#i worked for like a week and a half straight on these

[rawjutsu]

chapter three.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

the days leading up to your heat have been nothing short of torture. you’re hot—constantly. even with the apartment’s a/c blasting like it’s mid-winter, you keep swiping sweat from your hairline and upper lip, burning from the inside out. your fur-lined ears twitch in irritation, and your fluffy tail keeps flicking like it’s trying to shake off the tension simmering under your skin.

the worst part? satoru offered to stay over at nanami’s earlier than planned.

“y’know, i don’t mind crashing with nanamin if you want some time… alone.”

alone.

you both knew "alone" meant you, probably failing miserably, trying not to hump everything in sight.

neither of you has brought up what happened after the grocery trip. not the quiet tension. not the way you’d shuffled off to bed and turned on your vibrator like you weren’t absolutely feral. but he knew. his ears were massive—fluffy snow-leopard things that twitched at the slightest sound. and with the way he kept sneaking glances at you the next morning? yeah. he definitely knew.

at least he didn’t know that he was the one on your mind during it. and you intended to keep it that way.

“it’s okay,” you huffed, waving off his offer. “i’ll be fine.”

satoru just nodded and dove back into his rare ribeye steak like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and that was that.

to say it’s been tense between you two would be a criminal understatement. you're constantly tiptoeing around each other—him, surprisingly, not wanting to cross any lines, and you desperately trying not to pounce. your instincts are going haywire. bunny brain going brrrrr. you’re practically vibrating.

not that you’re attracted to him. no. definitely not.

…it’s just that your brain goes rogue when heat’s coming. all you can see is a tall—very tall—muscular predator hybrid who oozes sex appeal even when he’s sweaty and half-asleep. especially when he’s sweaty and half-asleep.

and the way he refuses to wear real clothes at home isn’t helping.

you were getting ready for work one morning when he wandered out of his room, freshly woken, arms stretching high over his head. your gaze trailed along the fuzzy white happy trail that peeked out above his pajama pants—and you nearly buckled from the sheer wave of arousal that hit.

your ears shot straight up. tail twitched. whole body stiff.

satoru noticed. of course he did. his own snowy ears gave the slightest flick—like a radar catching prey movement.

he didn’t say anything, but you know he was dying to make a teasing comment.

you didn’t let him.

“you look like shit,” you blurted, and bolted for the door.

work? that was its own hell. you were practically shoving scent blockers down your throat and drowning yourself in perfume. the idea of some sleazy customer catching even a whiff of your pre-heat state? immediate homicide. you were already sensitive to touch, jumpy at loud noises, constantly fidgeting with your ears. and your tail? it refused to cooperate. kept twitching and fluffing up in defense like a pissed-off little pompom.

your manager, utahime—a black cat hybrid—shot you a sympathetic look once as you popped in yet another blocker.

you’d only asked for one week off, even though she said you could take more. but you didn’t want to lose any more pay. you were already living off rice and frozen dumplings.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

when you get home, the apartment’s quiet. satoru’s gone—doing god knows what. you’ve never even asked what he does for work. something late at night that pays him enough to splurge on imported wagyu and fancy sake. whatever.

not really hungry, you decide to knock out some laundry instead.

you gather your basket and head for the door, only to curse under your breath when you remember—satoru still hasn’t made you a copy of the building laundry room key. you huff, drop the basket by the door, and head into his room to look for it.

the second you open the door, your ears flatten.

his scent hits you like a freight train—heavy, rich, and pure. the whole apartment always smells like him a little, but this? this is different. there’s nothing mixed in. just him. raw and undiluted. a snow-leopard hybrid’s natural musk, tinged with power and danger, makes your instincts go haywire.

you take shallow breaths and tiptoe to his desk, trying not to drown in it. eyes scanning for keys. focus, dammit.

but then—your gaze catches on the pile of laundry near his dresser.

it’s stronger there. heavier. muskier.

your ears twitch. your nose flares. your thighs press together.

you whimper, barely.

you stand there, locked in place, chewing your lip—and before your brain can yell bad idea, your hand darts out and snatches up a plain white tee.

you bury your face in it. inhale deeply. moan, just barely.

his cologne. his sweat. his natural scent. it floods you. fills your lungs. swirls in your brain like smoke. your tail curls in tight, and your ears tremble from the stimulation.

you don’t know how long you stand there, just breathing him in—until a sudden, humiliating warmth drips down your inner thigh, seeping through your shorts.

you gasp. ears shoot upright. eyes go wide.

fuck.

you yank yourself away from the shirt like it burned you, grab the keys from his desk, and bolt—nearly faceplanting as you stumble out of the room, body aching and slick and mortified.

he comes home around 1 a.m., kicking the door shut quietly behind him. he blinks at your laundry basket still by the door, confused. you’re usually a laundry-and-bed-by-midnight type.

then he walks into his room.

stops.

sniffs.

and freezes.

you were in here. he knows that scent. knows how it smells when it’s just barely starting to shift toward heat. knows it’s you. his tail swishes once—slow and deliberate.

you’re still awake. you’ve been staying up until nearly 3 a.m. lately. he knocks on your door twice.

“you alright?”

no answer.

he cracks it open and peeks in.

you’re sitting on your bed, dazed, holding something white. he moves closer to sit next to you.

“…that’s my shirt,” he says softly.

you don’t respond at first. then your lips move on their own.

“i took it.”

satoru raises a brow, waiting for more. you don’t give it. so he asks gently,

“uh huh. can i know why? i mean—i don’t mind, but… why?”

you finally look at him. and he nearly chokes.

you look wrecked. flushed. pupils blown wide. ears drooping low and twitching. mouth parted like you forgot how to speak.

“i don’t know…” you whisper.

satoru’s throat works hard. his snow-leopard tail flicks once. fuck.

“y/n… did your heat start already?”

you shake your head no.

“no. but… i’m close. really close.”

silence.

he can hear your heartbeat hammering through the room. your scent is getting sweeter. thicker.

he stands abruptly, nervous laugh spilling out as he runs a hand through his hair. his ears keep twitching like he’s trying to shake off a very dangerous idea.

“okay. i’m gonna go to nanami’s. like, now. doubt he’ll be thrilled about me showing up in the middle of the night, but—oh well.”

as he turns to flee, your hand shoots out and grabs his.

he jolts. like you’ve burned him.

you try to speak. but your voice doesn’t come. only a whisper of breath.

“i—…”

he stares at you, jaw tight, terrified of what he might do if he lets his guard drop. his tail lashes once behind him—his whole body tense and alert.

then, after a beat, he gently brushes his thumb over your hand.

“you can keep that,” he murmurs. “and… you can go to my room.”

your head snaps up.

“if you need,” he adds, voice strained, refusing to meet your eyes.

and then he’s gone.

you’re left in your room, sweaty and dizzy and clutching his shirt. your ears droop as your body shudders.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you don’t sleep.

you can’t.

you try. curling up under your own covers, burying your face into the shirt you stole—his shirt. it still smells like him. not quite as strong now, but enough to soothe your instincts just a little. your tail stops twitching. your breathing slows.

but then… it starts again.

the throbbing low in your belly. the ache crawling under your skin. your inner thighs are sticky again, your body pulsing like it’s warming up for something devastating.

you flip your pillow over, trying to find a cool spot. tug the blankets off. press your palms to your burning cheeks.

nothing helps.

you’re not in heat yet—but you can feel it coming, like a wave swelling just offshore. building. creeping up.

it’s too much. you’re too aware of your body. your scent. the way your ears droop and flick. the way your tail can’t stay still. the way your thighs keep clenching.

you’ve done this before. you should be used to it by now. should be able to handle it like a normal person.

but this time is different.

this time, there’s a scent curled up in your lungs. him. satoru.

snow leopard hybrid. apex predator. the very last person your poor bunny brain should be obsessed with right now.

and yet…

your eyes flick toward your bedroom door.

“just five minutes,” you whisper, already lying to yourself.

you tiptoe down the hall. quiet. hesitant. every nerve buzzing.

his door creaks open, and the scent hits you all over again—warm and deep and dizzying. your knees go weak. you step inside anyway.

his bed is massive. big enough for two people and then some. the blankets are a mess. pillows everywhere. the soft hum of his scent makes your mouth water. you don't even try to fight it anymore.

you climb in.

carefully.

slowly.

just to lay down. just for a moment. that’s all.

the sheets are warm. heavy. safe.

you curl up on his side of the bed, bury your face into his pillow, and breathe. a soft sound escapes your throat—half-sigh, half-whimper. your body starts to relax.

and for a few minutes… it works.

the ache dulls. your nerves settle.

you finally close your eyes.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you don’t know how long you’re out.

but you know exactly what wakes you.

it hits like a truck.

a white-hot bolt of pain-pleasure straight through your spine, knocking the wind from your lungs. you jerk upright with a gasp, clutching the sheets, heart hammering.

your ears snap up. your tiny tail—short, soft, and fluffy —twitches hard against the sheets, like your body’s trying to work out the overwhelming pressure building inside you..

your body is on fire.

there’s no gentle lead-up this time. no warning. your heat crashes into you full-force, primal and unrelenting. you feel soaked—panties clinging to you like wet fabric, your thighs trembling. everything hurts. you’re throbbing. aching.

your nipples are stiff, sensitive against your tank top. your skin feels too tight. you’re panting like you just ran a marathon.

“no no no—fuck—”

you press your legs together, trying to soothe it, trying to breathe, but that just makes it worse. the pressure between your legs flares white-hot. your hips twitch. your cunt pulses helplessly, slick drooling onto satoru’s bedsheets.

his bed. his scent.

your body wants him. no—it needs him. desperately. mindlessly.

you bury your face in his pillow and sob.

tears bead in your lashes as your hips roll against the mattress—your body chasing friction all on its own. you’re too far gone. there’s no turning this off. you can’t wait this out anymore. you’re a mess of slick and sweat and want.

“satoru,” you whimper, voice cracking. “need—fuck, i need…”

you clench the sheets in your fists, nose still buried in his scent, body wracked with wave after wave of need.

you know you should get up. call someone. do something responsible.

but all you can think about is how warm this bed is.

how big it is.

how easy it would be for him to pin you here and take you apart.

your plush little tail twitches again. your ears press flat against your head. you're mewling now, gasping into his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

“please…”

the word slips out before you can stop it.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

a/n: *rubs hands together very very evily*

[theegyal]

The Silence of Love [Annie x Smoke ]

A Sinners One Shot Story

inspired by the haunting theme of His House by Remi Weekes

Fluff, Haunting, Unrequited Love, Triangle Love

Note : I tried to turn the word cornrows braid into a verb so the only thing I came with is : Corn-braided HELP. Don’t judge. So that you know

The bell above the shop door didn’t jingle like it ought to. It rasped, dry and tired, like even it had given up on making noise. Elijah Moore looked up from the tin of salted fish he was stacking, his long fingers pausing mid-air.

She walked in like fog on a still pond. Her dress was plain but clean, pale cotton faded by sun, and her afro crowned her hair, the coils hanging on her shoulders. Her shoes were muddy at the toes. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

Her grandmother came in behind Madam Lusseau, the root worker from out past the cane fields. People called her a witch and a healer. Nobody ever said it to her face, though. She was old and walked with a cane made from riverwood, wrapped in twine and turkey feathers.

“Lye, salt, and lemon peel, if you got it,” Lusseau said, straight to Elias at the front. Elijah stayed crouched near the shelves, pretending to work, not daring to stand.

Annie didn’t look around the store, not like other girls did, curious, flitting. She kept her hands folded behind her back like they might touch something expensive by accident. She stopped halfway down the aisle and turned her head.

And saw him.

Elijah was half-hidden behind a crate of dry goods. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Something in his chest pulled tight, like a line on a fishing pole.

Their eyes locked, not for long. But it hit him like his uncle sunday’s sermon. Her gaze didn’t judge; it just landed soft as a leaf, sharp as glass. And then she looked away.

He stayed knelt, gripping the tin so hard his knuckles whitened.

She and her grandma didn’t stay long. Just a few coins exchanged, and a few words. When the bell rasped again as they left, Elijah’s head was still bowed.

The porch creaked under the weight of sunset and sweat. Elias stretched out on a rocking chair, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette tucked behind one ear, and a toothpick stuck between his lips. His twin brother, Elijah, sat in the corner, barefoot, long legs folded, a book balanced on his knee.

“You see them root workers come through earlier?” Elias asked, grinning. “Ol’ ma’am Lusseau with that stick of hers like she’s Moses.”

Elijah didn’t look up. The heat was brushing the back of his neck.

Elias leaned forward. “But the gal with her? The pretty thang? Tch. You ain’t see the way she walk? Quiet, like she done talk with the ground,” he explained, fascinated.

Elijah’s eyes flicked sideways, barely.

Elias grinned wider. “Nigga, I know you saw her. You froze like a damn pussy. Coulda dropped a whole crate and you wouldn’t blink.”

“I didn’t,” Elijah murmured, almost too soft to hear.

Elias laughed. “Didn’t what, look or blink?”

Elijah went back to his book. Elias shook his head, smiling, but the corners of his eyes tightened a bit. He tapped his foot, rocking gently.

“You neva talk, Jah,” he said. “Gals like her never hear you comin’. You need to act more than fold, bro.”

Elijah didn’t answer. But his thumb pressed hard into the corner of the page until it crumpled.

•

The house was too calm at dinner. The kind of stillness that presses into your bones.

Their father drank straight from a chipped glass, not looking at either of them. The kitchen smelled like grease and bad breath. Elias shoveled beans onto his plate, trying to fill the silence with clatter.

“You bring in the register money?” their father asked, eyes narrowed.

“Spent a little on thread,” Elias replied. “Store needed mending.”

Their father’s hand struck the table like thunder.

“You think I give a fuck what the store needed?”

Elijah flinched, fork trembling in his hand.

Elias sat back, jaw tight. “Ain’t think it was worth hollerin’ over, sir.”

“You don’t think much at all. Just like your bitch mother.”

Silence turned to iron.

Elijah looked down, trying to breathe through the sickness rising in his throat.

“And you,” their father said, turning to Elijah. “Whatcha think? Hmm? You just sit there, not talkin’. Always watchin’, like you better’n us.”

Elijah’s voice barely rose, his eyes cold as a winter’s night. “No, sir.”

“What was that?”

“Didn’t say nothin’,” he whispered.

The backhand was sudden. No windup. Just fire across the face.

He stumbled from the chair, hit the floor hard. The tin plate clattered beside him.

Elias was up now. “Papa, stop,” pleading.

But their father stood, towering. “You wanna taste next?”

Elijah didn’t cry. He just pressed a hand to his jaw, eyes wide and far away. Something he was used to.

“Get him up,” their father muttered, storming off. “Lil’ ghost lookin’ bastard…”

Elias knelt, hands shaking, lifted his brother slow.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Elijah nodded once, eyes unfocused. His rage within must not bloom. How many times had he thought about killing his father?

Elias didn’t say anything else. Didn’t know what to say. He already knew about the murderous tortures displayed in his twin’s mind.

•

That night, Annie lay on a straw mattress while her grandmother lit a small clay lamp in the next room, muttering prayers over bones and bundles. The smell of burning cedar filled the air.

She stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, arms crossed over her fluffy chest. Her coiled hair corn-braided.

Outside, something howled, different from a coyote, not quite a dog. The next second, she drifted.

In her dream, she was walking barefoot through a fog-drenched field. Something was burning far away: sweet and dark, like tobacco and ash.

Then a voice, humming low, whispering, not threatening. Just there.

“Annie.”

She turned. No one behind her. Just black smoke.

She woke up suddenly, breath tight. Sweat peeling down her forehead. The house silent again.

“I don’t know you,” she murmured, shaking.

•

In the backroom of the store, Elijah sat with an oil lamp and a watch that wasn’t broken. His left eye was starting to swell, lip cracked. But his hands were steady. The pain didn’t really reach his brain.

He opened the watch face. Click. Closed it. Click. Opened again. Click.

Under the yellow light, his breath fogged the glass.

He said the name once.

“Annie.”

The name hovered like dust in the air.

He pulled his notebook from under a stack of repair slips. In the margin of a page about electricity, he wrote her name in pencil. Never did he hear it before. But his core, gut, soul, or whatever shell the witches called, told him to remember.

Once.

Then twice.

He didn’t smile.

He scratched the black ink on the white paper until it blackened.

•

The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.

It came down hard, then soft, then sideways, as if God herself couldn’t stop crying. The streets of Delta turned to sludge. Church shoes stuck in the mud, wagon wheels groaned in the clay, and the river rose, creeping over the broken fence at the edge of town.

Annie stood under the rusted awning outside the chapel. Her dress clung to her legs, and her wet afro stuck to the back of her neck. She held a satchel tight against her chest, water dripping from the leather. She hadn’t meant to stay this long. But the road home was drowned. Her grandma had stayed behind with a sick child, and now the path to the woods was gone, swallowed by floodwater.

She hated the town’s eyes. The way old men looked too long at her curves. The way women narrowed theirs. So she stood there still, watching water collect in a ditch, hoping the world would stop seeing her for a moment.

“Jah!” Elias’s voice rang from the back of the store, lazy like always. “See lil mama stuck by the chapel?”

Elijah glanced up from the back counter, startled. He’d been fiddling with the same broken transistor all morning, only half hearing the rain.

“That root girl. She soaked through.” Elias leaned in the doorway. “She’ll catch something real bad if she stays out like that. Go give her this.”

He tossed a coat across the room. Elijah caught it by instinct, thin wool, too long in the sleeves: Elias’ coat.

Elijah hesitated, looking at the wet windowpane. The thought made his stomach twist.

“Huh?” Elias smirked. “You shittin’ on yourself for a girl?”

Elijah didn’t answer. Just stood, tucking the coat under his arm. He pulled on his boots, throat tight, hands colder than they should’ve been.

Outside, the sky hung low and gray. Water slapped the boards underfoot.

Annie didn’t see him until he was two steps away.

He moved like mist: silent, careful. One hand held the coat out toward her, not saying anything. He didn’t look her dead-on, just a fleet stare to show he knew she saw him.

She stared at the coat. Then at his face.

“You bringin’ this to me?” she asked, quiet but firm.

Elijah nodded.

She didn’t take it right away. Her eyes stayed on his, like she was trying to figure the price of it.

Finally, she took the coat. Draped it around her shoulders. It smelled like cedar and soap.

“Thank you,” she said.

Elijah’s mouth opened. A beat passed. And he said softly:

“Annie.”

She blinked hard, her brows furrowed.

“That my name,” she said.

He nodded again.

“How you know it?”

He shrugged. He looked down. Then up. His mouth moved like he had more words but didn’t know how to get them out.

Annie’s lips twitched, just barely. Not a smile. Not a growl. Just something between.

“You always this quiet?” she asked.

Another nod.

“People know that?”

He nodded again.

She let the silence stretch this time. The rain had lightened into a soft spatter. She shifted the coat around her.

“You wanna sit down or just stand there tremblin’?”

Elijah flustered. His shoulders had been drawn up like he was expecting something to fall. She sat on the chapel’s steps, pulled her feet up, still looking at him.

After a moment, he sat too. Not close. Just near enough. They didn’t talk again. But they didn’t leave.

Just sat there, listening to the rainfall.

Elias had moved from the shop, leaving it empty, unguarded. He watched them from the back alley, hands in his pockets, chewing the inside of his cheek.

They weren’t touching. They weren’t even talking now.

But something passed between them anyway: a tension, the heat before a storm. A tempest nobody could prevent.

He leaned back against the wall, squinting.

He didn’t like the way Elijah looked at her.

Didn’t like the way Elijah’s silence said too much.

•

That night, the thunder finally came.

Elijah returned home with mud to his knees, and Elias didn’t say a word. Their father was passed out cold, bottle slipped from his hand. The house stank of sweat and corn liquor.

Elijah went straight to the back room, skin still damp, shirt sticking to his spine.

He sat at the table where he worked, candle trembling in the draft.

He didn’t touch the watch. Didn’t touch the books.

He just wrote one thing on a scrap of paper, her name again, folded it up tight and put it under the floorboard, with the others.

Annie lay under her grandmother’s quilt, dry now, corn-braided again, her fingers pressed to the edge of the coat she hadn’t returned. Elias’ coat. Well, the little witch didn’t know.

She’d heard her name before, whispered in dreams, called across fields, but never like that.

Elijah had said it like it was a thing he’d never touched before. Like her name could cut him. Like her name was salvation. Like a worship song.

Annie didn’t know what to make of him.

But for some reason, she wasn’t afraid. He was the first man to never stir carnal fear from her.

Not of him. She didn’t find him unpleasant.

And that… scared her more than anything.

•

The first knock was so soft it could’ve been the wind.

The second came like hesitation: three taps, spaced wide.

He looked like he’d been dragged through the devil’s garden.

Mud dried into his hairline, one eye swollen, collar torn where someone had gripped too hard. He was standing on Annie’s porch with one hand braced against the door, knocking.

She opened.

Her eyes swept over him, from his cracked lip to the tremble in his shoulders. He looked like he had been chewed up by the night. His clothes were soaked through, shirt torn at the shoulder, mud and water dripped from his sleeves. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t speaking. He looked at her the way dogs do when they’re halfway to dying and don’t want to be touched.

She didn’t ask what happened.

“Come in,” she said, voice steady as always.

He stepped inside like he was stepping into another realm. Careful. Quiet. Afraid to stain the floor.

Annie took a thick cloth from the hook by the stove. “Sit,” she said. He obeyed.

She cleaned the blood with warm water and willow bark.

He sat on a stool while she worked, his jaw tight but still. He didn’t flinch when the cloth touched his wounded skin. He didn’t speak, either. But his eyes stayed on her hands.

“You get hit like this before?” she asked, not because she didn’t know the answer but because naming pain gives it less power.

He nodded.

She dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, pressed it to his lip this time.

“You ever hit back?”

His eyes opened in surprise.

“No,” he replied, after a long pause. His voice was rough and deep. Raw around the edges. A man voice.

“Why not?”

Elijah looked at her for a long moment. His eyes weren’t just bruised, they were glassy with something patient and dangerous. He didn’t blink when he finally answered:

“’Cause I would win.”

His tone didn’t carry pride. Just certainty. The man was dangerous but smart enough to not stain his soul with blood.

Annie didn’t laugh. She just dipped the cloth again and pressed it to his temple.

Later, they sat across from each other at the low table near the hearth. He was wrapped in one of her grandmother’s shawls, the one woven with symbols.

The house smelled like herbs and copper. The fire crackled low. Outside, frogs chirped in the dark, and the river moved slow as a funeral procession.

She was bundling rosemary and tucked bones into jars. She didn’t tell him what anything was for. He didn’t ask. But his eyes followed everything she did.

“You ever done rootwork?” she asked to break the hollow silence.

He shook his head. “Read about it.”

“Books don’t tell the truth of it.”

“I know.”

A long pause stretched, the air getting heavy between them.

“I seen things,” he said. “That books don’t talk about.”

Annie smiled, light shining her features. She was infatuated by the melody of his voice. The rough, veiled malice of his tone. He must speak again.

“You always been this quiet?” she asked, tying twine with her teeth.

“Mm-hmm,” he said.

“You like bein’ that way?”

He shrugged. “Don’t like sayin’ things I don’t mean.”

“Folks ever think you weird?”

“All the time.”

Annie didn’t reply back, immediately. She set the bundle down, glanced at him sideways and with a charming, hypnotic smile.

“I don’t.”

Elijah swallowed. Hard. His fingers twitched against his knee.

He met her gaze. And for a breath, they didn’t look away.

By the time dawn began to stretch gold fingers through the cypress trees, Annie was pouring tea into two mismatched tin mugs. Elijah sat on the steps of the porch, barefoot, arms tucked around his knees, still wrapped in the shawl.

He looked out across the early morning mist like he could read the whole world in its curls.

She handed him the mug and sat beside him.

“I think about you,” he said.

It came out so quietly he almost swallowed the words. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t dare.

“I know,” she simply replied.

Elijah turned his head, speechless.

She sipped her tea, eyes ahead. The river’s water got cold and the frogs had begun their morning chorus.

“I dreamed of you,” she said, “before I ever saw you.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You were standing in a field. Barefoot. Smell of fire and peaches in the air. You had a book in your hand and blood on your collar.”

His fingers gripped the mug tighter.

“You said my name.”

Elijah closed his eyes.

“I thought maybe I made it up,” she said.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. That woman had been haunting him. An entity he craved to taste and hold. The dangers couldn’t stop him from wanting her.

Elias showed up that afternoon.

Boots loud on the porch, breath ragged like he’d run halfway across town.

“Elijah!” he called.

Annie opened the door. Elias looked past her, his heart missing a bit when he saw his brother sitting inside.

“The hell you doin’?” Elias barked. “Disappearin’? Not sayin’ nothin’? Daddy been—”

“I know,” Elijah said.

Elias blinked. He wasn’t used to being interrupted, especially not by Elijah.

“You sleep here?” Elias asked, eyes narrowing, voice edging on something uglier.

Annie raised her chin slightly. “He ain’t a child.”

Elias’ mouth curled, somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

“You in love with her?” he asked Elijah. “Or you just hidin’ in her skirts ‘cause it’s quiet here?”

“Fuckin’ nigga… you love her?” he insisted, almost like it was a joke. But the laugh never came. Elias was hurt but tears couldn’t drop from his eyes.

Elijah stood. Holding his twin brother’s gaze. He didn’t yell.

He didn’t look ashamed.

“Yes,” he said. “I love her.”

Elias didn’t move for a long second, his lips curling up in a fake smile. Then, almost inaudibly, he spoke:

“Yeah. I see that.”

He turned and left, burying the ashes of his first love and the pride his brother took away from him. Like always.

That night, Annie and Elijah sat beneath the cypress tree by the riverbank. The moon painted everything silver.

She rested her head lightly on his shoulder. His hand brushed her fingers. Then stayed there.

She looked up.

He looked down.

Neither spoke.

And then, slowly, Elijah leaned in. Not because he was brave. He was frail in her embrace. Not even because he knew what to do.

But because her eyes said: It’s alright now.

Their lips met, wet, soft, feverish,trembling met each other in a kiss.

Not the kind of kiss that burns but the kind that heal.

NOTE : If you didn’t watch HIS HOUSE yet. Please do ! It’s incredible ! Wunmi is such a QUEEN !

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

Manager: Levi, tills! Levi: But-… Manager: They’ll wait ‘til later, move your ass! [Levi sighed wearily, tossing his greasy rag upon the counter with a classic amount of teenage enthusiasm] Levi: I barely know how to work the tills. Manager: Well, you’re the only one on shift with half a brain and Mel called in sick, so today’s your lucky day-.. again. … Bianca: I promise it’s not as bad as it looks… [Penny grimaced, she’d smell like burgers for a week if she so much as stepped foot in such a disgusting place] Penny: I can’t eat carbs, Bianca. Bianca: I literally saw you eating waffles for breakfast the other day. Penny: Do we have to? Bianca: My sister insisted on having her dumb party here and it was actually pretty good, I swear! … [overlapping chatter] Bianca: [giggling] Hi, stranger. I’ll have… [Levi stared straight through Bianca; his gaze locked on Penny’s look of utter horror and contempt. How was he supposed to talk his way out of this one-.. what on earth was she even doing here?] Penny: This is where you work? Levi: No, I’m just-.. I, uh-… Penny: Ew. Levi: Wait! Penny: Don’t touch me. Levi: I can explain, okay? I-… Manager: Levi! Levi: One second! Manager: Erm, no-.. leave those poor girls alone and get back to work, there’re people waiting. [Levi remained rooted to the spot, impervious to the chatter around him and his managers impatient yelling] Levi: I’m gonna throw up… Manager: Oh, for god’s sake-.. not there! … Levi: Penny! Penny: Go back to work, Levi. Levi: My parents just wanted to teach me the value of money or whatever-.. I don’t want to work here. [Levi wrung his hands together awkwardly, even he didn’t believe his own words anymore. Sure, the Grease Trap was disgusting and the hours sucked, but at least it got him out of the house. His co-workers were kinda fun too, and he got free food most nights; hell, even his manager treated him fairly and somewhat appreciated him] Penny: I know I’m not the cleverest person ever, but if you think I’m stupid enough to believe that… Levi: You’re not stupid. Penny: And since when did you need glasses?! Levi: [sighs] Can you just give me a chance to explain everything? Penny: Why, so you can carry on lying and avoiding me? I think I’m over-… Levi: Trust me one last time, then you can decide, please..?

[stillalivebydemand893]

That night,That Lie,That fucking kiss

Part 2

(so sorry my loves for the delay this degree is humping my ass)

A road trip with Erik you'll never forget

18+ very romantic i was in my feels

You were both left breathless on the kitchen floor,half-naked, half what the actual fuck just happened.

Erik was still buried inside you, still cockwarming you like you were the last warmth on Earth. His grip on your waist tightened, like if you moved even an inch, he might combust,or worse, feel too much.

“Did we just fuck everything up?” you whispered, hand brushing his cheek, fingers trembling.

You’d prayed for this moment more times than you could count,fantasized about it like a goddamn sinner. You’d imagined what it’d feel like to finally have your best friend between your thighs, moaning your name like it meant something. And now?

It didn’t feel wrong. Not even a little.

Which made the spiral even worse.

Every cell in your body was screaming SHAME like you were the village whore in a medieval drama. Somewhere in the back of your brain, there was a nun with a bell shouting, “SHAME! TO THE ONES WHO STARVE FOR DICK!”

You were losing your goddamn mind.

Erik bit your collarbone, hard.

Your gasp punched straight through the fog.

“Okay, technically yeah, we definitely fucked” he said, smirking like the devil reincarnated. “But hey,60% of accidents happen in the kitchen. We just made the best out of it.”

“You made that shit up,” you laughed, swatting his arm.

It felt insane. Hysterical. Like you hadn’t just been screaming at each other two hours ago. Like he hadn’t ripped you apart and then kissed you back together.

“You’re still dripping on my dick, Peach,” he said, like it was a compliment, like it was a fact.

Then he took your breast in his tattooed hand and sucked your nipple into his hot mouth like he was trying to undo you all over again.

You moaned,because of course you did. Like you’d just woken the devil from a nap and he was starving.

“Can we move to the couch?” you panted, tugging his hair. “My knees are fucked and I’d like to avoid arthritis before I turn 30.”

His mouth stayed where it was, hands still reverent on your chest like your tits were the eighth and ninth wonders of the world.

“I need those knees working, Sweets. You ride me like I owe you rent.”

He kissed your neck, dragging his teeth just enough to make your legs twitch.

You groaned. “Come on, stupid.”

You both stood,instantly missing the feeling of being tangled together.

You lasted maybe five seconds before your knees buckled again.

Erik caught you around the waist like he knew it was coming.

“Jesus, Peach, give a guy a warning. We’re gonna end up crippled and unfucked at this rate.”

He swept you into his arms like you weighed nothing and started walking toward your bedroom.

“We’ll get Alzheimer’s one day and think we’re having sex for the first time every week,” you muttered against his chest.

“What a fucking blessing,” he smirked.

You didn’t say it, but the thought of growing old with him,of getting old and still doing this messy dance with him,settled in your chest like comfort.

Like home.

You collapsed onto the bed side by side, skin still humming, bodies wrecked in that perfect way.

“Remember two years ago?” he said suddenly, voice a little hoarse. “When we said we’d just drive around the States? Like Thelma and Louise, but hotter and with less felony murder?”

You turned your head toward him, snorting. “We had the playlist ready. Crime podcasts saved. Snacks planned. But someone-” you jabbed his bicep, hard “-decided to stick his tongue down her throat and settle down .”

“Ow,” he winced. “Unnecessary violence.”

“Say her name and I’ll commit actual violence.”

You ran a hand over your face like that would erase the memory. The image of them kissing in the studio burned behind your eyelids like an old scar that wouldn’t fade.

Erik turned to you, serious now.

“She came by when I was leaving,” he said quietly. “Started crying. Kissed me out of nowhere. I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t want it. There’s nothing between us, Peach. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

He exhaled like he was praying you’d believe him.

But your brain was a locked room, and belief didn’t come easy.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said, getting up and reaching for his pants on the kitchen chair. “Just pack your bags.”

“What?” You blinked, confused. “Where the fuck are you going?”

He looked at you, half-dressed and completely serious.

“We’re doing it. The roadtrip.”

“Erik. You’re not making any sense.Where would we even go?”

“Twilight. Twin Peaks. Buttfuck Nowhere. I don’t care. Just us. We’ll figure it out.”

He came back over, dropped a kiss to your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

He walked out the door, tossing an “I love you” like it was something he’d been saying every day for a hundred years.

Your heart hit the floor.

“Love you too,” you whispered, dazed.

Then, louder:

“Asshole.”

You stared at the window.

Maybe if you jumped out, he’d catch you.

A good trust exercise for whatever the hell this relationship was now.

Whatever it was becoming.

You threw four pairs of underwear, one hoodie, and a bottle of dry shampoo into your duffel like that counted as packing.

You yanked on your sluttiest tank top ,the one that made your boobs look like a renaissance painting and your shoulders scream “I have secrets and bad decisions to offer” and stared at yourself like you were suiting up for war.

Because you were.

War with your brain.

With your thighs.

With Erik and the cursed magic of his dick.

And with the highway of consequences which, unlike Erik, was reliable.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Jeep honked outside .

You opened the door.

Erik was there, leaning against the driver’s side he was auditioning to play “Emotionally Damaged Yet Inexplicably Hot Roadtrip Love Interest” in the A24 version of your breakdown.

Sunglasses.

Sweatshirt sleeve pushed up just enough to show off that one tattoo you used to trace with your fingers like it was braille for "Please make out with me."

Music blasting , something aggressive, chaotic, definitely featured in a trailer for a movie where someone robs a bank shirtless.

“You’re late,” he said, without looking.

“You left me post-sex and emotionally obliterated with no warning.”

He turned. Smirked. That fuckboy smirk. The one that made you wanna throw your panties in one direction and your pride in the other.

“So... on time, then.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in another dimension.

“Where are we going,Kiki?”

He shrugged. “South? East? Hell?”

You tossed your duffel in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat.

“Perfect. I’ve always wanted to get fingered in Satan’s backyard.”

He choked on his Red Bull.

"Driver’s Seat" by Sniff 'n' the Tears was blasting through the speakers, and for a second, you and Erik felt like you were eighteen again. Back when he first got his license and you’d spent days driving aimlessly through LA, just the two of you, windows down, singing like your hearts didn’t already belong to each other.

“She always smiled for the people she’d meet,” Erik sang in a gloriously off-key tone.

“On trouble and strife,” you joined in, tone equally chaotic.

“She had another way of looking at life-” you both finished in perfect sync before disolving into laughter, giggling like you weren’t two people stitched together by unresolved trauma and explosive chemistry.

He reached over, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles so softly it made something in your chest break open. Like you were made of sugar.

You melted right there in the passenger seat.

“I love you too,” you murmured , barely audible. But he heard it. His smile said everything.

He kissed your palm this time, slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Then he turned the music down with a smirk that should be illegal in three states.

“Come on, Peach. Be more romantic. Pick a song. Show me how much you love me,” he teased, voice low and cocky.

“Oh don’t try me, Campbell,” you shot back, already grabbing your phone.

He leaned back in his seat like he was watching a show.

And then the playlist appeared on the Jeep’s touchscreen.

“how can I stop loving you without fucking this up”

Erik blinked. His smirk grew.

“Peach…” he said slowly, dragging the word out like he was tasting it. “Do you have a playlist for me?”

“Not for you,” you muttered, already turning red. “About you.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Even better. Show me what you got, Sweets.”

You hit play.

And then:

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you…

His face changed.

That song.

That song.

You didn’t have to look to know he recognized it. Wicked Game. The first one he ever played for you in that beat-up Corolla with the broken aux cord, his hand resting on your thigh like it meant nothing,when it meant everything.

You started singing along. Soft. A little shaky.

It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do…

You glanced at him, embarrassed, it felt like you were cracking your chest open and pouring your whole stupid, lovesick soul into the car.

Because that’s what this playlist was. This wasn’t just a collection of songs , it was every moment you’d spent together. Every late night. Every “fuck, I think I love him” thought you pretended wasn’t real.

And this song? This one made you feel like you had memories in a life you hadn’t lived. Like you were someone else’s heartbreak. Someone’s wife in New Orleans. A forest witch with Erik’s name carved into a tree. Like you’d loved him in every lifetime and failed every time.

You felt a tear slide down your cheek before you could stop it.

Erik didn’t say a word. Just pulled into a gas station, parked, and didn’t turn the song off. He let it play , the hum of the guitar bleeding into the quiet night, just the two of you in the soft glow of fluorescent lights, your soul spilling into his passenger seat.

He reached out and gently swept the tear from your face with his thumb.

His voice was hoarse.

“I already fell in love with you, Peach.”

That was it.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and landed in his lap, knees on either side of him. Your mouth was already on his before he could finish breathing.

And god, the kiss.

It was everything ,soft and hungry and hot and heartbreaking. Your moans caught in his mouth like confessions. Your tears mixed with his breath. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, closer, like he couldn’t bear one more inch of space between you.

You ground down on his lap, and he groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he was seconds away from losing his mind.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You’re gonna make me come in the front seat of my own car.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you panted. “Maybe I like ruining you in small spaces.”

“You have ruined me,” he growled, pressing kisses along your jaw, your throat. “I can’t even think straight when you’re on top of me like this.”

“Good,” you whispered, hips rolling slow and deliberate against his hard length beneath his jeans. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before ghosting the girl who made you a goddamn playlist.”

He cursed under his breath, dragging his hands under your hoodie, fingertips brushing skin, making you shiver.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasped.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you said, grinding down harder.

You kissed again ,deeper, wetter, like your bodies were trying to say everything your words couldn’t.

The song played on.

No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you…

Too late.

You were already in freefall.

And this time?

You weren’t falling alone.

You were still in his lap.

Still breathing like you’d just been kissed back to life.

Wicked Game faded into silence, and Erik was staring at you like you were made of constellations and he had just memorized every single one.

Your hands rested on his chest. His heart was pounding.

You didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the fact that you’d just emotionally roundhouse kicked each other in a gas station parking lot with a Chris Isaak song.

Maybe both.

You reached up, touched his cheek with your thumb, and whispered:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t dodge like he usually did when shit got too real.

He just nodded,slow. Like he knew. Like he felt it too. Like he’d already tried.

“I don’t think I want you to,” he said.

Your throat burned.

“Erik…”

“I know, Peach,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours. “I know.”

You stayed like that for a long moment,just holding each other in a car that smelled like gas station coffee, bad decisions, and the start of something holy.

You shifted your hips a little and felt him still hard underneath you.

“God,” you whispered, smirking. “Still?”

He gave you a look that could’ve set the dashboard on fire.

“You climbed into my lap singing Wicked Game, cried a little, told me you loved me, and then started grinding like we weren’t in public, Peach. You think I’m made of stone?”

You giggled.

Actually giggled.

Like an idiot.

He pulled you tighter, arms locking around your waist.

“Let’s get outta here,” he murmured. “I wanna take you somewhere where I can love you properly.”

That made your whole chest ache.

“You love me?” you teased, trying to lighten the weight pressing down on your lungs.

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours.

“I love you in every language I don’t speak. In every song I’ve ever skipped because it reminded me of you. In every version of this fucked-up life where I don’t get to kiss you like this.”

You blinked. “You’re making me crazy love.”

He kissed your nose. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“I love you in the dumbass way I don’t say it right, but show it every time I look at you like you hung the fucking moon.”

“Erik-”

“And I love you in the annoying way that means I’ll never be able to let you go without burning something down.”

You swallowed.

Your brain was a blur of what did I do to deserve this, and your heart was crawling into his hoodie like it finally found a place to live.

“Take me somewhere,” you whispered.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Just drive. I don’t care. I’ll love you in every zip code.”

His lips twitched into a soft, crooked smile.

“Damn, Peach,” he muttered, kissing your forehead. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You started it.”

He chuckled.

“You ready?”

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like you were making a promise you couldn’t take back.

“Yeah,” you said against his lips. “Let’s go fall in love on the road like two idiots with a death wish.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

You put on another song,this one soft, nostalgic, something that made your eyes sting without knowing why.

Outside, the stars were starting to come out.

Inside, you were glowing.

You leaned your head against the window, hand in his, and whispered:

“If we crash and die tonight, I just want god to know I died horny and in love.”

Erik snorted.

“Romantic and deranged. My dream girl.”

You smiled.

And somewhere between one exit sign and the next town, he looked at you like you were the only destination that mattered.

You didn’t know where Erik was driving. Didn’t care.

The road spilled in front of you like a ribbon made of second chances, and the air felt different - heavier, maybe, or sacred. The way it does right before a storm, or a kiss that’ll change everything.

You were quiet now. Just music humming low through the speakers and Erik’s hand warm on your thigh like he didn’t ever want to let go.

Outside, the sky had darkened into that deep indigo, stars beginning to scatter like someone spilled glitter across the universe.

“You tired?” he asked softly, glancing over.

You shook your head. “No. Just… floating.”

He smirked. “You always get philosophical after orgasms and playlists.”

You elbowed him, but didn’t deny it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off into a field , open, wide, nothing but grass and sky and the kind of silence that makes you feel like the only two people left in the world.

The engine cut. The stars blinked brighter.

You both got out, and you climbed onto the hood of the car like it was something you’d done a thousand times , because maybe, in some other life, you had.

He joined you. Laid back, arms folded behind his head.

“God,” you whispered. “We’re so fucking cliché.”

“Hot people doing cliché things. It’s allowed,” he said, smirking up at the sky.

You laid next to him. Close. Barely touching.

“I almost told you I loved you,” you murmured. “Last year. Remember that night at the lake? When you fell asleep on my lap after three beers and a panic attack?”

He blinked. Turned to look at you.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“I was gonna say it. You were mumbling in your sleep. Said my name like it hurt.”

He swallowed.

“I remember that too.”

You were silent for a long second.

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to be another thing you had to survive.”

He turned on his side. Eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve never been something I survived, Peach,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m still fucking breathing.”

The air left your lungs.

And then, from the car speakers, a soft Sinatra song started to play. Erik had turned the volume up from his phone.

He held out a hand.

You stared.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” he said. “Get up here and dance with me, Peach.”

“We’re in the middle of a field, Erik.”

“So?”

“No one dances to Sinatra in an open field under a full moon like they’re in a goddamn perfume commercial-”

“I do.”

You snorted, but he was already climbing off the hood, standing under the stars, hand still outstretched like he knew you’d come to him.

You always did.

You hopped down.

“Try anything horny and I’m headbutting you.”

“No promises.”

You slipped your hand into his.

And suddenly, he was pulling you into his chest, one hand on your back, the other twined in your fingers. Your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces that had been aching to fit.

He started to sway. Slowly.

You bit your lip.

“This is so fucking stupid.”

“I know,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

“But I love you anyway.”

Your knees went weak.

His grip tightened.

“I love you like it’s ruining me,” he said. “And I don’t even care.”

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in.

“I love you like it’s always been you.”

And you swayed.

There. In the middle of nowhere. With the stars overhead and the world asleep and your entire chest cracked wide open like maybe this time… maybe it was safe to be soft.

He dipped you.

You screamed.

He laughed.

You shoved him back and he caught you around the waist, spun you once, then kissed you like it was the grand finale of a love story no one thought would survive the first chapter.

“Promise me something,” you said, breathless.

“Anything.”

“When this roadtrip ends… don’t stop choosing me.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I never stopped.”

The moment the dance ended, you didn’t even realize who moved first.

Maybe it was you.

Maybe it was him.

But your back hit the car door and Erik’s mouth was on yours, hot and starving, and his hands were everywhere at once , cupping your face, sliding down your waist, gripping your ass like he’d waited years to do it in open air.

You moaned against his mouth, fingers in his hair, dragging him down until his hips pressed to yours and there was no doubt how hard he was.

“This is insane,” you gasped as he kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your throat.

“Then call me fucking crazy,” he growled, fumbling to open the back door with one hand while the other slipped under your shirt, thumbs dragging over bare skin.

The car door opened and you both fell inside, tangled limbs, breathless gasps, the weight of everything crashing down in the form of pure, desperate need.

You landed in the backseat, Erik’s body caging you in, heat radiating off him like he was made of fire.

He kissed you again , deeper now, slower, but with a tension that could snap bones. Tongue against yours, hands everywhere, so much skin and not enough time.

Your shirt was gone first.

Then his hoodie.

Then your bra.

He pulled back, just to look.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful it makes me crazy.”

“Then do something about it,” you breathed, hips rolling up into his.

That broke him.

He dove back in, mouth on your chest, licking, sucking, biting , one hand gripping your thigh, the other squeezing your breast like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You dragged your fingers down his stomach, over the trail of hair that led to his waistband, and undid his belt with shaking hands.

He hissed when your palm brushed his cock.

“You gonna tease me again?” you smirked, already knowing the answer.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and wild.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He yanked your jeans down , impatient, messy , and hooked your legs over his shoulders like he was prepping for battle.

Then , his tongue was on you.

You cried out, back arching into the seat, hands clawing at the upholstery as he devoured you like a man possessed.

“Erik-fuck-”

He moaned into you, like the taste of you wrecked him, tongue curling just right, fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open like this was his purpose.

You were shaking already.

“Please,” you gasped, body strung tight. “I need you -please.”

He pulled back just long enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and say:

“You want it, Peach? Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you moaned. “Now. Here. I don’t care. Just-now.”

His mouth was back on yours instantly, wet and hot and filthy.

You felt him line up against your entrance, his cock thick and hot, already leaking against your skin.

Then, one deep thrust , and he was inside.

You gasped , loud. Body bowing into him.

He groaned like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he choked out, pulling back and slamming into you again.

The car shook.

Your moan turned into a scream.

He set a brutal rhythm , hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the tiny space, the windows fogging so fast it looked like a scene out of a horror movie ,except this was the most alive you’d ever felt.

You clawed at his back, his shoulders, dragged your nails down his spine just to feel him shiver.

“Erik, I—oh my god—”

“I know,” he panted, biting down on your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling just right.

You lost it.

Your whole body clenched, legs tightening around him, scream caught in your throat as you came hard, the kind of orgasm that wrecked memory and rewrote religion.

He cursed, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum,” he growled. “Where do you-”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Inside. I need it.”

That’s all it took.

He buried himself deep, let out a broken moan, and came with a shudder so intense it felt like an earthquake inside your chest.

You stayed like that, panting, tangled, skin slick and burning, his face pressed into your neck, breath ghosting over your skin like an apology.

You were both trembling.

Both ruined.

And still - he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just whispered into your skin:

“You’re my home, Peach. Always have been.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, still catching your breath.

“And you’re the disaster I’d choose every time.”

THE NEXT MORNING:

You woke up with your leg over the center console, your face smushed into Erik’s bare chest, and a single french fry stuck to your arm like it had gone to war with you.

The car windows were fogged.

Erik was dead asleep under the hoodie you both fought over. His mouth was slightly open, hair a complete mess, and he looked like an angel who’d gotten in a bar fight with a raccoon.

You shifted, winced, and whispered:

“Oh my God… my spine’s filing for divorce.”

“Same,” Erik muttered without opening his eyes. “Pretty sure I left one of my vertebrae under your ass.”

You sat up. Everything hurt. Everything smelled like… regret, sex, and possibly Funyuns.

“I think I gave you a hickey the size of Rhode Island.”

He smirked, eyes still closed.

“You think?”

You shoved him gently, and the car creaked in protest like it too had seen some shit last night.

ONE HOUR LATER: SMALL TOWN DINER, BIG TIME SHAME

You stumbled into a local diner looking like two feral raccoons who’d just discovered what love and backseat sex felt like.

Erik’s hoodie was stretched out in weird places. Your shorts were inside out,and Erik’s neck looked like it had been claimed by a vampire with emotional issues.

The waitress didn’t even blink.

“Booth or bar?”

“Booth,” you both croaked in unison like cursed dolls.

You slid into the booth, hissing as your thighs met the cold leather.

“God, I am fucking wrecked.”

“Same,” Erik muttered, flopping in across from you. “Pretty sure I dislocated a hip.”

You both opened your menus in silence.

Then a sweet old woman from the next booth leaned over and, with the voice of someone who had absolutely zero boundaries, said:

“Well. Someone had fun last night.”

You froze.

Erik blinked.

“Sorry?” you said, attempting politeness but radiating shame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, sipping her black coffee. “I know that walk. And those bruises.”

You reached for your ice water like it might help you evaporate.

Erik, of course, grinned like a feral golden retriever.

“Ma’am, if I could high-five you for that, I would.”

She did high-five him.

You nearly died on the spot.

“I’m Shirley,” she added. “Used to be a gymnast. Your form looked impressive.”

“Shirley. Please.”

Erik was beaming. “Shirley, you’re a legend.”

“I still got it,” she winked at him. “But you got it more, sweetheart.”

You slammed your menu down. “I will walk into oncoming traffic.”

After Shirley left (but not before sliding Erik a handwritten note that may or may not have been her number), you finally got your coffee, your pancakes, and a moment of peace.

Erik looked across the table, eyes softer now.

“You ever think about what this would be like every day?” he asked.

You blinked, halfway through drowning your plate in syrup.

“What, sex in a car and old women heckling us?”

“No. I mean-” he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly shy, “us. Waking up together. Mornings. Diners. Fighting over who used the last of the toothpaste.”

Your heart did something horrible and fluttery.

You tried to play it cool.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your coffee. “I’m just in it for the hickeys and public humiliation.”

He reached across the table and stole your bacon with zero remorse.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m in it for your ass in my hoodie and your voice when you sing ‘Wicked Game’ at midnight.”

You blushed.

He smiled.

And that was it.

You were screwed.

Like, emotionally.

Later, back in the car:

You climbed into the passenger seat, pulled down the mirror, and caught sight of your hair.

“Jesus. I look like I got into a fight with a leaf blower and lost.”

Erik leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you looked hot doing it.”

You groaned, leaned your head back, and muttered:

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, starting the car. “You love me.”

You didn’t answer.

Just reached over, laced your fingers through his, and whispered,

“Yeah. I really fucking do.”

And as the Jeep pulled back onto the road, Shirley waved at you from the diner parking lot.

Winked at Erik.

Blew him a kiss.

You screamed into the hoodie.

He laughed until he almost ran a stop sign.

[rainrot4me]

i love your stuff so, so much! i always forget that creepypasta is a dead fandom so going to look for content on it is a literal fight

with that said, everyone always forgets about clockwork being an artist... do you have anything on her being an artist? i don't even care what at this point

AHHHHAHHAAH YES. These are copied straight my my headcannons doc I’ve had open on Nat, forgive if there are typos.

── .✦

Mixed media queen. Clockwork isn’t loyal to just one art form. She has a sketchbook filled with everything—graphite sketches, inky anatomy diagrams, charcoal-streaked pages, bits of pressed flowers taped next to journal entries. She’ll get fixated on embroidery one week and blood-red watercolor the next.

Uses art to process. She doesn’t talk much about what she went through—being tortured, changed, reborn into violence—but you can see it in her work. Shaky hands rendered in ink. A self-portrait where one eye is normal and the other is an open wound with gears blooming out of it. A girl floating underwater, peaceful, and alone.

Paints on her walls. Her room in the Mansion isn’t cutesy or edgy—it’s hauntingly beautiful. Splashes of oil paint across the wall. Tall figures with blurred-out faces. A whole corner is filled with clocks she’s half-painted and never finished, like time is melting there.

Surprisingly delicate with fine detail. Her hands may be stained with violence, but she’s so careful with a brush it’s almost reverent. Fine linework. Gentle shading. She loses herself in the tiny motions. You’d never think the same fingers that can crush a windpipe could also thread a needle or paint eyelashes.

Art is her version of crying. Nat doesn’t break down or rant or scream when things get bad. She sits down, turns off the world, and draws something with shaking fingers until it hurts less. Headphones turned all the way up, too.

Tried realism, hated it. She doesn’t want things to look “real.” She wants them to feel true. That means strange perspectives, dreamy colors, disjointed anatomy, like how memories look when they’ve been replayed too many times. The realest her art gets is in sketches of scenery or random anatomy studies she does of Toby. She has dozens of blurry, smudged sketches of Toby aiming her shotgun or asleep in the back of her truck.

Embroidery on leather jackets. Sometimes she gets hyperfixated on textiles. She’ll sew into the sleeves of her clothes: anatomical hearts, broken hourglasses, hands reaching toward each other but never touching. The texture calms her, the needle in and out. A rhythm she can control. Any excuse to patch up the tears in her jeans with pretty colors.

Art with violence woven into it. Not in a creepy edge-lord way, but in the way that says: I have seen pain. I am made of it. Let me show you, safely, on paper. There’s a sacred honesty to her darkest pieces. They say what she can’t.

Would 1000% give a handmade sketchbook as a gift. She binds it herself. Stitches the spine. Maybe even adds little doodles or notes in the margins:

“Sketched some while I was away. You can look if you want.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Oh Say It First~

Synopsis: You’re quiet. She’s chaos in a hoodie and iced coffee. Every morning, Hanni slides into the seat beside you, pokes at your cheeks, and ruins your peace with that smile she knows melts you. But one day, you look back—and this time, she’s the one caught staring. Turns out, she’s not the only one who knows how to play. And maybe, just maybe, one of you is about to say it first.

Word Count: 800+

Hanni Pham X M!Reader

a/n: my last fic for this week y’all!! i’ll miss you guys TT

It always starts the same way.

You sit at your desk. Quiet. Half-focused. Hanni walks in—late, as usual—but no one calls her out. Not because she’s sneaky. Just because somehow, she makes late look cool.

She doesn’t go straight to her seat.

She makes a stop. Always.

At yours.

“Morning,” she says, placing her iced coffee down right on top of your notebook.

“Morning,” you mumble, trying not to look directly at her. That never works out.

“You forgot your pen yesterday,” she adds, casually pulling it from her pocket and placing it beside your hand.

You blink. “You… kept that?”

She shrugs. “It’s a good pen.”

She doesn’t leave.

She just stares.

Like she’s waiting for you to say something. Or maybe waiting for you to combust.

You glance up—just a second—and she smiles.

You look away. Immediately.

Her smile widens. You don’t see it, but you feel it.

“You always look like you’re hiding something,” she teases, pulling up a chair to sit beside you even though her seat is two rows down.

“I’m not,” you say.

“Uh-huh. So why are you red?”

“I’m not red.”

“You’re red,” she insists, poking your cheek with the back of her pen. “Look at that. Warm to the touch.”

“Hanni—”

“You talk a lot of big game, you know,” she says, leaning in a little. “I heard you call yourself smooth the other day.”

You groan. “That was a joke.”

“Was it?” Her voice drops—just enough to make the hairs on your neck stand.

“You were saying something about being confident?”

“I was—”

“Confident people don’t choke when I smile,” she says sweetly.

You swallow. Wrong move.

Because she’s smiling now. Bright. Close. Dangerous.

You fumble for a response, any comeback that won’t sound like you’re dying inside. But all that comes out is—

“…You’re so annoying.”

“Yet,” she grins, getting up and taking her iced coffee back, “you let me sit here every morning.”

She walks to her seat like nothing happened.

You stare down at your notes, heart pounding. Still red. Still ruined.

The pen she returned is still warm.

Class drags.

Your brain? Still somewhere between the imprint of her smile and the way she said confident people don’t choke when I smile. That line had been replaying in your head for over an hour now.

But you’ve been patient.

Because today… you noticed something.

Every time the professor turns to the board, every time there’s a lull in the lesson—you catch her.

Glancing at you.

Not in an obvious way. Not with that teasing smirk she’s known for. Just… soft. Curious.

Like she’s checking if you’re okay.

Like she’s wondering if she went too far earlier.

So the next time it happens—you don’t look away.

You look back.

Eyes steady. Brows raised. A quiet challenge.

She freezes.

Just for half a second.

That’s all you need.

After class, she takes her time packing up. You wait by the door, hands in your pockets, pretending to check your phone.

When she finally walks past you, you fall into step beside her.

No words at first. Just your sneakers and hers, tapping against the tiled hallway in sync.

Then you say it. Calm. Neutral.

“You were looking at me earlier.”

She snorts. “No, I wasn’t.”

You shrug. “I saw you.”

“Maybe you were just hoping I was.”

You grin. “That sounds like something someone who got caught would say.”

She pauses. One beat. Two.

Then shoots you a sideways glance. “Don’t push it.”

But her ears—just slightly—have turned pink.

You press on.

“It’s fine, by the way.”

“What is?”

“That you like me.”

She scoffs. “Excuse me?”

You keep walking. “It’s obvious. I mean, you flirt a lot. You sit beside me even though your assigned seat is nowhere near me. You always steal my food but somehow return my pens.”

“I return your pens because you forget them every single day.”

“And you saved the one with the rubber grip. My favorite.”

She glares. But she’s smiling too.

And now you’re the one leaning in slightly, dropping your voice just enough.

“Admit it, you like me.”

She opens her mouth, ready to fire back—

Then stops.

Her eyes flick to yours.

And suddenly, she’s quiet.

The hallway feels longer. Brighter. Louder somehow.

Then—barely audible, almost playful, almost serious—she says:

“You first.”

[nglgfics]

Stress relief

(Based on an anonymous request for Liam giving his gf some much needed relief after a stressful week)

The Liam in my mind

(18+)

Masterlist

The front door shut with that familiar thunk behind him. You heard his steps—and then the low scrape of keys tossed into the dish by the radiator.

“Home,” Liam called, voice rough from rehearsal and full of that casual edge he always carried. “Still alive in here or what?”

You were in the bathroom, water running, steam curling under the door. But you didn’t answer.

You could hear him rustling in the bedroom, dresser drawers opening, sliding shut. After a bit he padded closer down the hallway. “Darling?”

The door creaked open, and there he was—barefoot, hair a mess, changed into a soft Stone Roses tee and worn-in shorts that sat low on his hips. He looked warm and casual, like he hadn’t planned a thing—just wandered in, impossibly relaxed.

But it didn’t matter how soft the clothes were. Your eyes dragged over him—the way the cotton clung to his chest, framed by broad, heavy shoulders, the neckline dipping low enough to show a hint of chest hair. And then lower: his bare legs, all thick and unbothered strength. The shorts cut just high enough to show the shape of his thighs, the curve of his calves—solid and strong, impossible to ignore.

He leaned in the doorway, watching you with that sharp, unreadable look. You were already in the bath, deep in lavender-scented water, arms resting on the sides like you were trying to pretend you weren’t holding tension in every part of your body.

He stepped in, slow, cocking his head.

“Well,” he said, voice dry. “Aren’t you a picture.”

His eyes swept down your body—unhurried, sharp. He didn’t make a show of it. He didn’t need to. His gaze lingered at your collarbone, then dipped lower, stopping where your breasts crested just above the surface of the water. His mouth twitched like he was holding back a comment—or maybe saving it for later.

Then his eyes met yours again, and the heat you saw was unmistakable.

You gave him a tired half-smile. “Hey.”

He crossed the floor, crouched beside the tub, resting his forearms on the edge as he looked at you.

“This is you relaxin’?”

You shrugged. “Trying.”

He arched a brow. “Doesn’t look like trying. Looks like simmering in stress stew.”

You exhaled, finally. “It’s been a shit week.”

“Yeah,” he said, gaze not leaving your face. “I can tell. You’ve got that face on—the one that says you’ve been two emails away from snappin’ and throwin’ your laptop out the window all day.”

That startled a laugh from you, sharp and short—but it dissolved just as fast. Your shoulders sagged back into the water, like the tension had nowhere left to go.

You opened your mouth to say something else—but then his hand moved, slipping just beneath the surface of the water.

Your breath caught.

It was the first real touch. A brush along the inside of your thigh—light, unhurried, maddening in its restraint. Not quite a caress. Not quite a tease. Just contact. Warm skin on skin, under water.

And suddenly, your thoughts weren’t on your work inbox anymore.

The tension shifted. Not gone, just… rerouted. Out of your head and straight into your core. You swallowed hard, hips twitching under the surface. His touch was barely there, but your whole body reacted like he’d made you come already.

Every nerve lit up, too sensitive, too ready. You hadn’t realized how badly you wanted to be handled—not gently, but with purpose. With pressure. And he hadn’t even really touched you yet.

He leaned in slightly, voice low, just for you.

“S’all right,” he said. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

His fingers ghosted higher.

“I’ve got other ways to get it out of you.”

It wasn’t even the touch—it was his hand. The way it moved, slow and certain. The weight of it. Thick fingers, strong and sure, dragging through the water like they had all the time in the world. You’d felt them before—inside you, around your waist, gripping your hips like he owned you. And now, just the suggestion of them tracing your thigh had your core tightening, heat rushing between your legs like a reflex.

You clenched under the surface, aching, the memory of his grip blooming across your skin even though he hadn’t truly touched you yet.

“Water’s hot,” he murmured, still not looking at you. “But it’s not doin’ the trick, is it?”

You shook your head.

He finally met your eyes. There was something different in his gaze now—less amused, more focused.

“You want help lettin’ go, love?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know if I can.”

That smirk curled the corner of his mouth. Slow. Certain.

“You can. You just need to stop pretending you’re in control of it.”

Heat surged low in your belly, sharp and immediate. Your skin prickled, pulse pounding in your throat. Every part of you leaned toward him without meaning to—hips shifting, thighs parting ever so slightly beneath the surface, your body aching for more contact, any contact.

It was maddening. You needed those hands—thick, capable, slow-moving hands that could split you open or hold you down, sometimes both at once. And he knew it. He hadn’t even looked at your face, but he knew.

You were wet already—tight and pulsing.

“Five minutes in the bath and you’re still thinkin’ about work,” he murmured. “Tell me, what exactly were you plannin’ to do with all that tension? Keep it as a pet?”

You laughed, shaky and thin. Because he wasn’t wrong.

You’d come in here to let it go. But even now, your brain had been clinging to the noise—until he stepped in.

Now, it wasn’t stress you felt pressing in your body. It was him.

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple.

“Let me sort you out,” he whispered. “Let me take all that noise outta your head.”

And suddenly, nothing felt more urgent than letting him.

You didn’t just want to—you needed to.

He shifted slightly, dragging a hand through his hair, the soft cotton of his tee pulling tighter across his chest. His arms flexed without effort—those strong forearms catching the light. He didn’t have to speak. Just sat there, calm and steady, legs spread, hands resting easy on his thighs, watching you with quiet certainty. He looked comfortable—almost lazy in the way only someone completely in control could be. But his eyes? Dark. Focused. Like he already knew what you needed, and exactly how he was going to give it to you.

“I’m gonna sit right here,” he said, voice low. “And you’re gonna keep still. Gonna let me work some of that out of you. Quiet-like.”

You swallowed, pulse tapping in your throat.

He leaned in slightly, not to crowd you—but to make sure you heard every word.

“I’m gonna take my time—start slow. Real slow. Gonna drag every breath out of you ‘til you’re not thinkin’ anymore. Just feelin’.”

You swallowed hard, heat curling low.

“Gonna ease you open,” he murmured. “Bit by bit. Fingers first—soft at the start, then deeper, firmer, ‘til you’re fuckin’ shaking. And I won’t stop, not ‘til you’re soaked and twitchin’, so far gone you forget what had you wound so tight in the first place.”

He watched your face like he was already seeing the after.

“I’ll keep you right there, on the edge,” he said, almost smiling. “And I’ll hold you there ‘til your body begs for what your mouth won’t say.”

A breath hitched in your chest.

“That’s the plan,” he murmured. “You don’t need to do anything but breathe and take it.”

He paused, eyes holding yours.

“Can you do that for me?”

You nodded.

“No. Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He grinned—wicked and warm. “That’s more like it.”

His hand slid into the water again, fingers brushing your knee, then gliding up the inside of your thigh, slow and sure.

“You’ve been fightin’ it all day,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to hold it together, thinkin’ you could handle it yourself.”

His touch inched higher, the water rippling gently around you.

“But you don’t have to, do you?” he said. “Not when I’m right here.”

You tried to respond, but it came out as a breath.

His hand stayed there, floating beneath the surface, just shy of where you needed him most.

“You gonna tell me what you need?” he asked. Calm. Certain.

You swallowed. “You.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah, you’ve got me. But what part, love?”

You looked at his hand. Those thick, strong fingers. Broad palms. Calloused. Warm. The kind that filled you. Stretched you in just the way your body craved.

“I want your fingers,” you whispered.

He raised a brow. “Say that again.”

Your face flushed. “I want your fingers. Please.”

That made his mouth twitch. “You love ‘em, don’t you? The way I open you up?”

“Yes,” you breathed, already aching. “Liam, please.”

He finally moved—just a shift of his hand at first, fingers trailing beneath the water. You didn’t breathe.

Then he found you—his fingertips brushing lightly over your clit.

Not pressure. Not yet. Just a soft, circling touch that sent a jolt up your spine.

You let out a shaky breath, thighs tensing. He felt it. Smirked.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “So sensitive and reactive to my touch. Good girl.”

He rubbed in slow, lazy circles—barely there, maddening. Just enough to remind you how open you already were. How close.

Then he pressed a little firmer, and your hips jolted, a sharp gasp escaping you before you could stop it.

His voice stayed steady.

“Shh. Let me in.”

And then—finally—he slipped two fingers between your legs, slow and steady. The stretch was immediate, filling, perfect. You clenched around him like your body had been waiting for it all along.

“There she is,” he muttered. “Christ, you’re already pulsin’ round me.”

He eased deeper, his thumb still circling—measured, deliberate, cruel in how gentle it stayed. Not giving you more. Just keeping you right there.

“Don’t move,” he said, “You asked for this. Let me do it my way.”

You nodded, breath trembling.

But your body didn’t listen. Your hips jerked, searching for more friction, more pressure—anything. He didn’t let you have it.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured. “Stay still.”

His fingers curled again, slow and steady, brushing that spot that made your whole body tighten like a live wire. The water shifted with every pulse of your thighs, every twitch you couldn’t hold back.

“You don’t even pretend, do you?” he muttered. “One touch and you’re already beggin’.”

You whimpered, fingers gripping the sides of the tub.

“Yeah, hold on to something, love. ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ up.”

His rhythm never faltered—tight, deliberate circles above, deep, steady strokes inside. His fingers moved with maddening control—dragging along your walls with just enough pressure to make your muscles tighten, then curling slow and firm against that spot that shattered you every time.

They were thick, solid, and unrelenting. You felt every inch of him—how his knuckles stretched you on the way in, how his palm pressed low and hot against your skin, keeping you grounded. His thumb kept circling, slow and slick, never missing, never rushing, just building and building until it felt unbearable.

It was obscene, how good he was. The way he moved like he knew you—knew exactly how to draw it out, where to press, when to pause, when to twist just so. He wasn’t teasing. He was working you. Like it was a skill. A rhythm in his hands. And your body? Your body gave up trying to fight it.

Your stomach clenched. Hips twitched. Water shifted around you in soft, shallow ripples.

“You’re close,” he said. Calm. Certain.

You nodded, breath stuttering.

“Say it.”

“I’m—close. Liam, please—don’t stop.”

He didn’t. But he didn’t let you fall either.

Instead, he slowed the pressure on your clit just slightly—just enough to make your whole body lurch in protest. A frustrated whimper slipped out of you before you could bite it back.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, voice low and dark and thick with heat. “Can’t even hold it together. Your body’s already beggin’ for it.”

His fingers stayed deep, unrelenting. His thumb circled again—slow, deliberate, punishing in its restraint.

“Say it proper.”

“Liam—”

“You want to come?” he asked, leaning in now, lips near your ear. “Then ask me. With your mouth.”

Your thighs trembled under the water, everything in you tightening like a live wire.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Liam—let me come. I need it. I need you—please—”

His jaw tensed. For a second, he was completely still.

Then: “Good girl.”

And everything broke loose.

His rhythm returned with purpose. His fingers curled just right, thumb pressing in tighter, coaxing that edge until it swallowed you whole. You came hard—hips jerking, breath catching, a sound slipping from your throat that didn’t even feel like yours. The water sloshed around you, waves lapping at porcelain as your body arched, clenched, then finally, finally let go.

Liam didn’t stop. Not until you collapsed back into the bath, limbs loose, chest heaving. Even then, he stayed close—his hand soft now, gentling you through the aftermath.

“Fuckin’ stunning,” he murmured, like it was fact. “You’ve got no idea how good you look when you let go.”

You could barely breathe, much less speak. He eased his hand from you, slow and careful, wiped it on the towel slung over his shoulder.

His rhythm slowed—first the circles, then the curl of his fingers inside you. He moved with care now, not pulling away too fast, just enough to help your body come back down. Your breathing was still rough, lips parted, water trembling around you.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Don’t rush it.”

His fingers slipped free with a final, gentle pass, and he cupped the inside of your thigh briefly, grounding you.

You blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling like you’d just run for miles, not moved an inch.

Liam didn’t speak for a moment. He just watched you—still crouched beside the tub, arms resting on the rim now, head tilted slightly as he looked at you like you were the only thing worth looking at.

“That’s better,” he said quietly, like he was confirming something. “That’s you, now.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your whole body felt like it had been pulled apart and gently stitched back together—too loose to move, too full to speak.

He reached for a dry corner of the towel slung over his shoulder and gently brushed a bit of water from your forehead, then your cheek. It was rough cotton, and the gesture wasn’t graceful—but it was real. Tender in its own Liam way.

“Needed that more than you thought, didn’t you?”

You gave the barest nod, and he smirked, just slightly—something tired, warm, and satisfied curling at the edges of it.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Knew you were hangin’ on by your teeth when I walked in.”

His voice dropped, soft and dangerous as he leaned in, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot against your skin.

“And if you beg for my cock like you just begged for my fingers—”

“—I might let you have it.”

The promise settled into your chest like a second heartbeat—slow, certain, devastating. But then his hand came up, rough fingers grazing your cheek, thumb sweeping just under your eye in a gesture so gentle it burned. You weren’t just wrecked—you were his. And he knew it.

He pulled back slowly, standing with that same quiet command he always carried, like nothing in the world could rush him. The towel slid off his shoulder as he wiped his hand, casual and focused all at once. His tee clung across his chest, joggers slung low—he looked like sin and comfort in one body, and it only made the ache in you deepen.

At the door, he paused.

His eyes met yours, still dark, still steady—but softer now. Not gentler. Just certain in a different way.

“Five minutes,” he said, voice low.

“Then I want you where I can touch you again.”

And then he was gone.

Not to cool off. Not to walk away. Just to give you space, because he already knew you’d come to him.

You always did.

And for the first time all day, maybe all week, you let yourself breathe.

[hlreesespeanutbuttercups]

The price of not being tidy

That is a terrible, horrible, incredibly foolish idea. Let’s do it and see what happens (Prompt)

Pairing: Stephanie Brown x f!reader

Synopsis: Journalist reader and the Bats try to come up with a plan for breaking into warehouse storage unit (currently hired by a kids party bc this is Gotham and People Do Not Care).

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: none

A/N: I literally just wrote this and put it straight on here so if there are any mistakes please let me know!

border is by @enchanthings-a !

“What if you guys just dressed up as like, Disney characters or something?”

Silence.

“Or like, parents with a kid? If there’s a kid’s party happening then like… I mean, it seems a good idea?”

Your voice trails off. Four pairs of terrifyingly blank white lenses stare you down as you do your best not to shift awkwardly under the heat of their gazes. You’ve not felt this self-conscious of yourself since high school, which is ridiculous. It’s not even a bad idea and you know it. So why are they still staring at you like you’ve suggested they burn down a convent?? You’re pretty sure you can even feel the pensive stare of Oracle from half a city away.

“Yeah…That’s… yeah ah I don’t know…”

“Not happening.”

“Well…”

“Yeah you know I don’t think that…”

“It’s on parr with the kind of ideas Drake comes up with.”

“Bitch?”

You don’t even know why you’re there to be honest. You’re a journalist, and a respected one at that. Realistically there had been no reason for you to share your intel, especially not when you knew the bats had their own stakes and objectives in this, stakes and objectives that could easily cost you your story. You could have been in and out, a quick undercover operation that was all too familiar to you.

There had been one glaring problem; also known as your girlfriend. As soon as you’d promised her to let her in on any cases involving gang activity you could feel yourself regretting your decision, and now here you were. God you should have just lied, why didn’t you lie??

Earlier that day you’d been battling your blender (unsuccessfully), so wrapped up in trying to disembowel the damn thing without getting your hand blended that you’d barely even noticed the presence of your lovely girlfriend. Steph had emerged at the vocal sounds of your distress, her head poking through the doorway of your shared bedroom as she blearily took in the scene. Sensing no immediate threat (thankfully for you, because she was in no state to be much use against an attacker) she’d begun to cross over to where you were nearly in tears from frustration. The chaotic mess on the table had stopped her in her tracks. 

Finally, at long last the stupid thing whirred into life as you sagged in relief into the counter before turning around to grab the fruit from the fridge. You were frozen however, by the sight of Steph rifling through the papers you knew should have cleared away, goddamnit. 

In that mess of shipping records and witness testimonies was the definitive proof that something absolutely no one wanted in Gotham had recently been shipped to a warehouse in the west dock. It didn’t take a genius (which your girlfriend was) or anything less than a five second scan of these papers (which she’d done) that this was the work of a gang hoping for more control. The gang you’d been researching for the past week. Without Steph knowing. The sigh had left you before you could stop it.

It hadn’t led to the blazing argument you’d been fearing, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t pissed as hell at you. And whilst she was letting you and all your elderly neighbours know exactly how pissed she was, you’d stayed silent. She was right to be annoyed but in your defence you knew exactly how delicate this was- one wrong move would alert every member of this gang and they’d disappear (their new weapon with them), but probably not before putting a bullet in your head. 

This was not talk Steph understood; she was a vigilante, and as such had her own priorities, her own patrols. She wouldn’t be there every second of the day to babysit you until your enemies either gave up or forgot about you, but of course this was a hard pill for her to swallow. You couldn’t hold it against her, but you also had to be realistic.

Half an hour later saw you finally cave, deciding to simply give up all your research. Technically she’d have forced her way into it regardless but that wasn’t the point. The point was you were being cooperative. Your head had been leant back against the back of the couch in defeat, but what she said next had your head whip up to look her in the eyes with so much force something strained in your neck.

“What.”

“You know you’re not the only person who’s been interested in them recently, right? Tim’s had his eye on this gang for about a month now”, Steph continued on like you weren’t seeing your stealth operation go up in flames in real time, “You know he’s going to insist on coming along. Plus Dick is home from Bludhaven, and Damian has only just been cleared for action again. There’s literally no way he’s sitting this one out.”

“You’re not serious. Steph this has to be undercover, they’ll see you all coming from a mile away but if I go in alone-“

“Absolutely not, and also, I’m sorry but you do remember we are like, actual vigilantes right? Like, we are literally known for stealth more than anyone else. Ever.”

Her voice had taken on an incredulous tone, and see you get it, but like also you know them. There is literally no way your story is making it, god you’re so fucked. Your boss is going to kill you, you are so getting fired-

“Listen” her voice was softer now. Clearly your horror at the situation hadn’t gone unnoticed as Steph came over to sit next to you on the couch. She took your hands in hers, and you faintly registered the scent of your favourite body lotion radiating off her (god, she was such a thief, you knew she’d been stealing it), “I can’t see you get hurt, and at least this way I can feel certain you won’t. I’ll even help you convince them not to go in guns blazing, just… can you trust me?”

Steph’s eyes were always expressive; crinkled up in laughter, sharp with focus, hard with anger. Right now her gaze was unwavering, deep blue eyes searching for confirmation that you did, that you trusted her, that you would follow her into a burning building if she asked you to because you would. 

“I… Steph you know I can. I do, I just,” you sigh ,”I just wish there was a way I could guarantee this will go well. And the more people you add to the mix the more variables there are that I can’t control.”

You both sink back against the sofa, letting your legs entertwine and her head fall softly onto your shoulder. It’s as close to an apology as either of you will get. She doesn’t answer. She knows there’s no real rebuttal to that, knows better than anyone that trying to put limits on her family is futile. You sigh, and you let a smile ghost over your lips as she does the same seconds later. Tonight is going to suck.

All of that has led you to this, standing to one side as a game of ’no you’re worse’ escalates with every sentence. This is probably the most worked up you’ve ever seen Red Robin get, you think to yourself idly. You’ve never really spent much time with him in fairness. While he seems like a likeable guy, you’ve yet to get over the awkwardness of dating his ex, not to mention how busy he always seems to be. Truly he doesn’t seem to have an off button, so this typical sibling bickering is almost humanising for you. 

“My plan to get us into Nanda Parbat was perfectly viable! You’re the one who nearly caused it to fall apart all because you couldn’t act the part-“

“That is such bullshit, me acting as your prisoner would never have worked, you just wanted en excuse to hold me at knifepoint-“

Throughout all this, Spoiler was stood next to you, uncharacteristically silent. You were just about to nudge her to check in but before you could she finally spoke up.

“What if… I mean what if we actually did? Like, just go undercover as guests.”

Silence once again. This time not directed at you, which is nice. Steph continues undeterred.

“Just think about, it’ll be more of a hassle to go undercover but if we do it right, we can figure out the layout ahead of time and scope out any guards. It’s not ideal but this way I get a happy girlfriend with a story for her boss, and we probably won’t get shot at. I know Alfred at least would prefer he didn’t have to stitch us up again so soon after the last incident.”

You have to stifle a snort at that. Bringing in Alfred is a low blow, but an effective one. And the others do seem to be considering it. At the very least the bickering has paused while all parties involved mull it over.

“We’d have to figure out the guest list. Find out who we can pose as…” Dick trails off before his head snaps over to Damian who immediately bristles.

“No.”

“You know the kid, he’s in your year, no? You didn’t get an invite or anything like that?” He presses.

“I did. But I have no intention of going. Besides, I can be of more use with the weapon.”

Don’t make me be social, was what you could hear between the lines. He really was just a teenager, you noted with some amusement. It was so easy to forget sometimes.

“You’re our only real shot at getting in right now. Spoiler’s right- if we can do this without a fight then it’s worth a go. I can go in with Robin as his brother, but we need to get as many people in without it being suspicious.” With this, Dick tilted his head toward Steph almost like he was asking permission, “Red Robin can stay on the outside and run surveillance.”

At this she seemed to realise something, and Steph’s head twisted sharply to look at Nightwing properly. 

“What? Bro you are not stealing my girlfriend, why can’t I go in with the kid?”

Nightwing held a hand up in placation.

“Listen, I’m the only one officially associated with Damian Wayne. No one’s gonna question me if I show up with my girlfriend to chaperone him, but if you do…” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Agh fine, but you’d better keep it friendly, got it?” she levelled him with a threatening glare and wrapped a possessive hand around your waist, earning a light smack on the arm from you. Steph could be ridiculous sometimes, but both of you knew that there was no chance of Dick making you uncomfortable. Out of all the bats, he was (barring Barbara) the one you’d talked to most, and he was one of the most easy people to get along with you’d ever known. It was almost freaky how well Dick seemed to gel with just about any person he met. Hopefully it was skill that could come in handy tonight.

There was a brief pause as everyone took in the plan, but you noticed that one name had been left out in all this.

“So… if you, Robin and I are heading in, and red robin is outside running surveillance, where’s Spoiler gonna be?” You asked curiously.

As soon as the words were out of your mouth, a shit-eating grin started to make it’s way onto Dick’s face. You felt Steph stiffen behind you as she took in his expression and all the doom it spelled out for her. 

“All parties need entertainment. And I heard something about a magician making an appearance at this one.”

“Asshole. I can’t even do magic, what the hell am I meant to do? Pull a bunch of scarves out of a hat? I don’t even have a top hat you dick.” She hissed, “I can’t be anything else? A waiter? Literally anything else?”

“Oh I don’t know, I think I want to see you pull a rabbit out a hat”, you snicker, tracing little patterns on her arm as you turn your head just enough to give her an sly look over your shoulder, “I think it could be sexy, get you a Zatanna costume or something.”

You hear a few huffs of amusement, and you feel more than hear the scoff Steph lets out which vibrates on your back from where she’s still pressed up against you. 

“Please, if I’m pulling a Zatanna, I’ll get the real thing. I think I’d pull it off, don’t you?” Her voice is right next to your ear, a low tone that you find ridiculously attractive, actually. She knows it as well, the tease. 

A loud clap brings you both back to the present and you’re reminded that you two are very much not alone. And that your girlfriend’s ex is stood like two metres away. Dear god, if your cheeks hadn’t been flushed before from her teasing they were on fire now.

“It’s sorted then, Red is on surveillance. Robin, our lovely journalist and I will attend the party as guests, and Spoiler has exactly… three hours and twenty-six minutes to come up with something spectacular to dazzle Gotham’s elite.” 

You hadn’t pinned Dick as someone particularly vindictive, but based off the glee that seemed to radiate off him at Stephanie’s plight, you’d clearly misjudged. You suppose nothing brings out typical sibling energy quite like an undercover stealth mission. 

Steph clearly didn’t appreciate the countdown. Nightwing was narrowly able to dodge a canister of, did that say shark deterrent on it??, before Tim stirred next to him, his tone dry.

“This is honestly a terrible, awful, incredibly stupid idea. Let’s do it, I want to see what happens.”

“I too am eager to watch Spoiler make a fool of herself. I’m sure it will make up for having to pretend to enjoy myself.”

If Nightwing was taken aback by Damian agreeing with Tim (something you’d been told was about as rare as a blood moon) it didn’t show.

“Right then, we meet back here at six. The party will already be underway when we arrive, making it easier to go unnoticed. Red Robin should have no problem with that, but I’ll make sure to pass on the message to Robin. Make sure he doesn’t try sneaking in a carpet bomb or something.”

You visibly start at the new lack of vigilantes in front of you. When the hell had they even left? You’d put a bell on them if you thought it would actually do anything but somehow you got the idea any bell on them wouldn’t ring unless they wanted it to. Fucking vigilantes. Your mind finally finishes catching up and all your thoughts ground to a stop, too stuck on the words carpet bomb to come up with a response. Was that just a bad attempt at humour? Had that been a problem before?? 

“Well, I’ll be going too if there’s nothing else. It looks like I’m gonna have to break out something formal.” At this Dick pulled a face, eliciting a vague noise of disgust from Steph.

“You’re not the one who’ll be suffering tonight, dickhead.”

The grin that spread across Nightwing’s face at her name-calling made him look almost boyish. He gracefully bent to pick up the can that had been so lovingly lobbed at his head and lightly tossed it to you, before throwing you a teasing wink and turning to disappear out the window on silent feet.

For a second the only noise was the creaking of old floor boards and the faint wail of a police siren.

“So… any ideas for the magi-“

“Ughhhhhhhhhh.”

A/N: if you got this far i hope you enjoyed, again if anyone has any feedback it's all appreciated! I'll be uploading this to my AO3 as well under the same name!

[normal-about-the-dca]

Mermaid DCA? On my blog? It's more likely than you think!

Grab the public models on VRChat under the read more!

The avatars are public on VRChat here and here if you want them!

Also more pictures my friends and I took :]

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Both my parents actually suffer from HORRID emotional dysregulation and are prone to snapping and going into rages. My sister is the same way tbh. I am now realizing this is why they are constantly baffled by the question of whether or not I am mad at them.

I don't have external meltdowns.

I could. I don't let it happen.

I keep my rage on the inside and stay pretty quiet about it. It's just as strong as theirs [physically shaking nose bleed from high blood pressure kind of bad], but like as a kid I saw how terrifying it was to be around [dad breaking dishes, mom putting our lawn chairs into walls] and I just internalized that I wasn't going to wear that anger on the outside.

So my mother genuinely cannot tell if I am just being quiet or if I am silently hearing the dial-up noises of pure rage. This has lead her to both making strong and confident statements like "You are a pacifist who would never hurt a fly U.U" but also acting like I am secretly dangerous maybe... It's because she has never seen me snap.

She knows what her temper is like [throwing chairs through walls], she knows what my father's temper is like [pick up child and toss out door], and she can tell I am being tested, but she doesn't know what happens when I snap or where that breaking point is.

Her -perhaps unhinged- solution to this, my whole life, has been to do things that should obviously enrage me or shut me down completely, like ignoring important boundaries, repeatedly, punishing me for expressing emotions or needs at all, etc... And then to constantly ask me if I am angry with her when I get too quiet [right after near directly telling me to shut up].

It has occurred to me now, they have never once seen me lose my temper, so they literally just can't tell if I am angry at them. My sister is easy, my mother fights and screams with my sister constantly, my mother understands this. My mother doesn't have any grasp of feelings or boundaries that are not screamed at her [apparently, and I fear my sister is the same way]. Her and my sister are close despite constant fucking fighting because they understand each other.

They are trying to get me to engage the same way and it is not working. I realize now that this has been hard for them.

I was so successfully taught to suppress my emotions, by being punished for any outburst, that rage quiet looks the same as any other kind of quiet from the outside. To them anyway.

I did tell her. For the record. I used my words. I did tell her very calmly that my response to rage, in order to avoid doing the things that terrified me as a child, was to simply leave [the autistic urge to GTFO]. When a situation or person causes too much of the dial-up rage noise, I simply extract myself from that situation, up to and including never speaking to a person again. I explained this calmly. I explained it calmly 100 times and I explained that I explain myself calmly as my rage response 1-5 [also pretty much every other negative emotion tbh], and I told her that what came next was me simply opting out and fucking off. I told her this. I couldn't understand why she never took me seriously, or why she never fucking understood.

I couldn't understand what made her like this.

But it's the same problem I have with everyone else multiplied by a factor of 10.

If I am explaining myself calmly, they can't understand that it's actually serious or that I am actually upset. ESPECIALLY because they read me as "female" and women "aren't that rational" so if I am not screaming and crying about something, which I never do, people assume I can't be upset and it isn't serious.

And then after having my boundaries ignored too many times despite having calmly explained how and why it's a problem [shaking inside or not]... I leave. I leave and everyone gets upset like this is unexpected behaviour, even though I told them 50 times that is how I would respond if they kept doing *the thing.*

And for neurotypical people especially, they are expecting there to be a disconnect between what someone says they need or feel and what their actually boundaries and feelings are, and they expect the latter to be demonstrated with emotions. Telling them bluntly you do not function that way somehow never helps?

My mother isn't just looking for normal yelling or a few tears to know I am serious, whether or not I do those either [I don't], she's looking for an explosion to know there's a problem at all.

Fucked if I know how she proceeds through life this way in general or if this is just her expectation of her own kids???

And I couldn't get why my mother couldn't read my emotions and didn't seem to think I have any. It's because she's testing for the rage limit to see where my 'actual' limit is instead of taking my word for it. Never the fuck mind that she could simply *not* test at my boundaries instead of letting me have them. Separate issue.

I couldn't figure out what made her *like this*

She's expecting me to throw a giant meltdown violent tantrum at people when I have 'actually' had enough. Maybe she got away with those being like 5'4" in another time, but I am the size of the average man, I do not get to have giant screaming rages, whether or not people perceive me consciously as a woman, and least of all because a lot of people -at least unconsciously- read me as 'masculine' or at least always "they guy" of the situation compared to all other women and some men [bigger stronger and more rational, more able to just absorb the damage and let it go so the less rational screaming/crying one doesn't have to be dealt with]. Even if it was in me to be willing to terrify people [usually never], there are such limited instances where it wouldn't just blow back on me. Potentially very dangerously.

I am going to be the quiet calm one. You are going to have to let me use my words, bitch.

So she kept ignoring my boundaries until I had to cut her out of my life, and she probably doesn't understand and probably thinks it feels sudden -after 36 long years of bullshit- abrupt and unfair.

But I told her hundreds of times.

I probably should have just screamed at her.

[lemongogo]

college … wasted on the youth (me)

[hobbithoes]

having a job where you won’t get fired for not coming in all the time is dangerousss like I just might not go again 😹😹 thank u union !!!!! #bluecollarboy #emopostinginthetagsincoming ⛓️ 🥀

[riddlesnap]

I know I didn't rate Edward's strength very highly on that battle stats post I made the other day but there are definitely days where he's channeling that crackhead strength build and you wouldn't see it coming because he's so damn unimposing.

[alchemistc]

Gave myself a sort of day off yesterday for the first time in almost three weeks and I cannot tell you how much I regret it. My body hurts, I don't want to get out of bed, everything is awful.

[sheliesshattered]

It's been almost two weeks since my last sewing update, but I have been making progress on a couple different projects, thankfully. I mentioned in my last post that I was hesitant to cut into a king-sized 100% linen bedsheet that I've been hoarding for 10+ years. I knew I wanted to make an apron, but I also knew that it wouldn't take up anywhere near the whole sheet, and I had the thought that I might be able to get two projects out of this one sheet (and the remnants of the matching fitted sheet) if I was careful about how I cut out all my pieces. Possibly a gathered tiered skirt/petticoat, along with the apron.

I measured the two long sides of the flat sheet that had identical ~1.25" deep hems, and I found that each side was 112" or just over 3 yards long, not counting the top and bottom hems. That meant if I did side seams, I could get a 6 yard wide bottom tier for the skirt and not have to do a hem at all, just use what was already there. Not the widest hemline on this kind of skirt (I have a purchased skirt with a 25 yard hem, and years ago I made a 26 yard tiered skirt out of muslin), but with this heavy weight linen it felt like 6 yards at the hem would be plenty.

Gathered tiered skirts are really just rectangles and a bit of simple math. Since the sheet's side hem determined the size of the lowest tier at 224", I figured I would do 2-to-1 gathers and make the next tier up 112" wide, and the third tier up 56" wide. A fourth tier at that 2-to-1 gathering ratio would have been only 27" wide, which wouldn't have fit over my hips, so the skirt would have 3 tiers.

I'm a short girl at not quite 5'2" and I like to wear my skirts pretty low on my hips for spoonie comfort issues, so after measuring a purchased skirt whose length I like, I decided that between 30" and 33" inches in total length would be ideal. With three tiers that length could easily be divided into tiers that are each 10"-11" tall. I added a half inch for seam allowance (but no hem allowance on the lowest tier, since I was re-using the existing hem) to get the exact measurements for each of the pieces I needed for the skirt.

I was able to tear most of my pieces, since the linen bedsheet was nicely on the grain and tore relatively cleanly, thus saving my hands from cutting all those long pieces. I had meant to cut the top tier at 14" tall so that I'd have room to turn under a nice thick waistband too -- and then I totally forgot and cut it at 12" just like the middle tier, lol. I was able to get one of the middle tier pieces and both of the top tier pieces out of the remains of the matching fitted sheet, so I only needed one middle and two bottom tiers from the flat sheet. That left me with plenty of flat sheet left over for the apron, but I'll talk more about that in my next sewing post.

With my pieces all cut out, it was time to start the most annoying part of making a gathered tiered skirt: gathering all those tiers. I'm trying to sew with cotton thread more often these days, but for the gathers I switched back to polyester thread just for the strength. For the two bottom tier and two middle tier pieces I ran two lines of gathering stitches along the top edge, placed pins to divide each panel into quarters, and got to gathering and pinning.

With tiered skirts I really prefer to work from the bottom up, so that I'm always attaching a gathered piece to a completely flat piece of fabric, and save side seams for last. So the bottom tier pieces got gathered up and attached to the middle tier pieces, then the middle tier got gathered up sewn to the top tier.

Since I accidentally cut my top tier pieces shorter than I'd meant to, I did play around with adding a separate waistband for the top tier to be gathered onto. But I couldn't do a full 2-to-1 gather if I wanted the waistband to pull on over my hips, and the waistband made the proportions look weird, like the top tier was too long. So I ended up cutting the waistband off after I sewed it and actually shortening the top tier even a little bit more. After turning under the top edge to enclose the raw ripped edge and then turning under 3cm (~1.2") for a waistband casing, that top tier ended up being about 9" tall, and the proportions of that look much better for some reason.

Before I sewed the side seams, I decided that this skirt needs to have pockets, of course. I knew I was planning to do French seams to protect the raw edges against unraveling, so I put the pockets in with a French seam as well.

With the pockets in place, the next step was to do the side seams (including the pocket bags), being careful to match up the height of the hem and each of the tiers so everything was nice and clean and square. Then I was able to turn under that waistband casing and sew it in place -- my original plan had been put in three separate channels for narrow elastic that would result in a bit of a faux-cartridge pleating look, but actually getting the elastic strung through there turned out to be more of a pain than it was worth, so I ended up picking that out and just using a single 1" wide elastic band in the waistband casing instead.

And with that, the skirt was technically wearable, and with some fabrics I might have been happy to leave it there. But the raw ripped edges at the seams between each of the tiers worried me. I've had well-loved sewing projects just shred after many wears and washes because I left the seams unfinished, figuring I would be the only one to see the inside. Ideally I want this skirt to be in my rotation for years and years, so I decided to make the effort to finish those seams too.

My original plan had been to cover the raw edges inside with 3/4" herringbone twill tape. For some reason I was convinced that I had a bunch of it left over from a Wasteland Weekend project from 2018, only to discover that I actually only had ~3 yards left. So rather than ordering more and waiting for it to arrive (and then inevitably having some of that left over too), I decided to just make some 3/4" tape from the linen sheet itself. Since this whole skirt is rectangles on-grain and the tape wouldn't have to go around any curves, I made the tape from on-grain rectangles too, rather than bothering with proper bias tape.

With the hem and the waistband already cleanly finished, I just needed tape to cover the ~3 yard seam between the bottom and middle tier and the ~1.5 yard seam between the middle and top tier. I tore nice straight strips, trimmed off the frayed edges, and ironed the raw edges under to give me that 3/4" width. It's three layers thick in the middle but only 2 layers thick on the sides, since it isn't a proper double-fold tape.

Then it was just an issue of pinning it over the raw edges inside the skirt -- first from the inside in roughly the right place and then from the outside to make sure it lined up with the seam well.

I stitched-in-the-ditch from the outside right where the gathers met the next tier up, and then went back and did another line of stitching just slightly up from that, using the width of my machine foot (~1cm) as a guide. That covered all the raw edges inside and reinforced the seam, and gave it a nice neat appearance from the outside.

It also had the added benefit of behaving almost like cording on a corded petticoat -- the gathered seems have a lot more body and stiffness now than they did before, which gives the finished skirt a really lovely lofty structure.

The whole skirt ended up being about 31" long, right in that 30"-33" length I had originally aimed for, and when I wear it low on my hips where it's most comfortable, it just brushes the tops of my feet.

My plan is to wear this mostly under other long skirts and dresses, more as a petticoat than a skirt on its own (tho it is heavy enough and neat enough to be worn on its own, if I want). That lofty structure from the seam finishes adds a lot of floof to my other long skirts, just barely peeking out the bottom of the purchased green skirt I originally measured to figure out the length for this one, and hiding completely under my purchased 25 yard burgundy skirt but giving it enough extra volume that it doesn't drag on the ground quite so badly.

As the colder weather sets in I'm sure this will get a lot of wear under skirts and dresses (including the several dresses I'm still planning to sew in the next couple months!), but even now in the last heat of summer it's quite comfortable to wear, since it's linen. Jack commented that it seemed like a lot of work for a skirt that won't be seen (and it did manage to remind me how much I dislike gathering long lengths of fabric), but as long as it's functional and gets used often, I feel like all the effort was worth it.

While I was putting this together, I also cut out and started assembling the apron project from the same bedsheet. Even with all those pieces cut out, I still have enough linen left over for at least one more, maybe two more projects. Next up I'm going to get to all the finishings on the apron (which will be getting its own post once it's done) and keep trucking along on the handsewn eyelets for the Lengberg Castle Bra-thing. And once those two are done, I think I just might be ready to finally start on all the dresses I want to make with my new fabric.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

I miss my old high school friends and classmates o(-(