream last night. Small mercies.

It's a bad day for driving, road crews already behind on salting and sanding, but he goes anyway. Tells himself it's just to get out of the house. Not that he's got anyone to convince. It's been twelve years and he still puts on his ring every morning like a reflex. Dead woman's jewelry. He doesn't know why he bothers except that he always has.

The highway twists and coils under his tires, a snake waiting to strike, and his truck is just another poor, dumb creature trapped in its grip. Every overpass is a test, another betrayal waiting to happen, the rear tires threatening to slip, to skid, to send him spinning off the edge. His hands cramp, locked at ten and two like rigor mortis has already set in. Yet he keeps going, some animal part of his brain needing to see you, needing to reassure himself that you exist as more than a ghost of stale cigarette smoke and the memory of soft thighs.

You don’t look surprised to see him when he shows up on your doorstep, snowflakes clinging to his boots and his shoulders. It’s your day off. He can tell by the ratty bathrobe tied haphazardly around you, one slipper dangling from your foot, the other abandoned somewhere out of sight.

“Figured that rust bucket of yours wouldn’t make it this far,” you say. A smile flickers at the corner of your mouth before dying out like a struck match.

You look at him the way you always do, cutting through him like it’s easy, like you’ve been reading him since the day he was born. It should terrify him. Instead, he’s just too damn tired of flinching.

"Ain't nothing wrong with my truck that a little elbow grease can't fix." He goes to push past you into the narrow foyer but you just pull your robe tighter around yourself. “You gonna let me in, or are we doing this out in the snow?” It comes out rougher than he means it to, all sharp edges and too little patience, but you don’t call him on it.

Resigned, you step aside. “By all means.”

Your living room feels smaller every time he comes here. Not because of the space itself but because your life exists in the detritus of other people's cast offs. It hits him that he’s never asked you for the story behind the framed quote embroidery that reads "Bless this mess."

Thrift store chic and all that, he thinks. It fits, though.

You don’t offer him coffee. Don’t bother with small talk or pleasantries. You never do. You both know why he’s here.

An old dog after all.

—

The cold digs in and refuses to let go, clawing through March with frozen fingers. The snowbanks are shrinking, but not without a fight, revealing a winter's worth of garbage and dogshit and gray grass beaten flat.

It's a nothing season. An in-between. Something that’s caught halfway between dead and alive. Joel tries not to see himself in it, but the thought sticks anyway.

It’s been weeks since he’s seen you, and the ache of you has sunk into his bones, wedging itself into the spaces between his ribs. You still don’t talk about it, whatever this is. Whatever it isn’t. Labels are for the living and neither of you has qualified for years.

"You look like shit." That’s the first thing out of your mouth when you open the door. No hesitation, no soft landing. He doesn’t even blink, just pushes past you, shrugging off his coat and letting his boots fall wherever they want, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading nowhere good.

"Thanks," he mutters. His voice feels cracked and rusty, like something left out too long in the rain.

When was the last time he even said anything out loud? Nodded at the checkout girl maybe, grunted a thanks at the gas pump. But stringing a sentence together for someone else's ears is a lot fucking harder than he remembered.

You drag a hand down your face, fingers lingering at the corner of one tired eye. “You want a drink or something? Got beer. Or some expired orange juice if you’re feeling adventurous, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

It’s more kindness than he deserves. Hell, more than he knows what to do with. He doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in your space, cluttered and worn down by yard sale finds and third-hand paperbacks.

"Beer's good."

He sidesteps a laundry pile—clean, dirty, who the hell knows—and watches as you reach into the fridge, grabbing two bottles. The caps clatter into the sink, and you hand him one without looking, like this is just what you do.

He tips the bottle back and drains half of it in two long swallows. It’s warm, a little stale, but it scratches down his throat just fine. He lets it burn, lets it bubble up like something familiar.

Your eyes are on him, too steady to be anything but a challenge.

"So."

It hangs there, pointed and waiting.

"So."

He drains the rest of the bottle. He doesn't know how to do this, this living. Doesn't know how to carve out space for himself in a world that keeps spinning. All he's got are his hands and the sour ache in his gut.

With a rueful shake of his head, he sets the empty bottle on the counter with an anticlimactic clink.

And then he's reaching for you, fingers finding the belt of your robe, dragging you against him. Your beer sloshes, dribbling foam, but he's already got his mouth on your neck, your pulse rabbit quick under his tongue. You make a noise, halfway between a sigh and a curse, and your head falls back. Surrendering.

And fuck, he doesn't deserve this either, the easy way you give and give. The way you fold into him like it costs you nothing. Like there isn’t a price for this, for the way he takes and takes and takes.

All that’s left is the hard press of the countertop against his hip, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet way you let him ruin you.

This is how it goes. How it always goes.

Until there’s nothing left.

—

Spring creeps in slow, almost shy, before it barrels in all at once. The crocuses you planted last fall push up through the half-frozen muck of the flower bed, fragile purple petals reaching for a sun that doesn’t quite remember how to warm anything yet. You’re out on the back porch sitting with your hair curling into the damp air while he rummages through your cabinets, stiff and slow, looking for coffee filters.

He didn’t sleep well. He doesn’t even remember closing his eyes, but there’s a blanket tangled at his feet now that wasn’t there when the two of you collapsed on your bed last night. He doesn’t ask.

"You don't have to stay, you know." Your voice floats into the kitchen, carried by the whine of the screen door snapping shut behind you. "Wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important."

A handful of answers rise like bile but he swallows them down. The thing between you is too fragile for words, a soap bubble balanced on a fingertip and he is already so goddamn tired of being the one who always pops it.

"I'm good." It's a day for small honesties.

You appear in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, one hip tilted just so. The faded Metallica shirt you’re wearing as a nightgown barely reaches your thighs. He drags his eyes away from all that bare skin. Reaches for a mug instead.

Your eyebrows do something complicated. "Alright then."

You watch as he pours coffee for you both, the pot shaking slightly in his grip. If you notice, you don't comment. Just take the chipped mug emblazoned with "Carpe the fuck out of this diem" he offers. Your fingers don't touch and he tells himself he isn't disappointed.

"Milk’s in the fridge if you’re into that," you say, blowing softly across the surface of your coffee before taking a tentative sip. You wince. "Sugar in the—"

"I know where the sugar is." The words come out too fast, too sharp, cutting through the room like shrapnel. He didn’t mean it to sound like that. Hell, he doesn’t mean anything anymore, not the way it comes out.

The mug hits the counter harder than he intends, coffee sloshing up over the rim, spilling into the butter dish you forgot to put away after last night’s dinner. A droplet scalds his thumb.

You don’t flinch, don’t snap back. You just stand there, looking at him with that same maddening expression you always wear—half annoyed, half something softer. He doesn’t know what to do with it, that mix of exasperation and patience, like you know exactly who he is and still haven’t shoved him out of your life yet.

And this is it, he realizes. This is all the two of you will ever be. Two broken people, held together by duct tape and scar tissue, stuck in the same tired loop of half-measures and almosts. It’s almost funny. Almost.

Something heavy presses behind his eyes, an ache that rises fast and chokes him before he can think about it too hard. He needs to move. Needs to be anywhere but here.

He's dressed and out the door in under a minute, laces trailing, the screen door slamming behind him. You don't call out and he doesn't look back. That bubble between you, it's popped, shards of soap and air drifting in the pale morning.

He leaves his coffee on the counter, untouched. It’ll sit there, cooling to nothing. Just like everything else.

—

Summer settles heavy and dense, humidity pressing like a physical weight. The air hangs heavy, still, every breath a labor. Joel's shirt clings to his back, to the indent of his spine where sweat collects. He's got the windows down but the breeze brings no relief, heated air billowing useless and limp. A fly buzzes lazy loops around his ear and he smacks at it, palm colliding with his stubbled cheek. Three days’ growth. He keeps meaning to shave. Keeps meaning to do a lot of things.

The streetlights flicker on as he turns into your driveway, their dim yellow glow bleeding together in the thick twilight. The crunch of his tires on gravel feels deafening, like an intrusion, too loud for this quiet, empty hour. The porch is dark. The windows are dark. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His hand stays on the gearshift, and his foot hovers over the pedal.

He could leave. He could put this rusted out hunk of metal in reverse and pretend he was never here. You would understand. You always do. It's what you’re good at, understanding and accepting and never pushing for more. And maybe that's why he keeps coming back, keeps sinking into your softness. Because he's a selfish fuck. And isn't that the worst truth.

He cuts the engine.

The porch creaks under his boots, a floorboard whining a warning, and he pauses with his fist poised to knock. When was the last time he even knocked? When had he decided that your space, your life, was just his to walk into? The thought sours in his stomach, but he doesn’t let himself step back. He raps once. Twice. The sound echoes dully in the muggy stillness.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just silence and the weight of the heat pressing down on him. And he thinks wildly, fearfully, that maybe he waited too long. Maybe this is it. Maybe the universe is fresh out of second chances.

But then there’s the click of the lock turning, the soft creak of hinges, and there you are.

The light spilling out from the kitchen frames you in a weak halo, more shadow than glow. You’re barefoot, wearing cut-off sweatpants and a stretched-out t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Your hair is sticking to your damp temples, to the curve of your neck, and there’s a faint crease from your pillow etched into your cheek.

"Joel?" you say, voice scratchy from sleep. There’s something else in it, though—something sharper, something awake and alive. "What are you doing here?"

And there it is, a million dollar question. Why is he here? Why does he keep coming back to you, to this place, to the fragile thread of a connection that feels too thin to hold either of you? What is he hoping to find in the spaces between your heartbeats?

He swallows and it hurts.

"I don’t know," he says finally, his voice scraping out of him raw. "I just…"

His hand lifts, drops. He can’t finish the sentence, doesn’t even know how to start it.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you until you’re right there in front of him. He can smell the sleep still clinging to you, the faint metallic tang of the diner that never quite washes off. He braces himself for what’s coming—for the slap, the curse, the moment when you finally shove him back and tell him to stay gone. He deserves all of it. He deserves worse.

But you don’t shove him. Your hand comes up, and it’s gentle as it rests against his jaw, your fingers tracing the line of bone like it’s something worth touching.

"You’re allowed to want something. You know that, right?"

His throat burns. His whole body feels like it’s cracking open under the weight of your words, like they’re carving through the hollow places inside him, the ones he’s spent so long trying to ignore. You make it sound so simple, like breathing, like wanting something—someone—isn’t the hardest goddamn thing in the world.

His voice shakes when it finally comes out, barely more than a rasp. "I want you."

And for a moment, he’s sure he’s ruined it. That he’s ruined you. This person who has already cracked themselves open for him a hundred times in a hundred quiet ways. But then you smile, just barely, just at the corners of your mouth.

"Okay," you say. "Okay."

You step back, your fingers catching briefly at the fabric of his shirt, tugging him into the dark of the house. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you inside this strange, fragile thing you keep building together. His hands find you—your waist, your hair, the damp curve of your neck—and you come easily, rising onto your toes as your mouth meets his.

It’s slow. Careful. He kisses you like he’s afraid to break you, like he’s afraid of breaking himself. Like maybe this moment could last forever if he just holds it still long enough. You taste like sleep and sweat and something familiar he doesn’t have a name for, something that feels like home even though he’s never believed in such a thing.

Tomorrow, the leaves will start to change. The world will keep turning, and the mess between you won’t magically fix itself. It never does. But tonight, it’s enough.

You’re enough.

Even if he never quite finds the words to tell you.

[rip-quizilla]

We Could Be Beautiful: Dead Girl Walking

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

🔹An AU in which you and Eddie are both actors in a community theater production of Heathers: The Musical🔹

Word count: 1.6K

A/N: Just an idea I’ve had rolling around in my head for a while. This will probably become a series of short blurbs within this AU, taking place between the auditions and the cast party following the final performance of the show.

Tags: mutual pining, unconfessed feelings, allusions to sex, passing mention of suicide (pertaining to the plot of Heathers), references to Heathers: the Musical, song lyrics

If you’d like a visual for the scene described from the original musical, click here

🔹divider made by @k1ssyoursister 🔹

You took your role as Veronica’s understudy seriously. 

You’d copied down every stage direction, every line, every director’s note- you’d made sure you were prepared. Now, the ultimate test would determine just how prepared for this you really were.

Barb, the actress playing Veronica, had warned you that her sister might go into labor early, and that had been exactly what happened. That meant she would be in the delivery room on opening night, and every program in every audience member’s hand would have a little insert with your picture on it, alongside your name followed by “-will be playing the role of Veronica Sawyer.”

Already, you had managed to make it to the first quarter of the show. “Beautiful” had gone without a hitch, and you’d gotten through “Fight for Me” without your voice cracking. But next was “Dead Girl Walking,” and you were just about ready to fling yourself in front of a bus. Or drink some drain cleaner. 

You hadn’t rehearsed this song with Eddie yet; you knew the words, knew the blocking, knew exactly which note you were expected to sing and every riff you had to hit. But standing behind that velvet curtain as you waited for your cue, you were practically on the verge of a panic attack. When you finally had to enter the stage, you channeled it all- the panic, the nerves, the terror of what comes after tonight.

I need it hard

I’m a dead girl walking

I’m in your yard

I’m a dead girl walking 

You’d watched him sing this song with Barb so many times, and each time you’d wished it was you- now, you had your chance. 

Sorry, but I really had to wake you

See, I’ve decided I must ride you ‘til I break you

Tonight I’m yours, 

I’m your dead girl walking

Get on all fours, 

Kiss this dead girl walking

You knew Eddie’s wide, wet eyes were those of an actor. The eyes of JD as he watches the girl of his dreams. Still, the heat and want you felt right now wasn’t Veronica’s- it was purely yours. So you let it feed Veronica’s words as you held his face in your tender hands and told JD the things you wished you could say to Eddie.

And you know, you know, you know

It’s ‘cause you’re beautiful

You say you’re numb inside

But I can’t agree

You were the one in the blue blazer now. Tonight, he was your JD, and you were scared shitless that when your lips hit his in a stage kiss that was supposed to have so much fire it set the stage ablaze, it might feel a little bit too real. 

So the world’s unfair

Keep it locked out there

In here it’s beautiful

Let’s make this beautiful

Eddie- JD- gazed at you with all the wonder and adoration of a man on his knees for a generous god. His head shook gently, bewildered by his luck as he delivered the next line. “That works for me.”

Then your lips were on him, and for a second you let yourself pretend he was kissing you back and not Veronica. His mouth was warm, his hands hungry as they roamed over your clothes and subtly squeezed until you felt your blazer’s polyester pucker.

When you pulled away for your high note, you gazed into his eyes and saw nothing but truth looking back at you. That fire you’d been feeling all this time was reflected in his eyes tonight. Sure, maybe it’s the stage lights. Maybe he’s just a really good actor. Maybe you’re fucking obsessed with him- but whatever it was, you felt wanted in those eyes. So yeah, you let yourself believe it. You let the script burn you alive.

Full steam ahead, 

Take this dead girl walking

Let’s break the bed,

Rock this dead girl walking

You were drunk on the awe in his gaze, the way he looked up at you like he wasn’t sure if you’d really just barged in through his window to ride him until he was a broken mess, or if you were a fantasy his mind had conjured to fuel his desire to belong to someone who would cherish all he had to give. 

Again, Eddie was a talented actor. You knew that was his interpretation of how his character felt about your character. Still, you let yourself fall into the script as you straddled his tense, shirtless body, his abs crunching under the blue stage lights in a way that made you salivate. You wondered what your spit would look like on his skin. 

You were far too horny to be professional. At least you weren’t so far gone that you couldn’t remember your blocking. 

No sleep tonight for you,

Better chug that Mountain Dew

Your heart fell into your core upon hearing Eddie’s whimpered ‘okay, okay’ in character, needy and submissive beneath you. 

Get your ass in gear,

Make this whole town disappear

His eyebrows pulled together, voice stronger and raspier as it ripped from his chest. ‘Okay, okay!’ His fingers snuck underneath your skirt, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your ass. You wished it was real. 

You eyed him like a predator eyes a kill, determined to stay in his head until he needed you for real. You ran your palm over your cheek, brought your other hand up to fist in your hair, and pretended both hands were his.

Slap me,

Pull my hair,

You grabbed his wrists forcefully, bringing them up one by one to grope each of your tits. 

Touch me 

There (left tit)

And there (right tit)

And there 

To punctuate the final syllable, you couldn’t stop an involuntary writhe of your torso into Eddie’s hands as he grasped your white button down (which was actually a snap-up) at the chest and pulled hard, simultaneously pinching your nipples through your bright blue bra and ripping open your blouse to showcase the swell of your chest for the whole audience to see. You didn’t notice them, though- you noticed the way he looked at your chest like it was the second coming of Christ. You witnessed that fractional widening of his eyes, the way he was entranced by every move you made as you writhed in his lap. 

And no more talking

Love this dead girl walking

Eddie’s voice was lightning in the wake of thunder, bright and jagged and beautifully raw with power as he crooned a harmony to your lead as the song drew to a close. This song wasn’t an easy one to sing; had you not been so distracted by how it felt to have Eddie’s hips between your thighs you might have been nervous that you’d flub your high notes- but you didn’t. In a moment of sheer improvisation you did what just felt right, and that meant grabbing Eddie by hair at the base of his neck and wrenching his head back as you rolled your hips into his.

You knew your blocking was to arch your back away from him, but instead you brought your face close enough to his that it’s possible his mic picked up your perfect, clear falsetto as you pleaded, ‘Love this dead girl walking’ with the cadence of a lover asking, begging their beloved ‘don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop’. Eddie’s eyes registered your improvisational choice, and maybe you imagined it but behind those big brown button eyes he seemed to come alive with you, sitting up even further and digging one hand into your soft, hot skin while the other flexed against the stage floor to keep him balanced. His little ‘whoa, whoa, hey, hey, yeah yeah’s were short and breathy, sounding more like moans and whimpers as he rolled the sturdy bones of his hips into you as you matched his rhythm. 

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend. If you didn’t have blocking to follow, you might have kissed him again, might have bitten his lip, might have reached for his belt buckle with reckless abandon and let a summer’s worth of pining win over in your mind. Instead, you channeled that passion into the way your hips ground into him with the fervor of a woman with nothing to lose. 

Together the two of you finished out the song with heavy breaths and belted lyrics. You writhed. He thrusted.  ‘Love this dead girl,’ your voices intertwined in a desperate dance for release from the tension between you that, at some point, had grown thick as two oak trees planted near enough to forget where one ends and the other begins.

‘Yeah!’

Your hand on his chest splayed out over faded ink. Your hips swiveled against his groin.

‘Yeah!’

His hand fisted in the plaid fabric of your skirt. That wasn’t in the blocking- had they added that? Was this improv?

‘Yeah!’

Using the grip on your skirt, he tugged you further into him as his hips bucked up just enough to bounce you on his groin and shake your exposed cleavage. Without thinking, your hand flew into his hair, grasping the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck and tugging sharply back. You weren’t supposed to do that. 

‘Ow!’

It wasn’t supposed to be a moan, but that was definitely what you would call the sound you pulled from Eddie’s mouth. A soft yet sharp, breathy moan that existed somewhere in the valley between pleasure and pain and definitely sounded more sexy and less funny, which is how it was supposed to sound. You saw Eddie’s eyes go wide as he too came to this realization. 

No matter; if you played it off, no one in the audience would know the difference. You let go of his hair and flung your hand into the air above you, reaching for heaven and belting out your last ‘Yeah’ into the stage lights that lined the rafters above you. Your back arched, and you felt one final push of Eddie’s pelvis into yours, weaker this time as he too came down from the endorphins that ravaged every thought in both your mind and his. 

Taglist (people I've been talking to about this since the idea spawned): @ghost-proofbaby, @the-unforgivenn, @munson-blurbs, @hellfire--cult

[qiansifangsuzhougroup]

Pure Polyester indoor modern jacquard inherent flame retardant curtain fabric

[marzipanandminutiae]

all these glossy professional BJD photos in front of beautifully-made backgrounds are great

but nothing can rival the charm of seeing a doll dressed in the most 2006-Tokyopop-ass outfit in the middle of someone's aggressively normal living room

"Queen Darkmoon Vampireface The Fourth of the Blood Mountains observes your mom's crown molding and plaid polyester curtains" beautiful 10/10 no notes

[seat-safety-switch]

"Oh shit! Oh shit! The house is on fire!" shrieks my old college roommate.

Normally, I hate it when people try to get me to do things quickly. We're all equal under the great golden sun, and one person's demands cannot be imposed on someone else. That is, unless they're holding me up in traffic or going slow on an off-ramp so I have to check if my brakes work. I despise that. So selfish.

"The drapes! The fucking drapes!" he continues to scream as I slowly turn on the kitchen sink and fill a cheese-stained pot with water. There's no reason to rush: haste makes waste, after all, and this kind of crisis will make you trip over the rug and hurt yourself badly. Calmness is paramount here.

As I watch patiently to make sure the water in the pot doesn't overflow, my former roommate is frantically beating the curtains and walls with a couch cushion. One with a polyester cover, a choice made in a panic, which is gonna create all kinds of nasty smoke. Make it harder to see. Bad move. Should've thought about it more.

I shut off the tap. The fire is now way too big to be put out by the relatively small amount of water in my pot, so rather than waste my time and energy throwing it at the now-engulfed couch, I walk to the front door. There, I put on my coat, hat, and boots, and head out into the snow.

The additional heat pouring out of the house at this point has defrosted the quarter-century-old boat battery ratchet-strapped to the grille. This makes it much easier to start, and the Volare spurts to life in a mere two or three cranks.

Even as the paint blisters on the hood, I wait. There's no reason to get going when the oil pressure is this low and the engine is this cold, after all. It will cause long-term damage. By now, Ted is pounding on the passenger side window, urging me to open the door so we can get away. Sorry, amigo. I was going to get around to fixing that lock, but I didn't want to until there was a good reason. I'll get it fixed and come back next week.