#actually looked at how the other ones were sewn on today

[homogremlin]

i have this cute skirt that one of the fake buttons fell off of last year. so what do i do, other than finally mend it for my concert tonight, an hour before my concert, almost a full year later?

anyway it looks super cute

(the one that fell off is on the bottom right, but i think top left will be the next to go 😔)

[doctorbeth]

Raggedy Andy

As some of you who've been reading for some time know, in addition to stuffed animals, I also repair (and actually make) cloth dolls. This part of the hospital is rather specialized, mostly all cloth dolls, not ones with plastic parts or mobile eyes or hand knitted ones. My specialty is fabric (including faux fur, obviously), and that's the equipment I have. But that does mean I get a lot of Raggedies. Raggedy Anns, Raggedy Annes (the name spelling really matters!) and Raggedy Andys. Today, I thought I'd share a story of a small handmade Raggedy Andy.

Andy had been loved for over twenty years when his person asked her mom to please get him fixed up. He had had a lot of adventures, and clearly some serious accidents! Here are his diagnosis photos:

And this is what he looked like as a young doll:

You can see that he's lost his face, and his clothes. Even his sewn on shoes were wearing off. And he had more injuries to his limbs and torso. You can also see that Andy was custom made... his face and clothing were both different from commercial raggedies, as was his foot shape.

I couldn't match his original jacket fabric, so I recommended his family choose a fabric they'd like and send that to the hospital with him. In addition to new clothes, and a new face, and other wound repair, he was going to get his shoes recovered and supplemental stuffing. Once he was in the hospital, we also agreed to recover the blue part of his hat (as it was quite worn, which is hard to see in the photos.

It took a bit of time, but soon, Andy was feeling more like himself. Here he is with his wounds repaired, new face, new pants, and new shoes:

You can see the torso and arm wounds were repaired, but the face is new. His pants button on, but his shoes (now velour) are sewn in place.

And here's Andy all spiffy in his full new outfit, ready to fly home:

His family wrote when they saw the photos:

Oh my goodness this is fantastic!! He looks amazing. I cannot thank you enough!! I love his new face and his heart is still there. Thank you for salvaging all you could. His outfit is wonderful. Thank you Thank you!!

And when Andy made it home they said:

Andy arrived!!  He looks amazing and just so incredible how he came back to life.  I am so happy and cannot wait to surprise my daughter. 

Amazing and just could cry.  This is her most valued memory from childhood.  Her Andy.

Thank you, thank you.

:-)

[italoniponic]

Bat-Hunter | Rook Hunt & Lilia Vanrouge

Synopsis: In which Rook and Lilia found themselves at the start of a legendary battle for the Prefect of Ramshackle's heart. The world of love triangles is awfully quiet after this exchange. Dedicated to @pandoa. You wish and you shall receive <3

Lilia Vanrouge, Rook Hunt x gender neutral reader / small scenario / fluff but mostly crack / reference to a specific Phillipines dish / 1525 words / use of “you” pronouns / Masterlist

Bat-Hunter: The Magnificent Showdown!

Few people throughout history — between humans and faes — could say that they had the audacity to directly antagonize the Great General Vanrouge in any sort of battle. And getting out of this sort of risk alive was a bit of luck granted to very few people, almost to none.

“But a coward hunter is not worthy to receive the title, nor to wear a hat.”

That was the Hunt family motto that Rook was so proud to carry in his heart. Such was his respect for his family tradition that this phrase was embroidered on the inside of all his hats so as to never forget his origins.

Well, maybe I’m starting a little too fast and you’re still worrying — from the comfort of Ramshackle’s upstairs window — what the hell the two guys you liked were doing on the ground floor balcony, dressed like that.

Despite everything, you suddenly shrugged to yourself and headed to the kitchen where a more urgent task needed to be fulfilled. When everything was ready, hopefully you could invite the guys in. That is, if you found one or the other intact in the end.

Because that was the feeling that their exchange of glances passed.

Lilia was dressed in his Light Music club “uniform,” as punk rock as your father had been in the eighties when he was young and phones were wired. He held his guitar close to him, as if it were the weapon of his days in the Army of Thorns. He was “total rad” — as the youngsters would say.

His friendly smile only masked the irritation of finding Rook in that place, decked out from head to toe. Usually, his presence was easy to ignore and his curiosity could be quite amusing from time to time.

But he knew the real situation they were in: they were equals in rivalry for the heart of Ramshackle’s Prefect.

Knights in a duel for love!

Rook, in his own instance, wore a pair of belted trousers and a loose white blouse — located in the common vocabulary as a “pirate blouse” — with the strange addition of a large pink coat over his shoulders, sewn by hand and with some patterns of blue rhombuses. With his hat in hand, he looked like a book character.

His expression was equally gentle but it carried a certain pang of defiance, like a hunter who meets another while hunting.

“You look very beauté this afternoon, Monsieur Curiosité!,” Rook praised.

“How did you actually say that time? That my beauty is ‘mysterious’?,” Lilia chuckled, squinting his eyes.

“Oui, oui! But do not fret, Monsieur, today my attention is on someone else.”

“Another one? You can’t get enough of it, can you, Hunt?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, yes. I’m tired. Tired because I’m wandering for days and nights thinking about the smile of that kind person and how I would like to cheer them up in these times of crisis!”

Crisis? Lilia didn’t quite understand. You seemed to be doing very well during all the times you met. Had he let any detail slip through the cracks?

“What kind of crisis? That is,” he bit his tongue, embarrassed that he had to ask for help from his literal rival. “If I may intrude.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. These are ear crisis! Dear Trickster has been hearing a lot of guitars being scratched lately,” the young huntsman replied, boldly.

Lilia barely broke his guitar cable — or the entire instrument at once in Rook’s head.

It was a mere provocation, no big deal. And Pomefiore’s vice, the way he was, probably appreciated each style of music in its own artistic way. But they were dealing with a battle of epic proportions and every blow counted.

Even if he were to call Lilia’s love-hard-heavy-metal demo “instrument-scratching”. But it was worth it and it showed in the way Rook’s eyes squinted in amusement.

Dealing with Diasomnia’s vice has always been an adventure in itself. That was the best part about being Lilia’s romantic rival.

Regardless of the ending, moments like this would always have a special place in Rook’s heart and he would remember it all with emotion when he went to tell your children — “the Hunt Jrs.” — the trajectory of your love.

“Why are you crying?,” suddenly Lilia inquired, confused.

“You will not be forgotten, Monsieur Curiosité! Forever and ever!,” Rook declared, wiping a tear with the sleeve of his coat. “Your memory will be carried forever in our family!”

At this the fae pulled the hunter by the collar of his shirt, staring directly into his green eyes. It was not necessary to float to come face to face with Rook, Lilia had enough dignity to impose himself the way he wanted.

And, let’s face it, making the boy — a “child” in his eyes — literally reach his level was more convenient too.

“Your particular persona has not yet turned gray to be Malleus’ breakfast because I dare, to the best of my mental faculties, find your audacity mildly amusing,” Lilia said with a grim smile cutting across his face.

“I thank you, monsieur. And I, if I may say so, find the bloody-pink in your eyes extremely beautiful,” Rook retorted, torn between fascination and a certain fear instinct that only made him feel more confident in his goals.

“Who do you think you are, hunter?”

“And who do you think I am, bat?”

That said, the two of them started laughing. Maniacally. They walked away but kept laughing, releasing all the anger and tension that could be felt in the form of simple fun between two colleagues.

Oh, they wanted to duel until death ripped them from each others hands.

Fortunately, you opened the door in time to prevent a bloodbath in your yard — after all, it would be difficult to clean it up.

“Hey, boys!,” you greeted, happy. “Wanna come in? I made pancit canton!”

Then you showed them a plate of fresh noodles, straight out of the pan, in a colorful combination of sliced pork, sausage and shrimp along with chopped carrots, cabbage, peas, onions and garlic. It smelled wonderfully good and matched your good mood. No wonder, it was your favorite food from the Philippines.

The sun was setting and it was close to dinner time. In fact, you were so excited about the process of cooking everything — from blanching vegetables to cutting meats — that the serving size tripled. Maybe being busy tidying the house didn’t help your distraction.

But with Lilia and Rook there — and Grim would be happy with extra food — you felt that little slip was worth doing it.

The smile that opened on your face descended on them like a ray of light in the midst of darkness, poetic as a fairy tale.

The animosity in the air was still palpable, however you were simply happy to have the company of your two crushes at the same time and there are times you need to take advantage of some situations.

“Prefect! I composed a song and I would like you to hear it,” Lilia stepped forward, putting the guitar in position and pulling a bombastic sound from the strings.

Your eyes widened and you couldn’t stop an admiring smile from appearing. Outside that your heart was racing just like the Light Music club speakers after a performance by Lilia. He was so cool!

“And I brought the best collection of poems on my bookshelf to recite, sweet Trickster!,” Rook didn’t lag behind and with one movement of his arm, the coat danced beautifully under his shoulders.

Another shot to the heart! As if that were not enough, the shades of the afternoon horizon harmonized perfectly with Rook’s clothes and made him an otherworldly vision, having escaped from a bedside book just to meet with you.

“You two are going to drive me crazy like this…,” you grumbled to yourself. But you did your best to stay intact.

“I just want you to bear with me 'cause I am only one,” you said. “Let’s have dinner first, okay?”

“All for you, sweet Trickster!,” Rook declared, taking your free hand and kissing it.

“A-ah! Okay?”

“What matters is your wish, Prefect,” Lilia skillfully took the plate of pancit from your other hand and also kissed it.

“B-but your guitar...!” He literally had put the instrument between his legs.

“There’s no time for questioning, magnefique apple of my eyes. Forward, my brave rival!”

“Said and done, hunter!”

You were still confused when they managed to find a way to literally drag you into the house, each holding your arms as if your weight was negligible and the situation completely normal.

It was obvious how Rook and Lilia, even if in different ways, could make you go “head over heels.” 

Well, you avoided reaching that angle when they deposited you on the couch and sat each by your sides. At least the animosity was gone and Lilia’s guitar was more securely propped up on the coffee table.

“Dinner, mes ami?,” Rook suggested. “Then a lyrical duel to the death?”

“A what...?”

“That’s fine for me,” Lilia accepted.

And so they lived happily ever after. At least until after dinner.

🦇����️🏹

Special Notes: It’s funny or maybe not how I can get drowned in my own work and never make any progress in months but the moment the inspiration for something strikes me as a lighting, suddenly I can pull off an entire 1525 thing in two nights straight. It’s quite simple and it goes more into comedy territory but it’s a homage for your underrated comedy skills, Pando! I still tried my best to make sure both Rook and Lilia could have their times to shine. I based most of the exchange in Lilia’s R Sports Card personal story with Rook (and just got off from that feeling). Have to say, I love a good unilateral passive-aggressive convo and they delivered <3

Now… any similarities of scenes from certain movies are completely my fault. I’m currently having a Die Hard and Kung Fu Panda brainrot, which is weird but it happened.

[iid-smile]

complicated communication , shinazugawa sanemi

x fem!hashira!reader ! includes mentions of obanai and kanae, like one swear, based on s5, not proofread

author's note: this is the first thing ive written, and ive been bored to the point of overcoming my wattpad era from years ago and entering tumblr! yayyy! may be kinda bad, since it was a quick idea, but i hope you enjoy! <3

─────────────୨ৎ─────────────

it was a cold evening.

on this rare occasion, you decided to stay awake to witness some hashira training with your own eyes. it's not often you spare the little (actually, quite lengthy) sleeping time that you have, but the junior slayers you train are pretty well behaved in your estate, especially when it comes to routines.

surprisingly, sanemi is a punctual person. perhaps it's his eagerness to get into some "real hashira training", or perhaps, mixed in with a little of your delusion, it's a chance for the two of you to get some alone time. no, you're not dating each other. yes, you do have a fat crush on him. pathetic, really, because you seem to be the only woman out there that he doesn't respect.

and here, the two of you sit on the steps leading up to the open training grounds. there's got to be at least a two metre gap between the two of you.

"how's genya?" of course, you strike up the worst conversation possible, which is typical (then you wonder why he doesn't respect you?), not so typical for him. at all.

you hear him grumble, alongside a noise of shifting fabric. "i don't want to talk about him."

as if you were surprised, which you weren't, your eyebrows raise a little. you turn your head to look at him rather than the mirroring trees in front, only to see that he was not looking back at you. "why?"

"tch." it's a harsh sound. his eyes remain down on the ground. "you know why." he mutters, his voice remaining low. just for a moment, his gaze raises to the scenery, taking in what he can and can't see. "if you wanna know so bad, how about you ask him yourself?"

ah, dear, dear sanemi. always so rash with you. "i don't see what's wrong with asking his brother about his condition–"

he cuts you off. "he's not my damn brother."

as expected, their relationship hadn't gotten any better, but you remain hopeful. a small smile appears on your face, and you drop the topic. sometimes, you would push on it, but not today. it's not the right environment.

silence.

from time to time, you shift positions. maybe moving a leg, or crossing your arms, uncrossing them, and resting your head in your hands. also, every now and then, you would sniff, a ghost feeling of something dripping down your nose happening too frequently for your liking. you sniff and sniff, but every time you try to wipe, it's like nothing's there.

"here." you turn to look over at him, midway rubbing your nose for the umpteenth time, and lo and behold. a handkerchief in his hand, stretched out to you.

"thank... you..." you say awkwardly, reaching over to take it. before you used it, you took the time to examine it, and... it's his personal handkerchief. you could tell by the "S.S." initials sewn into them. "are you sure?"

"just use it. i'll clean it when i get back to my estate." a harsh tone again. okay, wow. for someone who went out of his way to help you out with his handkerchief, he's having quite the attitude. still, you're grateful. it's not often he does kind gestures, or ever.

it was a bit of a slip of the tongue from you, but he heard it. "quit giving me mixed signals..." you mumble, the words coming out nasally from your nostrils being closed as you wiped your nose. this wasn't even a signal, so why does your heart still ache at the thought?

"huh?" you lower the cloth and look over, only to see a scowl on his face. "the fuck are you on about?"

for once, your stare falters, and you look down at the handkerchief, laying in your cupped hands. "there's no point. i'll be nothing like her."

sanemi can't help but raise an eyebrow. "like who?"

you were nothing like the late kanae kocho. extremely kind, extremely beautiful, extremely graceful. you felt you were none of those things, and it showed. it showed most through the difference in behaviour from him. that gentle affection that you craved from him really wasn't possible.

so, you cower out of it. "nevermind." you nearly whisper.

you can't see it, but there's an unreadable expression on his face as he watches you. like he's reading you, like he's figuring you out. before he could get another word in—

"i'm here." obanai's voice rang out.

you don't say anything else, only quietly standing up and ascending the rest of the stairs.

sanemi doesn't miss the way your hand fiddles with the hem of your haori, and the way your hand seems to desperately clutch at his handkerchief.

─────────────୨ৎ─────────────

[sunlighthroughthe-ashes]

don't mind me; i'm just imagining sol and and sunjae's actual wedding day, and how beautiful it'll be.

the hall will be filled with well-wishers; sunjae's and sol's families sitting at the very front. sunjae's 'abeoji' will be smiling fondly, near tears: because he's never seen his son so happy. sol's mother and 'halmeoni' will be looking on contentedly; indulgent and proud: because this is nothing less than what sol deserves. im geum will be in the corner with hyun-joo; half-jokingly sending sunjae threatening looks, but his smile will be proud and happy. he will know that his sister has found her soulmate.

hyun-joo's and im geum's eldest child will be their flower girl: softly spreading sunflower petals down the aisle for sol. a soft hush will fall over the room; there will be yellow roses sewn into sol's veil: because yellow is sunjae and sol's color. the color of life, luck, light.

baek inhyuk will quietly play "sonagi" on the piano as sol approaches sunjae, taesung leading her down the aisle as her closest male friend; and the entire reason they were able to reach this day. sunjae's smile will be radiant: today, he's the luckiest man alive. there will be tears in sol's eyes as she joins sunjae's side. this is better than her brightest dream.

slowly, reverently, sunjae will slip a ring onto sol's slender finger; diamond bridged with sapphire: because blue is their color, too. the color of renewal, remembrance, river-water.

"not even death can part us," they will say to each other. there won't be a dry eye in the room as they exchange vows.

after it ends, sol and sunjae will step outside, surrounded by all their loved ones on this impossible miracle of a day. a gentle rain will descend from the sky, staining their clothes.

sunjae and sol will smile softly at each other. "you really are a gift to me," sunjae will whisper, touching sol's cheek tenderly. "and you are my blessing," sol will murmur back, catching his hand.

they will kiss.

(the scene fades to black.)

[atxxokirina]

Can I make a request where the reader is to be mated with Aonung but Neteyam swoops in and steals her away? Bonus points if it's dark 🤤

Thank you!

Replacement (18+ MDNI) —

Neteyam x Fem Metkayina reader

Contains: ⚠️ CNC, dark/rough Neteyam, daddy kink, creampie, impact play, missionary, cheating reader (sorta). Let me now if I missed anything.

Plot: After finding out you're forced to be mated with Aounung, Neteyam does whatever he can to make sure it doesn't happen.

— 𓆉

You had just returned from your 3rd fitting session of the day with Ronal. Her, and many of the older women in the clan won't stop gushing about how you and Aounung would be such "beautiful mates". But in all honesty, you didn't want to be with him in the first place. The marriage was arranged by Aounung's parents and yours. But of course, you had no say in it.

Going through hours of being pricked by needles, pushed around, and squeezed by the attire she'd sewn for you. It felt endless. One outfit after the other, and if that one wasn't 1000% perfect? You had to stand still for Eywa knows how long, as the Tsahík and elders fit their fabrics on you. It was torture.

Exhausted, you stumble back into your Marui. Collapsing on your cot and laying on your back as you deeply sighed. The sound of wind blowing was like a soothing melody as you began to drift into a restless sleep, desperately seeking an escape from the overwhelming reality that'd been forced upon you.

Just as you were beginning to lose consciousness.. "Knock knock?" You hear a voice tap on the wood outside of your Marui. Shooting up from your cot, you quickly shuffle to the door, instantly smiling at who you see. "Neteyam!" You happily sigh, bringing him into a hug as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He stands still for a second, surprised by the sudden gesture, but still embraces you nonetheless.

Neteyam takes both of your shoulders and tilts your face up to look at his. "Something wrong? You look tired." His that gently holds your chin, runs down your face and rests on the top of your head. You frown, tilting your head with a pout, basically speaking with your eyes. "Was the Tsahík making you try on clothes again?" He let out a small laugh under his breath.

"Yeah," you sigh, rolling your eyes. "Every single day, nonstop. It's so tiring," You huff, turning around to sit on your cot as you burry your face in your knees. "I just want this to end," you groan again. "I didn't even wanna be with him in the first place." You complain about the same thing, for the hundredth time today- almost becoming annoyed with yourself.

Neteyam stood still, body leaning against your wooden walls as he stirred up an idea. "Hey," he starts, voice full of curiosity. "Your father wants just wants you to be mated the Olo'ekytan, right?" He asked. You bring your head up from your knees, peeking up at Neteyam. "Mm- yeah, why?" You mumble with a nod, unsure of what he's getting at.

A sly smirk curls on Neteyam's lips, he knew exactly how to curve you from Aounung. He moves away from the wooden plank, stopping in front of you and kneeling to your level. "W-What is it, Teyam?" You question as your body heat increased, heart beating faster. "Y/n," he sighs. "You do know that I'm going to be Olo'ekytan too, right?" You blink a few times. "Yes.." You reply, staring at him with growing curiosity and anticipation.

"No." You state once you finally understand. "No, I can't do that. My father would never approve, and I'm already expected to be-" He cups your chin, pitying a smile. "It's a shame that I'm not asking. I'm *telling." Neteyam sounds more serious than usual, and it worries you that he actually expects you to go through with this.

Neteyam is picture perfect, there's no doubt about that. He's an amazing warrior, responsible, attractive, muscular, and the list could go on and on. The only problem, is he's basically like family to you. The years you've known each other all you've done was mentor him. Teaching him the Metkayina ways, it almost felt like you were raising him up— which is why it felt so it felt wrong to consider mating with him.

"I-I can't, really Neteyam-" He stops you again. "Didn't you want a way out of this? I'm giving you one, and now you're trying to back out?" He raises his voice as he stood up, causing you to flinch. His large figure is towering over you now, you can see each pore and freckle on his chest.

Looking up at him, you hesitate to speak. "Neteyam, please calm down. I didn't mean to lead you on or anything, I swear." you try to explain, but his patience is visibly running thin.

Neteyam lets out a deep, exhaled sigh. "You may not want this, but you also don't want to be with Aounung, yes?" His voice was melodic and deep. Almost sympathetic.

Barely making eye contact as he loosens his loincloth. You sniffle, nodding in fear. "Mm, that's what I thought." You're practically trembling as you watch him untie his cloth. "I'm your only way out, y/n. It's me or him."

Your ears lay flat in fear. Worried about what he'll do next. "Oh, come on. Don't act all scared now," Neteyam teases. He pulls you closer by your chin, giving a single kitten lick to your neck. "Hmh.." You whine, completely cornered. Neteyam's firm hands wrap around your throat, only gently squeezing. You turn your head and try to avoid his eyes.

He spreads your thighs with his knee, making each move sensual and slow. "Look at me," he hums, weaving his fingers in between your top. You pretend not to hear him, but the slight twitch in your ears gave you away.

"You think you're funny, huh? I said, look at me." Neteyam growls, gripping your chin tighter and forcing it to face him. Your lips quiver, you've no choice but to lock eyes with him. "Don't make this harder than it has to be, y/n."

As his hands travel underneath your top, he groans. Feeling the warmth of your breasts while his index and middle finger roll in between your nipples. Without warning, he rips it your crochet top off. Fully exposing your tits. "Neteyam!" You gasp. "Shut up." He snarls.

After that, he goes for your loincloth. His sharp nails teasing your band before expertly untying it. He completely took his off, as well. Cock standing at attention, pulsing every once in awhile, just waiting to be touched. You reach your hand out, slowly going in for it. You're stopped as he smacks your hand away. "Did I give you permission to touch me?" Neteyam asks, tone stern. "N-No, but—"

He takes you by your neck, throwing you onto the cot as if you were nothing. Your pupils widen as you whimpered, jagged breaths escaping you. "I-I'm sorry, Neteyam. I won't touch you without permission." You whimper, leaning back on your arms as you attempt to shuffle away. He mockingly frowns, stepping over to you.

Your heart rate was at it's peak as he came closer. Crawling on top of you and pinning your arms back. His abs were tense and his breathing was so heavy. You've never seen him this way. Usually he's the sweetest, most careful man ever. But now? He was entirely different.

Your eyes meet each other, and you know he's yearning for something more. "I'm gonna fuck you until you're screaming." He promises "So loud that bitch Aounung will hear." Neteyam shines his fangs, slowly bringing his hands from your arms to your navel. "I bet you'd like that, huh?" He teased, pressing his thumb against your clit. "Mmh! Yes daddy. I-I would like it." You unknowingly mewl. It was almost like he forced the noise from your throat.

He holds his girthy cock with one full hand, making it look bigger than it already was. You gulp again after seeing what was going inside you, squeezing your eyes shut. He sharply inhales before easing his cock in, giving you a few seconds to prepare, before plummetting his dick inside you.

"Oh fuck! Oh f-fuck, stop! Too big, please!" Instinctively, you attempt to push him off. But his so much bigger than you, it was no use. You whine and cry, back arching as your body tries to adjust. "Don't fight it, baby. Take it for daddy, huh?" He shushes you, low moans escaping from him as he pushes the remaining 7 inches in.

Now this felt like actual torture. Like you were being ripped apart, but for some reason your body was begging for more.

Tears well in your eyes while Neteyam's cock stuffs your guts. "Mmmhh, there we go.." He groaned, giving your face a quick slap.

He was rough. And maybe you secretly loved every second. No man has ever made you feel this way. "N-No more," you hiccup. "Please!" His cock pulsed at your cries, only giving him more pleasure while he fucks you out, cock moving out halfway, slamming harder with each thrust.

"Yeah? You like that slut? Tell daddy." He plows into you deeper, your slick juices combined with his precum- making such nasty noises. "I do! I love it daddy!" You struggle another moan, absolutely hating that you're enjoying this. Neteyam holds onto the sides of your ass, clawing into them as his cock drills you. A new stream of tears roll down your face. Breathy sobs and mewls escape from your mouth.

"I like when you cry." He claws deeper, hands clutching the sides of your ass before he smacks it. Leaving faint, flush handprints. "Ah!" You yelp in pain. "You're hurting me, please!"

"Oh, yeah? It's hurting?" Neteyam mocks you again. Grunting as his hips gyrate in you, strokes becoming longer and deeper. You nod as a tear falls. "Yes.."

"It's hurting?" His single second of sympathy was over. His slaps have moved from your ass, to your tits. Leaving a stinging sensation as he pulls your body up— forcing you down on his dick. You scream out, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whimper and mewl. "Keep fucking acting like you don't want this," he thrusts once. Making you gasp for the air that's being knocked from you.

Neteyam snakes his hand to your neck, using it to pull you closer. "I'm gonna cum inside your pussy, and leave my scent on you." He whispers, fangs grazing your neck. "Everyone's gonna smell how much of a dirty slut you are." A newfound wave of arousal and pain runs through your body, you knew that you were gonna cum— no, squirt. It was so close, all you could do was stare into his eyes. Pupils fully blown as it builds up.

You cunt squeezes him, almost like a warning. "Daddy, I'm.." You sharply inhale, electricity moving throughout you. "I'm gonna cum, oh fuck!" He growls. Feeling his heavy load finally get ready to spurt. Fill your womb and invade your ovaries. "That's it. Cum on me, I'll cream this tight pussy and make you mine." Neteyam moaned, pulling you closer if it was even possible.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Tigh.. ter

Tight, tight..

Release

"I'm cu- cumming! Oh, fuck, daddy!" You scream, squirting over his cock. It came out like a waterfall, coating your plush thighs, to his balls. Your bodies were synced with each other. And just as you finished, he started.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck.. Take it. Take all my fucking cum." Neteyam moans, pantint as he holds your hips down on him, the veins in his forearms becoming prominent as he dumps his seed into your warm pussy. You cling into him, melting at the sudden warmish feeling in your tummy. "Nghhh.." You softly moan, weary and ready to pass out.

He notices and props your head up to look at him. "Uh uh, don't pass out on me now." Neteyam grins. "You're all mine now, and you have my scent. You know what that means?" Neteyam coos. "Hm..?" You lazily whine.

"I get to do what I want with you. We're mated for life now, y/n." He pulls out. Letting you fall back before moving around to your face. You're met with his still hard cock, the tip getting ready to part your lips as it's still slightly dipped in his cum and yours.

"Say 'ah'. Open wide for daddy.."

— 𓆉

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[buckyarchives]

Metal Arms and Short Skirts | Bucky Barnes [2.]

summary: waltzing in as the new head of the Avenger's medical division, impressing everyone, and... scaring Bucky with your incredibly short skirts. while bucky's having a hard time looking at his arm as anything other than a deadly weapon, you're more than happy to help him.

words: 4.3K

warnings; creepy men (+bucky fending them off) slight body dysphoria on buckys end

author note : HI I KNOW THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE UP LIKE & DAYS AGO... aib came out and ive been hyperfixaed on that and my brother got frostbite so wump wump was at the hospital on chrimis. i have mixed feelings on this chapter, but i hope you enjoy. and im still taking request.

READ ON AO3 | masterlist

Bucky wasn't going to pretend to be completely oblivious and say he wasn't finding every and any excuse to visit you. Whether it be a tear in his muscle or the sound of the metal whizzing sounding off, something bucky would have ignored with absolutely no thought. Bucky maintained a comfortable distance between you two, physically and emotionally, staying at arm's length. But something about today seemed to be different. 

Bucky shifted nervously in his seat, he watched your stride around your lab. You finally got your own area after 2 weeks of staying at the compound. It almost put Tony's lab to shame, it was huge and decked out with technology far too advanced for bucky to even understand. 

Today, You wore a black bustier that seemed to shape your form, thick and sturdy paneling sewn into the shirt, if that is what you can even call it. The neck hung low, low enough to leave very little to the imagination. Bucky practically had to tear his eyes away from your neckline when he first walked into the lab.

Bucky's excuse today was a deep cut on the side of Bucky's flesh bicep. Coming back from a quick and easy mission, but Clint needed to watch his arrows since one slit past bucky’s arm on the way to the actual enemy behind him. Bucky had a sneaky guess it was on purpose. 

You gathered the plaster and made your way back to bucky, footsteps echoing as you walked. A sigh escaped your lips, but bucky only caught a small smile. “You know, bucky. You can't come in here every time you have a small cut.”

“Isn't that what you're being paid for?” bucky snarked back, watching your hands as they gently grabbed at his lower arm. Your touch was always so delicate, like you were going to break him rather than heal. 

“Ha, ha.” you mocked. “I could have been making some ground-breaking discovery or invention before you walked in.”

Bucky's eyebrow quirked up eagerly. “Were you?”

A closed-mouthed hum escaped your lips. Your all too perfect pedicured hand wrapped the white bandage around bucky's arm, he was just watching your face as you worked. Couldn’t– wouldn't tear his eyes away. 

“Not really, just researching some stuff about scarring and skin stuff,” you spoke, dumbing it down for bucky. 

During bucky's visit, he’d always ask about everything, trying to catch up with the technology of the 21st century, or maybe just to hear your voice. He didn't understand half the things you spoke about, though he never mentioned it, but you figured it out soon enough and started to simplify it the best you could.

“Scarring?”

“Helen has some idea about how to better rid of scars.” your hand smoothed against his bicep as you finished, and your touch sent a good burn through him. Giving him a warm smile like you always did when you finished.

Bucky's eyes glanced down to his left shoulder for a moment, the ugly scarring that single-handedly destroyed most of his bodily confidence. The permanent mark of what Hydra did to him as they chopped it off and made him part machine. Bucky scoffed to cover up the obvious self-depreciation in his voice, “need a test subject?”

You flinched at his words, surprised, being taken aback by his response. Only then when you looked him up and down, settling on his clothes shoulder, your face fell and a sympathetic look flashed. It was covered by his tanktop but you knew what was under there, you'd seen the photos, you'd seen him. 

You sat back down on your little rolly stool. “I'm surprised you’d suggest that, based on your history, I'd expect you to not be so keen on being poked and prodded.”

Memories flashed Hydra's methods at tearing his humanity, mind, and body apart, all those experiments. But they quickly subdued, how could bucky think of something so cruel when you stat right in front of him, which in bucky's opinion, is perfection. 

“I think I'd be okay with it if it was you.” bucky said quietly, honestly– a confession even. 

A fond smile rose to your face, one you quickly bit back. Narrow eyes met him when you tilted your head slightly, shying away. “Good to know you trust me.”

“Always.”

“But–” you sighed, “I'm going to have to decline, Bucky. For now, you'll have to live with what your shoulder looks like. Sorry.”

Bucky dramatically groaned, trying to mask the obvious pain and disappointment he actually felt. “You're killing me, doll.”

Your ears warmed at the nickname. Averting your eyes for a moment from shyness. You knew bucky despised the scarring that painted his left shoulder, the one that connected the man to metal. You could only lend him some comfort in the situation, no amount of medical technology right now could completely ease his worries.

“Bucky?”

His head perked up, a hum escaped his lips as he put all his attention on you.

“You wanna see something really cool?” you smirked.

Bucky noticed the slight smirk tugging at your lips, he could only react by biting back a smile of his own. “Sure, doll.”

You leaned down to the hem of your right pant leg, slowly hiking up the baggy jeans that hung low on your waist. Slowly revealing a large and messy scar on your kneecap, nothing as bad as bucky's many scars that littered his body. But something definitely bad happened for you to have that, even fully healed now.

“When I was a kid, I used to skate a lot.” you started, bucky's eyes bouched back up to your face. “I got on a gravel road and fell down and my knee landed right on a huge sharp rock and just logged itself right into my knee.”

You laughed looking back on the memory. “Hurt like hell for 14-year-old me and I had to get so many stitched, it was the worst.” a cheeky smile grew as you spoke through a laugh. “Especially for my dream of becoming a knee model.”

Bucky laughed with you as you dropped your pant leg, sitting back up to look at bucky. Bucky didn't say anything and hung his head low when a silence grew in the lab, only the sound of lab tech whizzing in the background. Bucky mostly just wanted to bask at this moment with you, letting himself enjoy the light-hearted nature of your conversations. The way you and he feel warm inside, lighter than ever.

You smacked your lips as you rose from your seat. Bucky's eyes begrudgingly followed you, “you have to learn to love every part of yourself, despite the bad memories. Because it makes you…”

Stopping in your place, turning to him as your eyes traveled up and down his body, the gesture weirdly didn’t make bucky cringe and crawl into himself the way most gazes did. 

“... you.” you smiled again and bucky felt dizzy. “And I think you're pretty cool.”

You turned away to continue whatever you were doing. Bucky muttered your statement under his breath, loud enough for him to hear it again but quiet enough so you wouldn't.

Bucky rose from his place on the workbench, after many visits he practically claimed this spot. As it sat right in the middle of your lab. Despite everything inside of him wanting to stay near you and soak up your presence. He headed for the door.

“Thanks, doc,” Bucky called out.

“Anytime, bucky. I'll be here when you come in with another excuse to see me,” you spoke coyly. Bucky's eyes widened and warmth crept up to his face. 

He sputters for words to save his pride, stumbling over his poor excuse of an explanation. “Maybe I just wanna see your cool outfits.” bucky's face scrunched up, cringing at his own pathetic words. He wondered what the 40s version of himself would say now, probably something sly and confident that’d knock you off your feet.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Barnes.”

“Bucky.” he corrected, again. But maybe it was just an excuse to linger longer at your door.

You smiled at him and repeated, “bucky.”

“You're going on a date with her.” 

Bucky's eyes widened, his head snapping towards Natasha. “I’m what?”

A frustrated groan leaves Natasha's lips as she shifts in her uncomfy office seat. Half of the Avengers team sat in an office going over a mission coming up, but - like most things - it turned into them talking about anything but that, and successfully annoying the hell out of Steve. 

“I set you up on a date with her.” Natasha spoke, referring to you. “I cannot keep watching you get beat up during missions just so you can see her, so you're going on a date.”

Bucky was dumbfounded, to say the least, lost for words as he stared at the woman in front of him. “Why would I go on a date with her?”

Over the past week or two, Bucky began to deny his fondness towards you when you interrupted a meeting to talk to Tony, or popped into the common rooms to talk about new tech, or how you practically strutted through the compound like you own the place. 

or when you slowly build up bucky’s confidence without either or you realizing it. 

Always in short skirts, or colorful and dramatic tops, and in heels or boots that echo loudly throughout the halls. Bucky denies the way his eyes drag along your figure, always lingering on your face longer than he needs to, the way if you look close enough, Bucky's eyes light up a little when you enter the room. Bucky denies it, but he can't fake it.

And Natasha clocked that quickly. 

“the way you look at her tells me you want to,” Natasha spoke coyly. She always read bucky better than anyone else in the room— similar background and all. a defeated groan comes from bucky in return, followed by a slightly pouted lip. Natasha gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder

A scoff was heard from the other side of the table. “Is the cyborg cable of feelings?” Tony snarked, his head down looking at a sheet of paper. Chewing slightly at a pen. 

“Ha. ha. Very funny.” Bucky mocked. “How do you even know she wants to go on a date with me? I can’t imagine she agreed to this?”

self-consciousness slowly crept up bucky's spine, he can’t face rejection if he denies, denies, and denies.

Natasha went to speak but Tony Stark does what he does best and interrupts her. With a hefty laugh coming up from his chest, he dropped the pen and papers down on the table. Leaning forward to face bucky. “Are you kidding me? You’re like a wet dream to her, always injured and part robot. Hits all of her boxes''

“I'm surprised she hasn’t mounted yo-”

“Okay Tony, I think that's enough talking.” Steve interrupted before he could finish his sentence. Tony’s comment earned a choked laugh from both Natasha and Sam.

“Anyways.” Natasha continued. “I know because she already agreed to it. Everything is already set up.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, hoping his hair covers his growing red ears. Steve spoke up, “Just give it a chance buck. You might enjoy it.” oh steve, hopeful as ever.

“I’m sure you'll enjoy it, it’s very much your style,” Natasha spoke, her infamous smirk growing on her face. 

“That scares me.” 

*****

Turns out Natasha was right, it is very much Bucky's style. Natasha had planned (with the help of Steve, because of-fucking-course) a date at a fancy, old-style diner, and every Saturday night they clear the floor and play some old music for some swing dancing. Just bucky’s style, he knows this was Steve’s idea. more than sure after years of watching plenty of girls swoon over Bucky with just one twirl and one short dance, Steve would think this is right up his alley. And it was.

Now Bucky stands outside a busy and bustling diner, upbeat 40s music echoing to the streets. Flowers in hand and a nice black collared shirt under a vintage jacket (it was from the museum and Steve name-dropped at least 12 times to get it back), waiting patiently for you to arrive. Bucky fiddled with his hands a little, his eyes kept darting to his watch— is he too early? When are you arriving? Bucky’s now convinced you wouldn’t show up. Because who would honestly want to go on a date with h–

“James!” a cheery voice broke through his very self-deprecating thoughts. Bucky turned around and swore his heart stopped beating, just for it to speed up even faster when his sights landed on you.

You wore the same boots that caught Wanda's eyes in the common room that quiet day. His eyes followed up your legs, past your thighs as he saw the dress you wore. It was stripped and sparkly, bucky would see the shine from down the street. It felt like you wore the entire rainbow and more as every stripe was painted differently. It was sleeveless and high-necked. And of course, very short.

An excited smile greeted him as you waved your hand. Your pace sped up as Bucky met you, he wondered how you didn't trip in those high heels constantly.

 “Hi,” Bucky said, wanting to hit himself for how awkward he sounded. 

“Sorry for being late, I didn't mean to make you wait.” you stood before him, and he noticed your makeup. You painted your lips with a darker shade than usual and you had little shiny gems glued around your eyes. 

“Don’t worry about it, I just got here too,” Bucky spoke softly, bringing the flowers up to you. “For you.”

Your eyes instantly lit up at the sight, taking the bouquet from him “thank you! you didn't need to get these for me, James.”

 Bucky's heart fluttered slightly at the name, it was rare for people to use his first name nowadays. You brought the flowers to your nose, smelling them with a blissful look on your face. Laughing to yourself.

“What's so funny?” the super-soldier asked.

“Oh no, it’s nothing.” you looked back down at the flower. “I don’t think anyone has ever gotten me flowers before.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed, “really?”

“Mhmm.” you rocked back and forth on your heels, “thank you for being the first.”

You smiled warmly up at Bucky as you did so often, but the aura of everything made it so much more this time.

“Let's head in?” Bucky cocked his head towards the diner. 

Nodding, “yes, please.” you threaded along, catching Bucky off guard when you swiftly grabbed ahold of his hand. Your fingers wrapped around his flesh hand, the warmth made Bucky feel funny in his stomach. Yeah, Bucky might have a crush on you.

You lead him into the diner, confident in your walk like usual. Your eyes spotted an empty seat and the both of you settled yourselves in a booth. You make quick eye contact and Bucky's mouth gaped like he's going to say something but is stopped when the waiter comes up. The waiter looks like she blends in with the scenery, with pinned-up hair and a bright red lip. She asks for your order and you both get water, and a milkshake. 

“I can imagine why Natasha picked this place out of everything,” you say, eyes off into the distance, Bucky follows your gaze and sees the dance floor of people together with large smiles. “Though, I don't know how to dance.”

Bucky's lip quirks up slightly, “I can teach you.”

“Perfect, let’s go then.” your smile widely, and your already getting up, standing next to bucky's seat and holding a hand out. Bucky’s surprised by your sudden willingness but despite the nervousness in his stomach - he takes your hand. 

Bucky may have been nervous standing outside the diner. May have been nervous as he greeted and met you outside. May have been nervous as you led him inside and watched you from across the table. But once he stepped out onto the swing floor, the soft sound of 40s music playing in the background. The sweet-talking James Buchanan – that seemed to flirt with every girl that met him – came back from the dead, and he had his arm around your waist in no time.

You noticed the sudden confidence and glint in his eyes suddenly, reaching up to grab his neck. Bucky held you at your waist, then he noticed the gold chain hung around your hips. His fingers grazed over them for a moment before they rested at the smallest part of your waist.

Your wide eyes met his and bucky swore for a moment, he couldn't breathe. “How was the mission?”

A groan escaped Bucky's mouth, playfully he rolled his eyes. Trying to sound annoyed, but his smile said otherwise. “Oh god, I don't wanna talk about work.”

Bucky’s hands stayed planted on your waist. You smiled as you continued to sway together along to the soft jazz in the background. You tugged nervously at your lip, “you know, I was getting worried when I heard you guys weren’t getting back on time.”

“You worry about me?” Bucky was stunned, an unfamiliar warmth shot through him as you averted your gaze. He took one hand to pull at your chin, so you were looking at him. Your mouth gaped open for a moment and your brain studdered before you just shrugged in response, a slight nod.

The familiar sound of the music speeding up, the upbeat sound of Harry James filled Bucky’s ears and for a moment Bucky was in the 40s again with a girl in his arms ready to be shipped out to war. A sentimental smile grew on his face.

“You ready to learn how to dance.” Bucky beamed down at you and before you could even respond, Bucky pushed your body away from him abruptly. Just to grab your hand before you could fall, twirling you around and back close to his chest. 

It all happened so fast and you yelped once your back hit his chest. His arm wrapped across your body and held your hand. You breathed and smiled widely. “I might step on your toes.

“I can handle it, doll.”

******

A few songs later and a couple of toes crushed, followed by a slew of apologies from you. You and Bucky ended up breathing heavily and slightly sweaty from dancing. Bucky swung you around like you weighed nothing - which to him - you probably did. Lots of music ranging from the 40s to 60s played throughout the diner, to which Bucky snarks at the fact he didn’t recognize the songs, always followed by light laughter.

The dancing came to a slow, but you two remained on the floor still. It was getting late and you hadn’t even eaten yet and most couples and groups of friends had gone back to their seats. You swayed comfortably in Bucky's arms still, your head laid on his chest listening to the soft beat of his heartbeat. 

Bucky Barnes is a more than qualified trained assassin with heightened senses. He's very aware of his surroundings at all times, so when he notices the man peering at your thighs and ass, his eyes narrow toward the man. A glimpse of the winter soldier showed, but the creep didn't seem to pay any attention to Bucky's gaze.

Every so politely, Bucky attempted to tug at your dress without it seeming like he was trying to grope you. Also, swiftly and smoothly twirling you around so the man's gaze would be fixed on bucky's broad shoulders. Effectively protecting you from perverted stares as his body towards over you.

You noticed the way Bucky's body stiffened when he spun you, looking up at him once again. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded and gave you a reassuring squeeze around your waist. “Let’s head back? I'm hungry.”

You agreed quickly and grabbed Bucky's hand, pulling him off the dance floor and guiding him back to the table where your two drinks sat warm now. You slid into the booth with a large exhale, sitting across from Bucky. The waiter decked out in 40s apparel and took your orders, your food coming in no time. It was a poor excuse for dinner per se, only ordering fries and cheese curds to simply snack on. 

“You make a good dance partner.” Bucky mutters, mouth muffled with fries. 

“Chew.” 

Buckys recoils in embarrassment and covers his mouth, face tinted red from dancing. He swallows and lowers his hand. “sorry.”

“Thank you.” you sigh, pushing your food away from you. “You did most of the work, but I'd like to keep practicing.”

Bucky stopped, and looked at you as you stared intently into him. Bucky flustered mix. 

“Are you gonna keep blushing or accept my offer on a second date.” you shoot back and Bucky feels the air leave his lungs. His ears are definitely burning red.

“I'm not bushing? What are you talking about? This is me worn out from all the dancing.`` Bucky plays dumb, throwing a fry into the basket between the two of you. Slowly pulling out his billfold from his jeans.

Your eyes roll dramatically, as a scoff escapes your lips. “Yeah, okay. Super soldier.” 

Bucky narrows his eye’s toward you, a grin plastered on his face. “I'd love to go on a second date.”

You bite back a grin. “Ready?” you asked, bucky puts down the money to pay and nodded. Bucky gives you a boyish smile that you'd only recognized from old war photos. It warms you to the core, leaving you flustered. He grabs at your hand as you let him drag you out of the diner, a secure arm around your waist.

The light breeze of new york hit both of you, your hands instantly going up to your arms to warm yourself. Bucky notices all too quickly and instantly wraps his jacket around you. 

“Oh, thank you. Are you cold?” you ask, seemingly genuinely worried.

“Doll.” he stares down at you, and bucky speaks like the answer is obvious, which– it kinda is. “I hiked through Siberia in less.” 

“Whatever.” you scoff and roll your eyes, tugging the jacket closer around your body. the corners of your mouth slowly creeping up.

The faint scent of bucky comes off of it, sandalwood and pine mostly. You're used to the smell when he's not coming into your lab sweaty or bloody from missions and workouts. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you, filtered out by the busy city around you.

“So… I’ll see you tomorrow?” you speak awkwardly, unsure of where to go from here.

“Yep, tomorrow.” Bucky strings on the word, are also awkward. 

You could cut the tension with a knife.

“Or…” your voice raises a few octaves as you turn on your heels to face him, barely a foot between the two of you.  

Bucky's eyebrow quirks up, “Or?” 

“Or you could come back to my very, very nice and cozy apartment that isn't full of agents and superhumans.”

You flashed your best and greatest grin toward Bucky, and the way you were looking at him made Bucky want to crumble beneath his knees. You shouldn't have this effect on him, his heart tugged towards you in a weird, mysterious way that Bucky wasn't familiar with yet. He wasn't going to lie and say it didn’t stress him out a tiny bit.

Bucky let out a heavy, pained exhale and stepped a little closer to you. “Not tonight, doll. sorry.”

“It's okay.” your face dropped slightly, but then you looked up at him and a flash of something came across your feature and soon a smirk was replaced. “Then let me have this.”

“What–?”

Bucky was cut off by your warm hands cupping his face and lips as he received the most gentle kiss he's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Initial shock ran through his body at the suddenness, and just as he accepted the feeling and went to melt into the kiss— you pulled away. Bucky felt so cold without you against him, he hated feeling cold.

“Wait, no.” he eagerly grabbed your face to pull you back in. Bucky didn't care if he sounded needy, because he did need this. noticing a glimpse of your more than satisfied grin before he shut his eyes and let himself feel your touch.

It was like you were meant for bucky, the perfect puzzle piece as your lips molded against each other. Slow and passionate, his hand ghosted above your waist before he pulled you full against his body. If it wasn't for your wedged heels, Bucky wasn't sure if you'd even reach his lips with the way you stood on your toes. 

Pulling away, Bucky felt dizzy, like he was drunk off of you. He swears he saw stars in your eyes, the street lights reflecting off your irises. Soft laughter came from you, you bowed your head as bucky stared at you. Practically mesmerized. 

To you, Bucky looked like he was in some sort of shock. Which wouldn’t be too far from the truth, which scared you slightly.

“Everything okay? Did I do something wrong?” you asked innocently, a pang of worry laced your tone.

Bucky frantically shook his head, “no, no– god no. just not used to that.”

“That?” 

“I mean.” Bucky thought for a moment, collecting his mind. “Being kissed. I've always been the one to initiate.”

You smiled sweetly, seeing hints of a flustered, young boyish version of Bucky. One that he, and everyone else swore was long gone. You had always thought otherwise, and tonight proves you right.

“I hope it wasn’t too jarring for you.” you nervously chuckled. 

“It was perfect.”

_

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[sungbeam]

𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬

model!choi chanhee x fem!assistant!reader

you were just supposed to be his assistant, but at some point, you'd come to mean a lot more to him.

6.4k words (WHOOPS my hand slipped), technically s2l, fluff, angst if u squint, slight pining?, kissing, model stuff and first world problems 😔✨, like one curse word, barely proofread

a/n: istg it wasn't supposed to be like this ;-; it would have been longer but i got impatient </3

Choi Chanhee once made a girl cry because she had forgotten his phone in the car. In his defense, he hadn't gotten much shuteye the night prior, but Kevin liked to always remind him of that instance.

They said that was the first, true moment the tabloids began painting him in a new light.

'Choi Chanhee, Model-zilla, Hits the Streets of Paris for Fashion Week Once Again'. 'Choi Chanhee's Ex-assistants Come Forward with Shocking Experiences'. 'Satin or Silk: the Truth Behind New's Refusal to Wear Alexander McQueen'.

The last one didn't even make sense; Alexander McQueen only used silk, anyway, and Chanhee had walked in one of his shows a few years ago. Chanhee simply hadn't the time to pen the designer into his schedule since.

The one about assistants? Well, they were all entitled to free speech, but that didn't mean that he would spare them any mercy if they decided to blatantly lie about him. He could always trust Lee Sangyeon, his personal attorney, to take care of business, if and when any of his ex-employees decided that a good payout was comparable to spewing filth.

Then there was you.

Chanhee hadn't needed a new assistant in a little over half a year since you came along. Fresh out of university with a bachelor's in communication and punctuality, you waltzed into his life, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You'd sat across from him, no-nonsense; he hired you right there. (He had not regretted it since. This was the last time he would let anyone but himself do the interview process.)

The best part about you was not that you always had his schedule memorized before he did, or that you appeared at his apartment before the car picked you both up with his favorite coffee order, or that you actually had decent taste in perfume—not… that he paid attention to what perfume you wore—but it was the fact that you could look him in the eye when he spoke to you, and you to him.

"—and you have a fitting with Chanel at five o'clock this evening right after that meeting with Maison Margiela about the perfume line. We'll have just enough time to—"

Wow, your eyes were pretty in this lighting, he thought. The two of you sat before the massive, floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse apartment. The entire city laid sprawling at your feet while you sat across from each other at his breakfast table, eating blueberry muffins and drinking lattes.

And for some reason, all he could think about was how nice your hair looked again today, how brilliantly the shine in your eyes was from the sunlight, how impeccable your fashion sense was—even if it wasn't perfect, but that could easily be remedied. Chanhee would have to remind you to remind him to—

"Chanhee. Chanhee, are you listening to me?"

He snapped out with a flutter of his long eyelashes. He reached for his cup of coffee, delicately bringing it to his lips. "Hm? Of course, Maison and then Chanel. Did Changmin cancel our dinner or are we still on?"

A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips when he saw how your expression lightened knowing that he was paying attention. You idly stirred your latte around with a little silver spoon. "He says he's still good to go for tonight. Same place, same time."

A nod. "Good."

He nudged up the Prada sunglasses on his nose as he turned his head slightly to gaze out the open window. It was an awfully beautiful day out today. The sunlight was gentle, the skies were an azure wave of silk, sewn with clouds of white. "Yn, dearest, are we clear until the Maison meeting?"

You blinked. "Yes," you answered, checking your watch for the hour, "it's 10:32 right now."

"Mm, that gives us about five hours to refresh your wardrobe."

Your lips parted, and he smiled in amusement. There was something so adorable about your flustered state. "Excuse me?"

"Call it a little token of my appreciation," he sang, standing up from the table to deposit his empty plate and cup into the kitchen sink. "Could you call the driver to round the front?"

"Oh, uh, sure—"

"Thanks, love. I'll be back in a few," he called to you just as he disappeared into his bedroom to freshen up. You were left at the breakfast table, dumbfounded. You'd only ever gone shopping with Chanhee for him or for someone else. Not you. You were always on the clock when you were with him, and you figured he would probably take everything you bought today out of your paycheck, but…

You couldn't deny the flutter of excitement in your chest like the wings of a butterfly. This could either be the best thing that happened to you… or a complete shitshow.

There was something odd about walking into one of Chanhee's go-to leisure shopping stores—Dior—with the mindset that you were supposed to be shopping for yourself. Chanhee had asked the driver to pull up to the Dior storefront even as the regular paparazzi camped outside.

Your eyes gazed longingly at the Macy's across the mall.

Chanhee followed your gaze with a little scrunch of his nose. "Absolutely not," he clicked his tongue, dragging you out of the vehicle and to the sidewalk.

The press already dubbed you a "miracle" for being in his employ for longer than a day. But when they got shots of him literally hauling you into the Dior… you could imagine what they would all claim now. This was going to be a whole lot of cleanup, but you had learned after months of working with Chanhee that he was way tougher than he looked. He also didn't mind biting back.

When the two of you were safely stowed away within the guarded interior of Dior, you breathed easier.

Straightening, you greeted the staff members with a shallow bow, who did the same to both you and your boss.

Chanhee wiggled his fingers in silent greeting, then beelined for a white, quilted blazer on a mannequin. A worker scrambled after him to talk about the piece while another stuck by your side to make small conversation.

"How was your morning?" They asked you pleasantly.

"Oh, it was quite nice! How was yours?"

"Pretty quiet," they smiled. They were about to say something else when both of you were interrupted with Chanhee calling your name.

His eyes were pinned to you from over the rim of his sunglasses. Draped over his arm was a tapered coat of some sort, a dress, and… oh, god no. "Yn, come here."

You could already hear your wallet crying. "Chanhee, I literally cannot afford a single thing in here—"

He pressed a palm between your shoulder blades and steered you in the direction of the dressing rooms. "That's besides the point because I can afford them; that's what matters."

Surprise made your footing falter. "Huh?"

"Silly Yn-ie," he teased, "did you think I was gonna bring you all the way out here to not treat you?" Before you could say anything else, he was shoving the items into your arms, and your body into the grandiose space of the Dior dressing room. He winked over his glasses. "Now hurry and put them on. I wanna see!"

He ripped the curtain closed, and you stood there for a moment.

In your hands were the jacket, the dress, and a pair of shoes that probably cost you more than your entire bank account combined. You blew out a puff of air, just as you heard a staff member offer him a glass of champagne on the other side of the curtain.

"No getting out of this, Yn," you muttered to yourself, then began hanging everything up."

Chanhee was no stranger to the effect he had on people. In fact, he wielded it like a dagger. It was how he had gotten so far in this industry in the first place other than his immaculate good looks, of course. The face of an angel and an attitude of the devil—at least, that was what one article had said about him. He quite liked it, actually.

There was something wholly different about his effect on you as you stood beneath his scrutinizing, heated gaze, as you tried on piece upon piece. He loved being able to unabashedly stare at you, to take in your flustered expression as you did little spins for him in the outfit of choice. For once, you couldn't look him in the eye, and when you had done so once, it had been when his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

It wasn't just the champagne he was tasting.

It was the next morning when you appeared in his home at 7 o'clock sharp, as usual, but with a new accessory hanging off your arm. It was one of the more low-key purses he had bought you yesterday—and to be honest, it was actually one of his personal favorites. It was a Chanel one, of course, and it complimented your pant suit quite nicely.

"Morning," you chirped, handing him his cup of coffee as he stumbled out of his room in a silk robe and with a yawn widening his mouth.

Chanhee smiled at the sight of you, graciously accepting the coffee from you. He leaned against the countertop next to you. "Good morning," he murmured lowly, peering at you over the rim of the cup, taking a languid sip.

He sighed as the caffeine began working its magic. "How are you this morning, dearest? Have a good night?"

You had set your purse down on the island, then moved away from him only to go check his refrigerator to see if he needed anything restocked. Always so attentive. "I had a good night. How was dinner with Changmin?"

"Lovely," he said fondly. "I see you are putting my gifts to use." His fingers danced along the gold chain draped along one end of the quilted leather.

He swore your cheeks flushed, but then again, his eyes had never tricked him for a second. "Ah, yes. Thank you so much for yesterday, by the way." The fridge closed softly, and you grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter to wash and munch on. "I really don't know how I can repay you—"

Chanhee dismissed you immediately, his wrist flicking outward. "Pfft, none of that. I told you it was all a token of my affection," he grinned, propping his chin onto his palm across the island counter from you. "And gratitude," he added. "I don't say this to just anyone, Yn, and I don't buy just anyone all that stuff—but I did it because I appreciate you."

Your chewing slowed and you swallowed. "Oh."

He said it so easily. God, was he lucky to have met you.

Knowing he had successfully rendered you speechless once more, he laughed lightly, deciding to change the subject. "What's today's schedule like?"

You immediately straightened; this was something you knew like the back of your hand. It was much more up your alley.

As you ran him through his activities today, you failed to notice the difference in his posture, the softer smile on his face, and the way his eyes could not leave you for a moment, not even to drink his coffee.

Grueling was an understatement. Today had been one of the worst days of your working existence under Chanhee's employ. You'd endured rough days and nights before, but today, it seemed to have been hassle after hassle after hassle. You probably got around thirty-thousand steps by how much you ran around trying to find emergency kits and emergency outfits and running to the emergency dry cleaner's.

As much as the fashion world enthralled you, sometimes you wondered how anyone could survive it.

Chanhee was just as maxed out as you were by the end. It was maybe three in the morning by the time the two of you collapsed into the backseat of his driver's car. Streets were barren at this time in the ungodly hours of morning, and your joints ached every time you breathed.

Chanhee was quiet as well as he leaned his head back against the headrest to allow his body some rest. He just barely managed to get through that last shoot—clearly the directors had no clue what they were doing, he thought with a dead look in his eyes. That was how he felt—dead. If it hadn't been for you swooping in with a creative direction…

You were brilliant; that much he was certain of. Without you, that shoot might have dragged on for another couple of hours, or Chanhee would have just walked out. Usually, he had a good sense and eye for things, but with everything that happened today, for once, he didn't have the energy to yell or direct.

He needed to treat you to brunch tomorrow, if he was even able to wake up in time—

His inner thoughts halted when he felt a sudden weight fall upon his left shoulder. He froze up.

Your head had slumped onto his shoulder, eyes closed and no doubt deep asleep. Your bangs had fallen out from the bounds of your ponytail and draped across your face as you slept. He could smell the Miss Dior on you with this proximity.

Chanhee smiled to himself, taking his other hand and brushing the hair from your face and gently caressing your cheek. "Cute," he murmured.

By the time the car rolled to a stop in front of his complex, Chanhee had made a couple of executive decisions.

He lightly roused you from your sleep, cooing into your ear, "Come on, Yn-ie. Let's get you to bed, hm?"

You hummed, lifting your head from his shoulder with a yawn. You rubbed your eye with no care for the makeup smudging. "Chanhee? Why're you still here?"

Normally, the driver would drop Chanhee off first and then you, especially when it came to late nights like this. But… what… was happening?

Chanhee helped you out of the car, thanking the driver while mustering up a kind smile for him. "You're too tired, love. I'm taking you upstairs to my place."

"Wait, I can't—" but you weren't physically protesting; your body ached and ached and ached. But this was your boss, your employer. This wasn't professional.

"Yn, you're exhausted," he countered, buzzing into the building and helping you inside.

You couldn't argue with him anymore. You just wanted your face to hit a pillow and be out for the night. "Okay," you mumbled, letting him press your face into his shoulder on the ride up the elevator.

"Good girl," he sighed. He tilted his head back against the elevator wall, one arm wrapped around your middle and the other cradling the back of your head. Just a little longer, then the both of you could finally get some well-deserved rest.

You would argue you had seen Choi Chanhee at some of his best and worst moments. He was one of the most beautiful human beings on this planet, and yet, none of the prior moments could even compare to when you stumbled out of his bedroom to the sight of his back to you as he fried eggs and ladled waffle batter into the maker in the kitchen. He had a big T-shirt hanging from his lean frame, as well as a pair of loose pajama pants on, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he waited for everything to cook.

Even at ten in the morning, the light pink waves of his hair looked immaculately styled. You almost forgot he hadn't gotten a perm in awhile.

The panic of waking up in his sheets instead of yours had faded when you recalled your conversation with him just seven hours prior. He had managed to wrestle you into an extra set of sleepwear he just had lying around (Gucci, nonetheless), before he deposited you onto his bed, then promptly curled up outside on the living room couch.

You swallowed. Now what?

It was then that Chanhee turned around with an innocent look on his face. You watched as it melted into something softer at the sight of you. "Good morning, dearest," he beamed, "sleep well?"

Drowsiness lingered at the corners of your eyes, but you somehow managed a nod. "Yeah, how about you?" You asked him quietly. Actually, that had been some of the best sleep you'd ever had. Something about his sheets with high thread count and the smell of Chanhee lingering on everything. But you weren't just about to say that to him.

"Well enough," he replied. He waved you over. "Come sit; breakfast is almost ready."

Your eyes widened a smidge. That was for you? Now you really needed to go home. "Ah, I appreciate it, but I've practically overstayed my welcome—"

He sent you a look. "Yn, come have breakfast with me."

You caved. Because at this point, you'd already screwed yourself over. And breakfast really did smell nice; what was the difference between Chanhee making you breakfast and you bringing him breakfast from the café down the street?

(You didn't even want to go home, as much as your logical brain was trying to urge you towards.)

So the two of you breakfasted, and for a moment, you could forget, for once, that you were just supposed to be his assistant.

Some things changed after that morning, and Chanhee found himself getting you to stay over more and more often. Even if he had to come up with something stupid like "You haven't watched the 2001 New York Fashion Week rerun?" For some reason, you bought into all his excuses, and even though he knew it was probably because you were always attentive to his needs, a part of him liked to fantasize that you felt it, too.

The pull.

Something had shifted after that morning when he made you breakfast and the two of you ate together at the breakfast table. Sleep had lingered in your eyes, and your hair was a mess, but it was soft and beautiful and… he'd never been so in awe at someone's "I woke up like this" look.

His heart had leapt at the sight of you in those pajamas with that subtle pout to your lips.

God, he thought he might sweep you into his arms and kiss y—

"New. Chanhee. Choi Chanhee—"

He blinked, lifting his eyes from his menu to meet Changmin's. "Hm?"

Changmin wrinkled his nose at him, adjusting the sunglasses seated atop his head to hang from the collar of his dress shirt. (How it managed to hang with two buttons popped open, Chanhee chalked it up to fashion magic.) "You're awfully quiet today. What, tabloids finally shut you up?" He joked.

Chanhee rolled his eyes. "One of these days, I swear, they will render me speechless with their ridiculous delusions," he muttered airily, half-heartedly skimming the menu again.

He and Changmin were seated at their usual booth in their usual restaurant at their usual time. It was their weekly dinner together, something they had kept up since their university days in order to keep themselves grounded. They, of course, touched base with all of their university friends often, but the two of them were two peas in a pod. They even refused to let Sunwoo in on these weekly dinners specifically (something the younger friend was undoubtedly salty about).

Changmin could figure out when Chanhee was occupied with something other than the present. Usually, he was all up and out of his seat dealing out gossip or what torture he and you had been… oh.

Changmin cocked his head to the side, nostrils flaring slightly as he tried and failed to suppress a sly smile. "How's Yn these days?" He asked nonchalantly, lowering his eyes to the menu in front of him even though he always got the same thing every time.

To his credit, Chanhee didn't even react. "She's lovely as always. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno," Changmin drawled, "you haven't gushed about her like you usually do. I feel like you hang out with her more than me."

Chanhee raised a brow at his friend. "She's my assistant; of course I'm going to spend more time with her."

"Yeah, but—"

"And she's a lot more agreeable most of the time."

"Hey!"

Chanhee grinned in impish delight. "You asked."

Changmin sent him a stink eye, huffing as he raised his hand up to summon a waiter. "Yeah, whatever. Okay, but you literally refused to go out with me the other night, and when I texted Yn if you had a schedule, she said that you two were at home!"

That got his attention. Chanhee pursed his lips together, sheepishness peering through his smile. "In my defense, she hadn't seen New York Fashion Week in 2001."

"You hated that year, Chanhee."

"Exactly."

Changmin sighed to himself, and just as he was about to add on, a waiter came by to take their order. Once that was done, Changmin laced his fingers over the table and leveled his friend with a pointed look.

"Just admit that you like her."

Oh, Changmin. If only you could hear the rapid palpitations of his heart when you called him out like that. Chanhee blinked innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he swallowed.

It wasn't even two days later that Chanhee had you staying a little later at his place, once again. There was something jazzy and vibey playing in the background, while Chanhee finished up plating dinner and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. You were over at the small table by the window pouring wine into twin glasses, your hair pulled haphazardly out of your face (for the most part) with a pearl-studded claw clip from Chanhee's personal PR box.

(You blatantly refused, but he then reminded you that he couldn't even use the clip himself.)

Chanhee didn't often think about sharing his life with someone, but it was moments like these—moments when he heard you hum under your breath, moments when the two of you could laugh about the day over dinner, moments when you weren't just his assistant but someone closer—that he could indulge himself. He wasn't a very domestic person; since childhood, he dreamed of places far away from home, seeing sights and experiencing cultures… but if he could come home to you? And experience this every time?

Suddenly dinner was over, and you were collecting dirty dishware and glasses to bring to the sink to wash.

"Yn-ie, hey, I can wash those—"

"No, no! You made dinner; I am washing dishes," you asserted, pushing him away from the sink when he tried to come up to you.

Chanhee broke into a laugh, coming up behind you to set his hands on your shoulders and rub the upper parts of your arms. "Okay, okay. Thanks, love," he said. He didn't even think before he pressed a kiss to your cheek and walked off to go to the bathroom.

Your cheek tingled where his lips had been, and you turned the faucet on to drown out the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears. What was happening?

You felt like you were floating on air as you hummed to the music and washed the dishes, with the ghost of Chanhee's lips left lingering on your cheek. It served as a reminder of your growing affections for him. This was dangerous, dangerous territory, and yet… it was thrilling. It was new, bold, and delectable. It was Chanhee, for goodness sake.

He was the man you saw crying drunkenly over a cat video on TikTok, the man who lended you Gucci pajamas and his bed for the night. He was on the face of every magazine cover, always excited when you could read his mind about a certain piece of clothing. Everyone in the world wanted to be him or be with him. He was so out of reach, yet right in front of you.

Maybe it was the wine making your head buzz with this wave of unmitigated sentimentality.

You finished up with the dishes, drying off your hands with the towel hanging on the oven door. Chanhee sang your name out from somewhere deep inside his bedroom, and you followed his voice to his location.

He was seated on the rug in the middle of his walk-in closet, the white LEDs washing you with light. It was a far cry from the darkness of his bedroom and the warmth from the kitchen. Chanhee patted the spot next to him on the carpet, where he had a smattering of PR gifts littering the floor around him.

Curious, you lowered yourself next to him. "Are we sorting through PR stuff?" You asked, already making a mental catalog of all the things he'd probably want to keep and the things he'd want to donate.

Chanhee hummed his dissent, rising onto his knees and shuffling over to you. Your eyes widened as he stopped close to you and you held your breath. He raised a pair of twin diamond drop earrings from Tiffany and Co to your earlobes, eyes narrowed in consideration.

"No," he muttered, dumping the earrings into their box, then digging out another.

You scrambled to delicately put the earrings back into their proper holdings. "Chanhee, what are we doing?"

"You—" Chanhee returned with a pair of sapphire earrings this time, performing the same ritual as before, but this time smiling, "—are going to sit still and look pretty for me. I am going through the PR stuff for anything nice."

"Anything nice?" You parroted in disbelief. It wasn't like he just threw a pair of diamond earrings into a box like it wasn't nice, or anything.

"I've never seen you in pearls before," he said offhandedly. From a black velvet bag, he withdrew a string of pearls clasped at the end in gold. His mouth parted in awe, and you suddenly thought of how cute he looked. Chanhee, oftentimes, was attractive and elegant and spellbinding—but this Chanhee was adorable.

He eyeballed it around your neck, then moved to clasp the collar onto you. He brushed the stray strands of hair away from the nape of your neck, gently grazing the pads of his fingers along the warm skin there. The action sent a shudder down your spine, and you were reminded of the cheek kiss from earlier.

"There," he murmured, coming back around to inspect you from the front. "Looks much better on you than it would on me."

You scoffed, reaching up to touch the cool pearls seated on your collarbone. "I disagree wholeheartedly."

He had turned around to go digging again, but the grin he threw over his shoulder at you was a certified heart stopper. "Then we'll just have to go get me a matching one."

"This is the last time I'm letting a company get me lunch," Chanhee grimaced as both you and he feverishly dabbed at the sauce splattered on his cream silk blouse.

One of the interns working on today's interview and shoot had come to deliver him his lunch when you noticed that the sauce lid on top was a dark red and not the usual light mayo Chanhee always requested beforehand. That, as well as the fact that the lid wasn't fastened all the way. Suffice to say that when you were about to point it out, said intern became flustered at Chanhee's side profile and spilled his lunch onto him.

You made sure to send the intern away before Chanhee could react.

"This was the Burberry one Haknyeonie got me," he whimpered in devastation as he took in the mess of dark brownish-red on his chest.

"Hey, it's okay. The cleaner I usually go to can fix it up," you said, biting your lip and assessing the situation. You gave a sigh, straightening, then swiping at the dampness on your forehead. "For now, you'll have to change into something else."

Chanhee pouted. "I promised I would wear this one for the interview…" He glanced back over at the clothing rack in the far corner of the dressing room at the dozens of options he had, as well as the backups you had brought, when all he wanted was to wear the shirt Haknyeon had given to him.

You wondered how long you had until the interview. You wondered how fast you could run to the dry cleaners and how fast they could fix this, if only to make that pout on Chanhee's face go away.

He pursed his lips. "I'll change into the YSL one," he resolved, standing from his vanity chair to go grab the YSL blouse from its garment bag. "Y'know," he said to you as he disappeared behind the changing divider, "we'll probably see something about this in the tabloids sometime tomorrow, depending on how bored the press people are."

You leaned back against the vanity counter, mentally noting the time. Hair and makeup would be here soon since the interview was set for half past noon. Chanhee would have to wait until afterwards before he could eat lunch. You frowned, "It wasn't your fault, Chanhee."

"I know." You saw him drape the dirtied Burberry blouse over the top of the divider and you walked over to take it down and inspect the damage yourself. "But it doesn't have to be my fault."

Unfortunately, he was right. The press would do anything for a juicy story, even if that meant twisting the facts just a little. You abhorred those stories; you always saw Chanhee's eyes glaze over like a shield at the "model-zilla" headlines, when in fact, it had little to do with Chanhee's "attitude". You wondered if someone would blow up his reaction to this out of proportion—he hadn't said anything to the intern before they ran out of the room in tears, but you supposed if you had spilled coffee on someone with as much name power as Chanhee, then you would also freak out.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, leaning slightly against the divider. A weight sank into the pit of your gut; you felt pathetic. These were one of the few things you couldn't just fix for him.

You thought you felt him lean back against the divider on the other side. "Nothing to be sorry for, dearest. It's just a shirt."

It wasn't just a shirt. It wasn't just the tabloids.

Chanhee, being the professional he was, carried on through the interview and subsequent photoshoot with elegance and grace. He wasn't in a bad mood, save for the slight melancholy in his smile when the intern's superior came by to apologize profusely and offer to have the blouse dry-cleaned for him. Chanhee politely declined—he only trusted one person with his items.

When you and Chanhee finally made it back to his penthouse suite, the sun had disappeared into the seams of the horizon, hoisting a bejeweled night into the sky. Chanhee collapsed onto the couch face-first while you dropped everything on the floor by the door and made a beeline for the refrigerator.

"I'm making tea," you declared.

Chanhee raised his head slightly. "Me too please."

You got the electric kettle started and brought out two porcelain mugs. While you waited for the water to finish boiling, you fished your phone out of your pocket to check your messages to see if the dry cleaners had alerted you yet as to the status of the blouse. On the way back, you had swung by to get the shirt to the dry cleaners. Hopefully it would be done by tomorrow morning so you could go pick it up.

Chanhee shifted and adjusted his positioning on the couch. He sat upright, leaning his cheek against his fist. "Yn-ie."

"Hm?"

"I'm lonely over here."

You huffed air out of your nostrils in a silent chuckle, but obliged him and went over to the couch. He raised his arms up toward you, making grabby hands and pouting. "You're lonely?" You repeated in amusement, slotting yourself next to him and allowing him to curl into your side.

"Well, not anymore," he said into your shoulder.

The apartment filled with the sound of water bubbling on the stove and the muffled sounds of the city outside the window.

With nothing said, you could imagine for a second that this was not your job, but your life instead.

You felt him move a little, his arms wrapping around your stomach. "Thank you," he murmured, "for everything."

Your chest tightened. "Of course," you replied simply. Because doing all of this for him was as easy as breathing air now. Taking care of him had become as easy as breathing air. It was just that simple.

He was quiet again, fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of your blazer. Something lingered in his mind.

"Yn…" He slowly brought himself to sit up straight, one hand braced on the cushion space between your bodies and the other on the back of the couch. His face was so close—you could see the baby pink hairs falling in his eyes, the bits of glitter on his eyelids, the length of his lashes brushing his cheeks. But there was something wobbling, shimmering in his irises like the ripples in a pool of water. "I think we need to talk."

Your voice was trapped in your throat. He was going to fire you. He was going to tell you that all of it had been a lie. He was going to—stop. Stop freaking out. You knew him. You knew him better than what the people on the outside only claimed to know about him. You gulped. "Okay."

Chanhee brought his hand up toward your face, but instead stopped short, his hand dropping. He wet his lip, head ducking for a second before meeting your eyes again. "You know how much I appreciate everything you do for me, right?"

Oh no.

You nodded shallowly, hands clasped in your lap. "Mhm."

"And you know that I would rather hurt myself before ever hurting you?"

You didn't like where this was going. "Chanhee—"

His eyes shuddered. "Just—just listen for a second. I promise I'll let you speak, just… I just need to get this out."

"I can't really think straight," you croaked. His cologne—god his cologne. You would die suffocating in his cologne, but he was so close and yet so out of reach.

You thought you saw hurt flash across his face. "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry—" He was leaning back now, and you were internally hitting yourself. You'd never heard Choi Chanhee stutter before.

You resisted the urge to say "come back". Come back, where you could pretend that he was yours. Shit, this had gone too far. "Chanhee, I think I have to quit."

Alarm shot his eyes wide open. "What?"

"I can't keep working for you because I have feelings for you," you blurted, staring him straight in the eyes. "I have to quit because the feelings—the want—I have for you are so strong and precariously unprofessional. And I'm sorry, because this was the best job I could've ever gotten, but—"

Chanhee grabbed your face and crushed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up. Shock had you freezing, but it wasn't long before you held him close and let him wholly devour you.

When he pulled away, his forehead was pressed against yours, the space between your lips near nonexistent. His hands were still cupping the sides of your face and his breathing was slightly labored; all either of you could feel, hear, smell, taste were each other.

"I love you," he whispered, almost inaudibly you thought you'd imagined it. But then he said it again, "I love you", and everything…

Everything settled.

"How could you?" After all, you were just… you. It seemed impossible that someone as high as he was could love someone like you.

His reply was simple, paired with a sweet return to your lips. "How could I not?"

You stood outside the massive, sky-piercing high-rise of Vogue headquarters, your heart pounding in your ears and your fingers drumming nervously against the seam of your dress pants. In about twenty minutes, you would be in the topmost office of the building interviewing for a chance to become CEO Anna Wintour's newest personal assistant.

"Well?"

You glanced over to your left where Chanhee stepped beside you, asking the driver to make a loop around the building and meet him back here in a few minutes. His hair, freshly dyed a silken midnight black, had grown slightly to mullet-length; and this morning, he was clad in a pristine white suit set in a classy contrast. A pearl collar sat on his defined collarbones like it was a throne. Beautiful, as always.

There were reporters lurking around here somewhere. That definitely didn't make any of this better for you.

You released a breath. "I've got this, right?"

He passed you a gentle, yet teasing grin. "Hey, you survived me. How much worse can she be?"

That made you crack a smile.

The two of you stood side by side staring up at the building for a moment longer. After you had quit being his assistant to instead be accepted as his partner, you and Chanhee worked to find you a new gig. You received about a hundred dozen job offers from lesser brands and big names when they all heard you were leaving Chanhee's employ on good terms. Anyone who survived Chanhee, and left with a stellar recommendation letter, was a hot commodity.

Chanhee reached for your hand, squeezing your fingers slightly. "Breathe, darling. You'll be in and out and hired before you know it."

He turned you around so you faced him. His tongue stuck out between his lips as he adjusted the pearl necklace around your throat, then the lapels of your jacket. "Wow," he breathed out.

"Huh?" You hummed with a smile in your eyes.

"You still take my breath away."

A nervous laugh fell from your lips, and Chanhee swooped in to taste it—that, your laugh.

"I love you," he murmured against your mouth. Nevermind all the press and paparazzi, or Anna Wintour, or anyone. This was just you and him, even for a little. You could imagine the headlines, but that was the last thing on your mind right now.

Your tongue swiped over his bottom lip to catch the last bits of him. "I love you, too."

There was a cunning glint in his eyes, offset by the soft smile on his face. "Okay, this is it. Call me if you need anything."

You began walking toward the entrance backwards. "What if I need you?"

His smile widened. "I said call me, didn't I? Anytime, anywhere." I'm yours.

tbz m.list

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[elusiiev]

The Brainrot is Consuming me.

anyway earlier me an my friends were discussing what kinda clothes the main cast of omor would wear bc.... yk half of the cast is in fucking npc ass attire, and we went back and forth about it a lot and now i feel obligated to share this with other people to see if they might agree with my headcanons

mari - for mari i feel like she's very much a cardigan girly, sundresses all the time, probably like sweetheart and square necklines on a lot of her shirts, and she consistently puts lots of time into her appearance, more so for her own pleasure than anything else. however if she doesnt get to change out of pajamas she'd probably get a little upset and feel unproductive as a result - idk she just seems very schedule oriented and i feel her clothing style and habits would match that. she 100% irons clothes, if somethings wrinkly shes not wearing it, and she'd lean into the academia aesthetic. she also gives summer vibes to me, but that might just be because the main canon images of her are during summertime - also lots of purples and yellows, purples her fav color and yellow is the complementary color, plus a color associated with bright light and summertime

hero - he'd probably have a more basic style of fashion, but still look very cute in it. like big sweatshirts, long coats, button ups, wide leg jeans, collared shirts, clean shoes, all in all a very clean look. he prob has some of mari's jackets in his closet that he wears pretty frequently. also he would always wear earrings BECAUSE I SAID SO I THINK ITS AWESOME he might also be a bit into academia fashion, but less over-the-top "i'm the top professor of this college" look and more just autumnal tones and mildly professional attire. also i feel like hero would iron some of kel's clothes if he noticed they were very wrinkled, which might result in hero running out of time to iron clothes for himself, in which he just switches his outfit last minute. this is hyperspecific but but but but but yes

kel - this man does not know fashion, all his tips are from hero, which hero got from mari. his wardrobe probably consists of graphic tees he found funny or pretty, hand-me-downs from hero, and plain shirts and jeans, probably with a couple rips in them from him being reckless. also he always wears some sort of brace, either on his arm or leg he is consistently getting hurt in some minor way /j dirty converses real!! also probably some pen/pencil marks on articles of clothing from getting bored and deciding to doodle randomly on them. also bracelets from random fundraisers or from crafts with the rest of the gang

aubrey - shes actually kinda hard for me to figure out, but i ffeel like aubrey would be wearing a lot of graphic tshirts and tank tops, but like those ones with extra detail yk the ones the grunge ones yeah those, and like huge cargo pants or wide leg jeans, chains hanging from pockets, necklaces and bracelets, and generally ripped things. so kinda punk but also still very fem and not very out there in terms of fashion styles . however this would only be half the time, this half is when she's really feeling like putting in effort to look nice, probably being like "im gonna be like mari today" and spending a good chunk of time putting together an outfit and such. the other half she's fucking done with it and throws on whatever shirt she can find and some pants, tosses her hair a little bit and throws on eyeliner and is out the door, somehow looking gorgeous still. like that effortlessly pretty look even when theres nothing outstanding abt the outfit

basil - grandma ass /j he probably thrifts constantly and the antique store is one of his fav places, so it seeps into how he dresses. lots of sweatshirts with intricate embroidered or sewn in designs, coats, lots of browns and greens, and very worn things. probably wears some traditionally feminine things he finds too jsut because he thought they were nice, again think grandmacore /j he's a very green and wiggly boy, lots of layers in his outfits, and is pretty rarely seen with short sleeve shirts. also collared shirts, messenger bags, pins, custom patches, and friendship bracelets. his clothing represents who he is and can tell a lot about him for the most part, basically story telling through what he wears since he has so many accessories that come from different places. also lots of floral patterns because he's he's the flower boy the little man the flower guy . in summary cottagecore mori kei esque things

sunny - his ass is not putting together outfits /j ok so i feel like sunny is the type to save his energy for other things, i feel like socializing might be a bit draining for him but he loves his friends, so he kind of switches up how he uses his energy to accommodate. but sometimes he'd probably wanna be like mari and put himself otgether, so he probably goes shopping with her and has cute clthes, his outfits just end up being very simple with a graphic tshirt and maybe an oversized jacket. HE ALWAYS WEARS SHORTS!!!! he dislikes the feel of pants and preferred shorts, even if he's cold. if he'd cold he just kinda balls up and puts a jacket around his legs. anyway i feel like he's probably being restricted a lot by his preferences (i hc he has autism and this is one of the ways it impacts him) so he's not the most fashionable person

OK THATS IT this took too long to write it took like maybe 30 minutes ummmmfehrhfweifu im obsessed with this game its taking over my every thought i needed to express this my brains going crazy bhhuu8ewifihbweifuweifok

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt. 59)

(Sneak Peek)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: You and Hobi need to break each other one more time before you're ready to heal together. Hobi needs to leave.

Tags: Angst, implied self-harm, m/c tries but doesn't actually hurt herself, burns, gaslighting, triggers, PTSD, dissociation, depersonalization, hurt/comfort, fluff, lots of tears, confessions, severe depression, self-esteem issues, allusions to past sexual abuse, Unhealthy coping mechanisms, I promise it's not quite as angsty as it sounds,

W/c: 18k

A/N: this is the darkest chapter i've written of bily, but it's also probably the most hopeful one too <3 please let me know if like the last chapter you want readers guidelines to avoid the self-harm. I'm not sure I can keep you from the discussion of it all- because that's the bulk of the chapter. But i'll at least be able to let you avoid seeing the moment she tries to hurt herself

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

Chapter 59: Missed Call.

You’re not sure what you expect but Hobi tickling the information out of you isn’t it. But his fingers creep up your sides, voice uncharacteristically whiney as they dig into your soft spots, makeing you squirm.

“Come on just tell me,”

The giggle startles out of your chest and you scuffle trying unsuccessfully to twist out of the way of his hands. you hold his hands away from you so that he won’t dig them into your sides. Laughing, both of you half-splayed on the outdoor furniture. The blanket starting to pull onto the floor. It’s so cold today- but where Hobi’s hands dig into your sides you’re warm.

The two of you miss Jungkook's singular longing look.

“Alright- alright fine. Just- stop.” Hobi listens immediately. Sitting back and pulling you back to sitting by your wrists. He’s feeling a little too accomplished, the hum of alpha made omega submit like a flame flickering through his blood.

He always feels a little too accomplished when he makes you smile, when he makes you laugh, and when he makes you better. He feels a little too accomplished when he can make you happy and no one else can not even your mate.

(but that particular thought will only be useful a few days from now- You stupid idiot alpha.)

Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you start. Keeping your voice down so that Jungkook won't overhear. “Jungkook- the other day, we were uhm, having sex.” Hobi reaches up and zips up your sweatshirt, it's another one of his that you’ve taken to wearing religiously. The one with sewn-in patches on the front.

“Oh, you’re blushing.”

You bury your nose in the blanket. “Shut up- am not.”

“Just spit it out,” He teases. At least you have the energy to tease me back today.

You sigh, resting your cheek sort of across his knee, although the blanket cushions you too. it takes you a second before you start. “I gave- or well- tried to give him a blowjob. But I started crying in the middle of it.”

Hobi winces, trying to school his face into a mask of impassivity. He might be getting a little too used to you crying with how the last few nights have gone. But he understands why the shift might have been startling for Jungkook.

It’s hard to keep speaking but Hobi's hand in yours makes it easier. “He keeps trying to apologize, but there’s nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who pushed myself when I knew I shouldn't have. it's my fault, not his."

"You don’t really believe that do you?” Hobi feels vaguely sick.

You wrap your arms around your knees, watching Jungkook streach out his body on the grass.

“I don't know, maybe."

Posting on Saturday September 2nd at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)

[annie-creates]

Just a bad memory

Pairing: Abby Anderson x reader

Genre: fluff

Words: 1800

Note: I swear I'm not doing it on puspose I'm just too invested in this story line. It's crazy how few people write actual outbreak TLOU. I hope you'll like this one. Let's celebrate Easter with this.

You stood at the edge of the harbor, looking out for any signs of a boat or a raft coming your way. It’s been a week since Abby Anderson made contact with your camp, promising to join your forces once again. It should have taken her just two days from Santa Barbra to the Catalina Island, so your team was slowly loosing hope of her arrival. You didn’t want to imagine all the things that could have happened to her on the way, convincing yourself she probably just got delayed.

You haven’t seen Abby since you were both teenagers, you being a medical student in the Salt Lake City hospital and she being your boss’ daughter. But after the tragedy of both Jerry and Marlene dying and your station disbanding, you traveled with what was left of the Fireflies from place to place and she joined other survivors with her friends. The only image of what she should look like now after years was the few photos of your former friends Leah sent you.

You arrive back at your dorm at the base, spending the evening looking through the photos of your group laughing together and reading an old book you found at one of your search missions. You didn’t have many possessions but anything of seeming unimportance you found and claimed as yours had a special little place in your heart. You didn’t have any people left to deem important so you had to cling onto things. At least loosing things didn’t hurt as much. Things can’t unexpectedly die, just get lost. They don’t suddenly stop existing.

The next morning you’re woken up by Ethan, your best student, making him the second-best doctor this place had at just seventeen years old. If you got hurt you wouldn’t hesitate to place your life in his hands. Together you make your way to breakfast, eating in the basically only communal area you had around here. The kitchen wasn’t the best, but it kept your stomach full and that’s about as much as you could have wanted in the apocalypse.

“I’ve heard there’s a big action planned for today.” He informs you munching on a makeshift burrito.

“Like what, I haven’t been told anything.” You furrow your brows, they always told you when there were bigger than usual damages expected.

“Maybe it’s just training, you know how serious they can get with it.” Ethan offers shrugging.

“Yeah, maybe.” You agree half absent, already lost in thought.

“Quick! We have arriving at the port!” one of the soldiers on duty interrupts your conversation snapping you out of thoughts.

There was already an alert blaring, so you jumped out of your seat running to the pier where you usually waited for new arrivals. Sometimes it was former Fireflies coming, sometimes new recruits joining and other times it was invaders who needed to be pacified and questioned. This time though it was just a small boat hardly showing two people in. You could tell they were exhausted and probably famished, giving the signal to bring them in so you can see them. They clearly weren’t a threat.

You looked the people over, a boy who couldn’t be older than sixteen and a young woman unnaturally skinny and littered with more wounds than you could count, who looked awfully familiar. You ordered the few soldiers to help them out and bring them to the medical wing so you can tend to them. Looking the kid over her was malnourished and sunburned but didn’t have many actual life-threatening injuries that would need to be sewn up or operated immediately.

“Get him warmed up and get some nutrition into him as best as you can.” You instructed Ethan entrusting the boy in his hands.

“I always get the least fun job.” He grumbles as a joke and gets to the case.

“Hey. Once you’re the lead doctor you can divide the work.” You nudge him and turn your attention to the girl in the next bed divided only by a thin hospital veil.

You didn’t necessarily enjoy being the most skilled medical person around here, it meant all the responsibility of keeping people alive fell on you. On the other hand, you were literally saving lives on daily basis, and that was something you wanted to do ever since before the world went to shit. It’s why you studied at St. Mary’s Hospital and it’s also why you’re here, always following the Fireflies. Ever since Mr. Anderson died you sort of lost your guidance but you always tried to follow the right path as close as possible.

As you clean the girl’s wounds, it’s hard to decide where to even start. You begin with the deep cuts scattered around her hands and a few on her stomach including a stab wound in her shoulder, as those are at the highest risk of catching infections. You make your way around them, cleaning them with warm water, disinfecting them and dressing them in a clean white gauze, sewing up the deeper ones. As she almost looks like a Halloween mummy costume you move onto her face, tending to the cuts and bruises. Some were clearly caused by a knife while others you couldn’t even specify.

“What the hell happened to you.” You mumble as you’re gently brushing her hair out of her face, and that’s when it hits you. “Oh my god!”

“What!?” Ethan runs in ready for anything that could have frightened you.

“It’s her!” Sure, she was much thinner and dirtier than when you last saw her, but her bone structure was clear as day.

“Her who?” Ethan asks with a confused look clearly not being able to follow your train of thoughts.

“Abby! Abby Anderson!” You couldn’t believe you were actually saying it. “Go tell the captain they’re here.”

As Ethan runs out to pass on your exciting discovery, already being done with his job here, you look at her in awe. You couldn’t believe you were seeing her after years of being separated. She didn’t look anything like in the grown-up pictures Leah shared with you, her hair was messily cut off short instead of the long blond braid she used to wear and her body wasn’t built like a transformer as it apparently used to be, but it was still her. Her face that lost a little if it’s round cuteness, her hands and fingers calloused from too much excessive work.

“It’s okay. You’re safe here.” You promise her in a low voice as you see her waking up.

“What… what’s going on..?” Abby slowly moves feeling every muscle in her body hurting.

“You made it to the Catalina Island. You’re at the Fireflies. I’m gonna take care of you.” You clear out pushing her gently back down. “Don’t get up, your body needs to heal.”

“But Lev…” She frantically looks around.

“The boy’s okay. He’s just next door. Malnourished but otherwise fine.” You assure her settling down her worries as you put two and two together. “I’ll get you something to eat and drink. You need to get back some strength.”

Maybe she’d protest but the exhaustion and soft bed won over her pulling her back to sleep. Meanwhile you collected water bottles and soft foods that she could eat from the kitchen bringing it in on a tray putting it down on the side table by her bed. As you sat in a chair waiting for her to wake up again but giving her the much-needed time to sleep, you browsed the old photos of your friends again. You wondered what happened to them, it wasn’t like Abby to leave her group. But then again, this wasn’t the exact same girl you used to know in Salt Lake City.

“Where did you get that?” Abby asks when she wakes up again looking at the tray stocked with food.

“The kitchen..?” you answer even when it sounds more like an uncomprehending question.

“How do you get so much food?” She specifies suspicious and sits up as well as she can.

“Well some of it we harvest, some we find and we make a few.” You shrug your shoulders fluffing up her pillow to make her more comfortable and placing the tray on her legs. “It’s usually ingredients that can’t go bad. Nothing fancy but it keeps your stomach full.”

“How’s Lev doing?” she questions with concern biting into a sadly looking sandwich.

“He’s fine. Just needs to sleep and replenish some energy. It wouldn’t hurt you either.” You smile at her.

“I’m sorry, you seem to know me and I haven’t even caught your name.” Abby questions.

“Y/n. I used to work at Saint Mary’s… with your dad.” You explain warily.

“Oh. How come I don’t remember you?” She wonders with a saddened face.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid back then. Plus, I looked a lot different… I’ve grown a lot.” You laugh, unlike Abby you weren’t exactly part of the elite group, just an occasional friend. “But Leah sent me some of your photos.”

“Huh? Really?” Abby asks with her mouth full of bread.

“Yeah, just a few. To know what y’all looked like grown up.” You pass her the photos you set aside earlier. “What happened to them?”

“They’re all dead.” She states with remorse in her voice looking through your photos. “Danny, Manny, Nora… Owen was the one who wanted to come here. He was having a baby with Mel, and they’re all fucking dead now.”

“How?” You ask carefully.

“That girl, the bitten one from Salt Lake City. I found the guy who saved her, the one who killed my dad. And she killed all my friends.” She angrily explains throwing the photos away. “I let her live and she killed them all.”

“I’m sorry.” You tenderly caress her shoulder and she leans her head on you. “I’m really sorry Abs. But you’re gonna be safe here. We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I’m just so fuckin’ tired of it. All those Jackson folks.” She complains resting her weight on you. “The Rattlers, Scars, WLF…”

“I know, I get it. We’re gonna make it alright. You just need to get your strength back now.” You gently stroke her hair. “We’ll make it just a bad memory. Everything will be okay.”

And she wanted to believe you. Abby wanted to find the hope that was long lost for her. You knew what it’s like to be left completely alone in this world, and it was a terrifying feeling. Now you could offer her care and safety, even if it doesn’t heal the empty wound gaping after her friends and family. You’re gonna be her anchor in the terrifying nightmares, the pillar under the weight of her severe hurt.

[ebonysplendor]

Perfect Love: Milo Change -- TS4 Edition

This is totally not becoming a Perfect Love fan page ^^;; I swear I'll shut up about this game after today...

...ANYWAYS! Show and tell time!

So, I made the Milos in The Sims 4, so that's cool, I guess!

Introducing OG Milo Change, "Deceive, defame, and deny" Milo, and "Always choose violence" Milo.

Peep the eye colors though; red for violence, blue for manipulation

This is pretty much it, but it you wanna see me ramble more and/or the other pics, you can keep going :)

Okay, so hear me out. I think these actually came out pretty okay?

First off, it's very hard for me to make faces. What I mean by that is, usually, whenever I recreate characters in The Sims, I find a base "face" and then I edit it. I can dress them, sure, but the "genetics" part kill me; I can't recreate a face to save my life, and I absolutely rely on other simmers for that. That being said...I was on my own this time, so just ignore the faces altogether if they look off, even though, this time around, I think I did pretty okay.

Now, I do feel like I did pretty damned good on the wardrobe, especially for my "always choose violence" Milo; that one was my favorite, and he came out pretty close to the actual sprite, which was a big "yay" moment. At least, I think it did. Am I being delusional or overly critical...? I'm not sure lol. Like, I'm not trying to drag myself but I def do not want to overhype myself because these probably could've been better, but I honestly don't know, like... how to make it better. Whatever though, I did it for funsies, and now, I have the option to put them in one of my playthroughs, which is super exciting.

Now, admittedly, I'm peeved that I couldn't find exact clothing, and that's my toxic trait when trying to recreate a character in sims. For some reason, if I can't find the exact clothes and/or hair, it throws the entire thing off for me. It's not as bad when I can find something relatively close, but if it's not pretty much it, it bothers the living hell out of me. That's just a thing with me, for whatever reason, and that being said, why, oh why, could I not find a damned jacket with the sewn on patches and why could I not find an accessory hoodie for the guys? I have a shirt with an eye on it. It killed me not to use it, but I used what was the closest.

Anyways, enough rambling and trying to explain myself. Please either enjoy or criticize these Milos that I made to feed my obsession for this game.

Big preesh for checking this out, brah.

Drink water, don't be dumb, and hope to see you around!

Until next time~!

p.s. Just in case you were wanting to play it, or you somehow stumbled upon this and was wondering what game I was talking about, here's a link to the Perfect Love visual novel. If you just so happen want to read my review and see me absolutely foam at the mouth over this game, here's a link to that as well.

Okay, I'm leaving for realsies now. Lol later~!

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #160

I had a LOT of social today. But it was very good, I think.

I made a wonderful friend at the gathering of poly folks (if you remember!) and we'll call him E! E has a wife called H, and a partner K, and the three of them invited me along with them to a mall that is some distance from my house, because E wanted to get some pretty clothing from the lingerie store! He found some things that I think will look super amazing on him! I hope they fit well and that he ends up liking what he bought!

…I won't make pretend like it wasn't difficult for me to simply walk into a store like that one. Most places that make stuff like this… they're not usually made for proportions like mine. I don't look like the mannequins that these things are usually sewn for. And rationally, I understand there's nothing wrong with that; humans are supposed to come in all sorts of different shapes and sizes, after all. I love all the shapes that all the living things come in… except for my own. And… the dislike of my own shape has nothing to do with its shape. Rather, it has more to do with the fact that it's mine, and the fact that I live in a culture that demands we all hate our own shape, no matter what that shape is.

I reached my full height when I was like 12, but I didn't even begin developing adult characteristics until I was around 16, for whatever reason. So if you can imagine a version of me that was around 5'9"/175.25cm and only 120lb/54.4kg… that's what I was. I was malnourished in those days; you could count my ribs without much effort. I have a long time of being called "pathetically flat-chested", "beanpole", and "pebbles" (derived from the phrase, "boulder-holders for your shoulders") by my father, my stepmother, and the kids at school. I have memories of being called disgusting by my stepmother for being skinny and mostly shapeless. And I have memories of her telling me, "someday you're gonna get fat and you'll be just as disgusting then, too."

…Well. She was right about one thing. I am 60lb/27.2kg heavier now than I was back in those days. I am soft and kinda chubby. And although rationally I understand that the shape that I have now is as good as any other shape that exists (because all living things are living-thing-shaped, and all living things are good), I still struggle with the sense of shame that was ground into me since I was a young girl, and I still struggle with the fear of being on the receiving end of verbal or social violence from other people for what I look like.

The culture in which I live tends to viciously shame any human with any amount of body fat. But at the same time, it also tends to viciously shame any human who is skinny. Humans in my world get shamed for not conforming to the "beauty standards" that exist here, but at the same time, if you do happen to conform to those "standards", people will shame you because then they assume you're "stupid" or "shallow" or "vain". And I don't know how that can be. It's as though the only "acceptable" shape of a human in my world is one that matches the plastic ones that clothing stores like to demonstrate their products on. But even then, if you conform to that shape, people are still angry at you. It's very confusing!

The ladies working at the store were not like this, though. They were very nice, actually. They looked at my shape and they didn't tell me that it's bad. They didn't tell me that I should try a different store. I found something I liked, but they didn't have it in stock. So they asked me what my measurements were, so that way I could order it from the store's website for delivery.

But… given my upbringing, I hadn't really known what my size was at all; neither of my female adult overlords went over how to select things for myself or how to know what size I am or any of that; mostly in those days, it was "hurry the fuck up" and "your chest is too small to need a good bra; this is what you're getting, now let's go." So up until this point, I had been making do with things made for sports or things that are ill-fitting. But… the nice ladies didn't make me feel stupid for not knowing what fits me. Instead, they took my measurements, and that was… interesting. It was interesting to consider the notion that I was worth that kind of time and effort.

So then, in order to confirm that their measurements were correct, they went and fetched some things for me to try on. And I tried them, and they didn't feel terrible, and that was also very interesting. And do you know what else? They told me I looked very pretty. And you know? Today, for at least a little while, I was able to believe them. Today at least, I looked in the changing room mirror and I didn't feel revulsion at what I saw. Now I know my measurements for certain kinds of clothing. I can use that information if I find pretty things that will fit me properly.

But when I went home and got on the website, I hesitated. Historically, I do not get any clothing for myself unless I'm forced to, due to something I own wearing out. Ordinarily, I'll go for years and years in between buying 1 or 2 clothing items. And… I still had some lingering doubts about whether or not I was "worth" getting comfy, pretty things in my size, given how I'm shaped; I have all these messages in my head from so many people telling me that the structural composition of my body is somehow a moral failing on my part instead of a function of my genetics. And that's very lame.

…So I defied the conditioning and I got the things. Because it is getting hot outside, and because, like any human being, I am already worth having comfortable things to wander around my house in, without needing to worry about what might happen if my neighbors are peering through my windows. I am already worth being comfortable. I am already worth feeling good in my own skin. We all are. And unless I take the steps to challenge the conditioning that tells me differently, I won't get good at knowing in my bones that I am worth something regardless of what I'm shaped like. Sometimes there is no easy way out of conditioning; sometimes you just gotta be brave and defy the old, destructive thing even if your brain is trying to make you feel ashamed and afraid.

…I wonder if you ever struggle with insecurities about your own appearance. I hope not; maybe your world is different from mine in that it's less concerned with people's bodily composition. But then again, maybe it's not different - after all, we all saw how Don Corneo is with women. And we know how your culture views modified humans as "monsters", which is some lame-ass horseshit. So if you do have your own set of insecurities about yourself, I'll hope that you'll put in the work to overcome them.

Hey, Sephiroth? If you had your choice of clothing, instead of whatever Shinra makes you wear, what would you pick? I think that colorful, bright things would suit you nicely, of course, but the most important thing to consider when it comes to selecting clothing is how comfortable YOU feel in it. Whatever you wear should, ideally, help you to feel more at home in your own skin. What would you feel at home in? Have you thought about it? And are you brave enough to make sure you have access to things that you would feel at home in? I wonder...

Anyway, I also got a rainbow butterfly cape, because I thought it was nifty! Check it out:

...It's super colorful!!! I love it!!! I'm gonna wear it tomorrow, just because!!!

I also have a few pictures of some cats I made friends with today, because after the mall, I went to the house of a different friend, who had lots of other friends over at the same time. This is Oliver (right) and Freya (left):

As you can see, they are both very cute!

...The nice thing about cats is that they don't care about what you look like; they only care about how safe they feel in your presence. I try hard to be someone that other living things can feel safe around. One of the best ways to become safe for others to be around is to become safe for yourself to be around first. I work on that every day with every self-destructive thought or habit that I challenge.

Well. That's probably all for today. I hope you'll think about defying whatever conditioning you have that says you should not love yourself. I'm certainly going to do my best to defy mine. Please try to remember that you are already worthy of feeling comfortable in your own skin.

I love you. I'll write again tomorrow. So please stay safe...

Your friend, Lumine

[thereismusicinmysoul]

Work was closed today because of an ice storm, so I took the unexpected day off to finally finish the pleated wrap skirt I've been working on since early November! I got really rambly about the whole thing so here's a picture of the finished product and I'll drop the rest below the cut.

This project came about because I've been watching The Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty with some friends and I DESIRE a swooshy skirt. While I didn't follow any patterns and wasn't setting out to make the same exact style of skirt, it was definitely influential. (This skirt brought to you by numerous tutorial videos, including one on Chinese mamianqun's and one on Korean hanbok's, and an absolute refusal to actually follow anyone's instructions. No pattern, we die like men)

It's been almost 10 years since I've done any sewing, so I decided to buy sheets from the thrift store so that I wouldn't cry as hard if things went horribly or I had to trash the project. (Don't get me wrong, I still cried. Because Oh Golly did things go wrong. But it wasn't as tragic as if I'd used full price fabric from Joann's, ya feel?) So from there the idea grew from "pleated wrap skirt" (my rationale: I don't have to be precise in my measurements, straight hem, but still lots of swoosh) to "make this skirt out of a queen size top sheet with as little waste as possible" because who doesn't love a challenge?

....and oh what a challenge it ended up. I plotted things out in my notebook, planned how I would cut everything, and oh let me tell you: rationally I knew how big the sheet was. But laying it out to cut it? So huge. So much fabric. It covered my entire bedroom floor. All of this going into a single skirt oh god what have I gotten myself into? But this part actually went the smoothest of the whole process! Because...

I wasn't doing normal pleats. Since I was trying to make the swooshiest dress with as much of the fabric as I had, I did "deep pleats" which is. A normal pleat but if you shove more fabric inside the pleat. No one wanted to explain to me exactly how to do this. The one person I found who did gave me MATH about it. And boy am I bad at math. Used a pillowcase to practice and wrap my head around how the math worked (the intangible makes no sense to me, I must hold it in my hands), sorted the math, started pleating for real! Measured my pinned pleats and it came up way shorter than anticipated. Have I mentioned it's been a hot minute since I've sewn? Also this was my first attempt ever at pleats. SO! I unpinned everything, made my deep pleats slightly less deep, pinned them all up again, and then blessedly listened to my Grammy's advice to baste the pleats first. Because horror of horrors, my measurements were right the first time and now my fabric was too long for the waistband I'd already put Quite A Lot Of Effort Into. Like, it's a wrap skirt. I would've just made do. But no. It wouldn't even fit.

Within this process, I sewed together my three skirt panels, put in a pocket (oh the choices I made. This pocket did not survive to the completion of the skirt because it was BAD. I was terrified that the fabric wouldn't hold up to the weight of me dripping my phone into it and covered the ENTIRE pocket in interfacing. This would be fine if I'd wanted it to fuck up the way the skirt lay, but this was not in fact what I wanted. I am however very proud of the placement I worked out for it, it sits inside one of the pleats so it isn't visible), hemmed the WHOLE FUCKING THING (look. Again. I knew it was a lot of fabric. But it did not occur to me that I would be hemming fucking 240" across the bottom, plus 30" up either side. I used ALL of my pins to accomplish this), and made a very lovely waistband and ties.

Now it is at this point that I went out of town for thanksgiving, remembered I had other Christmas crafting plans, started a new job working more hours, and left this skirt to languish until a few weeks ago when I finally had the heart to rip out all of those pleats, remembered I wanted to redo the pocket while I was here (and let me tell you, I needn't have worried about the strength of the pocket. I had that fucker in there GOOD. I think it took longer picking out that single pocket than it took taking out all of the pleats), and then set about redoing everything.

Now something you may not know about me is I exist in somewhat of a state of chaos. I try to write things down to negate this, but uh. Guess who didn't write down where she left off, and couldn't decipher the mad scientist notes that made sense in the heat of the moment, but not several months later? That would be me. Thankfully I was able to sort things out, get the pocket put back in, got the pleats pinned in record time, and praise whatever deity you may recognize, it was the right length this time! So this afternoon, I attached it to the waistband, did a very lovely "stitch in the ditch" (that I had to take out because something got fucked up in the back and it wouldn't lay right. I never regretted how closely I matched the thread to the fabric more than I did in that moment), REDID all that stitching, and now I have a skirt!

Ultimately, I don't actually know if I'll wear it. I no longer own many tops that lay well with a skirt without making me hate my body, and I don't know that I like the length. Maybe a shopping trip and cutting off several inches (...oh god I'll have to re-hem it...) will make me like it on myself better, but even if I don't and I never wear it, this has been a really fun and fulfilling project! I'm satisfied just with having completed it and I've learned a lot in the process! And hey, for going into this refusing to follow a pattern, with a goal of "use the entire sheet in the skirt" I think it came out pretty nicely. Plus, if nothing else, I can pleat like an absolute pro now.

[outofangband]

Unbeknowst to me until I got online this morning, it is apparently father’s day in the US (at least? I don’t know if it’s elsewhere today) a few days ago

I thought this is as good of an excuse as any to write some headcanons about Húrin as a father!

mostly lighthearted but naturally did end up including some Angband related stuff as well as canonical death mentions. 

also I got to include some Hadorian world building which I always enjoy

He’s always been good with kids and he’s always liked them! He was a natural leader among the kids he played with growing up and a lot of the little ones looked up to him. 

He was definitely a worrier when Túrin and Lalaith were being born*. Morwen nearly made him leave the room levels of worried. I think that both him and Morwen are generally very good in stressful situations but that when Húrin is showing signs of stress or agitation, it can kind of clash with Morwen a bit. 

He brags about his kids all the time. Everyone is going to hear every stage of development, every accomplishment, every little anecdote. 

The Hadorians having naming ceremonies! These are usually smaller, more private events, in contrast to most Hadorian ceremonies which tend to be very public. At the naming ceremonies, the household with occasionally some important guests will gather for the name to be formally announced. Typically an older relative, usually but not always a grandmother, will present a blanket with the name sewn on the top right corner. These blankets are of a thin material and are usually hung on the wall or at the bottom of a bed, not slept under. (On a dark note, these are always buried with children who die young which is in part what the tradition is for. Most Hadorian celebrations, ceremonies and traditions are not so solemn or morbid but this one is). These typically take place within a month of the birth. 

While absolutely not a formal tradition and more a common game in Hithlum, family members of a new baby or toddler will typically try to compete to see what the first solid or non milk foods the child will enjoy is. Some families take this more seriously than others. Bets might be placed with goods at stake for example and relatives will volunteer to watch the child for the purpose of the game. Aerin won for Túrin who was a very picky eater and Huor for Lalaith though she liked almost everything so his victory wasn’t as celebrated.  (Morwen found this incredibly irritating and all but refused when Lalaith was old enough). 

Húrin keeps little things with him when he’s at Barad Eithel to remind him of his family. The first time he has to leave home on Fingon’s orders after Túrin is born he has a temporary crisis of conscience. He rides back to the house twice asking if it’s too soon, if he should stay and send Huor in his stead, asking for everything to be noted down, worrying about missing things and so on, before Morwen (with help from Aerin) chase him out again. 

Húrin loves taking his kids for outings and exploring with them! He finds a lot of joy in showing them new things and introducing them to people (Lalaith loved it, Túrin not always). 

The first time a child sits on a horse, rides with a parent, and rides by themselves are all very important in Hadorian society. Húrin was there for all of these for Túrin. Little Túrin generally did like horses, but he liked petting them. He did not like sitting on one at all and cried a lot.  (Lalaith died before she could ride on her own). 

Húrin did really try with little Túrin. He learns to be a bit calmer, a bit more straightforward and they bond over Túrin’s love of questions and learning. Húrin will patiently answer question after question about the elves, about various objects and tools, about history, his ancestors. 

*and I mean, if he saw Niënor’s birth from afar, depending on when he was actually chained to Thangorodrim to Watch, he was definitely very worried then too but I’ve written before about how bleak the circumstances of her birth were so that’s obviously different. We don’t know exactly when he was chained, when he’s taken to the Haudh, Morgoth only mentions Morwen and one child but we don’t know how long they’re there, how long it took to actually get back and chain him, etc. 

Someday I will post my piece on Niënor’s birth and how bleak and frightening it was for Morwen, knowing that there was no one she could send for help if something went badly, that it her newborn screamed at the wrong moment it could be catastrophic for them…

[saltsicklover]

The Same Stuff

Title: The Same Stuff

Pairing: Clint Barton x Reader (First Person)

Word Count: 6,320

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Age Gap (10 Years), Mentions of Death, Probably poorly written, not enough plot to justify the ending.

Disclaimer: I do not own Clint Barton, or anything related to Marvel within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that contains mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

Life has been swimming past me since I was seventeen. All of the choices I have made, things I have accomplished, life I have lived were made in some sort of fugue state. I was there, I know that for sure, but one day- today- at twenty-four, I "woke up". I was no longer treading just to stay afloat. And maybe that would be okay, to wake up from a muddled dream to actually feel like my life was back in my control, if I hadn't found myself in this situation. A job interview for a position I am well underqualified for and applied to when I was too stoned to think of the crushing anxiety that I might have to endure for such a task. How hard could being a personal assistant be, anyway? 

I sit in a beautiful lobby, every part sparkling clean in the sunlight that drifts in through the wall of windows. I am completely underdressed, the dirt that has been worked into the threads of my jeans over years of wear is now meeting the white suede of the couch beneath me. Jeans, for a start, did not belong among the group of people I find myself in. Each person dressed in their business best, hoping to impress the interviewer and intimidate each other. My choice of jeans and long waffle shirt has earned more than their fair share of eyerolls. I wonder what they would say if they knew I washed my clothes at a laundromat. 

I look down to my boots, the crumbling mud falling onto the pristine marble floor. I can't help but muster a laugh at the sight. I have no briefcase, unlike the other interviewees, let alone any paperwork to hold. 

The bag I do carry is old, patches and visible mending holding it together. It was once my mother's, made for her by a man she worked with during what she called the Kermis days. As if the word spiced up what day to day life actually was for the two of us. We spent many hours under the big top, mending costumes and tending to the performers, most never knowing  a life without her, or me, as I held tightly to her skirts, afraid to lose her in the shuffle.

I remember how she used to cut their hair with swift movements of her scissors, and the way she used to tend to their blisters and new forming scars with careful touches of homemade salve. I dreamed of the smell night after night, the clover mixing with the leftover firework smoke, powdery and full. During the Kermis days, we never had to worry about the clothes we adorned our body with or the way in which we presented, all of the thoughts busied on the performers as they were sewn into their tight costumes. 

I left that life at seventeen, and life seemed to drift away from me. I loaded into a van with a couple of the token "gypsy girls" the derogatory term never escaping them for as long as they worked under that tent. We made our money reading tarot out of the back of the van and taking any odd job we could find as we drove cross country. "We will make it big in the city" We'd laugh like a prayer, each passing city limit sign feeling more like a death wish than a ticket to freedom. 

In the years since, we have all lived in a one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city, our revolving schedules and bed sharing became a sort of solstice as we eclipsed each other with tight hugs and well wished words for the days ahead. 

"Excuse me,  is there a Miss L/N? here" A neutral voice pulls me from my thoughts, dragging me back into the lobby, my eyes still glued on the dirt I've managed to knock from my boots. "Miss L/N?" 

"Oh! Hi! Yes I am here!" I stand quickly, absentmindedly pulling the sleeves of my shirt down over my hands, taking the cuffs into balls in my palms. A tall man in a almost fitting dark suit stands in front of the desk I checked in at about a half our ago. He looks at me, eyes wandering over my frame before gesturing me forward with the clipboard in his hands. 

I try not to think about the trail of crumbling earth I leave behind me as I walk to him. He turns on his heel, not bothering to speak another word. I follow him down a large hallway, glass on either side allowing for beautiful views of the city. I'd look out them, if I cared to know what the world looked like from this high up, but the anxiety that twists my stomach makes sure to keep my eyes trained on the back of the man's head. His dark hair is beginning to twist at the nape, overdue for a cut. I move a bit to the right of him as he shuffles along, glancing at the length of his too-long sideburns and the way they are beginning to hide the sides of his face.

"You need a haircut." The words slip from my lips before I can stop them. There is no sweetness to the comment, only blunt direction. The tone sounding more like my mother than myself. My eyes go wide as I slap a hand over my mouth. He turns to pull a door open, looking at me with scrutinizing eyes, narrow and impassive. 

"I'll take that into account," He deadpans with a crumpled up smirk. He quickly turns his attention inside the room, tilting his head to signal me inside. "Team, this is-" His voice moves to the background of my mind, introducing me to the group of people in the room before disappearing with the closing of the door. 

I drag my eyes across the panel of people sitting on the plush furniture. Each wears a sticky nametag, names drawn out in pen. Bruce a dark featured, handsome man sits on one of the armchairs, a clipboard in hand. A cute, deep skinned man sits on the sofa next to him, the name Sam scribbled across his nametag. Sat next Sam is a very muscular brunette wearing the name 'Bucky'. Next to him is a very normal appearing man wearing a bright smile, my eyes dash down to the nametag- Scott. An unassuming name for an unassuming man. My eyes wander over to the loveseat where a beautiful young girl is sitting, the name Kate on her nametag in scribbles. 

"Cricket?" A small voice whispers, sounding from the corner of the group. The nickname makes my heart jump, adrenaline soring through me at the drop of a hat. Cricket, a nickname I haven't heard since I left the big top. My gaze jumps from Kate to the man sitting next to her, his face a scrunched up mix of amazement and confusion. There is a murmur among the group as they look amongst each other for some sort of clarification. 

I finally make eye contact with the owner of the voice, bravery surging through me. I look over his features more closely this time. Time has written itself onto his soft features, dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. I would know those eyes anywhere, their soft blue gray burned into my memory.

"Frass," The name spills from my lips, the end catching in my throat a bit. We hold eye contact like it's fragile, too heavy to let go of, to break, eyes boring into each other's. The memories of us spill into my head like oil slick, slippery, coating any other thought with their sticky image. 

"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep trying to sew this up in the dark, and your Mama will have your head if I bleed on this costume," Clint scolds warningly, fidgeting beneath my touch. 

"Well if you stopped moving I could sew this up and get you out before your cue with a proper costume," I stitch the sleeve to the yolk of his shirt carefully, the needle moving easily through the fabric. I stand carefully on a stool to reach the rip with ease. "Or I can send you out there with it ripped and we can see who's head my mother will have then." The archer huffs out a mumble of an apology, bouncing carefully on his toes. I keep sewing, moving along with his gentle motions, careful not to poke him with the needle. 

"You know, you're pretty good at this for a kid." He sends the backhanded compliment my way, the words stinging my heart. I hum at him, a makeshift thank you. 

"You know, as the adult here, I could leave you to fix your own costume." I inform him, bite in my voice, pulling the last stitch through. He fumbles around with the bow in his hands, fingertips brushing over it's length. "And I am twelve, basically a teenager, not a kid, and my birthday is coming up. Next week. " I tell him, cutting the thread with my teeth. I whisper the last part, trying not to over hint. 

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Cricket." He laughs, turning to face me. I make a spin motion with my finger. He holds his arms out and spins, allowing me to take in the rest of his costume in full. 

"You're all set," I tell him, pushing the needle into the pincushion on my wrist. "Why do you call me that, anyway?" 

"You'd hate the reason, Cricket." He laughs again, brushing a hand through his spiky hair. I huff at the man as I climb off of the stool. "Okay fine, if you really want to know. It's because you've always been such a small thing, and you always hum while you work, just like your mom."  He states coolly. I can't help but roll my eyes. "See, I knew you'd hate it!" 

I pluck the stool from the ground as I turn to wander off. "You know what, Clint Francis," I turn back to him, now standing a few feet away, "Just for that, you've earned yourself a new nickname." He quirks an eyebrow at me, still visible in the low light behind the curtains as he tries to hide the disgust that flashes across his face from hearing his middle name. A devilish smirk creeps over my lips as I look at him. "Have a good show, Frass." I wave at him with a wiggle of my fingers. 

"What does that even mean? He questions me, eyebrows knit together but a small smile plays at his lips. I stop in my tracks, turning around to meet his gaze once more. 

"Francis the ass," I state, corners of my mouth curling up into a deeply devious smirk. I don't even wait for a response before I turn to leave. 

"Hey, Cricket!" He calls after me, "You're the most annoying kid sister I've ever had!" 

"Not your sister, Frass." I shout behind me as I push a curtain to the side, ready to disappear out into the lot. "Go shoot something, would you?"

I always knew my little crush on the much older boy was silly, something I was teased for by my mother. Maybe it wasn't even a crush, maybe it was a sort of knowing, that his soul and mine were made of the same stardust. My mom used to laugh when I'd say that, a knowing look falling over her features. "Whatever you say, sweet pea, whatever you say." She would repeat as she brushed her hands over my hair. "You can love him when you are an adult. Then ten years won't be such a big difference, okay?" I would roll my eyes at her, fingers working over a costume piece as I worked on my invisible stitches. 

Clint held a special place in my heart, a new sort of love I never knew how to name. Cashmere told me one night as she read my tarot that we had a destiny, the universe pulling us together. She said it in a teasing way, maybe to help justify my young feelings. Her words only cemented what I already knew, Clint and I came from the same stuff, the borealis where souls were made. Essence shimmering in the great nebula, stardust turned sentient.  

I counted down the days until adulthood, but I only made it 547 days before Clint left the circus, leaving me behind at the tender age of fourteen.

"Is anyone going to fill us in here?" Sam breaks the silence. I can't seem to look anywhere but Clint, my eyes tracing over his figure. He wears a dark purple tee-shirt and a pair of black cargo pants, his muscle visible beneath the clothing. I fight off a smile. 

"Right, right, hello." I finally speak to the rest of the room. I  turn to nod a 'thank you' to the man who walked me into the room only to find out he had already disappeared. I try to fight off the embarrassment that crawls over my skin, leaving pinpricks in it's wake, turning my skin a bright shade of crimson as I walk over to the empty armchair next to Bruce. "My name is Y/N L/N, it's nice to meet you all," I offer my kindest smile, eyes drawing themselves back to Clint. I want to hit him, or hug him, or both. Maybe I just crave the feeling of his skin. 

"And you're here for the job interview, right?" Bruce asks, his voice wavering slightly. I nod, running my sweat slick hands over the tops of my jeans. I look at Bruce, eyebrows raised in an attempt to seem inviting. I smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. 

"I know we are supposed to ask questions about the interview, but I've gotta know more about what's going on here," Kate speaks as she looks around the room. She is picking at the ends of her hair with her fingertips like she is scrutinizing every split end.  Clint adverts his eyes at her words, focusing his line of sight straight at the floor in front of his feet. The group voices agreements with Kate as they look between us again, each deciding on who they want to focus on with a trained gaze. Thankfully almost everyone settles on Clint, eyeing him carefully, but he doesn't acknowledge them. 

"We sorta grew up together," I finally speak, folding my arms across my chest. "But, uhh, he left before I was grown." The tension in the air between us grows thicker the longer the silence lingers in the air. A guilty look falls over Clint's features, a blush crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. I stifle a laugh, if anyone should be embarrassed for how the situation went down, it should be me. But it's not like he would know anything of it. 

"Mom, what are you doing with Clint's costume?" I question her, pulling out a stool to sit at the table next to her. She is making quick work of pulling off all the sequence and trim, sorting them into piles, small and careful. She looks up at me with sad eyes, a smile pressed over the thin lines of her lips. 

"Oh Cricket, honey," She begins, tears welling up in her big brown eyes, "I don't know how to tell you this, but," She sets down the costume, holding her hands out to me. I take them cautiously, her bulbus joints creaking as she closes her hands around mine. "Clint left a couple of days ago, we were all hoping that he would be coming back, but there has been no sign of him. So, Mr. Carson is having me take his costume apart to save on materials for the new one we will have to make when they find someone to fill his place," She explains each bit slowly and carefully, running her thumbs over the backs of my hands to try and comfort the storm she knows is brewing within me. 

I can feel my chest tighten, tears pushing out through my tightly closed eyes. I don't want to believe her. Clint wouldn't just leave, especially without saying goodbye. I can feel a distant sob escape me, my head too clouded with thoughts. I can feel my mom pull me into her arms, snaking them around me in a tight embrace. She coos and shushes me as the tears stream down my face. 

That was the first of many instances like this that took over my life for the next sixteen months. 

I can feel the long forgotten emotions begin to wrap themselves around my ribcage, causing a cough to crawl up the dryness of my throat. "Anyway, let's get this interview going, shall we?" I ask, pulling a cheek numbing smile onto my face. I try and push down the hurt, but it just squeezed me tighter. 

"Of course," Sam coughs, clearing his throat of all the tension, "So, I suppose you know we are interviewing for an assistant. We are looking for someone to move into the compound up state and watch over everything up there. We all come and go so often for missions its hard to do simple things like grocery shopping. We try and keep up with each other's schedules, but we need someone to work as the go between when we aren't all in the same place. We do have a maid service, so you wouldn't need to worry about that." Sam explains, running a finger down his clipboard. 

"Okay, sounds easy enough." I acknowledge with a nod of my head.

"What kind of skills do you have?" Scott counters, "How would you be any better than the rest of the people we have already spoken to today?" His tone is curious, not at all daunting. 

"Well, I can cook, I can sew. I basically kept the big top turning after my mom passed away. That is, managing people time and making sure everyone was on the same page when shit hit the fan and we would have to move acts around." I explain, gesturing with my hands. "I am also quiet, and clean, despite my current appearance-" 

"Mama died?" 

"Clint, you were in a circus?" 

Bucky and Clint speak at the same time, interrupting me. I can feel his eyes burrowing into my profile, and I know that if I look I will see tears in his eyes. I couldn't handle that, I know I couldn't.

"Yes, she did. When I was fifteen." I explain, wringing my hands. I stifle down more feeling of hurt before I continue. "But as I was saying, I haven't had any complaints when it comes to roommates, and I keep my word. Clint can vouch for that one." I pin that on him, knowing that he owes me as much. His name left my lips and it felt clunky on my tongue. I haven't called him 'Clint' in years, and it hurt. 

The group gaze flickers over to Clint, and he just nods, a half hearted murmur crawling out of his lips. He has his head buried in his hands, elbows to knees. I can feel the pang of hurt run through me at the sight of him like this. It has always hurt the same way. 

"Well, this has been, interesting. I think we will cut it here, take a break. Thank you for coming in. We will give you a call when we make our final decision." Bruce speaks, pulling my attention to him. He stands, holding his hand out for me to shake. I take it with a firm squeeze, just how Clint taught me so many years ago. 

I bid the rest of the group goodbye before walking out the door. I follow back down the large hallway, the shock of the last fifteen minutes rising in me. By the time I reach the lobby, I can feel the broken pieces of my heart start to wobble in their place. After years of stuffing down the feelings of heartbreak and abandonment from Clint and his reaction to my mother's passing, all the old emotions seem to rush back through me. 

I know I shouldn't hurt, so much life has passed since it all happened, but all I can think of now is the pressure of it all against my ribcage and the ever looming prayer that repeats itself over and over and over again. "Do not call me, do not call me, do not call me." 

I duck into a nearby bathroom, crashing hard against the tile floor in front of the toilet before a mix of bile and anguish escapes me. I empty my stomach into the porcelain, the smell of lemon cleaner and bleach numbing the soreness of my chest. Tears leave hot, wet trails down my cheeks. 

All I can think about is the last encounter I had with Clint before he left the big top. The way he spoke to me, soft and feathery.

"Hey Cricket, can I ask you something?" Clint grabs my bicep as I walk by, a big bowl of chili in my hands. Everyone is gathered around a caravan, dinner being served before we turn in for the night. The show has long ended, the crowds disappearing with the smell of popcorn and sickly sweet cotton candy. 

"Yeah, Frass, what's up?" I peer up into his eyes, my heart thrumming against my chest. 

"Are you happy here?" He questions, not quite meeting my eyes. I scrunch my eyebrows with question, never having expected those words to come out of his mouth. I think over them for just a second, mulling thoughts turning over in my head like acrobats. 

"Of course I am," I chuckle a bit, "I can't imagine life anywhere else. This is all I've ever known, and these guys are my family, well  most of them anyway." I let my eyes graze over the group around us, taking in each of their faces in a brief sweep. A warm feeling blooms in my chest. 

Fourteen, living the life most people dream of, in love with a man I've known for most of my life, and a large chosen family, who wouldn't be happy with a life like mine? Clint lets out a strangled chuckle after a moment, his hand finally dropping from my arm only to run anxiously through his hair. I offer him a soft smile. 

"Yeah, of course." He answers after another moment, eyes finally catching mine. He reaches up carefully to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch innocent and sweet. My smile blooms a bit wider. 

"You're really a good kid, you know that?" He offers, his words holding a bit of sadness even with the upturned swing of them as they leave his lips. 

"I'm not a kid, Frass" I remind him, pushing his shoulder. He just smiles down at me, squeezing my shoulder lightly before turning to the caravan. He walks away without another look back. 

A few days later, I sit in the bathtub at the apartment, fully clothed with no water in the tub. The only place with any sort of quiet. I turn the pages of the novel in my hand, reading the words but none of them make it to my brain. My mind keeps drifting back to the interview and how strange the whole situation was. 

It hit me yesterday, that the group was the Avengers, or what was left of them, I suppose. I interviewed for an assistant position with the damn Avengers, and Clint was there, barely making an effort to look at me. Maybe I shouldn't even be surprised with what the world has been through the past few years. At this point, you could tell me just about anything and I'd believe it. 

My phone rings loudly, vibrating against the bottom of the tub, causing me to jump.  I grab it quickly, answering it with a cool hello. 

"Hey, hi, is this Cricket, I mean, Y/N, is this Y/N?" I cringe a little at the nickname coming over the phone. 

"This is," I finally speak, my voice wavering in question, "How can I help you?" 

"This is Sam, from the job interview" He notifies me. I swallow thickly, a lump forming in my throat. 

"What can I do for you, Sam?" I wring my hands together, a new layer of sweat beginning to coat my palms. Fuck all of this nervous energy. 

"I am calling to offer you the job. We all talked after you left and Clint spoke so highly of you, I mean, we all agreed that there couldn't be anyone better for the job after he told us some stories." My blood runs cold at his words. I flip through the memories in my brain, trying to figure out what Clint might have told them. 

Before I can even think, the words leave my mouth like I am possessed. "Sam, I'd be honored to take the position." I later blame the hasty decision on the hunger that panged through me, and the yearning in my soul to be surrounded by people again, working and serving and creating. 

A month goes by and I have completely moved into the upstate compound. Life is different now, steady most days. I grocery shop and tidy up the messes the team leaves after they ravage the compound when they come home from missions. I cook for them too, even though Bruce insists it wasn't a part of my job. It feels right in my soul, so I do it anyway. 

I haven't seen Scott, Kate, or Sam since I moved into the compound. They have been on mission since shortly after my initial interview. I can't decide if that's better or worse than having Clint here, avoiding my eyes like he did before. We pass each other in the hall, or in the common areas, and each and every time he averts his eyes from me. I don't think he has said anything not work related to me since I moved in and it makes my soul ache. 

A few months go by and no progress has been made between us. I can't help but look at him, snagging glances as we pass each other, or in meetings. The compound seems lonelier when he is on mission, and I breathe easier when he is here. Maybe I should push past this childhood crush, even if that means breaking my own heart. 

I push the thought out of my head as I finish brushing my teeth. I spit the suds into the sink before rinsing out my mouth. I point at myself in the mirror, toothbrush still in hand. 

"Do not mourn those who are still living, it's a waste of precious heart space," I tell myself, repeating the words my Mom used to say to the performers after they went through breakups. She used to then turn to me and tell me not to date my coworkers, a goofy smile spread over her lips. I would roll my eyes at her. 

A knock at my door pulls me from the mirror pep talk. I throw my toothbrush back into the drawer before headed to the door. I pull it open, the sight of Clint greets me. I try and wipe the confused look from my face, the harsh line between my brows only easing slightly. 

"Hey," He whispers, avoiding my eyes. He fumbles with his hands a bit, pulling on his fingers. 

"Hi," I respond, the word barely loud enough to hear. 

"Can I come in?" He questions, eyes meeting the middle of my face, not quite making it to my eyes, but definitely closer this time. I step aside, pulling the door open wider in invitation. Clint pads into the room just far enough for me to close the door behind him. 

I look him over carefully as he stands awkwardly in my small living room. The dark colors of his clothes standing out against the light gray of the undecorated room. He looks like hell, deep lines of exhaustion making purchase over the tenderness of his features. The dark flesh under his eyes almost eclipse the pale blue of his iris's, offsetting their normally bright color. His hair stands up in all directions. Sweat and dirt coat his whole body, smudges greasy on the light skin of his face. 

"You look like hell, Frass," I finally speak. I want to reach out and touch him, run my thumbs over the fullness of his cheeks, the apex of his lips, allowing the dirt to coat my fingertips. He chuckles a bit, light and scratchy. 

"You look," He stumbles a bit, "Grown up," He finally decides on his words, bringing his lower lip between his teeth. 

"I'm sure I do, it's been a long time since we talked like this," My smile falters a bit, wavering at my words. My lungs burn in my chest. "You've grown into yourself, I think," I drink him in, dirt and all. He is even more handsome than he was back then, I think, or maybe it's because I now see him through the eyes of a women, the way he is meant to be seen. A bit of guilt settles in me for looking at him so unbashful, but as he stands here in my living room, I can't help but take him in. He can't run from my gaze here. 

He smiles at me this time, but its fleeting. The feeling that blooms in my chest however, isn't. 

"I came to ask you about something, but I'm not sure you're going to remember it," Clint looks almost defeated at the thought, and the look on his face crushes the joy in my chest just a little. 

"Okay." That's the only word I can manage. I nod, though, my lips falling into a small and tense almost-smile. 

"I talked to your Mom before I left," He starts, coughing a bit to try and clear the tension, "I asked her about a rumor that was going around." I nod at him, urging him to keep talking, "But she, she wouldn't tell me if it was true or not, so I guess I am asking you if it is." He takes a step closer but there is still a world of unknown space and unsaid words between us. 

I can barely think with his body this close to mine, the fog of decade old feelings clouding my judgement. It tastes sweet, nostalgic and comforting, like a glass of sun tea. 

"I heard that you used to say that we were made up of the same stuff. Something about souls being created together." He mumbles the words like he is unsure of how they are supposed to be said. I can feel pinpricks of a blush blooming over my skin. His words hang in the air between us, time stopping for just a moment, freezing us in place. 

Maybe, if this were eight, or four, or two years ago, I would crumble. If it was six months ago, I might be able to take them with a shot of forty proof nausea. But now, I only bristle a bit, more under his gaze than around his words.  

"Yeah, what about it?" I finally question. I hate the words as soon as I say them, wishing I could snatch them right out of the air. Erase them from our history. But I know if I could, I wouldn't stop, rewinding my life to the last conversation we had about happy lives and I would lie and tell him I was just as miserable as him, and maybe he would've taken me with him. 

"Did you mean it?" He looks pained, the words hanging over him, or maybe they are dragging him down. 

I laugh and it's the loudest sound that has occurred between us in years. 

"Frass, you came here to ask me about a childhood crush?" I lie a bit, the crush began in childhood, but I am still doing everything in my power to deny it's current existence. His eyes go a bit wide, but he tries to crinkle the rest of his expression to cover it up. I can't help but let a low chuckle fill the room again, the sound breaking through the dense air. 

"Yeah, sort of, I guess," He runs a hand through his hair, but it does nothing to tame his messy locks, and I suspect it does nothing to quell his anxiety either. 

"Sit, would you?" I gesture to the sofa, my voice soft. He moves to sit, not caring about the dirty he is covered in. "What exactly do you want to know, Frass?" He flounders for a moment, mouth opening and closing without a sound. 

"What exactly did you tell your Mom? That's the first question," 

I smile at the memory, playing it over in my brain on fast forward. 

"I told her only a bit, at first. I said that your soul and mine were made of the same stardust. She laughed at the thought, no doubt telling other people about it, because they would tease me all around the big top, and that's probably how you heard it. She knew I was in love, well, as in love as a kid could be, you know?" Clint nods at my words, taking them in carefully. "After you left, especially after she got sick, I told her more and more about the little moment we shared, and about how much I loved you. She always said it made her happy to see how happy you made me, even if it was just talk of memories."

"When did you leave?" Clint asks, his voice low, barely there. 

"I left shortly after I turned seventeen. I left with Cashmere, Cherry, and Jacinda. We got in a van and travelled across the country. Those girls saved my soul, in a way, got me here. I owe them a lot. I was slipping before we left." I shake my head to get that thought out of my brain. 

Clint scoots closer, placing a tentative hand on my knee. I take in the feeling of his hand on my body again, for the first time in so long, but his touch is gone before I can commit it to memory. 

"Cashmere agrees with me, you know. Stardust turned sentient." I mumble the last part, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth. 

"I like that." Clint smiles to himself, eyes closed, corners of his lips turned upward. For the first time he looks content. 

"What was your other question?" I ask with a light voice, trying my best to not disturb the calm that has fallen over him. 

"You said you loved me. Was that part true?" He seems hesitant to ask, but does anyway, avoiding eye contact. I don't blame him. 

"Of course I do, Frass. We grew up together. I have loved you since I was eight. Of course, back then I just liked that I wasn't invisible, but you know what I mean." 

"How could you be invisible when you clung to your Mom's skirts so tight that your knuckles were chronically white?" He laughs, the bright sound filling the room. I smile at that, a full smile that reaches my eyes. 

"Do you love me now?" His eyes meet mine, a low burning beneath his irises. Maybe this is a trap, but I can't find it in me to care. After all, love is meant to be shared, is it not?

"Yes, Frass, I do love you. Always have, always will."

"Oh thank god," And with that, he grabs me by the wrist and pulls me into his lap, my legs straddling his as he takes my face in his large hands. His rough skin scrapes against my cheeks as he pulls me down to his lips, and the only thing that makes sense anymore is this. My hands wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into the too long hair at the nape of his neck while he kisses me like our lives depend on it, and maybe they do. 

"What the hell was that?" I laugh as I push him away, a smile spreading across my lips. 

"You have been living here for months now, and I have been slowly falling in love with you since you walked into that meeting room in the city. The sight of you almost killed me, Cricket, and living here at arms length from you has made me realize something. I can't live a second more without you, the stardust that runs through my veins is pulling me towards you and I just can't resist anymore, I love you, Cricket." Clint's eyes never leave mine as he speaks, each word filling me with a warmth that spreads over the whole expanse of my body. 

"I love you, too, Frass," I whisper, leaning in to meet his lips again, I stop just before they meet. "Mama was right. All I had to do was wait, it just seemed to take you a long damn time, Clint Francis," Clint chuckles a bit, eyes bright now, standing out against the dirt that coats his face. 

"And I thought coming in here and kissing you would be moving too fast," I just roll my eyes at him before closing the distance between us.  Stardust calls to stardust, atoms to atoms, me to him and him to me; the feeling of our bodies settling into each other with each gentle touch, each caress of skin or hair, cementing the idea that we are meant of each other. Made from the same stuff.