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latenightdaydreams · 1 year ago

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König x Lactating!Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

For more: Master list

>CW: fem/afab reader, oral, breast milk, breast play

1.8K Word count

König sat across from you as you secured the baby bottle to the pump part. It was your first time pumping and the first time your baby has slept for more than three hours. You pull your shirt off and unclip your nursing bra to expose your hardened leaking nipple; a drop of pearly white lingering on the tip. Slowly you bring the breast shield to your skin and press the button on the machine. A low humming begins and starts a steady rhythmic motion as the pump begins to suction to the skin and pull the nipple forward.

König’s eyes were glued to your breast in the pump. He swallowed hard as he began to see the white milk being drawn from your swollen breast. Slowly your breast begins to let the milk flow, your nipple being pulled forward and milk making a splashing sound against the hard plastic. The bottle begins to quickly fill up. König’s mouth dropped open and he began to subconsciously move his tongue in a suckling motion without realizing it. He cleared his throat and adjusted how he was sitting to try and conceal the growing arousal in his pants.

The stimulation from one breast being relieved made the other breast feel like it was threatening to release all the milk at any second. A small wet circle began to form on the shirt over my other breast. I look down once I feel the wet fabric.

“Shit, I’m leaking out of the other breast now.” I began to laugh and reach for one of my baby’s burping rags to soak up the milk.

“You know Schatz, I could help you with the other one.” König’s voice quiet and smooth as his icy blue eyes look from your breast to your eyes.

In confusion you raise an eyebrow at him, “What do you mean help?”

Without words König stands from the seat across from you and moves to kneel in front of you. His eyes move from your eyes to your full and sore breast that are full of milk. Watching the pump pull milk from one breast as his hand begins to unlatch the other side of the lactation bra.

“König, wait-“ You try to protest but he gently shushes you and exposes your other breast. Your dark erect nipple leaking milk, drop by drop quickly spilling from you.

Gently he flicks his tongue to get a small taste of what your milk is like. It was surprisingly sweet and only left him wanting to taste more. He grasped your sore breast with one of his massive hands a squeezed lightly. A shower of milk squirted out and landed on his face, you couldn’t help but to giggle when he jumped slightly with surprise. You’ve gotten use to seeing the milk shoot out like that everywhere. König chuckles softly along with you as he licks around his mouth to collect some of what’s there.

He leans in and places his mouth around your nipple and began to suck. A gush of sweet warm milk spurts into his mouth. His eyes close as he enjoys the sensation on his tongue. A soft moan falls from your lips as you look down at him, his mouth latched to you as if he needed your milk to live.

Quickly he began to feel his cock begin to get hard and press against his jeans. He reached his hand down to slowly fumble with his belt and undo his jeans with one hand while the other squeezes you breast. Once his cock is released, he begins to slowly stroke his length, rubbing his precum around the head before dragging his fist along his shaft.

His other hand eagerly moves from your breast down to your pants waist band. He began to tug at the elastic band of your sweat pants. Your hand quickly stops his.

“König, I still have stitches remember?”

He stops and looks up at you, his blue eyes full of lust. You reach out and turn off the breast pump and put the bottle down on the bedside table. He pulls away and looks between your breast before his gaze meets yours again. He nods his head remembering, his cock just feels so hard and wants to sink deep into your wet velvety walls.

“Ja, ja I remember.” His voice shaking with lust. His eyes fall on your breast as he continues to slowly stroke himself.

“Schatz, I don’t mean to be selfish...” his voice trails off as he takes a deep shaky breath. “I need to cum, my hand isn’t doing it for me anymore. I miss your body. I miss your touch. Ich muss deine Berührung spüren.”

“I know, but with the baby I’ve just been busy. Plus my body needs to heal still-“

“Liebling, I don’t need your pussy to cum.” His eyes drop to your lips before falling to your breast.

Before you can respond he leans in and pulls your shirt off completely then reaching behind you to unhook your bra. His lips meet yours in a passionate kiss as his hands work eagerly. Slowly he pulls away from your lips and lets your bra fall down your arms and to the floor. He stands to his feet and drops his pants and underwear to his ankles.

“Lay back Liebling.” He Austrian accent smooth and sensual.

König steps out of his pants as he gets on the bed straddling your hips, his heavy weight pressing your smaller body into the bed. He grabs at the hem of his black shirt before pulling it over his head revealing his muscular and scarred body.

His hands began to squeeze your breast causing more milk to squirt of out your dark erect nipples. You wince slightly from his large hands groping your sore swollen breast. You feel his hard cock pulsing from excitement, resting on your stomach as his hands continue to fondle you.

“Scheiße, your motherly body is so sexy…”

His blue eyes travel up to your face to see the slight blush that his words gave you. After having a baby, you felt anything but sexy and he could read how you felt on your face.

“I mean it,” he moved back slightly and ran his hands down your stomach and caressed your new stretch marks and the belly pouch that hold his child only a few months ago. “All of you Schatz.”

His mouth clashed with yours in a passionate kiss. His tongue pressing past your soft lips and invading your mouth. The smell of your breath consuming his senses. He gently bit down on your lower lip before peppering kisses along your jawline and down your neck. His eager lips eventually found their way wrapped around on of your nipples, sucking desperately as your milk filled his mouth.

“Du schmeckst so süß,” he says before circling your nipple with his tongue before moving his attention to the other breast. His fingers pulled on your other nipple, twiddling the sensitive peak between his thumb and index. His mouth latched to you as his eyes watched your face relax into pleasure.

König lifts his head from your chest and moved his body up over you more so he was straddling your waist. Your hands travel un and down his massive thighs as you look up at him biting your lower lip. A small smirk appears across König’s lips as he begins to drag his heavy cock across your breast. He began to squeeze milk out as he moved the head over your nipples back and forth to get himself covered. He slaps his cock down on your breast as he lets out a deep groan before slipping it between your breast.

His hands come together to squeeze your breast tightly together around his cock as he begins to buck forward. A quiet moan falls from his lips as he looks down at the milks slowly seeping out of your nipples adding to the lubrication. Your breast had gotten so much bigger since your milk came in making them easily hold his dick in place. His pace begins to pick up slightly as his breathing becomes more labored.

“mein Gott,” his blue eyes stuck watching your breast swallow him. White droplets of milk scattered around your whole chest and his arousal. “Suck the head.”

You bend your head down slightly and open your lips as his thrust pushed the head of his cock into your mouth. You get a strong taste on your tongue, a mix of bitter precum with sweet breast milk. The sound of König moaning begins to fill the room. He begins to mumble in German under his breath as his gaze drifts from your breast to your lips wrapped tightly around his pink leaky tip.

“I’m so close,” he pants out as his hips continue to thrust forward. His heavy balls began to feel tight as they drag across your chest.

“Fuck-“ In a quick motion he lets go of your breast and moves over your head as he pushes his cock further into your mouth. His hips begin to buck rapidly fucking your mouth as if it were your pussy. His balls slapping against your chin as you become consumed with the scent of his masculine musk. You begin to gag with each thrust forward; your hands move to his thighs and you squeeze.

He pulls his cock out as rubs it across your puffy lips, getting your own saliva all over your mouth and chin. “Stick your tongue our for me.”

You comply and stick your tongue out for him. He slaps his dick against your tongue before squeezing the tip of his head to get precum on the tip of your tongue. He slowly pushed himself back inside your mouth and pushed deeply into your throat before picking his pace back up. Spit beginning to run down the sides of your mouth as your eyes begin to water slightly.

“mein schönes Mädchen…” His gaze meets yours before slowly dropping down to see your full lips stretching around his fat cock.

König’s fingers run through your hair and holds tightly as he keeps you in place. He begins to let out soft whimpers as he pushes his cock in deep into your throat and holds it. His eyes flutter closed as he throbs, coating your throat in white ropes of him cum.

He moves himself off of you and drops down on the bed breathing heavily. His eyes travel over your body and back to your face before he leans in and kisses you again.

“Ich liebe dich.”

“I love you too,” you scoot over to him and snuggle into the blonde hair on his chest as he wraps his arms around you. König leans down to kiss the top of your head before letting out a content sigh.

#konig #konig cod #konig x reader #konig x y/n #könig #könig x reader #könig lactation #konig smut #könig smut

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nujeskz · 3 months ago

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Orphic - Hwang Hyunjin

Pairing: Hyunjin x designer!reader

Genre: Friends to lovers, mutual pining.

Synopsis: You and Hyunjin have always been inseparable—best friends, confidants, and, unknowingly, each other’s greatest longing. As a designer, he’s your muse, the canvas for every stitch, every fabric choice, every creation filled with the words you’re too afraid to say. But when years of silent yearning come to a breaking point one late night in your studio, a single kiss threatens to unravel everything—fear, hesitation, and the love that’s been woven between you all along.

warnings: no proofread, mutual pining, emotional tension, slight angst, hyunjin is reader's muse, kisses, let me know if I should add anything else! wc: 1.5k

Author's note: in honor of hyunjin's day! this is something i had in mind for a while, I hope you all like it ! And happy birthday to my bubu♡

Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated!

The steady hum of your sewing machine fills the room, a rhythmic pulse that mirrors the quiet thrum of your heartbeat. Fabric scraps litter the floor, colorful remnants of your relentless creativity, while stray threads tangled around your ankles like whispers of unfinished ideas. You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, exhaustion creeping into your muscles. When your gaze flickers to the clock, it’s nearly midnight.

But that doesn’t stop you.

Without hesitation, you grab your phone, fingers moving with a familiar ease as you type out a message. You don't need to think about the number—you know by heart.

You’re threading a needle when your phone buzzes on the desk, vibrating against the sketchbooks piled high with unfinished designs. The soft glow of the screen reflects the name you’ve come to associate with both comfort and chaos: Hyunjin.

You don’t need to check the message. You already know what it says. He’s on his way, because you called him — like you always do. And he’ll come, because he always does.

A flutter stirs in your chest, one you've tried to suppress more times than you can count and you scold yourself for it. Hyunjin is your best friend, your canvas, your muse. He’s not yours to keep, no matter how much you wish otherwise.

The door swings open without a knock, and there he is, standing in your dimly lit space like he belongs here. His freshly buzzed hair is still damp from a shower, tiny droplets clinging to his skin. He’s wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowing his hands, paired with cargo jeans that sag lazily around his waist. He looks nothing like the sleek figure he becomes when draped in your creations—nothing like the version of him the world gets to see.

“What disaster am I modeling today?” he teases, collapsing onto your worn-out couch with a dramatic sigh, legs sprawled like he owns the place. You don’t mind; he’s been a fixture in your space for as long as you can remember, the living canvas to your creations.

You roll your eyes, tossing a cushion at him. “It’s not a disaster. And if you hate my designs so much, stop coming over.”

“I never said I hated them,” he grins, effortlessly catching the pillow. “I just like giving you a hard time.”

Your fingers curl against your sleeve as warmth creeps up your neck. You gesture to the clothing rack, where tonight's creation awaits. The piece you’ve made is bolder than usual — a fitted, asymmetrical jacket, intricate embroidery trailing along the back like poetry, paired with tailored trousers that hug the body just right.

Hyunjin whistles low, standing up to examine the outfit. He stretches, and for a fleeting second, the hem of his oversized hoodie lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. Your pulse stutters.

“You made this for me?” he asks, voice laced with something unreadable.

“Of course,” you murmur, forcing yourself to look away, feigning interest in a stray thread on your sleeve. “Who else would I make it for?”

He disappears into the bathroom to change, and when he steps out, you forget how to breathe.

The sharp angles of his jawline stand out more with the buzzcut, and the clean lines of the outfit mold against him like it was meant for no one else. He’s like a living sculpture, every angle carefully carved, every movement fluid and precise. You’ve memorized his form over the years—his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone, the length of his limbs. But now, standing before you like this, he’s something more.

“Well?” he prompts, spinning around with a smug grin. “Do I look good, or do I look amazing?”

He looks stunning, as always, but it’s not just the clothes. It’s him — the way he carries himself, the way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room, even when you’re silently stitching for hours.

You swallow hard. “You look… perfect.”

⭑.ᐟ

It wasn’t always like this.

Hyunjin used to live in oversized shirts and beat-up sneakers, his hair long enough to tie back. He had no interest in fashion, claiming it was “too much effort” to care about what he wore. But then you started designing, and he started modeling, and bit by bit, you transformed him.

He let you mold him, shape him, change him.

His closet shifted from basic streetwear to an eclectic collection of pieces that screamed you. And somewhere along the way, your designs changed, too. The pieces you made for him became more daring, more intimate. Low-cut necklines, snug fits, fabrics that clung to his skin like a second layer of you. And not once did he refused.

You taught him how to carry himself differently, how the right clothes could alter his presence. You buzzed his hair on a whim one night, your fingers trembling as they skimmed his scalp. He trusted you completely, letting you shape him like clay, never once questioning why he was always your first call.

And now, when Hyunjin walks into a room, people notice. His presence is magnetic, drawing others in with effortless ease. You pretended it didn’t bother you when he came back with stories of girls slipping their numbers into his pockets. You smiled and nodded, ignoring the ache in your chest.

He never knew the truth — that every stitch, every fabric choice, every outfit was a love letter you were too afraid to write with words.

⭑.ᐟ

“Stand still,” you mutter, adjusting the sleeve of the jacket.

Hyunjin obeys, but you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense. You try to ignore it, focusing on the garment instead, but your hands are trembling, fingers brushing against his skin more than necessary.

“Why do I feel like a doll?” Hyunjin murmurs, voice softer now, laced with something unspoken.

“You are,” you reply absentmindedly, fingers brushing against his skin as you adjust the lapel. “My muse.”

His breath hitches, but you don’t notice — or you pretend not to.

Silence settles between you, thick and unyielding. You step into his space again, fingers smoothing down the fabric against his chest. Your brow furrowing in concentration. But Hyunjin… Hyunjin is watching you with something fragile, something raw.

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, breaking the silence.

Your heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting slightly. “I don’t know. You get all quiet when I get close to you. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you whisper, throat tight. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop, watching you with a softness that makes your chest ache.

You finish pinning the last adjustment, stepping back to admire your work. But Hyunjin doesn’t move.

He just looks at you. He watches the way your teeth graze your lower lip, the way your brow furrows when you’re deep in thought. And suddenly, he can’t do this anymore.

He’s loved you for years, silently, hopelessly. But standing here, with you so close, your hands on him, your voice calling him your muse like he’s something precious — it breaks him.

And then—

He moves.

His hands find your waist, tentative yet urgent, and before you can react, before you can stop this, he pulls you in and kisses you.

It’s sudden, messy, his lips pressing against yours with a desperation that steals the air from your lungs. Your eyes widen, body frozen in shock, and as quickly as it happens, Hyunjin pulls away, panic flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, stepping away like he’s been burned. “I—I don’t know why I did that. I’ll go.”

He turns to leave, but you grab his wrist, heart pounding.

And without thinking—without hesitation—you pull him back. And this time, you kiss him.

This time, it’s slower, more certain. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, holding him close, grounding yourself in him. Hyunjin exhales against your lips, his hands tentative as they find your waist.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the quiet.

“I thought you’d be mad,” Hyunjin whispers.

A shakly laugh bubbles from your throat. “I’ve been in love with you forever, Hyun.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“That’s why you’re my muse,” you confess, voice breaking. “I needed an excuse to keep you close.”

Hyunjin lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head as he pulls you into his arms. “I thought it was one-sided.”

You shake your head, burying your face in his chest. “You idiot.”

And when he kisses you again, there’s no hesitation, no fear. Just love, stitched between the seams of every design, woven into every thread, waiting—patiently—to be unraveled.

That night, you don’t finish your adjustments. The blazer lies forgotten on the floor as Hyunjin pulls you onto the couch, cradling your face like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

And maybe you are — but so is he.

Your muse. Your best friend. Your love.

Yours. Finally.

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alexaloraetheris · 11 months ago

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Oh boy, I feel like it's time for a post nobody will like.

We all know clothes are getting worse. Recently I found some jeans I bought in high school, and since I lost weight recently I tried them on and they fit, so I'll be wearing them once we get out of the Hell season.

But I took them and compared them to the most recent pair of jeans I bought, and... Honestly the difference in quality is so fucking stark it made me want to give up on life. The jeans I wore in high school have gone through everything. I'm talking half of Europe here, because one of our teachers was pretty big on school trips everywhere she could get the money for. They've been washed, tumbled, survived an actual car crash and they're still good.

The most recent pair I machine-washed ONCE, everything else was hand-wash only. I babied them to the max because they made my ass look like was on Instagram. Do you know what they look like now?

They're full of fixes like these. They lasted less than a year on their own. I got another decent year out of them SOLELY because I kept fixing them. And fixing them again. The crotch alone I had to fix SEVEN TIMES. I COUNTED.

And these weren't cheap jeans! C&A jeans tend to be around 40$ these days, and I got these for about 30 with a discount. I expected them to last me AT LEAST a few years, because those high school jeans? THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING BRAND.

Considering this was the quality I was getting for nearly 40$ I figured I might as well get the same quality for 15$ and downloaded SHEIN. I didn't get jeans from them but I got some light, fluttery summer pants in the style that, honestly, I fucking love. I got three pairs for the price of one C&A jeans, and I am aware I will have to baby them even more, because out of the five pairs of pants in total I have bought on SHEIN only ONE is made of the fabric that I might be brave enough to machine wash. And with SHEIN continually getting sued for using sweatshops I probably won't be getting those pants again.

So what to do with that shitfuck situation?

I am insanely lucky my grandma knew how to sew really well and didn't mind me looking over her shoulder as long as I was quiet. I am aware that's not a skill everyone has, but quite frankly? When nobody has any money and even paying big bucks for clothes does not guarantee any kind of quality, and even fucking THRIFT STORES are full of just junk now, I think it's time to face the facts.

You need to learn how to sew.

I'm not talking about sewing your own clothes, though if you can and you have the time and patience, it's probably the best option (good luck finding decent fabric, because we can't even find THAT anymore unless you're ordering from fucking Belgium). I'm talking about fixing up seams and sewing on a patch, little repairs that make your clothes last. It might be junk, but with sewing you can make it last twice as long for the price of a spool of thread.

Now that I've pissed off everyone who is, for some reason, morally opposed to learning how to sew because it's a 'girly hobby' or 'supporting the patriarchy' (a take that left me baffled like nothing else) I'm going to piss off everyone who already knows how to sew.

I recommend getting this little guy.

It's called a stapler sewing machine, for obvious reasons. If I recall correctly, it was invented to fix clothes on the go for fashion shows and/or cosplay. It does only a chain stitch and needs to be pushed manually, but if you need to, like, hem your trousers and you don't want to spend half an hour on doing it manually (and don't already have an actual sewing machine) this is a lifesaver.

Here's a tutorial how it operates:

youtube

Now, why am I recommending this? Because it will only set you back six bucks. I got two right off the bat because I was banking on one not working (and I was right) and so I could use it for spare parts. The one in the video (Spring Come) is the one I have as well, and it's the one that actually works. I can't vouch for any unmarked ones, but the blue one works. It IS a little temperamental, but with a bit of practice it makes things so much easier.

The reason I'm not recommending an electric machine of any kind, even the one that costs 18$, is because, if you're a beginner, then an automatic sewing machine becomes a machine that exponentially speeds up the rate at which you make mistakes, and if it breaks down, good luck fixing it unless you have a dad/uncle/friend who knows his electronics. This thing can be fixed with a screwdriver, and takes the same needles as an ordinary sewing machine.

You can buy a bundle of needles just about anywhere for any price and they'll be decent as long as they're steel, but I would recommend looking for some actual better quality thread. Everywhere else, you can pinch pennies, but the thread itself is what's holding your clothes together, so this should be the part where you're looking for quality instead of price.

Alright, those of you who didn't scroll past with a derisive scoff at my take, I hope I've been helpful.

#sewing #stitching #clothes #Youtube

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mllebleue · 24 days ago

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Just realized I've never done this (or I don't think I did in any case)

Favourite Star Trek Novels

Personal favs :

• A. C. Crispin, Yesterday’s Son and Time for Yesterday (best Spock characterization ever; Spock who is all there for his son with Zarabeth, but who is continuously thinking about Kirk and going home to him; time shenanigans)

• Sondra Marshak and Myrna Culbreath, Price of the Phoenix and Fate of the Phoenix (obvs!)

• Jean Lorrah, Vulcan Academy Murders (for those who love their Amanda/Sarek with a side of Amanda whump)

• Barbara Hambly, Ishmael (which I should not like because I do not like Westerns at all)

• Andrew Robinson, A Stitch in Time (fantastic novel that is very Garak/Bashir. Very. Siddid el Fadil and Robinson shipped it and it shows)

• Jerri Taylor, Mosaic (one of the best ST novels, bar none; rich Janeway explorations and fascinating temporal mechanics)

Slashiest TOS novels :

• Everything Sondra Marshak and Myrna Culbreath, Triangle, The Prometheus Design, and (slashiest by far) Price of the Phoenix and Fate of the Phoenix

• Della van Hise, Killing Time (obvs; the original slashier version is easily available as a pdf online)

• The Motion Picture novelization (obvs, the footnote)

• Theodore Sturgeon and James Gunn, The Joy Machine (obvs)

• Everything A.C. Crispin

• Everything Vonda McIntyre, especially The Entropy Effect and the TWOK and TSFSnovelizations

• Everything Jean Lorah (spirkitude on top of fantastic writing)

• Everything J.M. Dillard, especially Bloodthirst and Mindshadow

• Everything Diane Duane (@dianeduane is one of us)

• Diane Carey, especially Cadet Kirk (YA and adorable Kirk and Spock interaction/friction)

• Margaret Wander Bonnano, Strangers from the Sky

• Una McCormack, The Autobiography of Mr Spock (you want to cry about just how lonely Spock is for no longer having Kirk in his life? This) (also one of us)

• Howard Weinstein, The Covenant of the Crown (a fairly nondescript TOS novel that will slap you in the face with sudden and unexpected k/s-coloured paragraphs)

• D.C. Fontana, Vulcan's Glory (Spock can easily be read with spirk-coloured glasses; also it is very good writing)

Happy reading!

#star trek #tos #star trek tos #acafan #star trek bones #book rec #recs #spirk #tos spirk

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 year ago

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the brie

buttercup, chapter two

a/n: i was originally gonna go into more detail and dive into and actually write the traumatic moments, but i decided to go a little bit more easy on myself, just focus mostly on the healing part and regaining the good.

summary: “well, we’re going out to our usual watering hole, or it’s not just us, Karen, who works with us, is also tagging along. Would you wanna join? Might be fun… might tear the city up, dance all night and watch the sunrise or whatever kids do these days.”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, wingman foggy, reference to croissant theft, alcohol consumption, drunk munching on cheese, kissing, crying, retelling of trauma (if it gets too much for you, then please feel free to just skip the last part of this chapter)

word count: 4978

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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Scooping one divided lump of dough closer with the bench scraper in your grasp, you put it down before first folding the bottom of the blob over itself, then the sides and then stretched the top down as well before you rolled it all up to create that much more tension in the loaf. As you plopped the soft mass into one of the nearby dusted bannetons, nippily pinching the seam and giving it a few stitches, the ingrained dance only kept on as your fingers moved on to shape the next loaf of sourdough.

To your left, not at the central table where you worked, stood your uncle Howard, a piping bag of vanilla-flaked cream in his grasp as his rotund frame bent over rows and rows of delicate, flaky little pastries, filling the sunken centre up before he could top them off with little chunks of crimson berries.

“Are you alright, cupcake?” you glanced up to see Walter leaning against the doorframe that led directly behind the counter, “you look like you’re about to nosedive into the dough and use it as a pillow.”

“I’m alright, just didn’t sleep much last night,” you blinked back down at your work, noting how your weary eyes stung slightly from the lack of rest, “I had a nightmare that was really, really not fun, and immediately when I woke up I started crying and shaking, like instant panic attack, so I couldn’t really fall asleep again after that,” you glanced back up at him and offered a tight-lipped smile.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I just don’t get why it has to feel so real,” you let your hands halt their waltz as you shared, Howard too glancing over in your direction, “why my body needs to remember it so vividly when I fall asleep. It hasn’t forgotten it while I’m awake, so I don’t feel like I need the reminders… sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, it’s–…” instead of uttering the painful truth, Walter instead let a heavy sigh flow and offered, “…do you want me to make you a cup of coffee? Maybe that could be nice, just a little bit?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, “thanks,” before clapping the worst of the flour off your hands, briefly wiping them against the chocolate brown apron that partially covered your t-shirt and jeans, and wandered around the table, shadowing Walter as he fiddled with the espresso machine, making it hum and puff, till he handed you a steaming mug that had a little heart in the frothy foam floating on the top.

“Here you go.”

Bringing it up to your lips, you offered him a genuine smile, “thank you, Walt.”

Staying behind the counter as Walter disappeared into the back, the chime of the small bell above the door brought your attention to the pair that then strolled in. Setting down your latte and expecting it to be just any other customer, your eyes instead went wide as you saw who it was.

“Heya, neighbour!”

“Y/n, hi,” Matthew smiled as both he and the floppy-haired man beside him came to a stop on the other side of the stocked display case, “uh, Y/n, this is my friend Foggy Nelson,” he gestured to the friendly looking fellow, “Foggy, this is my new neighbour Y/n.”

“The pastry goddess!” Foggy exclaimed excitedly, “I bow to the.”

“Goddess?” you giggled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you glanced over at Matt, secretly in hopes that he’d gotten that nickname from him, “oh, I don’t know about that. My uncle’s the one who oversees most of the pastries. He studied in Paris back in the 70’s, so in other words he’s a bit of a control freak. But, he is getting better! Slowly letting me take care of more things that I’m more than capable of doing… I’m talking a lot, aren’t I?” you sucked in a sharp breath as you noticed your rambling, “I’ll shut up. The point was just that he is the one who makes most of the pastries here, not me. He’s the goddess.”

“Well, I tasted one of your croissants the other day–”

“Actually,” Matt raised a hand and interrupted his friend, “you stole it.”

“I did not–”

“You came over and I turned away for two seconds and the next thing I knew you’d obliterated the entire bag.”

“That sounds more like a you problem,” Foggy joked, managing to keep a straight face as Matt chuckled, “you’ve known me how many years now? You should know not to trust me with baked goods unless you mean for me to enjoy them,” turning his attention back to you, he leaned his folded arms against the tall section of the counter, “anyways, Y/n, that croissant was properly one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Really?” your face lit up with a bright grin.

“Yes, it was so buttery and flaky and urgh!”

“Well, if you liked that, you might like today’s special…” your feet began to carry you further to the left to the very far side of the counter.

“Oh, please do tell me,” he followed along like a magnet.

Pointing down to the pastry row on the other side of the glass, you explained, “it is this rhubarb danish that also has a little base of pastry cream at the bottom to balance out the tart compote.”

“Oh… my… god…” Foggy nearly salivated, his hypnotised gaze never straying from the treat, “you gotta be some angel sent from above.”

Busting out a laugh, you grabbed a brown paper bag, “should I take that as confirmation?”

“Yes, please,” he nodded as you plucked one up with a set of tongs.

“Will that be all?”

“I don’t know if it ever can be all, but slowly but surely I’ll get through your spread, and that is a promise,” Foggy accepted the bag into his waiting fingers, “but for now, yeah.”

“Matt, do you want anything?” you asked, feeling the flutter of butterflies wake up within your stomach as you returned your attention to him, “do you want me to describe the options for you?”

“No, I’ll just have the same as Foggy, as well as–, do you sell coffee?”

“Oh,” the scent wafting off your half-empty mug probably caught his attention, “yes, we do.”

“Then I’ll have a cup as well.”

“Oh, one for me too,” Foggy interjected. When you’d packed up another pastry and filled up two to-go cups, the shaggy-haired man pipped up as they were paying, “hey, what are you doing later tonight?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Properly just head home and rewatch some series for the billionth time,” you said, putting the cash they’d handed you away in the register, “why?”

“Well, we’re going out to our usual watering hole, or it’s not just us, Karen, who works with us, is also tagging along. Would you wanna join? Might be fun… might tear the city up, dance all night and watch the sunrise or whatever kids do these days.”

A laugh then rumbled within Matt’s chest, “we’re not gonna go dancing, Foggy.”

“You never know,” Foggy sang, “I’ve got moves like you wouldn’t believe!” he snuck a small sip of his steaming coffee before meeting your eye, “so, Y/n! Please tell me you’re coming?”

“…and then Karen was like what’s that? Turns out a giant piece of glass had stabbed my side,” Foggy clutched onto his drink as he told his dramatic tale, “I nearly died.”

Cutting her sip of beer short, the golden-haired woman sitting beside him at the round bar table objected, “you did not nearly die.”

“Oh yeah?” Foggy squinted light-heartedly back at Karen, “says the person who barely got a scratch. I single handily rescued both you and Mrs. C from that building and got a sick ass scar to prove it.”

Their voices faded away like grown-ups in a Saturday morning cartoon as you glanced back down at your drink and let the radiating heat of the man next to you seep into your bones. As your fingers brushed down the sides of the glass and played with the condensation, Matt suddenly reached out for his own, though in his search for the stout glass that stood ever so close to your own, his touch briefly grazed against your skin. But if that wasn’t enough to spike your heart rate, when his long fingers enveloped his short glass, the back of his hand pressed up against yours at the proximity.

You weren’t sure how long it persisted before he raised his dark drink up to his lips, but it didn’t seem like he was in a rush to let the contact fade. Your breath managed to grow ragged in the chunk of time you got to stare down at his hand, it looking so massive up against yours. Though the light in the dingy bar was low, you could still manage to make out the dizzying pattern of prominent veins that cascaded off the back of his hand like a calm rainfall rolling down a windowpane.

For a moment there, assisted by the few drinks in your system, you let yourself dream, just for a little while, just until Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and stirred you from your fantasy.

“… I mean, am I right? I’m right. Come on, Y/n, back me up here!”

“Huh? I’m sorry, uhm…” you blinked, in some ways feeling more drunk than you had a minute ago, “wha–what did you say?”

As Foggy then began to explain what you’d missed, Matt leaned down close to your ear and whispered, his hot breath tickling your skin and causing goosebumps to erupt.

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you hummed fuzzily.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you glanced down and noticed how rapidly your chest was rising and falling.

“Do you wanna go home? I can walk with you if you want,” he offered quietly.

“Uhm…” you blinked up at him before uttering, “sure, but I don’t wanna end your night before you want to.”

“No, you’re not,” he reassured you, “I’m ready to go home myself.”

“Alright then,” you nodded before Matt turned to the others.

“Guys, we’re gonna head home.”

“No!” Foggy boomed, “really?”

Throwing her hands up, Karen added, “but we haven’t even gone dancing yet!”

“Sorry,” Matt got up from his tall stool, “another night.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” you tugged your jacket back on, “I had a lot of fun.”

To your surprise, they both got up and hugged you in return.

“Thank you for coming!” Karen gave you a tight squeeze before Foggy took over.

“And we’ll be seeing you for the next one, right?”

“Uh, sure,” you gave his back a light pat, “if I have time and stuff the day that it happens, then I’d love to tag along.”

Casting his glance upon the other lawyer, “bye, Matt,” Foggy then yanked him into an embrace, “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Matt chuckled, clapping his friend’s spine, “I know, buddy.”

“You love me too, right?” Foggy pulled back, though still kept his hands fast on Matt’s broad shoulders, “don’t leave me hanging, it’s bad for a man’s health.”

“Foggy, I started a firm with you. Of course, I love you,” Matt smiled back at his sloshed pal, “good night.”

“Night, night,” Foggy patted his scruffy cheek before letting him out of his gasp, though adding as you turned to exit the bar, “night, Y/n! I love you too! I just met you today, but I love you!”

Soft giggles bubbled out of you as the door slammed shut behind you.

“So, those are your friends...” you smiled into the night, “I like them. They’re nice.”

“Yeah,” the corners of Matt’s lips turned further up till dimples bloomed, “they’re good eggs.”

As the two of you began to move along, the silence didn’t last very long at all.

“This is really nice of you, walking me home like this,” you uttered, “I know it’s just because we’re neighbours and headed in the same direction, but–”

“It’s not.”

“What?” your eyes found him.

“It’s not because we’re neighbours. It’s just, you know, the decent thing to do.”

“Right,” you exhaled, casting your glance back down onto the sidewalk as you momentarily got your hopes up.

“And you know how this city can be,” Matt went on, “it’s not smart for anyone to walk alone at night.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your tone nonchalant, “of course.”

When a street then appeared before you, slicing the path you journeyed on, and even though there wasn’t any traffic in sight, your hand still instinctively shot down to grasp Matt’s forearm before the two of you could cross.

Realising what you’d done, you quietly muttered, “sorry,” though couldn’t find the strength to withdraw your touch just yet.

“It’s okay,” his low voice slid from his lips like silk.

“I just didn’t want you to walk straight out into ongoing traffic...” you tore your gaze away from him and forced yourself to look at the road before you, “but there aren’t any right now, so we can cross the street…”

Guiding his palm up to the curve of your elbow, he accepted the gentle aid as you began to cross the lane.

Once you’d reached the other side and his grasp slowly began to drift back down. When his palm reached the height of your own, you softly caught it before timidly testing, “…do you mind if we–…”

“Hold hands?” with a gentle smile, he filled in before you might wonder if he could even sense your shy touch at all.

“Yeah…”

“No,” you felt him weave his fingers with your own, “not at all.”

His touch somehow felt even better than you’d imagined. Though surprisingly gruff, with harsh calluses all throughout, he cradled your palm with such care, like he’d held it a thousand times before, occasionally swiping his broad thumb over your knuckles, presumably just a subconscious gesture from his end that still caused shivers to trickle down your spine every time he did so.

You wanted the latter part of your walk home to last forever, engulfed in the comfortable silence of endless possibilities. But alas, when you did reach your building’s front door and then climbed the steps all the way up to your respective apartments, you couldn’t get yourself to let go just yet.

“Are you hungry? Because I kinda am,” you weren’t really, but anything to just stretch the night a little longer, “or maybe it’s just my subconscious taking care of me and lessening my hangover by giving me a sudden craving for cheese.”

“I don’t think I have any cheese.”

“I do,” you said maybe a bit too fast, “do you want some?”

Exhaling lowly, a soft smile twitched at his lips as he then uttered, “sure.”

As you unlocked your door, you finally let go of his hand, “make yourself at home!” you placed your keys down on the slender entry table before kicking your shoes off and peeling off your coat, hanging it up on the row of hooks, “oh, do you want me to, uh, describe the layout for you? Or just plant your down on the couch?”

“Just tell me the direction and I think I’ll be fine.”

Facing him, you haphazardly explained, “alright, the hallway goes on for a few steps and then it’s to your right–, no, wait, my right, that’s your left. It’s to your left.”

Whirling around, you delved deeper into your home till you reached the kitchen. Ripping open the fridge, you snatched up a block of half-eaten cheese before seizing a clean butter knife from the dishrack and a roll of seedy crackers from a cupboard.

Matt was already comfortable on your sage couch as you laid the humble spread out on the coffee table and joined him.

“I hope you like brie because that’s what I got. Unless you want a single slice of american cheese, then this is all the cheese I have to offer.”

“Brie it is then,” he relaxed into the cushions as you unwrapped the snack.

“Here, let me make you a bite,” slicing off bits of soft cheese, you spread it both on a cracker for him and one for you. Gently picking up his hand to place his snack in his palm, you then popped your own in your mouth and nearly melted into the couch next to him, “yep… that’s the spot…” you grinned hazily out the tall windows at the night sky as you chewed, “there’s just something about eating cheese when the moon is out that’s just so right in a way I can’t describe…”

Your murmuring conjured a light chuckle to rumble within Matt, one that swayed your gaze to train on him. Resting your head against the back of the couch, you watched as the moonlight reflected in his tinted glasses.

When the silence stretched on, Matt eventually cocked his head, “…what?”

Not tearing your eyes off of him, you breathed, “nothing…”

“You’re quiet,” his dark brows furrowed gently, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you repeated, feeling almost like you were floating in a calm sea.

“You tired? Do you want me to go so that you can go to bed?”

“No, please don’t, I–…” you reached out and grazed his arm, “could–… do you want to go?”

Letting his body relax once more, he breathed, “not particularly…”

Gazing up at him, your bottom lip snuck its way in between your teeth, “Matt…”

“Yeah?”

“You–… you’re–… I–…” your pulse pounded in your ears.

“Mhm?”

“I really, really wanna kiss you right now…” you uttered thickly before you had the chance to chicken out. Like a wave crashing a shore, you didn’t even think as you let yourself dive in and press your lips to his. The kiss however didn’t last too long as you swiftly drew back as soon as your brain turned back on and you realised what you’d done, an apology hastily rushing out of your lungs, “Oh my god… I am so sorry.”

“Y/n,” hearing your name on his silky tongue did not help matters.

“I didn’t mean to just–”

“Y/n,” he repeated, trying to cut through your fog.

“We can just forget any of that ever happened, I totally get it if you don’t–”

As he brought his hands up to cradle the sides of your face, your nervous ramble fell short. When he ghosted his thumb across your cheekbone, you swore that you stopped breathing entirely.

“…can I kiss you?” he slowly asked, leaving you utterly dazed.

“W-what?”

Drawing in a breath, he repeated for you, “can I kiss you, Y/n?”

Blinking back at him, you hazily hummed, “mhm,” before he leaned in and brushed his lips against your own. The kiss was soft, just as your shoddy attempt had been, but it made your limbs feel like they morphed into jelly. When the pecks soon departed, you filled your lungs with a shaky breath as you gazed back at him in total awe, “holy shit…” only staying there a moment before you had to have another taste.

Slowly growing more confident, the intoxicating kiss gradually grew more hungry. When his fingers then weaved into your hair, you realised that up till now he’d been holding himself back, gatekeeping a kiss that caused your frame to crawl into his lap, starving for more. Your little whimpers vibrated against his tongue as he danced it against yours, growing dizzy as you melted into the heart-stopping sensation.

But suddenly a tormenting flash stabbed your being, and you abruptly tilted your lips away from his, breathlessly uttering, “wait, wait, there’s-, there’s-, uh…”

“What,” he breathed thickly, nose grazing yours before you retracted further, “are you okay?”

“I’m…” carefully crawling off his lap, you kept going till you were a safe distance away on your own side of the couch, “Matt, there’s something I need to–, uhm, tell you…”

Staying silent, he patiently waited as you gathered up the courage needed to jump off the cliff and tell him.

Casting your gaze up to the tall and dark ceilings above, you felt your limbs begin to tremble, “okay, alright… I have no idea how to, uh, say this, so I’m just gonna do it,” and like a band-aid, you uttered, “I-, I was raped,” your eyes squeezed shut, not daring to risk glancing at his reaction, “a little over a year ago… and I haven’t–, uhm, done or tried anything with anyone since… so yeah, I just thought that was a good thing for you to know since even though I hope for there not to be any problems, I just don’t know, I don’t know what it will be like for me, if my body will suddenly freak out, but I just wanted to tell you so that in case something does happens, that you know not to automatically take it personally...” drawing in a shaky breath, you fluttered your gaze open and waited for his response, “Matt?”

“Yeah?” he answered carefully.

“Please don’t say that I’m scaring you away right now…” you shifted your position, turning to face him once more.

“You’re not, you’re not,” his head softly shook from side to side, “I just–… I really, really sorry.”

“Yeah…” you exhaled slowly, feeling tears sting the corners of your eyes, “me too…” staring at him a moment, you then bared your all and uttered, “I really like you, Matt,” a faint smile accompanied the declaration, “I think you might be the only guy in all of New York that I’m not scared of,” every other man you could think of had all had at least a second, a little flicker, of something that over the past year had terrified you, “and I don’t want you to think that I’m made of glass, that’s not what I want, that’s not why I’m telling you this. Please trust me when I say that I want to, I wanna do–…” a weighty exhale flowed from your lungs as your lips remembered his taste, “I wanna do everything with you… if–, if that’s something you’d like as well… but if we do, even though I really, really want to, I think it’s probably smartest to go slow, no pressure, you know, just in case, so that my body doesn’t freak out. Also, I’d really appreciate it if I at any point indicate for you to stop or even just pause a moment, that you’ll do that, that you’ll listen to me,” you briefly glanced down at your fiddling fingers, “and you know, I’m not saying let’s only do PG things, there are so, so many wonderful steps on the way that we can have fun with… I just–, I wanted to let you know now, before, so that we wouldn’t potentially have this conversation when something did happen.”

Only parting his lips when he was sure you were done, he uttered, “thank you for telling me. Are you–… are you okay? Was what happened before too much?”

“No…” you shook your head gently, “no, it wasn’t,” taking his hand in yours, you shared, “and I’m okay, I think… I mean, some days it still feels like it just happened, and others I notice something, something small, that I’ve gotten back, that I’ve regained…” absentmindedly tracing the lines of his palm with your thumb, you asked, “do you–… do you have any questions? Is there anything you wanna know?”

“No, I–… I just want you to tell me however much or little you feel comfortable with sharing.”

“…can I tell you? About it?” you asked slowly and he swiftly offered you a soft nod. Drawing in a deep breath, you began, “It, um, it was a Saturday night… I’d just gotten back from the bakery super late, maybe close to midnight… and when I was getting ready for bed, my roommate came home, he’d been out drinking as he usually spent his weekends. I remember we stayed up a while, just talking about the mundane stuff we always did. It was like any other Saturday, really. That was until I got too tired and went to go to bed, but he didn’t wanna stop talking, so he followed along into my room while I got ready and stuff,” averting your gaze, your bottom lip began to tremble, “we were just talking, it wasn’t anything special and then the next thing I knew, he was kissing me. It just–… it happened so fast… his hands were all over me… I remember he pushed me up against my closet so hard that my back was bruised the next day, and I don’t bruise that easily. He was just so wasted that I don’t think he realised or maybe even cared what he was doing. I tried to say something, tried to make him stop, but he didn’t listen to me. If he heard me, then I don’t think he understood what it was that I was saying… I would have pushed him away, slapped and hit him, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t move my body, not even a little, I just froze…”

“I can still feel what he felt like… like my skin won’t let go of the memory…” tears rolled down your cheeks as you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to ignore how your palm tingled with recollection, “how he forced me to touch him and held his hand over mine, making it move as if he just thought I didn’t know what to do… he was my friend, you know? He wasn’t just some stranger who dragged me into an alley and held a knife to my throat. He was my friend. He would always make offhand jokes about seeing me as just a little sister and how he wasn’t attracted to me at all. Made such a big deal of it that I never thought he’d try anything… I have no idea how long it actually went on… I don’t even remember when it was that I landed on the bed, if it was before or after he–… after he–… did stuff, t-touched me… I just remember I was laying there when it happened. The masked man, the devil of hell’s kitchen, he ripped him off of me…”

“He’d somehow heard… I think maybe if I hadn’t opened the window that night to air out the room, he wouldn’t have saved me… he beat him up... knocked him out… he told me to call the police, but I couldn’t, so I instead asked my uncle to come get me… my body’s never shaked the way it did that night… I remember I was so confused because I wasn’t cold, didn’t get it till the masked man said I was in shock… it didn’t stop till the next night… when he was about to leave, I asked what if Mi–,” you couldn’t get yourself to utter Michael’s name out loud without feeling as if your whole world would crumble around you, “what if he woke up before Howard arrived, and so he just stayed there with me, right till he somehow heard my uncle walking up the stairs and then he slipped out the way he came in, right before I heard the front door unlock.”

Letting out a long and unsteady breath, you raised a trembling palm up to wipe your cheeks.

For a while, the silence got to encompass the space completely, your left hand still shaking in Matt’s as you eventually heard him ask.

“Did you ever go to the police?”

“No. In the small window that I had to do one of those kits, I was just way too overwhelmed and confused and I just couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t do anything but relive that moment over and over again, so I didn’t do anything in time. But the longer time that passes and the more it sinks in what he did and the ways that I’m still paying for it, the things he ruined inside of me that I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get back, the more I wish that I had gone to the police. But it’s too late now.”

“No, it’s not,” his fingers squeezed slightly around yours, “I could help you, I’m a lawyer after all.”

“No, Matt,” you said firmly, “it is. I don’t wanna sit there and hear them go oh, it’s your word against his, sorry, and have them think that not enough happened technically for them to take it seriously. Enough happened, trust me. I’m eternally grateful that Daredevil saved me from whatever else he could have done to me that night, but enough happened. Just because he didn’t stick it in me doesn’t mean nothing happened. That is the kind of belief that only belongs to people who think that the only sexual act that counts as sex is when a penis is in a vagina, and that is just so incredibly wrong,” an enraged laugh tumbled out of you as you fumed, “they are the kind of people who think that someone queer, disabled or just someone who isn’t into that sexual act isn’t actually having sex when they are. Sex is about connection, it’s about pleasure and there are endless amounts of things that can give a person pleasure,” clenching your jaw, you let out a heavy sigh, “I wish it could be different, I wish many things, I wish it hadn’t had happened at all, but it did, and I hope that at the very least he learned something from it, that he changed, that he wouldn’t do it again to someone else.”

#lea’s writing #buttercup series #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #matthew murdock imagine #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #matt murdock series #matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #matt murdock hurt/comfort

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fairytales-and-folklore · 4 months ago

Text

Invisible String

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Invisible String

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: In the aftermath of the nogitsune, Stiles takes up knitting at the suggestion of his therapist, and is surprised to find how much it helps him — and Derek — heal.

"Here's your hat," Stiles says with a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance, opting for playful banter in the hope that it'll ease some of the tension. "I would've finished it sooner, but some asshole snuck in through my window and scared me so bad I dropped half the stitches." He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he doesn't expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically clench inside his chest, and says, in the softest voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?" The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

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In the aftermath of the whole possession by an ancient trickster demon thing, the one thing Stiles doesn't expect to hear from his in-the-know therapist is that he should consider taking up a hobby — something crafty and creative — to occupy his time. He does his best to suppress a snort of laughter but it's a near miss, insisting that he just doesn't have the patience for it.

Just give it a try, she says, and that's how Stiles begrudgingly finds himself in front of his laptop, scrolling down a Buzzfeed list of the top ten crafts guaranteed to reduce stress and anxiety.

It goes about as well as he'd expected.

His first (and last) attempt at baking nearly burns down the kitchen.

Every surface of his bedroom turns into some kind of viral rainbow (no matter where he sits or what he touches, his hands, his hair, and the back of his jeans are always covered) as he proceeds to drip paint everywhere but the canvas.

Origami ends in a mountain of the saddest looking swans the world has ever seen, crumpled up with varying octaves of frustrated sighs and volleyed into the trash bin with a fist pump and a victorious shout of score one, Stilinski!

He can't draw for shit, even his stick figures have Scott and Lydia squinting like the worst game of Pictionary.

He hasn't got a steady enough hand for calligraphy, and more often than not, the pen just ends up stuck between his teeth as he loses himself down a Sporcle rabbit hole.

All of his short stories end up reading like police reports.

He nearly impales his thumb on a needle when he tries out his mom's old sewing machine.

His dad comes home one night with a barrage of complaints from the neighbors claiming there's a cult of angry cats terrorizing the neighborhood when Stiles attempts to learn how to play the cello.

He's about ready to give up when he turns the corner at the local craft store and ends up in an aisle filled with rows upon rows of brightly colored, plushy bundles of yarn. He glances at the display sample of a cozy looking hat, eyes darting to the bright blue wool-acrylic blend of thick, soft yarn right in front of him, and then back up toward the hat, wondering just how difficult it would be to make one of his own. Might be nice with the winter months coming up.

He dithers for a moment before heaving a resigned sigh and grabbing a skein of the blue yarn, because blue is just pretty, and a set of knitting needles in the recommended size, and brings them up to the register, rationalizing that at least if this endeavor doesn't go well, all he'll be left with is tangled string, novelty chopsticks, and a wallet that's $11 lighter.

• • •

He picks it up surprisingly quickly. One week, a couple of YouTube tutorials, and a series of bookmarked Pinterest tabs detailing beginner projects, and he's already mastered garter, stockinette, and single rib stitch, and has about a dozen swatches scattered across his room.

Even more surprising is how much he finds he genuinely enjoys it. Likes the fact that it keeps him calm, keeps him grounded. Gives his restless hands something to do, his racing mind something to focus on. Likes the fact that, once he gets the basic beginner stitches down, he can just zone out and get lost in the gentle clicking of the knitting needles, the rhythmic repetition of his hands working to create a new series of interlocking loops, a creative distraction to dive into whenever the guilt and panic of everything that's happened over the last couple of months threatens to overwhelm him.

His first official project is a bunny knit from a single stockinette square, seamed and stuffed with poly-fil, gifted to his therapist as a sort of thank you for pushing him to try something new.

• • •

He finds his gaze drifting toward Derek late one night at a pack meeting, mapping out and lingering over all the worrying little details of his body language — the tense line of his shoulders, eyebrows set in a semi-permanent crease, lips pulled into a pensive frown, fingertips digging into the underside of the worn wooden table hard enough to leave indents — and finds himself wondering if Derek has got any secret stress-reducing hobbies, if maybe he could benefit from having a creative outlet the same way Stiles has been.

He tries to imagine Derek taking up knitting, and has to fight to suppress the fond little flutter that stirs inside his chest at the image of Derek with a half-finished scarf splayed across his lap, yarn wrapped around his stupidly big, strong hands as he works them in an intricate pattern, the two of them sitting side by side on the couch, watching movies and working on projects together; has to bite back a bout of giddy laughter at the idea of Derek talking shop about his favorite stitch patterns, wandering down craft store aisles with a mountain of brightly colored, kitten soft skeins clutched in his arms, arguing the merits of aluminum vs. bamboo, cotton vs. wool, with those big surly eyebrows of his, as Stiles strolls along beside him. It's so absurdly soft and domestic that Stiles can't contain the longing sigh that spills out of his mouth at the thought of it.

Derek's eyes snap up in his direction, narrowing in equal parts curiosity and concern, and Stiles is so fucked because there's no way Derek hadn't heard the little stutter in his heartbeat just now, hadn't caught him staring, open-mouthed and shameless, with this stupid overly fond lovesick expression on his face, when he was supposed to be paying attention to Scott's detailed report of his recent perimeter patrols, and taking notes on the newest potential monster of the week he's apparently responsible for researching.

And because his body is an absolute traitor, he can feel the telltale prickle of white hot heat creeping up the back of his neck and sprawling across his entire face like a goddamn sunburn, and oh god, there's no way Derek isn't piecing it all together, no way he isn't going to figure it out, no way Stiles will be able to keep his stupid little crush of his a secret if he keeps this up.

He attempts to salvage the moment with what he hopes is a friendly smile and a nonchalant nod, but judging by the way Derek's eyebrows hike high enough to get altitude sickness, it probably comes across as more of a flail and a manic grimace.

Which is just so great.

Yup. Fucking nailed it.

• • •

And yeah, it probably wouldn't help the whole pretending he's not secretly in love with a sourwolf thing if he were to randomly surprise Derek with a handmade knitted hat out of absolutely nowhere, but like — look — the color combination of that super soft merino wool featured every single fleck of Derek's eyes down to the exact shade, which is just…yeah. Super pretty. So like, he couldn't just not get it.

As is Stiles's luck, he can't even keep the hat itself a secret, because a few days after the pack meeting, Derek comes swooping in through his bedroom window while he's right in the middle of a round of decreases, causing him to shriek bloody murder and drop half a row of stitches in the process.

He makes a floundering attempt to shove the half-finished hat underneath his pillow, but of course, Derek's reflexes are faster (motherfucking werewolves) and he snags it out of Stiles's hands before he's even made it halfway across the room, staring down at it intently, running his fingers across the delicate little interlocking arrows, a flicker of a smile threatening to break across his face as he looks up and fixes Stiles with a curious expression.

"New hobby?" he asks, his tone uncharacteristically light, and Stiles prepares himself for the inevitable onslaught of derisive comments and mockery, because apparently he can't just have this one nice thing.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles sighs with a weary roll of his eyes. "Make fun of me all you want, but we'll see who's laughing when I single-handedly defeat the next big bad with my killer dexterity and refined upper-body strength."

Derek's lips twist into a frown, brows creasing in frustration.

"I'm not making fun of you," he says solemnly, all traces of lighthearted banter vanishing as he takes a tentative step forward and places the set of circular needles into Stiles's hands with a measurable gentleness.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, all defensiveness rushing out of him on the next breath, awed by the fact that Derek looks genuinely offended by the assumption that he would tease Stiles over something like this. "Okay, well…good. Because I'm actually really liking learning how to knit so far."

He holds Derek's gaze long enough to catch a thoughtful hum in response, and then he's stumbling backward into his rolly chair with all the grace of a mountain troll, breathing out a nerve-addled huff as he refocuses his attention on the project clutched in his hands.

There's a soft creak of leather and bedsprings as Derek perches on the edge of Stiles's bed, watching with rapt interest as Stiles sets to work fixing the dropped stitches, mesmerized by the subtle flex of his forearms, the delicate twist of his long, nimble fingers as Stiles slips the little stitch marker from one needle to the other to start a new row.

They sink into a companionable silence, the only sound the gentle click of the knitting needles, the steady rise and fall of his focused, meditative breathing, peppered with the occasional murmured mantra of knit one, purl one as Stiles sticks his tongue between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration as he deciphers what type of stitch he's supposed to make next.

"So, what made you decide to take up knitting?" Derek's voice rings out across the room, head tilted to the side as Stiles produces a thick blunt-tipped needle and begins threading the working yarn through the last few live stitches of the crown.

"Well," Stiles sighs, tension coiling in his shoulders as he struggles to split his concentration. Because this is the most crucial part. Mess this part up and the whole thing unravels. "It started out as a suggestion from my therapist, actually. She figured I needed something— some nice, simple, normal thing — to occupy my time, help take my mind off things…something that isn't just endless research and round-the-clock panic attacks over the supernatural nightmare my life has become ever since—"

There's a sharp intake of breath and a soft, barely audible noise like a wounded animal, and Stiles glances up to find Derek staring a hard line into the floor, looking crestfallen.

"Hey," Stiles says consolingly, offering Derek an apologetic smile, and quickly amending. "Present company excluded, of course."

Derek huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases considerably.

"So I tried out a bunch of stuff, which I totally sucked at, by the way," Stiles continues, pulling the working yarn taut to close the opening at the top of the hat. "Everything from baking, to painting, to sewing, to trying to learn how to play an instrument — Dad practically had to beg me to return the cello I rented out from the school — before I just kind of accidentally stumbled across knitting…which, it turns out, I'm actually pretty good at."

"I like it," Stiles adds after a moment's pause. "I like that it's both relaxing and productive. I like working with my hands, being able to make things."

"I like…" he trails off, throat suddenly tight as he fights off the familiar sting in the corners of his eyes. "I like the fact that, after everything that's happened, I still have the ability to create beautiful things."

His fingers tremble as he works to weave the yarn tail through the last column of stitches, and he has to pause to catch his breath. He chances a glance over at Derek, and is struck with a low swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him staring down at his open palms with an intense expression on his face, so achingly familiar that Stiles knows, without a shadow of a doubt, what he must be thinking in that moment — that the two of them share something no one else in the pack will ever truly be able to understand— that every time they look down at their own hands, they're seeing the same thing: the sharp skewer of a set of claws; the slow twist of a sword; phantom blood clinging to such delicate things made into weapons against their will.

The finished hat lands in Derek's hands a minute later, effectively snapping him out of his downward spiral. He blinks down at it a few times, looking utterly bewildered, before his gaze flickers back up toward Stiles, eyebrows arched in question.

He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he doesn't expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically clench inside his chest, and says, in the softest voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?"

"Well, yeah," Stiles says as he ducks his head to attack a phantom itch on the back of his neck, heat rising in the hollows of his cheekbones. "It — you know — it matches your eyes, or whatever."

Derek stares at him for a moment longer before his gaze drifts back down to the little hat woven with all the colors of the forest, cradling it in his hands like it's the most precious thing in the world.

• • •

The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

And yeah, maybe Stiles's heart does that same little flutter on a much grander scale when, several months down the line, the two of them exchange Christmas gifts, only to realize they've knitted each other matching scarves.

#teen wolf #sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf fanfiction #sterek fanfiction #invisible string #fairytalesandfolklore #fairytales-and-folklore #fairytalesandfolklore fanfiction #fairytalesandfolklore teen wolf #fairytalesandfolklore sterek

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winonawhimsie · 22 days ago

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Finished my first sewing project 🌼✨

I got these flared jeans a while back but hadn’t worn them cuz they were so comically long. Figured I could hem them on my own and learn how to use a sewing machine while I was at it. The stitching needs work, but I think this was pretty good for my first try 🪡

#sewing #diy #diy fashion #diy projects #upcycling #refashion #whimsical #winonawhimsie

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thesunshinecourts · 1 year ago

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five curiosities for the next book, after reading the sunshine court

a non-exhaustive list, but five things i'm curious to (hopefully) find out more about in TSC2, or that i have questions about still:

what happened at the trojans' fall banquet (presumably jeremy's first year)? it's a Scandal, and jeremy cannot stand to be around bryson, and annalise has never forgiven him for sticking with exy after that, despite having attended all his games in high school. given the allusions to his stepfather, and also his step-grandfather being a congressman, i can see how jeremy's sexuality might be relevant to the situation—especially if we read into lucas' stiff apology and shame at his implication about jeremy and jean as being born from more than just common decency, but rather knowledge of this being a previous sticking point in terms of jeremy's scandals—but i also keep thinking about what cat said. jeremy has—three. two brothers, one sister. the way she says it, how it sticks out to jean as an odd switch, and the fact that we've only met two siblings – it makes me wonder what happened to the third. or if that's even the right question to ask, regarding jeremy's siblings.

elodie. i'm curious if we learn anything about what happened—by and large, i kinda hope not, if only because then jean has to too, unless it turns out stuart is lying, but that's a very different kind of fallout. (i don't actively theorise he is—at some point, these kids will run out of tolerance for ghost stories coming back to life—but i think its possibility ought to be considered, at least). i think we'll get more flashes of her from jean's thoughts, though, and i anticipate lots of heartbreak lmao

lucas. assuming stuart's contact comes through, and neil's hit goes ahead, we've got lucas in the aftermath of finding out his brother is a monster, and jean saying not to call the police, and then possibly his brother being dead. if it happens any other day—if it happens in west virginia, especially—i suspect lucas might be able to look at it like another domino in the ravens machine falling down, or even that something horrible happened to him when he returned home, but if it's still in LA, after what he did to jean, after jean said no cops-------i can see how that might twist into something more suspicious. who knows! i'm curious to see what happens there. grayson is a monster, but he is still lucas' brother. aaron and kevin still have complicated grief about tilda and riko, and they were their direct, constant abusers; cass never learned until after the fact, and lucas is in a complex space between the two parts of that spectrum. if grayson dies, i think the fallout will be unavoidable for exploration

this is a small one but man, i just want to keep seeing jean's list grow. it tears something out of me every time, and stitches me back together, and i want to go through that over and over, because i want to see a jean who not only hears that his life is his and worth living, but a jean who learns to believe it too

i'm just kinda assuming we see the foxes again, because i remember nora's character list having new details about characters who didn't show up in this one, but i'm also quietly hoping for more thea. their scene made me ache, and he'd never had good defenses against thea, and kevin knew that. jean would kill him for bringing her here made my heart do the !! double-tap. i'm extremely invested in jean, thea and kevin as a unit, and it would be so incredibly wonderful to see more

#the sunshine court #tsc #tsc spoilers #TSC2 #jeremy knox #jean moreau #elodie moreau #thea muldani #lucas johnson

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mordcore · 9 days ago

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The Flattener

i cannot wear anything that is even mildly tight around the chest. binders and even bras haven't been options for me for years at this point.

that's why i invented The Flattener™️.

what you need:

1 t-shirt or tank top that you won't miss. it has to have a straight/unisex cut (when you lay it flat on the ground, the sides go straight down, no curvy shape). good to have: the fabric should be good enough to still last you a couple of years, and you'll like some breathability as well.

a strip of jeans fabric or other stiff fabric that's somewhat breathable. you'll want a rectangle that can cover your entire chest area.

basic sewing supplies: a sewing machine, or a needle and thread and more time.

scissors (fabric scissors are recommended)

pins

STEP 1

if you're using a tank top, go to STEP 2.

cut the sleeves off the t-shirt. i prefer cutting just outside of the shoulder seam, that way you won't need to finish anything or worry about the fabric fraying.

STEP 2

decide what you want to be visible on the front of your flattener. the top's outside, inside (to get just the colored fabric without the print) or the strip of jeans?

if you want your top's outside, turn it inside out now.

if you want the inside, make sure it's currently the right way around.

if you want the stiff fabric, make sure to sew it on on top on after STEP 6 rather than putting it inside in STEP 4.

STEP 3

fold up the lower edge of your top *around the top* until it reaches the armholes. try to make the side seam, if present, line up with itself. if you managed to get it aligned symmetrically, the new lower edge should be horizontal.

STEP 4

pin down the folded up part. start at the armholes. then do the back.

stick your stiff fabric inside the front pocket you've just created (unless you want it on the front). if it's too long to fit inside, now's the time to cut it.

finish pinning.

STEP 5

start sewing. i like to do one stitch down the front and each side to keep the stiff fabric in place. then just follow the pins.

STEP 6

turn inside out. if you didn't put your stiff fabric inside, now's the time to pin it on top and then sew it.

STEP 7

wear! actually, it would be smart to try it on a few times mid-process to see if it's coming along well. but yeah, if the top is wide enough and the fabric stiff enough, it should lead to a flat shape! layer with wide clothes for the best effect! not recommended for swimming, just because it will definitely ride up.

i don't know how well it will work at larger sizes, i hope that someone can try it and share their experience!

#my stuff #flattener #binder #i will reblog with photos #chest binding #binder DIY #trans man #transmasculine #nonbinary

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riddikulusravenclawbelle · 2 months ago

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logical

plot - After being forced to spend the night at the Camerons' house due to the storm, Belle now faces the lingering tension of staying under the same roof as her sworn enemy—the morning after.

tropes - enemies to lovers, slow burn, & pogue x kook.

wc - 1.5k

warnings - curse words, slight angst.

creds - @sseuda for the cute coastal divider!

final notes - hey lovely, this is part 2 of my 'ruin me gently' series. if you haven't read chapter one, i highly suggest it so you're up to speed. enjoy <3

Belle closed the door and leaned against it before sighing. She didn't want to sleep. She knew if she laid down now, she'd just overthink the events of what just happened. 'I'm sleeping over at Rafe Cameron's house.' was not a sentence she'd ever think would apply to her. A vibration from her phone snapped her out of her thoughts. She let out an audible "Crap."

JJ: Yo, B? Wya?? Do you not see the hell storm outside?

Belle: im staying over at a friend's house tn. got trapped here. they thought it'd be best if i stayed here. be home in the morning, j.

JJ: k. JJ: btw, kie asked me to ask u. as long as it's not a kook or a guy idc.

Belle giggled at her brother's response. Then the realization hit her like a tidal wave. It was a kook. It was a guy. The severity of the situation pulled her right back in. She let out a century-long sigh as she tossed the phone down on the bed to sit and unravel the undertones of the events that had just occurred. The storm outside had nothing on the one brewing inside her head. Her eyes wandered to a dresser. It was a simple dresser. Chestnut wood for sure. It was almost antique? Like the smallest gust of wind could blow it away.

She didn't mean to snoop. Really, she didn't. But it was that or replay Rafe's soft expression when he declared "And, you're the only person who doesn't pretend I'm someone I'm not." It was practically begging to be explored. She opened the top drawer and there wasn't much. A small broken watch, some old clothes that looked to be Sarah's size. Then, a small photo revealed itself like a turtle coming out of its shell. A wide eyed Rafe smiling with a woman who shares his piercing oceanic eyes squatting to take a picture with him. Belle knew their mom passed away, years ago. It was in all the headlines. Belle felt a sense of sympathy wash over her. He looked so happy. Would everything be different if she were here, now? She just kept finding more that made Rafe seem—human. She delicately put the image exactly as she found it. Just as she had put it away, she saw the number "11." on a jersey. A high school lacrosse jersey. "CAMERON" on the back of it. Rafe's name was still stitched in by the tag. Rafe did not seem like the 'team player' type.

Suddenly, a knock snapped her out of her inquisitive search. It was a soft knock. One that rang like an apology or nervousness. She quickly balled up the jersey, and stuffed it in the dresser just in time for the door to open. Rafe didn't look at her—just held out a bundle of clothes like it burned his hands.

"Figured you didn't have anything to sleep in," he said, voice low. "These should fit. Or close enough."

She took them wordlessly. He hesitated, like he might say more, then just nodded once and closed the door again.

As the door shut, Belle realized what clothes she was holding. Rather whose clothes she was holding. Rafe's. An old faded t-shirt with extremely baggy joggers. It probably meant nothing. Right? But if it really didn't… why'd he give her his clothes, not Sarah's? God, if her brain wasn't a pinball machine before it was now.

She fought wearing his clothes. It felt like a submission to this internal, unspoken war they had conjured up earlier. She just couldn't go to sleep in a bikini top and jean shorts though. She finally peeled off her clothes and slid into the shirt. It fell to mid-thigh and smelled like bonfire smoke and something faintly coastal. Something that must've been Rafe's cologne. The joggers took a little more convincing—they practically fell down as soon as she pulled them up—but after rolling the waistband twice, they stayed up.

She crawled under the covers and stared at the ceiling. The room was freezing, the rain still tapping at the windows like a nervous habit. But the bed was warm. And cozy. The silk sheets were soft. And she was surrounded by Rafe Cameron's clothes. Somehow, that was the most unsettling part of all.

Her phone buzzed again.

JJ: wait. u didn't say WHO…

Belle: chill, it's lacy. she's a pogue dw.

Lying wasn't new to her, obviously. These lies felt different, though. They felt like they'd catch up to her. She fell asleep before she could think anymore into it, consumed by the soft pattering of the rain and silky sheets to comfort her.

༄｡°⋆⸜☀︎⸝⋆༄｡°༄｡°⋆⸜☀︎⸝⋆༄｡°༄｡°⋆⸜☀︎⸝⋆༄｡° The morning sun crept through the curtains too confidently for someone who had only gotten a few hours of sleep. Belle woke up stretching toward the ceiling and disoriented—until she caught a whiff of the shirt she was still wearing.

Oh. Right.

She was still in Rafe Cameron's house.

Still in his clothes.

Still very much tangled in a situation she didn't know how to explain to her brother. Or anyone, for that matter.

Belle was drawn into the kitchen by a hypnotizing smell. Coffee. She turned the corner and saw Rafe. He had made two cups of coffee. One had been untouched. "G'morning sunshine." Rafe had said with a touch of sarcasm. It was never simple with him.

"Hey." She replied, softly, still waking up.

"I, uh, I made you coffee. I don't know how you take it, so I didn't add anything to it." He explained while gesturing to the black coffee in a simple refined coffee cup. It was smooth yet polished, matching the rest of the kitchen's aesthetic.

"Thanks." She said, walking over to it as she spotted the creamer. Was this not utterly and completely weird to him? He was acting all well, normal. It felt more like roommates than sworn enemies on a one-night ceasefire. "Where's your dad? Is he okay?"

"Do you really care?"

"No." Rafe paused after her decline.

"He's out," he hesitated, almost like he was unsure "doing business."

"That's vague."

"Welcome to my world. That's about all my dad is doing. 24/7." Rafe sighed. "How'd you sleep?"

"Do you really care?"

"No." They shared a brief and light chuckle.

"It was good. You have huge windows, though."

"Windows?" Rafe laughed. "Your first night in a mansion ever and you noticed my windows?"

"You keep saying it's my first time in a mansion. You don't know me, I could have a very attractive kook boyfriend." Belle replied, self-righteously.

"Yeah, right." Rafe chuckled, cracking a smile but trying to hide it by keeping his head down. Belle simply rolled her eyes, playfully this time. Her phone rang. "Oh is that your kook boyfriend calling now?" Rafe joked. Rafe. Joked.

"Maybe." She bit her lip, giggling as she left the room to answer the phone.

"B! When're you coming home? Storm's cleared. I'm sure Lacy's sick of you by now." Oh. Right.

"Ha ha, Jayj. I'm leaving now."

"Ok. Drive safe and don't do anything I wouldn't do. I love you, lil sis."

"Love you too and that's a low bar. Byeee." Belle replied quickly to hang up before she could hear JJ's protest.

She walked back into the kitchen, where Rafe was already cleaning up the remnants of their coffee chat from just five minutes ago.

"You heading out?" Rafe silently offered to take her cup and wash it.

"Um, yeah. Thanks for—" She didn't want to admit she'd slept in his clothes. In his sheets. In his house. "Well, everything. And not being the worst."

"High praise," Rafe joked, now leaning casually on the kitchen island.

"Well," she paused, "I'll get out of your hair." She turned to leave, but just as her hand gripped the doorknob, Rafe's voice stopped her.

"You don't have to lie to him." He commented, leaning on the door frame separating the kitchen and living room.

She froze. "Lie to who?" she asked, though she already knew.

"JJ." Rafe's tone was dry, like it should have been obvious. "Lacy's not real."

Belle stopped cold.

Her fingers stayed wrapped around the doorknob as his words hit her. Slowly, she turned.

Rafe was leaning against the door frame, arms now crossed, his eyes steady and unreadable—but there was something behind them, something intense that made her feel exposed.

His firm gaze locked on hers. "So… who did you really spend the night with?"

She opened her mouth. "I don't-" Then closed it. What was she supposed to say? That it hadn't felt like just a place to crash? That his clothes still clung to her skin like a secret? That she wasn't sure she hated him anymore?

Belle blinked once. Then again.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because saying his name would make it real.

Instead, she turned the doorknob and walked out. Her silence carried weight behind her.

But not before Rafe added, just loud enough to follow her out the door: "Thought so."

#outer banks #obx fanfiction #obx kooks #slow burn #enemies to lovers #forbidden love #forced proximity #jj maybank #jj maybank fluff #obx oc #OBX #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x oc #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #obx pogues #the pogues #rafe cameron x kook!reader

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possibly-evil · 3 months ago

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Teenage Dipper and Mabel fashion HCs!!

Mabel

Would sew patches or stitch designs into all her jackets.

Makes most of her clothes. She's obtained a sewing machine and can now make almost anything.

Her hairstyle is constantly changing. Her parents only let her dye the tips, so she usually gets them done pink.

In the winter she LOVES makes all sorts of knitted hats and scarves. She even sells some of them.

Her arms are covered in bracelets. Dipper has to make her take some of them off because her arms lose circulation after a while.

She wears combat boots.

She has a whole collection of silly earrings. She almost never wears a matching pair.

She wears those star pimple patches.

She usually does very light makeup, but loves going all out for holidays or special occasions.

Paints her nails once a week. She always picks new color combinations that somehow look amazing every time.

Dipper

Acts like he doesn't care about fashion, but he does.

Wears a lot of layers. He usually wears flannel jackets or jean jackets.

His clothes often get vandalized by Mabel. She sews patches onto his stuff, but he doesn't usually mind.

Wears the most destroyed Converse ever. He refuses to get new ones, because he's emotionally attached to them.

Is trying to grow facial hair. (I hc him as trans, I like to think he starts HRT during/after the events of the show.)

Mabel forces him into letting her paint his nails. He usually chooses black or blue.

Wears Wendy's hat whenever possible.

Wears a matching bracelet with Mabel.

#dipper and mabel #dipper pines #Mabel pines #gravity falls #teenager dipper and mabel #older dipper and mabel

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domesticatedford · 5 months ago

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A Day Out

(A good ending story)

The smell of dust and leather pressed down, mingling with the hot air to create a truly stifling atmosphere. The astonishing number of human bodies had the same effect. There were. Too many people. D's thumb raked back and forth against the handles mounted to H’s wheelchair. Traced the grooves that had been specifically made for him to hold; five divots. He really did want to be here! It was just a lot.

The Ren Faire had been Jean-Paul’s idea. He and H’s relationship had healed to the point where it could be called an odd sort of friendship. Given the standards of their interactions in the past, that was wonderful progress. Apparently, before his transformation, the polymorph had attended such events several times. This was his first time returning in his new body (not that it was “new” anymore; it hadn’t been in years.) He was perched on D’s shoulders as the old man pushed H through the wide dirt path between stalls. Jean-Paul was dressed as a little bandit, complete with a hooded cape and a tiny mask tied around his head, mirroring his markings. He had insisted it was funny. D supposed it was.

“Most of this is utter shit,” H sighed, staring through the slats of his polished helmet at a selection of necklaces. They were glass beads made to look like dragon eyes, strung through with rough-looking leather cords. D hummed, bending slightly to inspect a small sculpture of a cat. It had another one of those dragon-eye beads in its paws. “Have you seen the price on these? $40. What is this, $7 of materials? Less? Ridiculous.” D made another noise of mild agreement as he picked up the cat. H liked to complain. D rarely had to say much; his friend just needed to know he was listening, that his complaints were being acknowledged by someone. He needed, D had realized, to get these feelings out of him like a machine venting steam.

D placed his chosen prize on the counter, giving the woman manning it a smile. She looked away from H’s back, which she was glaring at, and gave D a much more vibrant grin in return.

“Will that be all?” She asked.

“Yes, thank you.” D retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his coat. The garment was a deep blue-black, studded with star formations in gold stitching. H had designed it, so of course it was beautiful. D hadn’t had a wallet in a very long time; he hadn’t needed one. Hadn’t been allowed to have money, then had no use for it. It felt a bit alien to pry the leather pouch open and pluck what was owed.

“I like your mask,” the woman said as she wrapped the little sculpture in stiff, cream paper. D absently pressed a finger to the thin curve of white plastic propped over his glasses.

“Ah, thank you,” he replied, his smile growing fractionally. The Eus had “printed” the thing for him, and he’d painted alchemical symbols and swirling patterns atop it in gold paint. Although it really did make an excellent addition to his costume, its main function was to hide his identity. They were on 04’\, after all, and this was a crowded event. D didn’t really want to chance being recognized. That was, he supposed, why H had chosen to wear a full-coverage costume; a black-and-silver gambeson with scale armor, leather gloves and a helmet with slats that put D in mind of a predator’s teeth. H didn’t have the same aversion to public confrontation that D did, though, so he guessed the outfit had been chosen for his benefit. H really was very sweet.

“I can’t believe you actually bought something from that tacky place,” H commented when D returned to him. D tucked his purchase in one of the leather bags on either side of the wheelchair.

“I saw a cat figurine I thought Mabel would like,” D explained. H snorted; he sounded congested.

“I’m sure you could make something better than that.”

“Maybe,” D hummed. “I’m not very good with sculpture, though.”

“Better than this shit that was probably squirted out of a mold and painted by a kid chained up in a basement somewhere.” D frowned.

“That’s… your dimension, I hope,” he said.

“Human depravity is pan-dimensional,” H replied. He wasn’t wrong.

The pair returned to Jean-Paul, who was sitting on a large rock; one of several that ringed a patch of manicured grass. He slurped down the last drops of a small water bottle. D stooped and held out his arms for Jean-Paul to hop into.

“Careful,” H warned as the raccoon skittered onto D’s shoulders. His perch. “Don’t go bending when you don’t have to. This is going to be a long day.”

“I’ll be fine,” D retorted gently, returning to his place behind H. “You’re the one I’m worried about.” H spread his hands, palms up. Leather creaked.

“I’m in the chair, aren't I?”

“You're also wearing a costume that weighs half as much as you do,” Jean-Paul put in. His voice came out choppily from the translator around his neck; bad connection. He dropped the empty water bottle into a trash can as they passed.

“Some of us value historical accuracy,” H snarked back. “My armor is a perfect replica of that worn by 72’\’s Fallen King, circa 1105. You look like a character from a children's cartoon.”

“You're so fucking pretentious,” PG replied.

The pair's bickering continued as D guided them through the crowd. Still too many people. D's heart rate spiked occasionally, and he tried to follow his grounding exercises, but everything was so loud and close and human that it really didn't help anything. Focusing on H and Jean-Paul's conversation did. The two of them were clearly having fun. Even with H's face obscured, D could hear the joy in his voice as he criticized the inaccurate matching of weapon to era in a shop display. PG countered with a point about marketability, further adding how, even in an event full of nerds, H got the gold star for being an obnoxious know-it-all.

“Oh, we have got to do the archery game,” Jean-Paul said. The words were warped, like they came from a toy that was running out of batteries, but were still understandable. “It's just up ahead, Phospho. Over there, next to the donkey.” H, who was walking beside D, taking some time to stretch his legs (that was the reason he'd claimed, anyway,) put a hand on his hip.

“You really are a child,” he said.

“No, I'm just not terminally self-serious, Mr. Goth Armor,” Jean-Paul sniffed. “Besides, you still have no idea how old I even am.”

“... Twenty-three,” H said after a pause. Jean-Paul chittered with laughter that his translator didn't know what to do with.

“He's in his late thirties,” D corrected. He sipped at a fluorescent lemonade he'd purchased to cure his parched throat. That, and the drink had looked interesting. He still had no idea what the chunks floating in it were, but he was excited to find out!

D set H's folded wheelchair against his leg when the trio reached the front of the small line before the archery game. He really would like to have sat down, but the very few benches D had seen were already occupied. He was getting a bit tired, and his feet hurt. He would be fine, though. Jean-Paul hopped onto the wooden fence that blocked off the grounds of the game.

“I'm a sophont and I would like to play your game,” he said. He'd gotten very direct about such things. The burly human attendant looked Jean-Paul up and down; the polymorph straightened fractionally.

“Yeah, think we got somethin’ in your size,” the man said. “Travis! Check the back.” Another man nodded, his thick, black beard bobbing, and disappeared behind the wooden wall that marked the edge of the game.

The fair had been erected within what had once been the bounds of the weirdness bubble. Not very far in, but an effort was being made to reclaim such territory. As such, while most of the guests were human, some were altered in one way or another through their exposure to weirdness. A few nonhumans were also present (D had spotted a small cluster of gnomes scampering about the periphery of the grounds,) but they were in the vast minority.

Travis returned with a couple very small bows. After giving Jean-Paul a once-over, he handed one to the first attendant and headed back to return the other weapon.

“Right, I’ll just be a sec,” the burly man said. He moved some of the smaller targets closer to the front, where Jean-Paul would be shooting from. The larger ones remained untouched. Jean-Paul grimaced slightly before hopping down onto the short-cropped grass within the fence, wobbling a bit as he landed. He was probably trying to keep his forepaws from touching the ground. The attendant handed him the tiny bow.

“You get six shots. Might want to aim higher than you think you need to, little guy.”

“I never would have guessed,” the polymorph replied.

Three of Jean-Paul’s shots hit a target. One even struck the second row of targets that had been moved for him.

“Excellent job!” D cheered, spilling a bit of his drink on his hand as he clapped awkwardly around the cup.

“Average,” H corrected. “You really are a median person.”

“Shush, he’s wonderful,” D chided.

“Thanks, Phospho, but my ego isn’t really riding on this,” Jean-Paul said. “I’ve never even done this before.”

“Then let me show you how it’s done,” H replied.

H moved into place with a showman’s confidence. Even now, crippled and aged, he hadn’t lost that. It was something D really admired about him. He slid into position easily, bow straight and arrow nocked. He pulled the string back. It looked like he wasn’t pulling back far enough for the shot he was trying to take. Six shots, six hits, all on the farthest targets. Still, D could tell by the hesitant way he lowered his bow, the slight tremor in his arms, that H was unhappy. None of his arrows but the last one had hit the center circle. He shouldn’t be upset with such a result!

“Fantastic!” D shouted, clapping again. Now both his hands were covered in sugary liquid. D could just hear the sigh that whispered through H’s helmet as he strode back.

“Humiliate myself in front of the fucking raccoon,” he muttered. D stiffened. H had gotten so much better about treating Jean-Paul like a human. He really was upset.

“Y-you didn’t, really…” D reached out a hand to offer H’s arm a comforting touch, but twitched away when he remembered his hands were still covered in lemonade, and H’s costume was very expensive. He bit his lip and took a step back. “Y-you really… um…” D fiddled with the cup, feeling stupid. “You really did very well.” He knew H had wanted to be perfect, though. He was in public, and he was in front of Jean-Paul. And D couldn’t even touch him because he’d thought clapping like an idiot would mean anything to anyone.

D started when he felt a tug on his coat. He looked down to see Jean-Paul staring up at him.

“Phospho! Do you want to give it a try?” He asked. D rubbed his finger back and forth along the plastic straw. It made a horrible sound.

“I… um…” Did he want to? He looked to H.

“… Go ahead,” the other man said after a pause. “It couldn��t hurt to give the boy another reminder of just how out of his league he is.” D replied with an uncertain hum. He felt that he should defend Jean-Paul, but he really didn’t have a counterargument.

D chugged the remainder of his drink (the chunks were blue-dyed watermelon!) and tossed the cup before stepping into the game area. He forced himself to give the attendant a polite smile as he was handed the bow. D knew he moved with far less grace than H as he lined up the first shot. He hadn’t used a bow in a while. He probably wouldn’t do very well. He would like to, though. Six shots, six hits, all on the farthest targets. Five out of six had struck the center ring. He supposed he’d done fine. He really should have been able to hit them all in the center; the targets weren’t even that far away. Dr. Oleander had told him to be kinder to himself, though, so. It was fine.

H was sitting back in his chair when D returned to him and PG, having given back the bow. Leather slapped against leather as H clapped; a moderate pace, like he’d just savored an extravagant performance and wished to retain the dignity of the moment.

“Well done, Kitten!” he boomed.

“Yeah, I seriously forgot how good of a shot you are,” Jean-Paul added. D fidgeted with the cuffs on his coat.

“Oh, no, I didn’t really do very well,” he said. “I mean, um. I was fine.”

“Stop being modest,” H sniffed. “Your virtue is one of your most annoying qualities. I’ll find a way to dampen it with a bit of selfishness one of these days.” His voice was regal yet fond. Warmth prickled in D’s chest.

“Before you go,” the attendant said, crossing the fence and approaching the group. “Got somethin’ for you.” He held out his hand, palm up, toward H and D. D took what was offered; a pair of plastic “silver” medals hanging from black, imitation silk bands. “You two are seriously good. You shoot often?”

“Not for some time,” D admitted. He held up the medal to inspect it. A lumpy gryphon was embossed onto its surface. D smiled. He made to hand one to H, but his friend held his palm up.

“Not a fan of tacky trash, Kitten,” he said. “You can keep it.” The attendant made an odd face, looking between the two old men for a moment, before crouching down to Jean-Paul’s level.

“This one’s for you, little guy,” he said. His voice pitched up when he addressed the shifter. “Those targets were really far!” He pressed a medal into Jean-Paul’s paws. The polymorph stared at it for a moment before pinning it to the front of his cloak.

“I am ecstatic to have the opportunity to provide you with free advertising,” he said. Instead of black, the medal’s fake silk was cherry red, and instead of a gryphon, the plastic circle bore a thumbs up sign. D’s face pinched.

“That’s the children’s design, isn’t it?” He asked. His voice had gone hard. The attendant looked at him as he straightened.

“I mean, yeah,” he said, like he didn’t understand the problem. D gripped his own medals tighter.

“He’s an adult,” he said, louder this time.

“It’s fine, D,” H said, grazing D’s elbow with his fingers. “That medal will fit well with his others. It’s even the same color as his Medal of Recognition from the Transplanetary Alliance.” The attendant raised an eyebrow, taking another moment to look Jean-Paul up and down.

“No, no, that’s not the right shade,” Jean-Paul added, adjusting the cheap plastic disc. “You’re thinking of the Sanctific Chrisming of the Bright God.” D took a deep breath in through his nose. His mask smelled like sweat and sugar. He saw the game now.

“If I recall correctly, that one’s black and gold,” he said. “Perhaps you’re remembering the Centennial Hallibraxian Medal of Service? I can see how it might be difficult to remember the colors, as you don’t wear them often.” He eyed the attendant. “Maybe you should.”

“Alright, man, you don’t have to wear these if you don’t want to,” the man muttered before turning his attention to a couple who had approached the game.

A couple hours later, the trio stopped for lunch. D was almost as grateful for the break, for being able to *sit down,* as he was for the food. His legs were properly hurting now, and stiffness had wrapped prickling chains around his spine. Jean-Paul had made him use hand sanitizer before he ate (an oversized turkey leg, its skin craggy from a rustic method of cooking. Fun!) He tried to pressure H into doing the same when he took off his gloves, but was summarily rebuffed.

“I’ve been wearing gloves all day,” he said. “Besides, hand sanitizer can damage leather.”

“Don’t blame me when you get sick,” Jean-Paul retorted, scrubbing down his own paws.

H slid off his helmet to eat the meal D had bought for him (he couldn’t refuse it that way.)

His face was red with blood.

“A-are you okay?!” D stammered, heart stuttering.

“What, what is it?” H asked, sounding entirely unconcerned.

“Y-your face! Blood!” D grabbed H’s face in his hands, fingers pressing into hollow cheeks, and pulled him closer, inspecting. “It’s… it’s a nose bleed.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” H said. “I thought it was sweat on my lip.” He gripped D’s arms and guided them away, the touch lingering. “You know how often this happens, D. You know it doesn’t mean anything. My nasal lining is just fucked up. You know that.” His thumb brushed D’s arm, deforming the thick fabric of his coat.

D forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Yes… yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” H chided gently. He scrubbed his face with a napkin with one hand. D frowned. H was *bleeding* and he was comforting him. That was a cycle that wouldn’t stop repeating.

Hooves thundered, kicking up dust. An announcer rambled out a story about rival houses over a loudspeaker. Two horses charged each other in choreographed unison. Lance struck armor and one knight slumped. Half the audience cheered as their assigned house claimed victory; the other half booed in good humor. D was supposed to be on the side that was cheering. He really didn’t feel like doing so. His legs, back and hips felt like they were on fire (not really; he knew what that felt like.) Sitting down wasn’t helping anymore. He gripped the fabric over his knees. Fuck, they hurt.

The crowd had begun to filter out of the open-air auditorium that held the jousting events. It wasn’t terribly large, but H’s wheelchair had granted them access to disabled seating. The other seats had been filled completely, leaving some to have to wait for the next show. H, with Jean-Paul nestled in his lap, had wheeled about, ready to move on. He was watching D expectantly. Only D couldn’t get up. His joints had locked up while he sat and watched the show. His body felt like it was eating itself, gnawing nerves raw as he tried to force himself up.

No, no, he could do this. It was just standing. That was easy. D gripped either side of his seat and slowly, painfully, dragged himself to his feet. He let out an involuntary groan through gritted teeth. H was standing beside him, out of his chair.

“I told you not to push yourself,” he nearly snapped. He sounded angry. Concerned.

“I’m f-fine,” D said. H pointed at his wheelchair.

“Sit down,” he ordered. D shook his head.

“N-no, that’s yours,” he argued. “You need it.”

“I need it a hell of a lot less than you right now. Sit.” D looked away. He felt himself hunching.

“I-I can walk,” he murmured.

“Barely,” H scoffed. “How do you fancy going back down that ramp; up the hill we took to get here? Please, Kitten. You need to rest.” H’s voice softened at the end. His hands wound around D’s arms and guided him down. He resisted at first, for a moment, before giving in. Once he was seated, Jean-Paul, who had moved to the bench when H stood, hopped onto his lap. D sighed and ran his fingers through the fur on his tail.

D’s arms, at least, were fine. He maneuvered the wheelchair far more awkwardly than H, but pushing himself was easy. H, who had retrieved his cane, walked beside him. D was glad he wasn’t trying to push him. He felt guilty for making H walk at all.

“What the fuck is this?!” D jolted. He wanted to turn toward the infuriated voice, but he wasn’t good enough with the chair to do so before its source had circled in front of him. They were just outside the auditorium now, and a red-faced man in a huntsman’s outfit was glaring between D and H. A woman was close by, holding a small child tightly by the hand.

“A raccoon,” H sneered, leaning on his cane. “I suppose, alongside the ability to mind your own business, you were never taught basic zoology.”

“I’m not talking about that, asshole,” the stranger snapped. “I remembered you two. You were behind us in line.” He jabbed a finger at D. “You switched places!” His glare shifted back to H. “You can fucking walk!” D gripped the wheels of the chair. He hated people yelling at him. He hated people yelling at H. He wanted to make him stop.

H paused before speaking.

“… My friend is tired,” he said. His voice sounded strained. “He’s having difficulty walking. Frankly, I don’t owe you an explanation, but maybe it can teach your child something. You certainly seem incapable of doing so.” The man took a lurching step forward. D’s hands shook. The man was getting in H’s face. D wanted to hit him. But he hurt, and there was a child. He groaned and pressed his hands over his masked face. There was a fucking kid. He couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t think of anything to say.

”You made my kid miss out on the show!” The stranger snapped. “You got let in after the cutoff because of the damn wheelchair you don’t need!”

“We were in disabled seating, moron,” H hissed. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Count yourself lucky your child gets to attend events like this.” The barest tremor entered his voice. D should do something. He should fucking do something. Why wouldn’t his body move?!

“Dude. Are you screaming at a guy in a wheelchair?” Another voice had entered the conversation.

“He doesn’t need it,” the first man scoffed. “These two switched places!”

“Yeah, man, they’re old,” said the new voice. “They probably needed to.” D peeked between his fingers. A young man had forced himself between H and the angry parent. He was wearing what could generously be considered a low-effort peasant costume. The two continued to argue, the first man shifting his attention to his new combatant. Jean-Paul pressed his hand against D’s arm.

“Let’s go,” he said, as quietly as his translator would allow. D nodded, but he couldn’t make himself move further. H pulled him back and wheeled him away. As soon as D calmed down, he took over.

The little group made their way back into the main area of the fair. H had stripped off the outer layer of his armor, including his gloves, leaving the gambeson and helmet. The rest was stowed on the wheelchair.

“I’m hot,” he’d explained when asked. He accepted a water bottle from Jean-Paul, removing his helmet long enough to drink it.

Stress clung to D’s chest and shoulders, winding up his neck. His jaw clenched involuntarily. He was terrible with the wheelchair. He kept bumping into people. They glared down at him, making him want to curl up into nothing. It felt so much more crowded, too. He wasn’t exactly tall, but when he was standing, he was roughly head level with everyone else. Bodies took up more space; a sea of torsos, shifting and crowding and trying to choke him-

“Are you okay, Phospho?” Jean-Paul asked from his lap. D gave a strangled noise in reply. He kept wheeling forward, because if he stopped, he knew he was going to freeze again.

“What’s wrong?” H asked from behind him. He leaned heavily on the back of the wheelchair. Nothing, D wanted to reply. He didn’t say anything.

“Hey - do your breathing exercises,” Jean-Paul prompted. It was only then that D realized he was practically hyperventilating. He couldn’t slow his breaths. His head felt hot. “Seriously, Phospho, stop. I need you to calm down,” Jean-Paul said. D bumped into someone else. Another glare, followed by an expression of permissive pity. A whine choked from D’s throat.

A hand from behind pulled him to a stop. Jean-Paul hopped off his lap.

“Stay with him,” he said.

“As if I’d leave,” H replied. He put his hands on D’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Kitten.” Fuck. He was doing it again. He was making H comfort him. He was freaking out over nothing. It was nothing!

Jean-Paul returned some time later. D didn’t know how long. He was sure H did.

“I found somewhere a bit quieter,” the polymorph said. “Follow me.” With a bit of coaxing, D was able to make himself move again. He kept his eyes locked on Jean-Paul; tried to ignore everything else. The shifter’s cape dragged in the dust. He led them to an open, grassy area on the edge of the fair. There were still people, but fewer. There were even a couple free benches. D maneuvered himself beside one and H slumped down heavily. Guilt squirmed inside D.

Jean-Paul left again, returning with an icy lemonade and a large pickle half-wrapped in wax paper. He hopped onto D’s lap and offered them to him. D had calmed down enough by then to accept the gifts.

“You actually went to the pickle guy?” H asked, raising an eyebrow. His helmet sat on the bench beside him.

“Electrolytes,” Jean-Paul explained. “Plus, he was charming.”

D petted Jean-Paul while he ate the pickle and drank the lemonade (it was strawberry mint and he loved it). Jean-Paul and H’s easy banter resumed. It was nice to listen to. Suddenly, a wet nose pushed itself against his leg. D looked down to see a Labrador retriever tethered to a flustered-looking woman.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “Sally! You know better than that. Heel!” A quick, minute tug on Sally’s leash had her standing at the woman’s side. She was still staring at D with large, golden eyes that stood out against her chocolate-colored fur. She was beautiful.

“It’s fine,” D said with a smile. “I have treats. Does she have any allergies?”

“Um, chicken,” the woman replied. D nodded.

“A common one.” He reached into his pocket. “Is beef okay?” The stranger smiled back.

“Yeah, she’d love that.”

D held out a treat for the dog to take. At a command of ‘free’ from her owner, Sally trotted forward and lapped it up. D laughed and stroked the dog’s fuzzy head.

The woman sat on the bench beside H.

“I saw you guys earlier today,” she said. “Love the costumes. And your raccoon is so cute! Is it a pet or a service animal?”

Jean-Paul answered ‘neither’ at the same time H said ‘service animal.’ The woman blinked.

“He’s a human,” H said.

“I have a raccoon body now because of a series of frankly ridiculous circumstances,” Jean-Paul added. D didn’t have anything to say, so he continued to pet the dog. Her tail wagged lazily.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry,” the woman said. She nervously adjusted the front of her corset. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” Jean-Paul chittered a good-natured laugh.

“An honest mistake. Besides, my circumstances are pretty unique. Can’t expect every raccoon you see to have an undergraduate degree.”

The woman continued to chat with H and Jean-Paul, with D contributing occasionally. He slipped the dog a few more treats, lavishing her with attention. The crowd slowly began to clear. It was reaching the end of business hours. The woman parted with an amiable farewell, the feather on her tricorn hat bobbing in the still air as she departed. The heat of the day became less oppressive as shadows lengthened. H stood, looking less fatigued. The three friends slowly made their way back to the entrance.

#domesticated ford #gravity falls au #text #official fanfic #good ending #good ending h #good ending d #pet guy #crossover #alexthebordercollie

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