#Sofa Stitching Machine

[leviathanleva]

Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

After months of giving your all to a man you barely even knew, you're finally rewarded. He takes off his mask in front of you almost hesitantly and you're overjoyed. Still, you want to, need to know why and so despite your better judgement, you ask him only to receive a laugh in response.

“Wan’ed you to see what the father of yer kids looks like, Birdie.”

[5.1k words] [Slightly NSFW]

Chapter 3 "Powder"

Simon had expected tension when he’d relied to you the news that he was leaving on deployment soon. But no, you were as chipper as ever, rolling your sleeves instantly and beginning to prepare him for the journey while bombarding him with questions.

It was…different, in a good way. There was no guilt for having to abandon you to fulfill his duty. You were worried, that much was clear, but you didn’t let it bother you enough for him to have to figure out a way to comfort you before leaving.

He was grateful even if he didn’t show it, hoping that the crinkled skin in the corners of his eyes was enough of an indicator.

He stretched lazily on your small couch, feet tucked under your bum as per your usual arrangement, while you absentmindedly folded his freshly washed clothes back into his duffle bag. A random sports channel is playing on the telly, drowning out the silence while he watches you fuss with a shadow of a smile hidden under his mask.

A pile of dry laundry was splayed over the armrest you were leaning against and you plucked each piece with the utmost care, looking over it for any spots that the washing machine hadn’t been able to get rid of before laying into his bag.

“Is this a bullet hole?” You murmur to yourself while looking over a gray knitted blouse, particularly at the edge of one sleeve where the stitching was ruined. You run your thumb over the hole, brows furrowing as you inspect it, then turn to Ghost with a small frown. “There’s a bullet hole in this one. You wanna keep it?”

When he realizes your question is targeted at him, he blinks away the thoughts swirling in his head and shrugs.

“Keep i’, adds character.”

You snort, but fold it regardless and stuff it with the rest of his clothes.

A distant whistling erupts from the kitchen and you stand to dust off the lint from your sweats before scurrying to get the kettle. It doesn’t take long before you reemerge with two steaming mugs in each hand and set one before him on the coffee table. He grumbles out a thank you while sitting up and tugging his mouth free from his mask.

Back tea with milk, just how he likes it, piping hot in a mug big enough for him to comfortably wrap his hand around.

“Gonna make a real good missus.” Ghost murmurs out casually and picks up the mug before taking a prolonged sip and letting his eyelids close at the familiar flavor.

“Yeah? Well, you’d make an awful husband.” You joke, playing along with the innocent understanding that he’s joking and not trying to figure out how to get your ring size without making it obvious. You kick at his knee with your own, a playful smile tugging on your lips. “You never fight with me over anything. Even when I try new cooking recipes off the internet.”

He mulls over your words for a moment, eyes focused on his steaming beverage.

“Didn’ leave no marks on me las’ night. Can complain abou’ tha’.”

“Jesus Christ, Simon.” You gasp and sputter to place a palm over his mouth, thrusting yourself into him as he fights off your flailing hands with ease. “Don’t say such things!”

“Why no’? ‘m just ‘aving a fight with me wife is all.” His teasing doesn’t relent but he lets you press your weight on him and guide him down into the cushions of the sofa. There’s a rumble coming from his chest, a series of snorts as he watches you struggle to keep from becoming completely flustered.

“Oh my God, stop! Stop it!” you’re already a flushed mess, he can feel your face burning from his position beneath you as you fight your wrists free from his loose grip.

“Tryin’a mount me like you did las’ nigh’, Birdie?” His hands come to rest on your waist, the words slipping past him just before you press both your palms against his mouth with a doe-eyed look on your face. He holds you steady, a wolfish smirk making his canines peak beneath his upper lip.

For a moment he thinks your abashed state will hit its limit and you might faint right on the spot, what will the uneven breathing and shaky arms, flared nostrils and quivering bottom lip.

“Shut! Shhh. No more sinful talk. Awful man you are, I’ll never marry you.”

An empty threat that only makes his smirk grow as his chocolate browns twinkle up at you adoringly. It doesn’t cross his mind even for a second that you’re unaware of just how serious he is and how much planning has gone on inside his thick skull over the past few days.

It’s okay, you don’t need to fret over such things, all you need to do is say yes when he finds you a pretty enough ring.

“Gonna behave now, old dog?” You ask and hesitantly free his mouth before settling down on top of him and crossing your arms, a hint of a victorious aura to your puffed-out chest and twitchy smile.

He pats your bum ever so gently and sits up abruptly, causing you to slide into his lap. The power imbalance tips in his favor as soon as he’s looming over you, wide shoulders and muscly arms making you nearly disappear in his embrace. He bumps his nose into yours, head bent down to your level and tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

You swallow thickly, your heart leaping in your throat and staying there as he lingers just on the edge of kissing you. And he’s already pawing at the waistband of your bottoms, greedily trying to slip his thick fingers beyond and toward the comfortable warmth of your sex.

A shiver crawls up your spine and a pleasant tingle settles low in your tummy. Your head snaps towards the digital clock propped above the TV.

“Stop it.” You scold, push him away from sniffling at your neck like a curious wolf and again on his back before slipping out of his lap. “Greedy old dog. I have to go shopping or else you’ll be having fried air with a side of nothing.”

A displeased grumble reaches your ears as you make your way towards the bedroom, intent on changing. You scoff, roll your eyes at your roommate’s childish pouting. Flicking the lights on, you trudge towards your wardrobe, your shared wardrobe although shared was a very generous way of putting it. Aside from a pile of boxers and socks and the occasional black top, there wasn’t much of Simon’s attire.

You wondered if this was all he had while slipping into a pair of jeans, thought over the fact that he did look like a guy who’d be caught dead before going out clothing shopping. It was a sad realization, you made a mental note to buy him some more things when your next paycheck arrived or when he decided to leave another wad of cash on the kitchen counter and label it as rent money.

At least he had a toothbrush, even though with how used and abused it looked, you considered getting him a new one alongside other male toiletries like soap that didn’t smell like wildflowers and shampoo that was a bit less strawberry scented.

After donning a comfy hoodie and walking to the hallway to put on your shoes, you glance at him and see him molding into the couch while his stare is glued to the screen and his brow is visibly lowered in displeasure.

“You can either sulk or you can come with me and get your blood going.” You suggest and straighten up once you’d tied your laces. He didn’t budge, only gave you a side glance. So you try again, more softly this time. “I’d like the company.”

You bat your lashes at him prettily, toss him a girlish smile and coquettishly slip on your jacket and he’s just a man after all, he gets up and pats down his top before joining you.

Coaxing him to do anything was never difficult, all that was needed from you was to look weak and cute and like you’d yield the moment he lumbered over to you. You liked to think you were special and that he wouldn’t bend the knee to just anyone, but then again you hadn’t seen Simon interacting with other people.

Most of your time together, all of your time together, was spent within the confines of your home. Ghost wasn’t one for going out, he was selfish like that, liked you all to himself, and with your attention nowhere else to be set except for him and his needs. You didn’t mind, it was cute in a way. He was needy and touch-starved even if he refused to admit it aloud.

Poor old dog, you’d take good care of him.

Although while you were locking the front door and felt him hook a pinkie finger around yours and lead you down the stairs, you got to thinking. Maybe you were more of a dog than him. You were the one bowing your head to his every wish and did anything you could think of to please him. It was one of your greatest pleasures to slave over him because he’d been so tired and beaten down when you’d first kind of “adopted” him.

Then again, he’d sort of made you adopt him. He’d just brought his things over and hadn’t left. You were certain he would have if you’d just said something, but you never had, you hadn’t confronted him about any of the weird things he’d done so far. Maybe it was too late now or maybe he’d just bury himself between your legs and lap at you until you were near unconscious like the last time he had when you’d seemed displeased. Or maybe he’d actually disappear and never come back and even though you’d known him for a couple of months, something sinisterly painful jabbed at your heart at just the image.

No, this was fine. You were happy to have him. Right…?

The grocery store wasn’t too far away, you could get to it on foot easily. Although something felt off. As you walked down the street with Simon in tow, you noticed the quick, ridged glances you were receiving from people of all kinds of ages. Some of them even made the effort of walking out of your way or taking sharp turns to avoid the two of you.

It was an odd experience, one that also subtly tickled a particular pleasure gland in your brain.

Was this what having a scary dog privilege was like? If so, then you were having the time of your life.

If only people knew what an actual sweetheart your companion was, they’d double over laughing at their first assumptions. But they never would because Ghost was yours.

When you picked up a cart that required both your hands to steer, you felt a tug at your jeans and glanced down to see he had hooked one finger around the belt strap on your side. You offer him a soft snort and try to bite back the grin that was growing on your face.

The place was full as expected, newly stocked as well for the weekend shopping most customers did around your area.

As you made your way through the aisles you scolded yourself for not scribbling down a list of what you needed, then proceeded to pick up a good amount of garlic and onion because most dishes need one or both aplenty. Wouldn’t hurt to have more even if you already had some back home.

Slowly, but steadily, your cart begins to fill the more you walk around and your vision falls on something that you were running low on. Funnily enough, since your new roommate, you’d found yourself having to shop more than once a week. He had a ravenous appetite and you liked that about him, liked having someone there to enjoy your cooking.

Living alone was a blessing, but it did get lonely sometimes.

And before you’d just make something hasty and easy for yourself, too busy with work, too tired after work, or just too lazy and not seeing the appeal of treating yourself. But now, you had someone who depended on you and it felt exhilarating to prepare meals and have another mouth to feed. It didn’t matter to you that Ghost wasn’t big on verbal praises in regards to the food you made him or the care you put into him.

You were happy just having him contently lounging on your couch and stroking your thigh while you lay beside him.

“Milk, eggs, cheese, butter, Simon, you’re tugging too much.” You call back while sifting through the egg cartons and trying to find one that has all ten eggs intact. When the tugging didn’t relent and you received no answer, you turned back with the intent of scolding the silent giant. “Simon, I said you’re – ”

But it wasn’t Simon. He was on your opposite side, staring downward. You follow his gaze to find a little sprout of a being hooked to your jeans and looking up at you with just as much confusion.

Apparently, the toddler had seen your tall, dark, and handsome partner linked to you and with their guardian nowhere to be found, she’d done the same. A child’s mind will forever stay a mystery to you.

The child doesn’t look older than five or four, with large eyes and a small mouth that was shaking with uncertainty while she gawked up at you in a silent plea. The jacket she had on made her look like a walking square, her hands barely poked out of the sleeves. She’d be adorable if not for the tear-stained cheeks that immediately tugged at your heartstrings.

You shake off the shock that has stiffened your joints and push your cart away.

“Hey, there.” You coo gently, shoo both of their hands off your jeans before they end up pulling them off your hips, and kneel down to greet the poor thing that was already hiccupping with sobs. “Hey, little Darling. Where’s your mommy? Did you get lost?”

When the waterworks start again, you gently pet her back.

“There, there. Let it out, it’s okay.”

You curse yourself for not packing any tissues in your bag and wipe the tears off her chubby cheeks with your thumbs.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart.” You soothe, glance up at Ghost to see him standing there silently and watching the encounter unravel with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Typical guy. “Can you tell me your name? Your mommy’s name?”

“Julie.” Was the choppy, nasally answer you receive as the toddle clumsily wipes the snot in the sleeve of her jacket.

“Is that your name or your mommy’s name?” You ask while unzipping her jacket enough to get it off her mouth and find it coated in a sheen of saliva.

Tissues, wet wipes, freaking toilet paper, you would have liked to have something to wipe the poor thing clean, but of course when you needed your supplies most, nothing but your wallet and chewing gum were in your bag.

“My name is Julie. Mommy’s name is Mommy.”

You would have giggled at that answer if Julie wasn’t pouring out her little heart’s sorrow in front of you. Instead, you nod with an okay and rise to face Ghost while resting your hands on your hips. From what you can see around you, nobody is looking around frantically for a lost toddler so you sigh and run a hand over your hair, thinking.

“Might have to take her to reception and make an announcement. Or the mom might already be there.” You say and give the hulking behemoth a once over before cocking your head to the side. “I’ve got the cart. You mind taking her?”

You take a step back, but by the uneasy looks both of them are giving you, it dawns on you that playing mediator was your next step before taking the child along.

“It’s okay.” You give Julie a warm smile, eyes moving between her and Ghost while he also squats down, a foot away from you as not the scare the little thing. “This is Simon. He’s really nice, I promise. He’s my best friend, in fact, he won’t hurt you. Promise.”

It takes some more convincing on your part before the toddler agrees to be picked up by your companion, but once he’d set her on his shoulders to scan the area for her parents, she seemed as cheerful as a cherub. Apparently, she’d never been held that high off the ground before, it was a whole new experience for her, and by the way Simon supported her back with a hand larger than her head and the gentle shine in his eyes, you could tell he wasn’t having too bad of a time either.

You make your way towards the reception desk, accompanied by a symphony of kiddish giggles, your grocery shopping left on the back burner until you relieve yourselves of your new bundle of joy.

Squeals would come from Julie every so often as she fidgeted around on Simon’s shoulders, her pudgy hands splayed in his dirty blond locks or tugging gently on his ears. It suited him being in charge of a little one, the fatherly appeal caused a pleasant knot to tighten in your chest and you tried to wipe the wide grin off your lips, but you just couldn’t.

“Hi, good evening.” You call out to the staff on the other end of the wide reception desk, thankfully catching their attention just before they turned their back on you. “Hi…We found this little girl in the dairy aisle, haven’t been able to find her parents. Would you be able to make an announcement maybe?” You lean in and lower your voice, glancing back briefly to see Julie preoccupied with giggling while toying with Simon’s free hand to hear. “We don’t know the names of the parents. I tried asking but…no dice. Her name is Julie.”

It takes less than ten minutes of you hanging about the reception after the announcement was made, while Ghost entertains the lively toddler, for you to see a flushed woman hurrying your way with her purse clutched under her arm.

You straighten up and adjust your jacket before taking a few small steps forward.

“Oh thank God. Julie!” The mother you presume, presses a hand to her chest when she sees her baby girl atop your roommate’s shoulders. “Thank goodness.”

She surges forward before plucking her child from Ghost’s hand and squishing her to her cheek with a relieved expression softening her earlier strained features. You guess Julie would have been just as vocally ecstatic if her face wasn’t immediately squished to her mom’s neck. You watch her flail for a bit before being maneuvered on her side so she can say a thank you.

“Thank you so much! I turned around for a second and – ”

“ – It’s not a problem.” You chirp back, waving your hands to hopefully dismiss the built-up anxiety that had the mother’s eyes still as wide as saucers. A polite smile adorns your lips, your gestures open and stance friendly to ease the poor woman before she suffers a heart attack at your feet.

“I hope she didn’t give you any trouble.” She says while smoothing out her daughter’s hair lovingly and pressing a feverish kiss to her forehead, earning a giggle in response. Then she extends a hand towards you, which you shake with pleasure. “She can be a bit of a handful. My name is Lily, by the way. I’m sorry to have to meet like this.”

“No trouble at all, ma'am.” You nod, let her shake Simon’s hand as well while you give her your name, and toss a fleeting glare at your loving roommate for not offering his. “We’re happy to help. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you again, bless you. Say thank you, Julie.” Lily urges and gently grabs Julie’s arm before waving it at both of you. She turns then, readjusts the toddler in her arms, and offers you one last farewell before walking away. “Have a good evening and thank you.”

Despite both the distance and the chatty surge of people around you, you can hear Lily scolding her daughter under her breath before returning to the cart she’d abandoned. It all makes you laugh, especially hearing the muffled mumbles of protest as Julie stares at you and Ghost over her mother’s shoulder.

You wave at her one last time before fetching your discarded grocery cart and rolling it to Simon’s side.

“Didn’t know you were so good with kids.” There’s a teasing note to your tone as you glance at him from under your lashes, hiding a smirk behind the collar of your jacket.

You take the lead, slowly making your way back between the aisles while skimming around for any products you might have skipped past the first time.

“Didn’t eithe’.” He says softly as if the whole situation was the most foreign thing he’d ever witnessed. As if this had been the first time he’d held a toddler, it was heartwarming to feel the thought behind his absentminded voice.

“You’d make a great dad one day.” You hum and poke at his side with your elbow to make him look down at you only to beam up at him.

He’s silent for a while as you stop by the stacks of instant ramen, eyes never leaving yours as his head tilts to one side.

“Tha’ so?”

“Absolutely.” You respond with confidence before breaking your heartfelt eye contact to pick out a packet of noodles for rainy days when you don’t feel like cooking. “Maybe I’ll get to be the Godmother.”

You miss the way he arches an eyebrow at your statement as if you’d said the most blatantly inaccurate thing ever. You miss the way his chocolate brows fall down to your belly where they stay for a suspicious amount of time while he thinks over how nice it would be for you to go shopping with a wee one fussing about in your cart.

For the rest of your stay in the grocery store, Simon was noticeably more touchy. Instead of hooking himself to your jeans, he had a hand pressed to your lower back, thumb rubbing circles into your jacket, hard enough for you to feel. You didn’t question it, thinking his good mood was probably due to your encounter with Julie earlier, the toddler did boost his spirits up after all. He persisted while you were making your way home, holding the groceries in one hand while keeping his other on you.

Nothing seemed out of normal to you while you were outside besides him being a little needier than usual. You didn’t ask about it and didn’t tease him either, instead, you were trying to figure out what to cook up tomorrow because you had all the time you could wish for since it was Saturday. Then again, you had other chores to tend to. There was the washing up, hoovering, dusting.

But as soon as you twisted your key in the lock and stepped inside your now-shared apartment, he had you practically pinned against the wall. Grabby hands were fumbling to get your jacket off while you kicked off your shoes and spat mewling protests against the bulk of his shoulder.

Between getting you and himself undressed, you managed to slip out of his grip and pattered to the kitchen hurriedly, groceries in hand. You barely managed to set them on the table before Ghost twirled you around in his arms like you weighed nothing and bent you over the counter.

“Simon!” You hiss back and fuss to get yourself free. “What’s gotten you so riled up all of a sudden?” You feel a prominent bulge press against the soft curve of your ass and squeal. “Darling, please! At least take me to the bedroom first.”

A “tsk” comes from behind you and you’re about to yap at him that that’s no way to respond to the person who’ll be making him breakfast tomorrow, but the air is knocked out of your lungs as you’re picked up with ease and flopped over his shoulder like a potato sack.

“Simon!” You thump a weak fist against his back as he carries you down the hallway and it still makes you laugh that he needs to duck past your kitchen door, despite the situation. “Talk to me, Darling? Please? Not that I mind, but I need to put the groceries in the fridge and – ”

He tosses you on the bed and crawls on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. There’s a certain flare to his eyes as he stares you down and you feel a lump form in your throat before you force it down and coo up at him.

“Wanna tell me what’s been going on in that pretty head of yours?”

You try to squirm away but only end up with his erection lodged between your thighs and his body weight locking you down against the sheets. A moan slips past your lips before you cup his cheeks and run your thumbs over his eyebrows to ease the tension that’s built up there.

“Tell me, please?” You urge while getting comfortable beneath him and swatting away the hand he has toying with the button of your jeans. You lock your legs around his thick waist and pull him a little closer. “Please?”

He doesn’t respond right away, apparently smacking his hand off you thrust him into a spree of thoughts. You wait patiently, one hand scratching at his scalp tenderly while the other stays on his cheek. He looks away from you after a while, something you don’t quite comprehend darkening his moment of contemplation as he mulls over a decision you can only guess at.

His earlier desperation has all but vanished, leaving you absolutely confused.

“Si…Darling.”

You don’t expect him to turn back to you with pain glistening in those brown orbs you like so much before he props himself up on one elbow. Don’t expect the uneven movements of his hand as he slowly, timidly takes one of the black bands holding his mask in place and unfurls it from his ear before taking the little slip off entirely. He places it by your head and adjusts himself on both elbows, a thin-lipped frown tugging the corners of his mouth down as he watches avidly for your reaction.

A pang of guilt surges through you because of how long you’d been silently staring back at him in the darkness of your room. The street lamps illuminate the walls, illuminate his bare face as well.

His. Bare. Face.

The one he’d been hiding since you’d first met, the one you hadn’t seen even when you’d seen the rest of him stark naked whenever you made love. It doesn’t register at first, that you can see his whole face, that he’d finally let you see all of him.

Then your chest flourishes, it feels like exploding in a heap of budding flowers and a breathless laugh leaves your lips, one of joy, of an achievement long overdue, finally accomplished.

You hesitantly cup his cheeks again, this time feeling the light stubble grazing your soft skin.

“Hey…” You manage out, fighting to kick away the surprise and give him the love he deserves for taking such a step forward. “Hey, handsome old dog.”

Your tender expression forces him to halt his breathing altogether before he buries himself in the safety of your neck, breathing you in slowly, the familiar scent calming his strained nerves. You feel the muscles on his back ripple under your touch as you run your hand over his form tenderly, feel his chest expand with every strictly controlled breath he takes.

“Hey…” He murmurs back, greeting muffled into your skin as you rest a trembling hand against the back of his head and sink your fingers into his short hair.

You hadn’t even paid attention to the scars littering his battle-honed skin, they’d been the last thing on your mind as you’d taken him in. He was ruggedly charming, uniquely handsome, it boggled you why he so fiercely hid his face when there was nothing wrong with him. But that was a discussion for another day, you pushed down your bubbling questions and just let the moment consume you.

You feel his lips move against your neck as he swallows, and nuzzle your cheek against his crown lovingly before closing your eyes with a sigh. He relents when you nudge him with your nose to lift his head before pressing a kiss to his nose, then his cheeks, his chin and forehead before finally planting your lips on his. His desperation to remove your bottoms returns then and he’s back at toying with your button and zipper.

You let him take off your jeans while you tug at his jacket, leaving it to pool on the floor before he eases himself out of his blouse and nestles back above you. Your feet come to rest on his strong calves, hands in his hair and glazing over his back as he loses himself in your skin, nipping incessantly at your collarbone while silently asking for you to take off your top and let him feast on more than just your neck.

And as always, you’re pliant when he’s finally caught you under his bulk. You push him off enough to discard the article of clothing before letting yourself fall back into the sheets, mewling happily while he laps at your flesh like a man starved.

A heat pools in your loins, one you try to soothe by pushing your hips up into his and earning yourself a choked growl that makes you quiver with excitement.

But a question keeps nagging at you no matter how heated you become and how low his insatiable lips travel down your body. You hum when his nose nudges the hem of your panties and you stop him before he can pull them off and descend on your gathering slick.

“So…” You begin through a strained voice and glance down at him, finding his eyes already locked on you. Your mouth goes dry, throat tightening, but you force yourself to ask. You need to know, if nothing else, at least this. “What’s the occasion?”

He laughs at your hesitation, a deep, rumbling laugh choir that should come from the monsters in your childhood fairytales, not the man about to stuff his face between your thighs.

“Wan’ed you to see what the father of yer kids looks like, Birdie.”

<<< Chapter 2

Chapter 4 >>>

Masterlist

[roc-haze]

Cry To Me | WillNE

You weren’t too sure how you’d ended up in a dingy pub on a Thursday evening, but the second Arthur Hill had figured out you had an upcoming long weekend, you were done for.

“Oh come on, Y/N! We’re going out for a few quiet pints.” He had said, sitting on your sofa a few days before.

“Who’s we, Arthur?” You had pried, eyebrow slightly quirked.

“Well me, obviously. Clarkey, TV, Chris, Becky, Chip and Sabina.” He rattled off friends, thinking out loud to see who had he forgotten. “Pretty sure that’s everyone… oh wait, Will! Will Lenney.”

Your cheeks flushed. Will didn’t often come out with the group, choosing to strategically avoid the filming of pub golf and platform roulette. Basically any event in which cameras could catch him being embarrassingly drunk. Arthur had asked him, only to be met with disappointment.

Out of all the YouTube crew, Will had always caught your eye. You both tended to sit back and enjoy the chaos of everyone hanging out together, opting for meaningful conversation where possible. You swiped up on each other’s stories, often texted songs through to each other and Will was a regular commenter on your Strava account. I heard you run faster if you listen to AC/DC.

“Oh that’s right, I forget you have a bit of a hard on for him.” Arthur teased, laughing as the red flush spread across your cheeks.

“Fuck off, Arthur!” You laughed. “You’ve come into my flat, drank all my coffee and now you’re taking the piss out of me.”

“Yeah, what are friends for?” Cheeky grin on his face, Arthur dodged the onslaught of cushions thrown at his face.

So, here you were.

Becky and Sabina had naturally gravitated towards you, occupying the end of the table. You were a few wines in when Sab had pulled out her phone, eager to share her camera roll.

“You would think that Josh and Freezy are engaged, the way they are glued to each other.” Sabina laughed, showing the two of you photos from The Fellas Podcast shoot earlier that week.

“Remember that TikTok trend? The best friend Steve one?” You asked in between giggles.

“Yes! The ‘it’s just me and you and your friend Steve’ one! These two idiots would be perfect for that!” Becky was in stitches, scrolling through Sab’s photo gallery.

“What are we laughing at, ladies?” You had heard him before you laid eyes on him. Turning your head, the tall Geordie man was stood behind you with a grin on his face.

“Will, you have to see this!” Sab turned her phone screen around for him to see.

She was met with a loud, hearty laugh. “That’s almost romantic, innit!”. Will politely made small talk with Sabina and Becky, his eyes barely leaving your face as you enthusiastically listened to your girlfriends.

“Would any of you like a top up? I’m headed up to get a drink?” He asked, met with polite declines. He placed a hand on your shoulder, meeting your gaze. “I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping you would be.” And with that, he had made his way up to the bar, hugging his friends as he went.

You lightly run your hand over your shoulder, a sudden warmth making its way up your neck and to your cheeks.

Becky caught the gesture, smirking at you. “Babe, come on. You better jump his bones soon.” You laughed her off. Don’t be silly, Becks. We’re just mates. Friends probably don’t stare at each other longingly.

—

About two hours and 3 rounds had passed when George had located the jukebox. He had excitedly run up to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you over to the machine.

“I know you love cute shit like this, Y/N. I thought I’d let you pick a song.” George passed you a coin.

The catalogue was mostly 60s and 70s singles, which made it impossible to pick just one song. Taking a quick glance through the selections, you settled for the Bee Gees ‘More Than A Woman’. A few moments after inserting the song, the sound of digital strings and synthetic bass filled the room. You stood at the jukebox with a massive grin adorning your face, swaying to the Bee Gees.

On the way back to the table, an elderly gentleman had stopped you in your tracks.

“Excuse me, miss. Is that a working jukebox?” He softly asked, his kind eyes meeting your own.

“Yes! Would you like me to show you?” You extended your arm out, helping him to his feet.

George looked to you. “Have you got this?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back to the table in a few minutes.” He nodded, returning to the group.

You reached the jukebox, looking through the selections with the man. “There are just too many good choices, aren’t there? I might have to go with Elvis or Solomon Burke next.”

He looked up from the catalogue, surprised look on his face. “I don’t meet too many young people who fancy Solomon Burke.”

“Really? I remember him from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.” You cracked a smile.

The elderly man extended his hand for you to shake. “I better introduce myself. My name is Thomas.”

“Y/N. Glad to meet you.” You shook his hand gently.

“The pleasure is mine,” Thomas had a kind smile. “That lovely lady over there is my wife Edith. She’s been a bit nervous to be out and about as she had a fall a few months ago.”

“Oh no, is she doing okay now?” Your face had dropped, ever the look of empathy covering it.

“Yes, she’s well again. I think just a bit cautious. I’d love to get her up for a dance.” Thomas picked a song, inserting a coin.

“Well, if Edith decides to turn you down - I’d love a dance.” The two of you walked back to his table, exchanging a smile as he bid you farewell.

Returning to your group of friends, Will gestured for you to fill the empty seat next to him.

“Making friends, are we?” Will teased, lightly running his hand over the top of your own.

“Yeah, that’s my new bestie Thomas. He’s wanting to have a dance but I think Edith is a little nervous. She’s not long had a bit of a fall.” You looked back at the couple, waving back when Edith had raised her hand.

“Why don’t we give them some encouragement? Maybe she just needs to see someone else absolutely tearing it up on the dance floor.” Will laughed, a soft laugh rumbling through his chest.

As ‘More Than A Woman’ reached its final notes, it was soon replaced by Solomon Burke’s ‘Cry To Me’.

Will rose to his feet, holding his hand out for you to grab. He walked right up to the couple, flashing a cheeky smile at Edith. “I was hoping you two could teach us to dance?”

Edith just couldn’t resist. Not that you could blame her. Who could say no to Will? Extending his hand out to her, Will helped Edith to her feet and got her acquainted on the makeshift dance floor. As you watched on, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Shall we?” Thomas offered an arm, positioning the two of you not too far from Edith and Will. As her smile grew, so did his. Will had Edith giggling, spinning her around without a care in the world.

“He seems like a good man.” Thomas had said to you, speaking as though it were matter of fact.

You smiled straight at him. “He is.” That answer must’ve sufficed, as Thomas tried his best to spin you around.

Across the pub, Becky sat fighting back tears.

“Are you alright Becks?” George had asked, struggling to figure out why the girl was suddenly upset.

“Does that not make you want to cry? Look at how cute they are dancing with that elderly couple.” Becky gestured toward Y/N and Will, dabbing underneath her eyes.

ArthurTV piped in, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. “I heard Y/N say the lady was afraid to dance because she’s just had a fall.”

With that, Becky’s first tear dropped. “And Will got her up dancing? That is so sweet!”.

A few moments of idle chat later, the song was nearly over and Will was handing Edith back off to her husband.

“Thomas, do you mind if I steal the young lady for a dance?” Will gently placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Of course you can. You better get in before her dance card is full.” Thomas joked, squeezing your hand before turning to Edith.

Edith caught your eye, pointing to Will. “He’s gorgeous!” She mouthed.

“You’re telling me!” You whispered back, letting the Geordie man lead you to the middle of the dance floor.

The song changed to Frankie Valli’s ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’.

“I thought you liked Frankie.” Will smiled down at you, one hand planted firmly on your waist and the other intertwined with your own. You ran your free hand along his arm, settling it just below his shoulder.

“I love Frankie Valli. I didn’t realise you did too?” You couldn’t remember Will ever mentioning him.

“Oh, I don’t really. You mentioned that you had a few of his albums on vinyl so I gave him a whirl. If you weren’t the one who recommended him, it probably wouldn’t be my vibe.” Will looked around the room, avoiding eye contact in case he’d given away too much. Shit Will, that sounds a bit feral.

“And given that I was the one that recommended it, what do you think?” You squeezed his hand, urging him to meet your eyes.

“Well, Y/N. I like pretty much whatever you like. I think it’s pretty special that you feel like sharing your favourite music with me.” He swallowed hard, stretching his arm out to spin her around in a circle.

As you completed the circle and found yourself back in his grip, you let it slip nonchalantly. “So you must like yourself then?”

“Oh, I go alright.” It took a moment for Will to register what you had said. “Wait. Did you just say what I think you said?”

Deciding to be brave, you stopped in your tracks, dropping your hands to rest on his forearms. “Yeah, I did.”

Will’s hands trailed alongside your sides, leaving a wake of tingles where he had touched you. He placed his hands on either side of your face, looking directly at you. “D’ya mean it?”.

“Oh yeah. I’ve got a big fat schoolgirl crush.” You laughed, breath hitching as Will lightly traced his thumb across your bottom lip. He moved closer.

“That is the best news I’ve heard all fucking week.” His lips ghosted yours, nervous to make the first move.

Edith yelled from across the pub, “oh just kiss her, you silly bastard!”.

That was all the encouragement Will needed, connecting your lips together. If it weren’t for the fact he were right across from you, you could’ve sworn there were actual sparks touching your lips. Your hands find themselves resting on his back, as he used one hand to gingerly hold your face and the other to takes its place in your hair. He lightly tugged on strands of hair, prompting a small gasp to leave your lips. He smiled into the kiss before pulling apart for just a moment.

“So, is it safe to say you like like me?” You winked up at him.

“Sweetheart, I fucking yearn for you,” he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping securely around you. He placed another quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s go home.”

…..

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

And the winner of the poll is….. WillNE!

Thanks so much for voting!

Would love to dedicate this cute little one shot to @octaneink 🫶

[leyavo]

| Coming home to you | Gaz

Summary: TF 141 boys and how their wife/gf helps them when they come home after a long and gruelling mission.

I enjoyed doing the wife/gf series and wanted to do some more 🥲 Ghost’s is already done. [Wife/gf masterlist] 1,604words

Gaz x lawyer girlfriend!reader

The soft click of a clasp drew you out of your sleepy haze. You sat up, fluffy blanket falling around your hips and you frowned. The coffee desk surface visible, your scattered files and paperwork piled neatly together beside your closed laptop and stationary case. A flickering candle set on the coaster, one you’ve never seen before.

Kyle, his back facing you as he put away the shopping from the reusable bags on the kitchen counter. He liked to do the simple and mundane things to ground himself whenever he returned from a mission.

Going food shopping however sent your thoughts haywire, he hated doing it that you normally got it delivered. You pushed the blanket off and kicked it to the end of the sofa. Before your feet could touch the floor he spoke.

“Want a coffee, babe?” Kyle asked, head not turning fully to glance at you over his shoulder. Another red flag, no hello or reunion kiss.

You pushed off the sofa and padded across the cold tiled floor, slippers no where to be seen. Now that you walked to him, the bins have been taken out and every surface in your view is spotless, almost sparkling. As if he’s been cleaning around you all morning.

“I got some new blend, but I know you like the vanilla kind.” He’s moving around the kitchen, back to you as you walked closer as if he’s trying not to look at you head on.

You leant against the counter, picking the oat milk from a bag and sliding it across the marble top. “When did you get back?”

“Not long,” he shrugged, cup slamming to the side as his back muscles trembled. “A few hours,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy.

The milk steamer silenced you as you called his name, the fancy coffee machine he got you is only used by him. You can never be bothered to learn all the functions when you’re always in some rush. Kyle making you all different types of blends when he returned from work, as if he liked the loud sound to drown his thoughts out. Drown you out when you try to question him.

“Why don’t we just go back to bed, rest,” you said, palm lightly touching his back, but you’re removing it as soon as his body froze at your touch. He goes the other direction before you can round him, your steaming hot coffee left on the side.

“Slept on the plane home.” Kyle plumped the cushions, the sound of his fists pounding so hard you thought the feathers would explode from the inside.

Sipping your coffee, you unplugged your phone from the charging station by the kettle. A chain of text messages from John lighting your phone. A warning, mission royally fucked, gal. Don’t let Kyle stew for too long, send him my way if he’s too stubborn. A few from Johnny too, don’t go looking into anything lass. That particular message telling you everything you need to know about the situation, something and someone had got in their way.

As if sensing your thoughts of getting involved, Simon texted you. He’d never done so before. Knowledge is power, give it to Gaz. Was he encouraging you to do some digging? To get involved with a classified mission? Maybe you even knew someone connected to them all.

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, finger tapping against the screen as you sent a few question marks back to Simon. Eyes glancing to Kyle unravelling the cord of the hoover across the room.

The phone buzzed, two names written in capitals and a big fucking lead from Simon. BAILEY AND ROANE. Fuck, no wonder Kyle couldn’t look at you. The same names printed on the neatly stacked files on the coffee desk.

“Did you look through my casework?”

Kyle turned to face you for the first time. Stitches holding a gash together near his hairline, grazed skin above his brow and on his cheekbone. You wondered what else laid beneath the layers of clothes he wore.

Your back straightened, tension holding your shoulders up at the implication. So stuck in his head, that he couldn’t talk to you about what’s really going on.

“I just tidied it up, the place was a mess when I walked in,” Kyle snapped, flinging the hoovers plug across the floor. His nostrils flared, he’s doing a good job of avoiding your gaze as if your mere presence angers him.

“Why won’t you look me?”

Kyle’s gaze flickered to you, then to the coffee table piled with your work. He picked the files up and threw them across the room. “Drop the case, give it to someone else.” His voice was cool and controlled, like he’d practiced it all morning. It wasn’t anger he felt, but frustration.

The little tasks he’d done this morning helped him sort through his the mess in his mind. The mess that you had created both in your shared home and the relationship.

“I can’t just drop it. This is my life’s work,” you said, kneeling down to collect all the scattered papers on the floor.

Kyle sighed, crouching down in front of you and handing you photos, one in particular not leaving his grasp as you tried to take it back.

“You have no fucking idea who you’re going after,” he snapped, snatching the photo and lifting it up to wave in your face. The same man in the picture that taunted you in your dreams.

“I don’t give a shit! If they hurt you, I want to help. I want to ruin them. So you tell me exactly what they did.” You yelled in his face and he doesn’t even flinch, your throat burning and eyes stinging.

How was he so calm with everything at stake? You were so angry, every little moment of your life led up to this case and there was no way you were giving up now. The reason you’d become a lawyer in the first place, to put these scumbags behind bars and serve justice.

Kyle stood up, tossing the photo across the coffee table. “They used you to rein me in. They fucking threatened your life!” His finger pointing at you.

And there it is. The thing keeping him from you. He released a deep breath, his chest rising up and down.

“I don’t need protecting Ky! My parents were killed for their work and if I have to put my life at risk to nail those bastards I will.” More fuel to add to the fire, everyone you’d cared about, gone and Kyle wasn’t going to be added to that list.

“They’re fucking war criminals, this isn’t a game baby.” Kyle grabbed your arms, anchoring you to the spot. His glassy eyes connecting with yours, the line between his brows relaxing as he held you there.

It had never been a game to you. Retribution, revenge or karma you didn’t know what to call it, but justice didn’t seem enough most times. Not when it came to Bailey and Roane.

You shrugged out of his hold. “Have you even read my parent’s files?” He doesn’t respond, shaking his head.

Most in the military knew your parents more than you did. Sometimes you got a glimpse of them when you met people they knew, trails of stories giving you an insight to their character and morals. To you they were just mum and dad. Something you didn’t really talk about not even to Kyle, he respected that you didn’t want to pick apart that wound so he never asked any more.

“I thought that’d be the first thing you looked into. I know you looked into my background to see if I’d done shady shit. Yeah, I know.” You fell back into the sofa, gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. The wedding ring your mother wore on your finger.

The cushions dipped under his weight as he sat next to you. “It wasn’t personal, our careers, we can’t take the risk.” His hands took yours and he brushed the rough pad of his thumb over your knuckles. A peace offering and an apology for looking into you. Little did he know that you also did one on him.

“My parents were high up in the military, everyone knows that. They know how they died, but they didn’t know that I was there or that my dad gave me evidence. I’m not trusting that to someone else.”

Nine year old you crammed into that tight space, you didn’t come out for hours. Not till it was dark, not till you knew you could walk the rooms and follow the shadows. Just like daddy taught you to.

“Bailey and Roane killed them. I have evidence,” you whispered, a rogue tear rolling down your cheek. The weight of your words pushing down the knot on your chest. Saying it out loud made it feel more real. You hadn’t shared it with anyone.

“You’ve got a target on your back, I don’t like this.” Kyle wiped your tear stricken face, forehead resting against yours as he released a trembling breath.

“It’s always been there Ky, just a whole lot bigger now. Recon you could get me a meeting with Laswell and Price? I have intel they might find helpful.”

Slipping away, Kyle’s eyes scanned your face. “You’re really not going to back down are you?” He paused, nervous laugh as you shook your head. “Thought so, we’ll have to do this by the book and very discretely. I’m not letting you out of my sight either.”

🤝 Kyle and lawyer!girlfriend teaming up to take down the baddies.

[daveth-isnt-dead]

Overlock Stitch Part 4/?

Summary:

Viktor is just trying his best to survive his years as a student at the academy when a girl studying textiles suddenly begs him to let her tailor his uniform. She is right, it doesn't fit, but he isn't in the business of accepting charity from strangers. "Please?" She asks, "It would be fully anonymous on your part and we would both be better off." Then again, but with feeling, "please?" Viktor eyes her again and against his better judgement, presents an undeserved olive branch, "Will you be here tomorrow?" Her smile is so wide it almost makes him want to recoil. He wonders if her cheeks hurt.

Contains: Third person POV, She/Her Pronouns for reader

Word count: 3195

Read on ao3

Having Viktor in her room makes her jumpy. Every one of her nerves is a live wire, she feels like she might implode in on herself if she doesn't find a way to calm the battering ram of her heart. It's somehow worse how casual he looks, the way he comfortably sinks into the cushions of her sofa and sips on a cup of tea, as if to him this is not a panic inducing experience. She should have fought harder when he offered- well, not offered, told her that he was going to fix the radiator. What kind of host invites a person over and then just stands around while they do household repairs for them? She gets an itchy feeling, worming into her brain, remember that conversation they had about favours and their value, looking at him now she can't help worrying that he felt he had to do that, so he wouldn't owe her anything.

She bounces a knee, glad that he has decided to stay, terrified at the prospect of keeping him occupied all the while.

It is much warmer in the room now that the radiator is actually working. Viktor quickly stood up from the sofa and turned the boiler back on five minutes ago before settling back into his seat and she can't deny how much nicer it feels inside now that the place is actually properly heated. She has been trying to carefully unpick the inner seam on a pair of his trousers for some time now, but her shaky hands are making it difficult. It's not so much Viktor that is making her nervous, more just the presence of another person at all. Viktor is special in a sense, largely that he is the only person she has cared to impress for reasons outside of maintaining her already fragile reputation.

Whatever desire she has to maintain airs around her classmates is more about protecting her enrolment at school, in making her final year of study as smooth as possible. Aside from that she could hardly care what they actually think about her as a person, she already knows they don't like her. With Viktor it's different, she aches for his approval, for the tiny first inclinations of a smile that she catches every so often. She wants for him not to just tolerate her, but to like her and that is what makes her hands shake.

"How old is your sewing machine?" Viktor asks suddenly.

She nearly stabs herself with the seam-ripper. She had half expected him to not say a word until she did and she was still trying to muster up the confidence, "I-I'm not sure, very, I think. It was my grandmother's on my father's side."

He hums low under his breath and then leans forward to rest his teacup on the table, "Might I take a look at it?"

"Oh, sure, that would be fine." She finally finishes undoing inseam of his trousers and hangs them over the armrest before reaching for the last pair, "Just be careful, it's pretty delicate."

"I did say look and not touch, didn't I?" Viktor asks in a tone that she almost dares to interpret at playful. He smiling again, she tries not to stare, "I will be careful, don't worry."

Luckily finding the first stitch and hooking her seam-ripper through it takes enough focus that it's easy to avoid watching as Viktor crosses the room to look at the machine. It's nothing like the ones in the academy, it's an old thing with scuffed dark paint and a litany of chipped hand painted flowers decorating it in a assorted colours and styles. Her father and grandmother paint differently enough that she can tell which flowers were drawn by who by style alone. Her father always seems to paint the sorts of daises that grow up through cracks in the pavement, the ones she always watches the academy groundskeeper ripping out because they are apparently weeds. Her grandmother largely favoured painting an old species of flower that her father says haven't been seen in decades, not since he was very young. Butter yellow, with a shape like two scooping hands held upward to the sky.

"Did you paint these?" Viktor asks quietly.

She peers up at him, he's bent half over, fingers not quite brushing the flowers on the base of the machine, "No." She answers truthfully, "My father, and grandmother. I'm too nervous to add anything to it, I'm better with a needle and thread than I am with a paintbrush."

"These are Zaun flowers." Viktor says and she might imagining it, but he sounds almost wistful.

"Yes." She answers softly, noticing the way his hair curls up at the base of his skull, the broad slope of his shoulders, "My father says they died out sometime after he moved topside to be with my mother. I've never seen them."

There is silence for a moment, so long that she returns to tailoring. She manages to unpick a few more stitches before Viktor replies. His voice is quiet and mournful, he doesn't turn to face her, still staring at the sewing machine.

"My mother had two of them pressed in a hardcover novel." and then, quietly, like a rasp in the back of his throat, "They were beautiful."

She doesn't know how to respond to that. To the realness of it. She could tell him that she is sure they were beautiful, but that wouldn't help because she doesn't know and she can only assume, that's all it ever is with him, assumptions that she is sure are wrong half of the time. "My grandmother must have painted them well, then. If you recognised them." She tries, hands shaking in her lap.

Viktor hums, peering at her from over his shoulder, "She did."

There is a lapse in conversation, in time too, it feels like. Viktor slowly returns to the sofa and picks his teacup back up and she returns to unpicking stitches in his final pair of trousers. It feels like hours have passed before she finds the courage to peer up at him, only for her heart to gallop in her chest at the sight of him staring back. He doesn't move to break her gaze, just continues to look at her, curiously, she thinks. Her hands shake at the final stitch, unsure where she is supposed to be looking but unable to bear the thought of turning from him.

His nose is slightly crooked, she's never noticed that before.

She quickly ducks her head down before she notices anything else. Before she starts mapping the contours of his face, enveloping his topography in the soft inner recesses of her mind. Though she can't stop visualising the curve of his upper lip, the jut of his chin.

She finally manages to unpick the last stitch, but the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach doesn't leave.

"I-I have to affix the fasteners now." She says quickly, trying not to look at him, "It can be a little noisy sometimes, I need to hammer them. Is that alright?"

"Cannot be louder than what I hear in the engineering lab." Viktor says dismissively from somewhere in her peripheral vision, "Besides, I am not much of a complainer."

She has noticed that, and as she gathers all of his trousers and starts bringing them up to her worktable, the thought stews in her a little, they way thoughts always do before she says something stupid. She does, of course, right as she sits down at the table.

"You can complain." She says quickly before she can stop it, "I'd like it if you did."

Viktor barks a laugh from behind her, "Would you?"

She shrugs a shoulder, opening her sewing kit to remove a set of fastener pieces and the tool used to press them together, "My classmates never tell me when I've done something wrong, at least not to my face." she pauses as she rummages through her drawers for the hefty cube of metal that she uses for hammering, she hits her fingers less this way, "I like that you speak your mind. If you did it more I'd probably be less nervous around you."

"I make you nervous?"

She turns around quickly with the intention of defending herself, completely forgetting there was a reason she hasn't been looking at him. Viktor has one leg crossed over the other, one arm resting across the back of the sofa and the other still holding his teacup. He's smiling too, which isn't fair. That toothy smile, the one she barely gets to see.

"Everyone makes me nervous." She says unconvincingly, certain that her tone betrays that the way he makes her nervous is somehow different, "I'm not good at pretending, not like them."

Viktor hums, and she likes the way the sound is absorbed into the walls of her dorm. She hopes it sticks.

"A complaint, then." Viktor begins, "For your satisfaction." "O-Okay." She responds, nerves suddenly alight at the thought of him disliking anything about her, despite asking for the truth herself.

"You are too afraid of me." He says slowly and evenly, "I will not bite, Myšičko."

She feels blood rushing up the sides of her throat, she is not afraid of him. Of disappointing him, of driving him away, yes, but not of him. She swallows, "Promise not to pretend around me, then I won't have a reason to be afraid."

Viktor pauses, his brow furrowing and she panics, terrified that she has overstepped. He exhales evenly and responds, "I can try, but it will not come all at once. I do not know you yet, you understand?" he shrugs one shoulder, "Maybe if you stop pretending around me as well, it will be easier."

She didn't really think she was pretending. She has been trying hard not to, but the high-society false pretences cling to her like a second skin and Viktor is right, they don't know each other, it is not so easy to shed the falsification that way it is with her parents. Every minute detail of herself that she has shared so far felt terrifying, made her heart race and muscles tighten like her body was preparing to sprint. She wants to be real, but it is like prying herself open each time.

"Ask me a question, then." She says quietly, urging her hands not to shake, "I'll answer." she finds she can't meet his eyes anymore and suddenly figures it will be easier if she doesn't have to look at him, "Just…Just let me get started on the fasteners, the distraction will help, I think."

Viktor stays quiet for just a moment, waiting for her to start focusing on her work again. Then, he asks, "When you first introduced yourself to me, you didn't offer a surname. Why?"

Despite his gentle intonation, her shoulders still jump like his question is some sort of assault. She tries to focus on aligning the pieces of a fastener, pressing the pins through the fabric. This is an easy question, she can tell he has tried to ease her into it, but despite that her body still arc with terror even though Viktor is perhaps the only person at the academy who wont judge her for this.

"I don't have one, technically." She says quietly, lining up the tool designed to press the pieces of the fastener together "My mother's surname was forfeit when she married my father, she tried to negotiate for him to take hers instead, but they didn't allow it."

Viktor doesn't speak behind her, so she quickly hammers the fastener into place and continues, "My maternal grandmother lets me use the family name on academy documentation and I use it with my classmates but I-" she moves onto the next fastener, struggling with her shaking hands, "I guess I felt like I didn't have to with you, lie I mean, at least, not about that."

"Is your grandmother your patron"

She nods, taking a moment to hammer in the next fastener, "She says I shouldn't suffer for my mother's poor decisions, and that if I study and find a nice topside husband I can rejoin her side of the family, it's all so very-"

"Piltover?" Viktor offers mischievously, and that makes her laugh.

"I was going to say vapid, but i suppose the two are synonymous." She sighs, moving onto the final fastener for this pair of trousers, "I took up the offer for patronage and just need to play nice with her until the end of this year, and then I can go set up my own shop without her or her help."

~~~

There's a lamp on her desk with a pale yellow bulb. Viktor notices they way the light catches on the shaken out mess of her hair. He also notices the tension in her shoulders and aches to ease it, the same way he aches for someone to ease the ever-present tightness in his temples and behind his eyes. he notices that even with the explanation behind her reasoning, she still never offered the surname, but supposes that he is a secret he is happy to let her keep.

"Ask me something." He says before the rational side of his brain has a chance to stop it.

She freezes in the middle of affixing the next fastener, the tension in shoulders changes to one of alertness instead of discomfort. Viktor is shocked that he can even tell the difference. She turns to face him, bright eyes wide and uncertain. The light of the lamp shines out around her and his gut once again churns with the thought of softness and warmth and home.

"Are you sure?" She asks, as if he had just ordered her to bury a knife into his gut.

He laughs, "Supremely, it's only fair."

She makes a sound, a sort nervous titter and he imagines her as a mouse all over again, "Are you…enjoying your studies?"

Viktor nearly laughs again at the innocent inquisitiveness of her question, so easily answered and so seemingly kind, "Yes and no." He answers truthfully, "It is good to have my brain teased a bit, but I could do without my gaggle of classmates."

She turns back to her worktable and nods, "The same as me, then."

She doesn't ask him anything else, instead returning her focus to the worktable. The tight pull of her shoulders seems to have loosened and Viktor doesn't appreciate how relieved that makes him feel. He decides not to ask her another question either, at least not yet. Instead he muses about the difference in how she works on her textiles to how she communicates. At this angle he only catches glimpses of her hands, how quickly and nimbly they move as she inserts the fasteners. Hands that shake at her sides whenever he speaks to her seem completely stable now that her focus has returned to her work.

He finds himself wishing he were sitting across from her, to watch her brow furrow and lips purse as she loses herself in focus. He wonders briefly how he looks when he does the same. Viktor is not one of those self-important engineering students who believes the arts are a frivolous endeavour requiring little to no actual expertise. He watched his mother darn enough of his socks that he has more than a burgeoning appreciation for textiles, the art of it, the mathematics behind knitting or crochet, the importance of different stitches for different fabrics. The essentially of over-locking, preventing the edges from fraying, holding everything together when it could so easily fall apart.

So he continues watching her, even as she finishes the last fasteners and instead begins pinning the folded seams before lining them up with the needle on her sewing machine. It's a loud thing, each press of the pedal sounding more like a kur-chunk than the smooth gear rotation of the one she uses at the academy. She's confident enough with the machine that she is able to tuck some unruly hair behind her ear and continue holding the fabric in place with just one hand.

For some reason, sitting here in her small, dimly lit dorm room. The sound of old machinery, the clutter of bolts of fabric and dried flowers reminds him of a home that hasn't existed for years, back when his parents were both alive and his mother would slip flowers between the pages of old books and his father would tinker with whatever he could find at an old worktable. It's a nostalgia so aching that he almost resents it.

Then the silence breaks, gently, tentatively, when she whispers, "Viktor?"

She is very focused on her sewing and doesn't look up, even when he responds, "Yes?"

She grows still, foot pausing on the pedal, and then after a moment she asks, "Do you miss Zaun?"

She says that word, Zaun, with a quivering intonation. It's as if she isn't sure that she is allowed to say it, that this is her first time actually voicing it out loud.

Viktor has been asked about his home many times, though usually with a teasing edge, or even worse, with a morbid curiosity. Though her question is different from all the others he has suffered through. She doesn't ask for gritty details, doesn't ask if it is just as terrible and violent as everyone says that it is.

Of all the students who have asked him invasive, curious questions, this is the first time anyone has dared acknowledge that his home is a place worth missing. That it isn't just somewhere he was lucky to escape from, or some stink that he will never be able to scrub out. It makes the inner corners of his eyes prickle with the beginnings of tears. He clenches his hands and takes a deep breath in through his nose.

"Sometimes." He lies, he misses it always.

She hums quietly and slowly starts working the pedal again, "Well if you ever want to go visit, I could always come with you?" she says softly, as if she is reaching her hand out, pleading for him to take it, "My grandmother used to have a workshop down there, but my father closed it when he lost his arm. Sometimes I wonder if it's still there, I guess."

Viktor finds himself laughing, in disbelief more than anything, "Are you certain? You aren't worried that someone might try to attack you or rob you, Myšičko?" She shrugs a shoulder, "You haven't, and you've had every right to, I know I can be very annoying to be around."

He laughs again and is happy when he catches the nervous upward curl of her mouth, "Alright, then." he says non-noncommittally, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, too appreciative, "Maybe someday."

She turns around in her chair and gives him another one of those achingly wide smiles, her eyes crinkle in the corners and her cheeks flush red.

Viktor is too afraid to tell her that these days he hardly finds her annoying at all.

[puakaba]

Kingdon Regency AU

Find it on AO3!

Although Melissa King’s father was of notable fortune, the King sisters lived by humble means. This contradiction shone through in every aspect of their life. Their home, for example, was a grand country manor of several rooms, however the two sisters shared one room between them. The rest of the estate was largely taken up by the eldest sister’s clinic, which occupied her life in every physical and spiritual sense of the word.

Winter 1810

In December of that year, following the death of their mother, Mel’s father sent notice of the sisters’ financial station within two weeks. The only sympathies expressed at their loss came from the courier who handed over the note. The letter itself made no mention of their mother. This was no surprise to either King daughter. According to the letter, the monthly allowance that had been previously allotted to their mother would now be placed into Mel’s name. This put the King girls in a precariously unique situation of independence. Where most men of their father’s status would be reluctant to let their daughters live freely and without a male presence to govern over them, the King girls were largely left to their own devices.

This suited them, Mel felt. The few times their mother had ventured to introduce them to society, Mel seemed to melt beneath the limelight of courtly affairs. So much of proper society consisted of acting at the judgment of others, and Mel had always struggled with sensing the truth in their perfumed words. Rebecca was largely unbothered by their opinions, but that was wrong too.

So the spacious confines of their country manor suited them fine. If Mel ever sought the genuine company of society outside of her sister, she was rarely unoccupied enough to feel it.

The boarding house that their mother ran closed only briefly in the period following her death. Several boarders attended her funeral. One of them, a professor of histories at Cambridge, actually drove in for the funeral, and helped lower her casket into the ground. It was a small, private ceremony, but by the time Mel and Becca had returned home, their kitchen overflowed with bushels of prepared food and goods from last season’s harvest.

Two weeks later, the boarding house reopened its doors to new guests. By February of the next year, the King country manor had been fully transformed into a bustling medical clinic.

Spring 1811

On the occasion that a boarder or nearby tenant farmer fell ill or injured, the Kings’ boarding house had been well known to treat the needing. After the house fell into the sole ownership of the eldest Miss King, its reputation as the impromptu source of medical attention became an official position.

The chaise lounges and sofas of the foyer and drawing room became sickbeds for the townspeople of Mercy. The younger Miss King was a lively nurse, tending to their basic needs, cleaning wounds, delivering cold compresses, and doling out medicines. The older Miss King served as doctor. She was well known in the town for her patient demeanor— suturing up the rugged bites of threshing machine wounds in neat stitches and extracting careful diagnoses from the most reticent, choleric infants.

When the King women first moved to the country, their father had established a library in their new home— obviously optimistic that he might someday take permanent residence with them. That hope was long abandoned now, but his collection of medical journals and textbooks remained in the house. At the age of four, Rebecca suffered her first fit of convulsions. Mel had watched her younger sister fall to the floor of the kitchen and sat helplessly by her side, desperately pinning down her flailing tiny hands. Their mother wrote to their father, who sent a fellow physician down. The doctor hadn’t been able to identify anything particularly concerning with Rebecca to have caused it, but he carried an unspoken air of indifference, as if he had already diagnosed her with something benign and incurable. As a young woman, Mel resolved that the young doctor had been informed of Becca’s history by her father before ever coming to observe her. Following that encounter, Mel had taken to the study, engrossing herself in the other things her father had abandoned.

Her efforts over the next nearly two decades placed Mel in a particular position as a young woman. She had never been to any of the women’s colleges or finishing school, but the combined focus of her studies and the clinical practice amongst her sister and neighbors gave Miss King as near to a doctor’s station with none of the degrees or qualification. Had she been educated in a manner traditional of young, noble born women, her degree of learning would have fallen far short of what she had achieved of her own ambition. In a way, Mel felt grateful that her father had neglected her education.

The clinic had seemed like a natural step, following their mother’s death. Her mother had been soft and charming in a way fitting of a boardinghouse keeper. Although Mel and Becca tried their best to maintain it, a sweeping fit of hay fever that befell the town brought a litany of patients to her house that early spring. Within the next few weeks, their country manor slid naturally into a clinic for the sick. Even after the fits of fever had passed, Mel found it too easy to keep their practice running. By March, the clinic had blossomed.

The work came naturally to her, and Becca took to the demands of serving as a nurse. Her early fascination with botany came in handy regularly, as the King sisters often relied on foraging when an apothecarist was not easily accessible. Their reputation grew quickly, and it was soon well established in the town that, should anyone fall sick or injured, the Kings were at their disposal.

It was rewarding work. Mel had never felt more confident in her own abilities as she did now. She’d also never been so well connected with the people of Mercy. In addition to a boarding house and clinic, the King home was a nursery for town gossip.

It was in this way that Mel first heard of the young doctor who had taken up the Parkhurst estate just outside of town. According to her sources— a milkmaid whose old case of cowpox occasionally caused swelling in the larynx— the doctor was a well-bred young man who had fallen deeply ill and was bed bound for weeks now. The milkmaid whispered to her that the doctor was gravely ill, and expected to die within the week. This dark piece of irony captivated the town deeply. Mel was admittedly more confused than entertained. If the man was indeed a successful doctor from London, why would he come out here, away from the resources of the city? Surely he would’ve had a much greater chance of treatment. Mel expressed these concerns, and the milkmaid grinned wryly. “Perhaps you ought to see him, Miss King,” she said.

Mel nodded. “At the very least I should like to take a look, I might be able to make a diagnosis. Perhaps bring him something for the pain.”

Her patient nodded sagely, and added, “Not to mention, I’ve heard he’s handsome.”

The doctor’s only servant opened the door cautiously.

“Are you Miss King?” the young man asked. “Lonnie at the pub told me I could expect to see you in the next few days.”

Mel nodded. Word traveled quickly, even if she failed to see how it was word at all.

Mr. Whittaker, Mel learned, had been hired as Mr. Langdon’s valet upon his move to Parkhurst. He spoke of his master’s symptoms with a deftness that Mel suspected meant he had been educated in medicine. He had introduced himself as valet, though, and not a nurse. Mel made note of this, but followed him silently to the master chambers. The rooms were dark, with velvet curtains drawn tight to block out any daylight from the large sash windows. A four poster bed stood in the center of the room, its beddings tossed messily about. Tucked into it, a sullen figure turned restlessly.

She approached the bed. The man was pale, his dark hair wet with sweat and plastered across his pallid forehead. She turned to Mr. Whittaker to ask about the symptoms presented.

“He’s been in a state for a fortnight. Nervous fits for the first week, then nausea, headaches, fever. I’ve had him on a regiment of regular hydration and purging, but the pain…”

“Do you have any notion on what it might be?”

Whittaker paused, and conflict was clear in his anxious eyes.

“No ma’am. I only work as Mr. Langdon’s valet, you see.” Mel was confused as to why Mr. Whittaker was intent on hiding his clear medical experience, but for the sake of politeness. Furthermore, she made note of the fact that he had referred to his employer as “Mister”, rather than “Doctor”. In either case, it was none of Mel’s concern. She turned her attention back to the troubled Mr. Langdon. He shuddered slightly, his dark eyebrows were pinched tight at the center, and he let out a low moan as he shifted.

“Has he been in pain?”

Mr. Whittaker nodded. “He complains of it often.”

“And have you already treated him with Lanadum?” she asked, reaching for the small pouch she had brought along.

“No!” Mr. Whittaker barked, suddenly. He caught himself, and he readjusted his tone. “No, Miss King. No Lanadum for the sir.”

Mel took this into account, a new point of information along with his jolting shivers and pallid skin. “I see,” she said, leadingly. Mr. Whittaker gazed at her solemnly, neither confirming nor denying.

“Willow bark, then. It should ease his pain without aggravating his recovery.” Mr. Whittaker nodded, smiling slightly in relief. “I have some in my apothecary back at the clinic. If you’ll wait, I can bring it during lunch.”

“I couldn’t trouble you to travel all this way twice, Miss King. I can fetch it myself, if you’ll have my company.” For the first time since she had met Mr. Whittaker, the nervousness seemed to lift from his eyes. “I was told just to look over him during his illness and keep him from…coming into any harm on his own. But the pain he was in, I wanted to help him.”

Mel nodded. “I’m pleased you thought to call for me.” She looked to Mr. Langdon once more. His pained expression twisted, and his undershirt was translucent with sweat. He was a handsome man, Mel finally thought. She reached out and pressed her palm against his forehead. Her hand felt cool against the heat of his skin. Withdrawing, she paused to brush her fingers against his hair, pushing the wet locks away from his face. He groaned lightly and seemed to lean into her touch, his eyelashes fluttering. Mel pulled her hand away quickly, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glanced nervously at Mr. Whittaker, who looked away with a valet’s expert discretion. Mel chastised herself for chasing whatever stray urge had pushed her to touch him. Very unprofessional, even as a non-professional doctor. She bid Mr. Whittaker goodbye and told him she’d expect him anytime that afternoon. She was on the road back to town before he could offer to pay her for her time.

——

Before taking residence at Parkhurst, Francis Langdon was a surefire candidate to be Oxford’s most prominent graduate of the medical degree. First of his class, Dr. Langdon graduated into a healthy practice and was the most highly requested physician within London’s noble houses. Months after accepting his doctoral robes, Langdon was wed to the eldest daughter of the Clifford house— a noble line whose name peppered the seats of various ministries and aristocratic houses. Dr. Langdon was the successful head of a flourishing practice, the happy husband to a wealthy young woman, and the proud father to two healthy children. He had married into wealth, in every sense of the word.

So solid was Frank Langdon’s grasp on his good luck, when he suffered a minor injury during a riding incident, it felt unlikely that this brief lapse would have any real impact on his fortune.

The sharp twinge in his back proved difficult to shake in his recovery; but upon seeing a senior doctor from his program, Frank was prescribed a schedule of heavy dose Lanadum that easily washed away the pain. Until it didn’t. When he scraped the last spoonful of powder from the bottle, it was too easy to find another helping in his medicinal cabinet. And he needed it.

Eventually, his apothecarist bill became too steep a financial burden, and like everything else, a replacement came easily. Opium was by no means unheard of or scandalous in his circles, but it flowed quietly in smoky parlor rooms and the velvety dens of London. Visits with school mates to the odd opium den in the evenings gave Frank a welcome supplement to balance out his own supplies. Life was the same— better, even. Work in the daytime, society in the evenings. But when Frank’s father-in-law and his hunting party found him collapsed in the morning room, Lanadum powder still thick on his fingers and in his throat, the unspoken opium habit became too public-- too scandalous. Within the week, word had spread around the town that Francis Langdon-- the ambitious young doctor from Oxford-- had been dipping into his own medicines. A luxurious pastime for most, a scathing habit for him.

An unassuming estate was purchased for him in the country, in a town fittingly named Mercy. A young man was hired as Langdon’s nurse, given the costume of a valet, and sworn to secrecy. He was a mousey boy who rode out to the countryside with Langdon, mopping at his forehead as he labored through withdrawals the entire carriage ride out. A small tin of opium powder burned a whole in Frank’s waistcoat pocket. They had failed to check his person before shipping him away.

He had been given the barest few hours in the small hours, just before dawn, to bid goodbye to his children. They had been distressingly calm, Langdon reflected. Even within their short lives, it was hardly a rare occasion that Langdon would be pulled away for weeks at a time for some various work or research calling. He wished he could have imparted some amount of urgency onto them— some understanding that this was a strange and wrong thing, that their father was leaving in a more consequential way. Instead, he had kissed them goodbye, and into their soft, messy hair, he whispered an apology that would only settle in once they noticed he was really gone.

His wife stood a few paces back, blinking hard at the marble floor. Langdon stepped to her, taking her hand softly. She allowed him to hold it, but the without weight or purpose. When he leaned down to kiss her, she placed a hand against his chest, stopping him. She gazed up into his eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, an indication that he was unaffected. With a sinking heart, Langdon recognized that he could not be sure. He left his family with the heavy feeling that they were only losing a great burden.

It rained the night Langdon drove into Mercy, though he hadn’t noticed until the carriage wheel bumped heavily into a pit in the country road. The carriage had careened through the mud, just far enough to strike a passing wagon. The young boy driving the wagon had been bucked from the coach box, landing in the road. The collision had jostled Langdon inside the carriage, slamming his head into the wall hard enough to startle him from his stupor, but not enough to incapacitate him. Langdon felt this was a great misfortune. His head pounded from the impact. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering at the metal tin. He was not necessarily opposed to recovering his sobriety, but why should he suffer?

The young man from the wagon was wailing outside, sitting brokenly in the mud. The valet— Mr. Whittaker, Frank later learned— had already leapt out. He was straightening the boy out, sloughing mud off the lad’s body to identify what injury had taken him. Langdon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to resist what he already knew would happen. He had lost his medical license. He had broken his oath. He was under no obligation to step foot out of this carriage.

The mud came up past his shins as he leapt down to the road.

“Valet, in my case— fetch me a roll of dressing and antiseptic fluid.” Whittaker snapped to, his nursing training clear in the urgency and efficiency with which he moved.

He knelt over the collapsed driver. The boy seemed young, perhaps four or five years older than his own. “Son, my name is Doctor- Mister Langdon. I can be of some assistance. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy continued to wail, clutching at his left leg. Langdon sighed. Sweeping more mud out of the way, he pressed gently against the leg that the boy was guarding. His wailing grew with the pressure. Running his fingers along the line of his leg, Langdon felt a discrepancy in the skeleton of the boy’s shin— just below the knee.

The valet arrived at his side. “I have the dressings, sir.”

Langdon nodded. “Set them on the wagon, then come help me lift him into our carriage. We cannot treat him in the mud.”

Whittaker did as he was told, then awaited further direction. At Langdon’s instructions, the two men lifted the boy up, mindful to keep his leg extended. He was set up in the floor of the carriage, and Whittaker set about making him comfortable. Langdon turned back to the wagon that the boy had been tossed from and felt along the edges of the wagon itself. The undercarriage of the wagon consisted of long, thin planks of wood. As Langdon had hoped, a few were loose and easy to pull away. Langdon tugged at these slats, coming away with two straight splints of wood.

He set about working on the boy’s leg, Whittaker handing him supplies as he worked. Taking the vial of antiseptic material, Langdon washed away mud from the leg, squinting in the darkness to identify any open wounds. To the best of his ability, the majority of the outer damage were merely scrapes. After cleaning the area, Langdon wrapped the leg with the bandages and loose cotton.

“Alright man,” Langdon indicated to his valet, “hold these pieces straight.” Whittaker placed his hands on either side of the leg. The rain was picking up, the horses nickering with anxiety, and the boy continued to bawl. Langdon’s head screamed with pain. “Hold it steady, now. It needs to be straight.”

Langdon took hold of his shirt hem and ripped the bottom inch off, tearing it into several thin strips.

With Whittaker holding the wooden slats tight, Langdon set about binding the splint with his makeshift cloth ties.

The boy’s leg was set and splinted within the next few minutes. Whittaker let out his breath, turning to Langdon in shaky relief. The two men stood like wet dogs in the pouring rain. Langdon ordered Whittaker to ride in the carriage with the boy and mind that he kept the leg straight. He would ride with the driver in the coach box. Although they had set the leg to heal properly, the boy continued to sob. Langdon took in a heavy breath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the tiny tin. Whittaker eyed him as he did.

“Lanadum,” Langdon said, “Allow him half the tin now. We’ll leave it with him when we go.” He pressed it into Whittaker’s hand, feeling glass shards in his spine.

“Excellently done, sir,” Whittaker said.

“Obviously.” Langdon settled into the coach box and promptly passed out.

Upon arriving at the country house in Mercy, Langdon was tucked into a waiting bed, where he ailed for weeks on end under the nervous, watchful eye of Mr. Whittaker. Despite his being bedridden for the greater part of the Spring season, the entirety of Mercy knew that a handsome young doctor had arrived from the city and chosen to make his home in their humble country town.

[noctunis]

childhood friends and reward kisses with cloud strife ❤️

cloud didn’t mind the silence so much, especially considering his chest was not filled with words but with a quietude that only the sound of a quickened heartbeat thumping between his ribs could interrupt. he almost savored it at times, knowing he couldn’t be annoyed with something that didn’t exist.

this wasn’t one of those moments. you patching him up from his recent scuffle with an abundance of shinra’s lackeys and advanced machines. cloud could have easily done this himself, you know that, yet you insisted to do it for him anyways. he didn’t say much in return besides a small, ‘thanks’ as he limped over to your sofa.

it only wasn’t a moment because cloud didn’t mind you, whether you talked or not. although, even if he wouldn’t outright say it, he did find it a little sweet that you still remember small bits of your childhood together that you still recall to this day.

and yet your soft laugh breaks him out of his reverie, a chuckle escaping you and into the air — which almost makes him forget about the dull stinging echoing on the epidermis his jaw while you pressed alcohol soaked cotton balls against it.

you start up again as you brain whirs in search for more memories. “do you remember. . .” you trail off, lips twisting as you try to think of a funny moment. cloud watched for a second or two before your eyebrows raise with newfound idea. you smile again, “when we found that cat in the alleyway? the one that tifa gave some bread to?”

“oh, yeah,” he says in response. he remembers trailing after the two of you, hearing the distant cooing of your voices as you had crouched down to see a small kitten hiding away in the dark alley.

cloud couldn’t help but let a small amused huff of air puff through his nostrils at your antics. he had to give it to you, you were pretty good at taking his mind off of the pain.

“ginger,” he said blankly.

you looked up at him — slender, mako eyes already glued on you. quirking a brow, you waited for him to give you more context. “ginger?”

“ginger. that’s what you had named the cat,” he added. your mouth form a small ‘o’ shape with the realization. you softly laughs. “right, it had a bright orange mark on its forehead.”

he hums in agreement. at times like this there would be some memories he couldn’t remember, even when you blatantly described them with such detail. it was nothing if on the horizon, only blurry shapes and sounds that came with these memories. he was glad you still recall them, though, a greater comfort than you’d think.

“this might hurt a bit,” you say. his eyes flit down to where your hands roam over his arm, the thick laceration evident in the flesh of his arm as you hover a needle and thread over it. “do you want some—“

“you didn’t want to let go of the cat when we had to go home, even when your parents wouldn’t let you keep it,” he keeps going. you notice how his eyes clench shut with a furrowed brow as he cuts you off.

you cock your head.

and it’s almost like he senses it, because when he opens his eyes, he squints at you. “keep going,” he mutters, before closing his eyes again. you realize what he’s doing; keeping the conversation to take his mind off the sting of the sanitizer and the prick of the sterilized needle.

cloud hears you chuckle again. “yeah, said the cat carried diseases.”

he huffs, “it just wanted a home.”

the rest of the time is spent with mindless chatter, you both lose track of how long the procedure goes on. talking about tales of what he remembers back in nibelheim, talking about how different things are now — and before he knows it, you squeeze his hand reassuringly and gently tap his knee.

“we’re all done,” you say. “do they feel alright?”

he lifts his leg and moves it around, craning his neck and checking the rest of his injuries to ensure that there’s minimal pain left behind other than achy bones. “yeah, it’s fine.”

“look at me, don’t even know how to stitch someone up yet i got it perfect the first try,” you grin.

“you didn’t know how to—“

“don’t you think i deserve a kiss for how amazing i did?” you beam, half hoping that he’d forget about the fact that you know little about stitches and medical assistance besides fundamental healing magic.

he pauses, making a small, choked sound of surprise at your proposal of a reward. you tilt your head with a smile before puckering your lips out dramatically — making cloud scoff. hesitantly, his head leans forward as his eyes flutter closed. he can hear his heartbeat thump in his ears as a gloved hand comes to grasp the underside of your jaw, a soft gasp escaping you when he leans in and pressed a quick peck to your lips.

it was only for a second, but when he pulls away, there’s stars in your eyes and he can’t help but huff amusedly at the sight.

his eyes fixate on your figure even when you get up, skipping away to put the medical supplies back in their proper cabinets in the bathroom — leaving him to sit in silence as he waits for you to come back.

cloud enjoys his own company more now that he can include another, the quiet no longer so comforting unless you’re in it. he is on the cusp of insensibility and it only fills him with confusion. maybe you use magic or maybe you’re somehow manipulating him. he doesn’t know. cloud doesn’t know anything anymore except that he cannot sit on your sofa the same way he did before without feeling the phantom warmth of your hands lingering on his.

𐙚 dottie’s 500 event — 🍡 ( action ) prompts !!

𐙚 taglist ; @ch3rryfiles @alieeelinn

𐙚 non-500 requests are closed — august eleventh, 2024 ( 4:24 pm )

[toxicanonymity]

Ethyl's house

500 words, night walks AU - neighbor Ethyl

One afternoon, Joel was outside getting the mail when Ethyl got home. He saw her Oldsmobile crawling into the cul-de-sac with her hands at ten and two. She was hunched forward with her big glasses above the steering wheel as she pulled into her driveway. Joel lingered at his mailbox. For a moment, he wondered how well she could see the pool from her house, but she likely went to bed before sundown.

After she parked, she got out of the car, hung her purse on her inner elbow, and popped the trunk. Joel put the mail back in his mailbox and walked over to her driveway. In the trunk there were two paper grocery sacks, and she was taking apples out of one to make it light enough to carry. She didn't mind making multiple trips. She would do it with a smile.

“How ‘bout a hand with those,” Joel offered behind her.

She marveled at his strength as he repacked the bag and picked both of them up.

She shuffled in front of him, holding her purse under her arm in one hand and her keys out in front of herself in the other. She unlocked and held open the carport door to her house.

An older chihuahua whined from the den before standing up from its little bed, stretching with its tail up, then shaking his head, jingling the collar.

“That's Barney,” Ethyl informed Joel.

She turned on her small oven, and and took a pan of cookie dough out of her modest fridge while Joel unpacked the groceries. The oven handle was almost as high as she was tall.

Her home was neat and simple with lots of cross stitch and knitted blankets. She gave him the full tour, with Barney silently sniffing behind them, wagging his tail. The smell of chocolate chip cookies began to fill the air as she sat Joel down on the sofa and showed off family photos. There were photos of her and her late husband traveling the world. They didn't have kids. There were photos of her sisters, her niece, and her great nephews.

When the oven timer went off, she shuffled back into the kitchen. She gave Joel a plate full of cookies and a 1970s juice glass of whole milk, but she didn't partake. She smiled while Joel enjoyed them.

“Oh,” she raised a knobby finger. “Let me send some with you.” She brought back a tupperware and told him he better save some for you.

Joel raised his eyebrows with a silent smile. She smiled and covered her mouth, oops. Then croaked, “I'm not trying to be a busy body, Joel.”

She reached for his hand, and he patiently waited for a but. Her hand was cold on top of his.

“But if you've got something special, treat it special.”

He swallowed and looked down.

“And hang onto it as long as you can.”

She squeezed his hand, and he nodded silently.

-----

-----

thank you for reading!

tag list because this is night walks canon

@silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339 @manazo @taeslarityy @str84pedro @lokanda  @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname   @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @switchbladedreamz @within-the-depths @may-machin @sloanexx @paleidiot @yourmistysecret @bean-is-reading @rainstorms-library @am-3-thyst

[thewritingbeforesunrise]

Crave.

18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI

______________________________________

A/N: This started out as an Halloween prompt but morphed into something else entirely.

Today is my birthday. I never really enjoyed celebrating birthdays but this time I wanted to celebrate by gifting you one of my favourite things in the world.

So please enjoy this little fic about desperate whiny subby Jake.

I really can't help myself, as much as I adore mean dom Jake, my heart always leads me to picture him as an absolute whiny mess of a good boy.

He makes me want to ruin him.

This was hardly proofread, sorry for any mistakes.

Join the taglist here

Word count: 4.9K

Pairing: Jake x female!reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+ONLY, graphic sexual content, oral (m!receiving), anal play, rimming and digital penetration (m!receiving), toys, sub!jake.

Summary: You were mad at each other. What was the worst thing that could possibly happen?

________________________________

The sound of an old western playing on the TV in the living room was starting to get on your nerves as you tried to wrap your head about what you were planning to do.

Jake was sprawled on the sofa, freshly showered, with a throw blanket around his legs and his guitar on his lap.

He was strumming a lazy tune, taking turns between watching the TV and observing you as you worked and gradually lost your mind over the crazy project you had embarked upon because of him.

Jake knew you were fairly talented with the sewing machine, thanks to your grandmother who had taught you everything you needed to know to fix your own clothes.

So he had asked you if you could try to fix his beloved blue jeans that he hardly separated from.

He was basically asking you to perform an extreme rescue operation on them. They were so tattered and torn that you were afraid you would have to toss in the towel and admit defeat.

But Jake had become so attached to them that you really didn't want to let him down.

You had to try at least.

That's why you had spent the entire morning driving around and shopping for any kind of supplies you needed, to perform an action that would have made Doctor Frankenstein jealous.

You had spent the afternoon stitching and unstitching fabric and changing your mind about almost everything you did.

Now the sky was dark outside, your hands were starting to cramp and your fingers hurt from the amount of time you had pierced yourself with the needle. You were starting to lose your mind and on top of that you were starving.

Everything seemed to irritate you the further you went on.

The ticking of the clock on the wall, the buzzing noise of the fridge, the drip of the sink you had never managed to fix were driving you insane the more frustrated you became with the fabric.

But what infuriated you the most was in fact Jake.

He kept staring at you as if he wanted to say or do something. And he had been acting like that the entire day.

In the morning, you had woken up with his needy scorching hot body wrapped around yours and his lips on your neck. You were about to abandon yourself to him but then your eyes had fallen on the alarm clock. You were already late for your errands so with a heavy heart you had to push him away and get dressed quickly.

He had been pouting and huffing ever since that moment, like a child feeling neglected because his mum didn't buy him candies.

He got dressed in silence and even rejected the simple breakfast you offered him, slamming the car door and sighing loudly

When he understood that his behaviour wasn't having his desired effect with you, he decided to plot something else.

You saw the little smirk on his lips the moment the two of you entered the shop.

He disappeared.

You paid his absence no mind and asked the shop assistant about the fabric you were looking for and she motioned you towards a large table completely covered in rolls of said fabric in different colours and shades.

As the shop assistant showed you a roll of what you thought was the perfect choice, you felt Jake’s presence behind you.

He pressed you against the table with his hips, almost imperceptibly for anyone to notice but enough for letting you feel him, hot and hard against your ass.

You were about to ask him what he thought about that fabric when you felt his breathing close to your ear and shivered as he spoke with his raspy voice.

"I don't like it. It looks cheap" he whispered pressing his hips a bit more against yours and then pushing away altogether, succeding in distracting you and leaving your mind completely blank.

He made you turn three different shops completely upside down before deciding what he wanted. And in all three of them he acted like a little brat, pressing himself against you any chance he got and whispering filthy things into your ear that made you blush in front of the shop assistants.

"I wish she wasn't there, so I could press you against this table and make you scream and clench around this neglected cock of mine, angel" he whispered just as you were about to pay for the fabric.

"But maybe she enjoys watching," he continued.

That caused your card to almost slip from your hands and him to snicker in your ear at your clumsiness.

He even had the courage to reprimand you in front of the cashier.

"Careful angel. Here, take my card" he said, handing the cashier his card and succeding in making your blood boil.

So you decided to play his own game and do what irritated him the most.

You kept ignoring him.

Until now, that you needed him to try on his jeans and maybe make the final arrangements.

You had tried a different thing, since mending the rips was impossible without it showing.

You had basted a different layer of jeans fabric, in a slightly darker shade from the original light wash, covering almost the entire leg and creating a contrast that looked great in your opinion.

"Jake, can you come here for a second, please?" You called him from the kitchen.

He huffed and rolled his eyes before slowly placing his guitar on the sofa and standing up, coming into the kitchen and crossing his arm waiting.

You tried your best not to scoff at his behaviour but your hands were hitching for grasping his shoulders and pining him against the wall.

"What?" He asked you as if he really didn't want to be there.

You ignored him and went on as if you hadn't noticed his pout.

"Just try these on for me, I need to see if this fabric is well basted to the leg" you said motioning to the jeans you were holding.

He looked you in the eyes for a few seconds and then, with his eyes still boring holes into yours, he untied his black sweats and let them fall on the ground.

He stepped out of them and then took the jeans from your hands, slowly pulling them up for you to see.

When he had them on, a little smile broke the pout he was still wearing and you felt the tension in the room ease a little.

"Do you like them?" You asked observing how well they fitted him.

"Yeah, I think I do," he told you and smiled.

You noticed a little flaw in the way the two fabrics were basted on the inside of his knee.

"Just, let me check something" you said more to yourself than him, placing a hand on his tummy and pressing him gently against the wall behind him, before dropping to your knees in front of him.

Your fingers slowly reached the inside of his knee and brushed over the fabric.

He gasped and shivered at your touch as if he wasn't expecting that.

You looked up at him, worried.

He wasn't meeting your eyes, his jaw set.

You resumed what you were doing.

You noticed that the problem had affected most of the stitches in the inside of his leg so you turned around to grab the pins to fix it.

Your hand started to make its way upwards on the inside of his thigh towards his crotch.

He tensed at your touch and groaned when your fingers squeezed his muscle.

"Jake, what's wrong?" You asked a little worried.

"Nothing" he answered all too quickly for you to believe him, but you didn't say anything.

You resumed your work and inched your fingers further up his leg.

This time he whimpered and whispered your name.

Your eyes fixated on his face, scrunched up as if he was in pain and then moved downwards, finally becoming aware of the fact that his jeans were becoming tighter and tighter for him.

He twitched in his pants as he saw you were looking right at his crotch.

"Fuck, please" he whispered.

Again, you ignored him.

You started to unstitch the temporary white thread you had used and started to adjust the fabric with your pins.

At some point your fingers slipped and you accidentally stung him on the inside of his thigh.

He whimpered and his hands reached for you. One wrapped around your wrist and the other landed in your hair, caressing you gently.

"Please angel, please" he whispered.

"What do you need, Jake?" You whispered back looking him in the eyes.

"Please, i-it's been all day" he begged, almost whining, desperate.

You pitied him and broke your resolve.

You had tortured him enough.

After all, those big brown doe eyes of his had always been your greatest weakness.

He looked and sounded desperate and you wanted to make him feel good.

You kissed his clothed tummy and you felt his body relax.

His eyes fluttered closed and he whispered a little plea as you lifted his shirt to kiss his soft skin, just underneath his navel.

Your hands pressed on his thighs and you kept nipping and suckling a path down his tummy making him shiver.

You unbuttoned his jeans and slowly slid them a bit down his legs, just enough to expose the grey boxers he was wearing underneath.

His hands quickly reached up to get rid of that item of clothing but you stopped him immediately.

You grasped his wrists and made him place his hands on the wall.

"Keep your hands there, baby. If you move them you are getting nothing." You whispered back looking him in the eyes.

He groaned and tried to complain but all it took was a look from you to stop him.

He realized you meant business.

You tugged at his jeans to bring them further down, to his knees, and then licked a stripe from his navel to the edge of his boxers, before letting go of his shirt to cover him back up.

Then your gaze moved lower and took in the extent of his arousal.

He was undoubtedly hard and straining in his boxers. You could see the outline of his erection pretty clearly.

At that moment you decided to torture him a bit further.

You moved your head closer to him, not enough for your lips to touch him but enough for him to feel your presence and warmth very close.

He begged you again in less than a minute.

He was so needy.

"What's gotten you so riled up, baby?" You questioned letting the elastic band with which you were playing snap against his tummy.

He shook his head and cursed but didn't answer.

He wasn't going to relent.

Unexpectedly you pressed your lips against his covered shaft with a quick peck and he almost doubled over with a groan and grasped your hair with his strong fingers.

You immediately detached from him with a glare that had him apologizing and pressing his hands back against the wall with a defeated sigh, giving you full control.

You pressed your parted lips against him again and moved them gently upwards causing the fabric to drag against him and making him groan.

You reached his head and he cursed when your lips wrapped around him, but still the fabric separated you from his skin.

You sucked at him gently and his hips threatened to push away from the wall but he stopped himself.

You kept your lips there and sucked at him, swirling your tongue against him and wetting the fabric.

A big wet darker spot formed where your saliva was dampening the fabric.

"Fuck, angel" he whimpered and you moved one of your hands from his hip to his upper thigh, caressing the dip between hip and crotch.

A little whiny sound left his lips before he could restrain himself and bite his lips and your hand moved lower.

Your thumb caressed his clothed shaft as your lips kept sucking at his head making him lose his mind excruciatingly slow.

A little sheen of sweat was starting to cover his forehead and he was biting his lips so hard trying not to moan out loud.

Your tongue found the little special spot right under his head that made him tremble and finally you heard his voice, unrestrained and raspy as he moaned.

"Please" he begged already out of breath and you stopped again.

"What got you so worked up, lover boy?" You asked again as your thumb kept stroking up and down his covered shaft.

"N-nothing" he groaned blushing wildly, but you were having none of it.

Something was blocking him from saying what it was.

You stopped the movement of your thumb and he cursed, looking at you absolutely desperate.

"C'mon, baby, tell me, you know you can tell me anything" you whispered.

He shook his head and groaned when you gently grazed your teeth against his tip.

"Angel" he whined, dragging out the word.

"Just please, stop torturing me" he whispered and you started dragging his boxers slightly down.

But then you stopped.

He groaned as you let the fabric end back against him with a loud snap, making him hiss.

"Tell me" you whispered with your lips grazing his erection.

His eyes met yours. Burning and fiery.

"No," he said harshly.

He wasn't going to relent.

So be it.

Your nails dug in his hip and he cursed.

Then your hands trailed lower and he smirked, thinking you were going to give him what he wanted.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Just when you were about to free him from the confines of his boxers, your hand retreated once again, making him curse.

You didn't give him time to do anything because your mouth enveloped his clothed tip and sucked hard, almost making him lose balance.

One of your hands snaked downwards and started massaging his taut balls through the fabric..

He moaned your name loudly, his voice echoing in the room.

You could feel your panties sticking to your skin but every cell of your body was focused on him and his pleasure.

You kept your lips around his tip and with the thumb of your other hand you started caressing his shaft, rock hard and so hot.

"Angel" he warned you.

He was close. His gritted teeth and tense abdomen made you almost feral.

"Think about that forbidden thing you are so adamant about not telling me, baby" you ordered him and his hands squeezed into fists as he bit his lip letting his head fall backwards, exposing his sweaty neck.

You started flicking your tongue on the little spot right under his head, moaning to let him feel the vibrations of your voice against himself and that was it.

"No. Wait…" he tried to say but it was too late.

Before he could stop himself he reached his climax, slamming his hands hard against the wall and coming undone right in his boxers.

The sounds leaving his lips were sinful and made goosebumps raise on your skin.

You felt his warmth spread beneath the wet fabric of his boxers and shivered in need.

He slowly came down from his high and groaned, taking a good look at the state he was in.

"Fuck angel, really?" He complained with a little smirk, "You really made me come in my boxers?!" His incredulous tone made you chuckle.

"I figure I did, lover boy" you whispered and made the wet fabric snap against his hips one last time.

You stood and tried to walk towards your room to get him something clean to wear but he stopped you with a firm grasp on the back of your neck, pinning you to the wall and leaning close to your ear to whisper something.

"You plague my mind all day. And all night too. I dreamt about you doing unspeakable things to me tonight. That's why this morning I was so hard and needy." He bit your bottom hard lip before continuing.

"But all you could think about were those damn pants and you rejected me to go look for a stupid fabric." He rasped into your ear, making you shiver.

"Do you really wanna know what kept me awake tonight and plagued my mind the entire day?" He went on before kissing you passionately.

You nodded and bit his lip back, making him groan.

He pinned you more against the wall and sucked your lobe into his mouth before pressing his lips to your ear and starting to speak.

"I had a dream that you used that damn vibrator I gifted you a couple of months ago to make me come. In my dream it was so messy and hot that I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. When I finally decided I wanted to do something about it you woke up but we had to leave. But I kept imagining it, angel. Fuck I'm imagining it right now." He groaned and pressed his forehead against yours.

Your mind was in overdrive.

"Let's do it. If you want it I want it." You whispered back, shaking lightly.

You were lying. You didn't want it.

You needed it.

You needed to admire him unraveling in front of you.

You had imagined it countless times. But now you wanted to see it with your eyes.

His lips parted in surprise and then he smirked.

"Don't tell me you had already thought about this." He chuckled and you blushed.

"Who knew that my little shy, silent girl had such a dirty mind" he said smugly, laughing.

You pressed your hands on his chest and pushed him backwards until he reached the table.

Then you quickly turned him and pushed his hips against the table with yours.

He cursed.

"Let's see who is going to be the last one laughing, baby" You whispered in his ear from behind.

"Don't you dare move" you ordered him and he groaned but stayed put as you disappeared.

When you came back he was in the same position as before, with his hands on the table and the jeans still around his knees.

One of your hands reached forward and stroked his chest, feeling his sweaty damp shirt, bunching it up and pulling it away from his body altogether.

You started placing little kisses on the junction between his neck and shoulder and when you reached his shoulder you bit down hard.

He arched his back slightly and you pressed him further into the table.

Then you brought the hand you had on his chest downwards keeping the other hidden behind his back.

When you reached his dirty boxers you finally snaked your hand inside and wrapped it around him. He was quickly hardening again and still damp with his previous arousal.

You decided it was time to free him so you bent down behind him and dragged both boxers and jeans down and off his body.

He sighed but gasped when before standing back up you bit down hard on one of his plump ass cheeks.

When you stood, you slowly dragged the black silicone toy you had in your other hand slowly up and down his spine and hips before wrapping both arms around his waist and flicking the toy to life in front of him.

"Are you sure you want this?" You asked, dragging the toy up and down his abdomen every time closer to the place where he needed it.

"Fuck, yes I need it angel." He groaned when both of your hands reached between his legs.

You stroked him a few times with your free hand before trying the toy on him.

When it touched the base of his cock he tensed and growled arching his head backwards.

He almost lost his balance when unexpectedly you moved the toy down the underside of his shaft and made it graze the spot right under his head.

He moaned so loud that you felt a shock wave of pleasure curse through you.

He almost doubled over and gasped for air like never before.

You abruptly stopped.

He cursed and begged you to go on.

You had an idea.

"Jakey, baby, I want you to press your hands on the table and bend forward a little." You whispered in his ear before kneeling behind him.

He obliged, a little confused but shivered when he understood what you wanted to do.

You grabbed his erection gently and started stroking it downwards as he leant his body against the table.

He tensed when you put the tip of the toy right against his balls and little breathy whines started leaving his lips as you combined that with the slow and steady stroking of your fist.

"A-angel, fuckfuck just like this" he moaned.

You started placing little wet kisses on the back of his thighs and goosebumps raised on his skin.

It wasn't the first time you two indulged in such forbidden activities.

So when you asked what he wanted he was quick to answer.

"Your mouth, please angel" he groaned, leaning more of his body against the table.

You wrapped your lips around his tip and moved the toy to graze that little spot behind his balls that made him scream.

"Ah fuck me" he groaned.

You started kissing and licking his balls as you stroked his length with the tip of the vibrator. He was slowly losing his mind, the sounds leaving his lips were becoming louder and louder.

You caught him off guard by licking a slow stripe from the underside of his balls to his hole and he cursed, arching his back.

He slammed his hands on the table and groaned loudly.

His groans morphed into unbridled moans when you kept licking at him, feeling his muscles flutter under your tongue as the hand holding the toy moved gently up and down his length.

He started shaking when the rhythm of your licks picked up and you started pressing the tip of your tongue a little bit more inside him.

You almost lost it yourself when you looked up to the wall in front of you.

Thanks to the perfect placement of the oven, you could steal a look to him while staying behind him, the reflection the glass of the oven door was sending back to you was an image of pure bliss.

He had his eyes closed and his lips parted in ecstasy, his head slightly leant backward exposing his sweaty biteable neck that you had marked so many times.

When the vibrator touched his balls his brows tipped up and he bit his lower lip, stifling a moan, but when you slowly stroked his length and pressed the toy right on the underside of his head his lips parted in a grimace, exposing his teeth. He looked almost in pain, but the sound that left his lips was absolutely far away from it.

He was experiencing the utmost pleasure. His legs were starting to shake.

He whimpered when you brought him to the edge and stopped abruptly, parting from him.

You stood, turned off the vibrator and he panicked.

"Wait, wait, please angel please…" he blabbered, his desperate words overlapping.

You pressed your front to his back and grasped his hips.

Then you brought one of your hands to his throat to silence him and keep him in place.

"Jakey, baby. You have been such a good boy for me." You whispered into his ear and he cursed under his breath at the nickname.

"I want you to tell me exactly what you need." You went on.

"I want your fingers. Inside" he whispered without any shame, shaking with need.

You kissed his ear and praised him again.

Then your hands moved to his wrists making goosebumps raise down his arms.

"Bend over the table, baby" you whispered into his ear.

One of your hands reached to his back and gently pressed him to the wooden surface.

He groaned at the coolness of it and gasped when your lips met the spot between his shoulders blades, and started trailing kisses down his spine.

When you reached his lower back you couldn't contain yourself.

You grasped his plush ass and he chuckled but hissed when your palm connected with ot, looking at how his supple skin giggled.

"What was that for?" He said, sounding a bit vexed.

"For fun baby" you answered and licked a bold stripe against his hole.

"Fuck" he cursed.

You circled his hole repeatedly with the pointed tip of your tongue and then sucked, feeling him flutter and clench beneath your lips.

"Fucking hell" he cursed.

He jolted forward when, unexpectedly, you turned on the toy and placed it right at his hole, keeping it there.

He moaned loudly and his breathing turned ragged when your hand resumed stroking his length.

When you stopped again, he almost sobbed.

"Shh baby, I'm about to give you what you want" you reassured him.

You opened the little bottle of lube you had brought to the kitchen with the toy and wetted one of your fingers before circling it to his hole.

"Still ok with this baby?" You whispered and he answered immediately.

"Yes angel please. Make a mess of me" he whispered and groaned.

It wasn't the first time you touched him there, you had already used your tongue on him a few times but this was the first time he had actually asked you to use your fingers to penetrate him.

You started pressing a finger to his hole incredibly gently and you almost moaned at the way his body started enveloping your digit.

He was panting now. The rising and falling of his glowing body almost made you lose your mind.

You had managed to press your finger inside of him to the knuckle and started moving it in and out of him.

He tensed his body and whimpered, letting a long drawn out breathy moan leave his lips when you turned on the vibrator and pressed it to the little spot right behind his balls.

"A-" he tried to say but you completely shattered his thoughts when you sucked his balls into your mouth and pressed the toy against his frenulum.

You let go of his tensed balls and listened to the beautiful symphony of his heavy breathing, moans and whimpers.

You experimentally curled your fingers downwards and he screamed your name, almost losing balance.

His knees buckled and his back arched. You felt his muscles flutter around your finger and you almost came untouched right there.

You slowed the rhythm of your finger but he didn't want that. He started pressing his hips back against you quickly.

He tried to warn you again, but you didn't give him time.

Your finger curled a bit more sharply against the forbidden spot inside of him while you simultaneously kept the toy down the length of him. The length of it, so similar to him, allowed you to keep it pressed entirely against him, from his tip to his balls, making him let out a loud string of curses and moans.

You moaned too and without thinking bit down harshly on his ass cheek.

He completely lost himself at that. The invisible thread tethering him to reality broke and he unraveled beautifully in front of your eyes.

His body started shaking violently and his knees buckled. He kept his balance only thanks to the table or he would have crumbled on the floor.

His arched back was a sight to behold together with his dampened hair sticking to his back as he threw his head backwards in pleasure.

The sounds leaving his lips were heavenly and absolutely unrestrained.

They were going to haunt your every living moment and plague your most forbidden thoughts.

His come coated your hand and the black toy you were holding.

You turned it off and let it fall on the ground without any recollection of it. You were too enraptured by what had just happened.

His breathing started to calm down only after several minutes.

You stood and hoped he was ok.

You circled the table and saw that he had his cheek pressed to the table and his eyes closed, his hands still closed into fists.

His hair was a mess, sticking to his skin and damp with sweat.

You caressed him and he purred.

"Are you here with me, lover boy?" You asked and he chuckled.

"I think I just got my soul ripped from my body, my little naughty angel" he said, his voice raspy and spent.

He sounded so sexy that he made you want to do what you had just done all over again.

_____________________________

Taglist: @gvfpal @sammyslappers @spark-my-nature @highladyofasgard @sparrowofthedawnsworld @jessicafg03 @doodle417 @hellowgoodbye @ejoygvf @jaketlover @jakekiszkasbabymama @objectsinspvce @indigostreakmorgan @witchofendora @myleftsock @gretavanshmeat @gretasfallingsky @giraffehippy @jennasometimesreads @katiegvf @sinarainbows @laney_gvf @themorningbirds @starcatcherchords @lipstickitty @meetingthestardust @joshskittytickler @livkiszka @twistedmelodies @ignite-my-fire @gvfmarge @writingcold

[asleepyyeti]

unnervingly domestic

simon cares about his stuff, sure, but he doesn't have the disposition to care too much about mending his civvie clothes. helpful, then, that you've such an interest in mending and repair... (three little peeks at mending things throughout your relationship)

platonic!simon 'ghost' riley + reader

[masterlist]

“Hey, Simon?”

He meets your question with a grunt.

“Why’s your jacket in the bin?”

“Ripped the arm,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his bicep.

“Oh, that’s a shame! I thought it was your favourite?”

Simon shrugs.

“I could try and repair it?”

Thankfully, it was still at the top of the bin, so you manage to pull it out without your hands getting mucky. You inspect the rip, and it’s a nasty one–long, all frayed edges–but ever since you’d moved in, you’d seen how he treasured it. It would be a shame for him to have to throw it out. “It won’t be as good as new, but I could do a little visible mending?”

“Do what you like,” he says, taking himself and his mug and retreating into his room. You’re still getting used to simon, but you’re learning not to take his blunt manner of speech as necessarily dismissive. He really does mean that it’s up to you.

You’d wager that he might even be interested in the outcome.

-

When he returns from base one night, Simon finds his jacket folded up neatly on his spot on the sofa. He inspects the hole on the forearm, pokes at your repair. You’d sewn a patch of grey camo fabric into the hole and finished up the frayed edges with some machine stitching. When he fusses at it, he finds it sturdy–you’d done a good job. The mending stands out a little, sure, but when he slides his jacket on and looks down at it, he finds he likes it.

“Simon…” you groan. You’re hanging off the side of the sofa, staring intently at him as he moves around the kitchen.

“What did I do now,” he asks, deadpan, though his attention doesn’t shift from the fruit basket.

“Nothing, it’s just–your trousers…”

He looks down, scrutinises the denim, tries to see what’s bothering you.

“‘s a matter with ‘em?”

You sigh. “The holes…” You point at the seam on the outside of his leg, where the stitching had come apart slightly. “And your knees are almost worn through..”

“‘adn’t noticed.” 

“If you like ‘em enough, it might be worth getting ahead on repairs. Would you want ‘em reinforced?”

“You offerin’?”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, Simon. I can strengthen the knees a bit, should be almost invisible, and the holes look easy enough to fix, too.”

He hesitates a little, rolling an apple around in one hand and then chucking it to the other. “You don’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did. I’m running out of mending projects, and I’ve been looking for a bit of a challenge–denim’s not a material I work with that often. Not that I can’t!” you assure him, “it’s just so hard wearing I don’t often need to, y’know?”

He nods, looking off into the middle distance. “I’ll wash ‘em and–where should I leave ‘em for ya?”

“Yes! Uh, just—anywhere on the kitchen table will be fine.” You look him up and down again, and smile, slow and knowing. “But don’t let me keep you, say hi to... John?”

“Kyle,” he corrects.

“I’ll guess right one of these days…”

“Sure you will.” He pats you consolingly on the head, and bites into his apple.

“‘spose these are a bit far gone for repairs,” Simon asks, holding a pair of nearly destroyed slippers out to you.

“What the fuck happened to these?!”

“Luna got ‘em,” he says with a sigh. “Thought we were playing tug-o-war when I tried to get ‘em back.”

“Well… might not even be all the holes that make this one a challenge, more the shape and construction and… drool.”

“They’re grim,” he agrees.

“Proper grim, but… put ‘em in the washing machine, I’ll see what I can do.”

-

Simon’s surprised when spies the box in his spot at the table–he really hadn’t expected you to even attempt to try and fix the slippers he’d left you with before deployment. He’d only even brought them to you because you were always looking for a challenge, and anyway, it didn’t seem that he could throw anything away without you realising. He opens it and has to abort his chuckle before it wakes you.

The ones he’d left you must have been too far gone, because instead, the box is full of grey fluff–and when he picks up a handful of it, he finds a garishly large monster foot, claws and all. A pair of utterly impractical slippers, and a little note scribbled on the inside of the shoebox--

“Not for Luna consumption!!”

[cameronspecial]

Secrets In Tangled (Part 3)

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x Reader

Warnings: Running Away.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: An injured Lockwood with curious questions brings about an argument and a live announcement brings around a mother.

Masterlist

Y/N is perched on the sofa in the front room, reading one of Lockwood’s tabloids. The empty house means that it is dead silent all around her. The others are currently working on a last-minute call that was dire because children were in danger. She had been worrying about them all night and had finally gotten herself to settle down with a nice cup of tea. She feels sleep trying to invade her current state, but she fights it off. The sound of the door bursting open and the groans of Lockwood cause her to shoot off of the couch to help George and Lucy carry him. “What happened?” Y/N questions as she sees a gash in Lockwood’s side. Lucy hands Lockwood off to the inquisitive girl and goes to get the first aid kit. George leads them to the couch she was just sitting on, “It was an accident. I was fighting off one of the visitors with my rapier when the other visitor went after a kid. Lockwood dove in front of the child to protect her and caught the tip end of my rapier.” 

Y/N nods in understanding and gets to stripping Lockwood of his tops to access the wound. She thinks nothing of it as she leans towards his bare chest to examine the wound just below his rib cage. “It’s deep but not too deep. It hasn’t done any damage to any organs, so that’s good. I can stitch you up in no time.” Y/N guides Lockwood into a lying position and goes to wash her hands. She grabs some already-boiled water from the kettle and returns to Lockwood’s side. By that point, Lucy has returned with the first aid kit and Y/N instructs her on how to clean the equipment needed. Y/N uses water and soap to clean the wounds after putting on clean gloves. Once Lucy disinfects the tools, Y/N begins to suture Lockwood’s wound. He hisses quietly every so often, which causes her to feel bad. A few minutes later, everything is stitched up and tied, so she applies antibacterial ointment and a clean gauze. “You shouldn’t put a shirt back on just yet. It will be easier to monitor your bleeding with it off,” she advises. Truthfully, she wasn’t entirely sure if it was true, but she felt like being a little cheeky at the moment. “You guys can go to bed, I can make sure he’s okay for the rest of the night.” Lucy and George nod their head in appreciation and head upstairs for some much-needed sleep. 

Lockwood slowly sits up so he can look at her comfortably. He pats the seat beside him for her to sit and she does. He scoots closer to her and hesitantly places his hand on top of hers, fully committing when he sees she doesn’t retreat from his touch. “Thank you. You really are an enigma, Y/N Y/L/N. I don’t understand how you’ve learnt so many things and we don’t even know why. We know your favourite food and that stuff but not any childhood stories. Like how you know how to fence or so much about Marissa Fittes.” She shakes her head and moves away from his touch. She gets up from the couch and makes her towards the doorway. “It’s not important, Lockwood. So leave it alone,” she warns, quickly retreating from the room to be alone. 

She goes downstairs to the training machine to let off some steam. Why couldn’t everyone just let her have her secrets and leave her alone? It was hard to keep secrets if they always questioned her. Y/N wants to open up to them about her past, but she isn’t sure how they would react. Would they be mad at her for keeping it a secret for three months? Would they not trust her? Or worse, would they tell her secret to the world? She didn’t really think the last one was possible; however, she isn’t used to having friends. The steam starts to blow and her brain turns off as she uses her rapier to slash through it. The jet behind her goes off, she twirls around and slices it. Deciding to exercise a different type of muscle. She starts to get flashier. She learned a lot in the last eighteen years of solitude with only lessons being her only source of entertainment. 

Y/N does an aerial cartwheel over to the next jet going off. She does a little flourish of her sword instead of just slashing through it. Suddenly, the machine stops working. She turns around trying to figure out what is going on. Lockwood is standing next to the switch with a serious look on his face. “I’m sorry I was so nosy,” he apologizes, walking over to her. “It’s just that if you are running from something in your past, I want to know about it so that I can protect you. I can’t do that if you keep some secrets.” She turns away from him. 

“I don’t need you to protect me.”  

“I know, but it’s how I care for the people that I love.” He slowly reaches his hand out to take hers into his own. 

She looks at him with wonder in her eyes, “You love me?”

Feeling flustered and embarrassed, Lockwood tries to backpedal the true meaning of his words. “Of course, I love you and George and Lucy all equally as my friends,” he lies, saving himself from the rejection that he thinks is about to happen. She nods in understanding. “I forgive you. I’m not running from anything or in any danger, it’s just that I don’t like to talk about how I grew up. But I promise that I am perfectly safe.” He nods his head, “How about we go make a cuppa and watch some late-night television?” Y/N’s grin turns massive as they go upstairs to do as he offers. 

———

Lockwood is never one to turn down publicity for his business; he has such a charismatic personality after all. So when the news wanted to do a story on his agency after they protected the family with the young children, he had no choice but to accept. “And my handsome self wouldn’t be standing before you in such good condition if it went for the medical assistance of our wonderful assistant, Y/N Y/L/N.” 

The mention of her daughter's name causes Penelope Fittes to look up from her paperwork. The TV once put on as background noise now capturing her full attention. So that’s where her daughter has run off to. She picks up the phone on her desk, “Yes, I need you to locate the address of Lockwood & Co. Immediately.”

———

The whole group decided that it would be fun to spend their day off at the cinema. “I’ve got the money for us, so come on let’s go before the previews start,” Y/N screams from beside the front door. She waits for everyone to come down and opens the door. She goes to pass through the doorway, but the blocking of Penelope Fittes stops the girl in her tracks. “Hello, my dear,” Penelope greets with a wicked smile on her face. The other members of Lockwood & Co look at each other in confusion. “What are you doing here?” George questions. Y/N and Penelope ignore his question, “Hi, Mother.” 

[pbandjesse]

I didn't have a bad day. I wasn't even all that tired. I am in my feelings and am feeling pretty low right now. But for the most part it was a good day.

I slept a little better. I didn't wake up as often. The pressure in my ribs lessened. And I was feeling alright at 830 when my alarm went off.

I was slightly disappointed that the weather wasn't worse. It was just annoying enough to make them move my appointment but the schools didn't have a delay so James was not able to get out of work to come with me to the hospital. I was not looking forward to going alone.

I was also just thrown off timing wise. Like I would normally be getting back from our appointment at 9 but instead I was eating cereal and getting ready to go. I would bend my finger nail backwards and broke it off really short. Ouch. I tried to waste time so I wasn't leaving wildly early. Sat on my chair in the studio and made a drink to bring with me. But I still left to early and would arrive at the parking garage at 930.

And my appointment wasn't until 10. And I wouldn't get taken back until almost 1020. So it was just a lot of sitting around. Sylvia was moving around my in belly while I was waiting. But when I finally got pulled back she just. Wasn't??

I think maybe it was because I was frustrated by the storyline of the episode of Reba on the TV. And then a woman and her mom came out from their appointment and she was going upstairs to give birth right then! Like surprise! Baby time! The energy in the room changed and everyone was excited. It was also the new grandma's birthday! Amazing!

When I was brought back two of the nurses came out at the same time and I was slightly overwhelmed by cheerful greetings! But everyone was being super nice.

The appointment was fine. I was slightly stressed that Sylvia wasn't moving. Her heart beat was going. And she was practice breathing but she seemed to be asleep. Which was very funny. We tried ice water and some other squishings. But nothing. The nurse left the room to get me water and while she was gone I tried to give myself an ultrasound and that was funny. But no moving?

So we moved on to the feedback monitoring. Which was fine though her heart rate was slightly higher then normal. Normally 140, was between 145 and 150. But she started moving and wiggling and we were chilling. And eventually they did the ultrasound again and we saw enough moving that we passed and I was able to go home.

But I did not to right home. Instead once I got to the car I ordered fries at McDonald's and drove out there. Though it took me forever to get out of the parking garage. I felt like I was lost?! But I got out of there and went to get my lunch.

I accidently got a coke instead of a diet coke. Bleh. But whatever. I had my lunch and didn't drink the soda. And listened to my podcast. And then went home.

When I got back here I got rid of the trash in the car. And spent some time putting things away. Hanging up more clothes to give away. I did not put it outside though because it was raining a little. I started working on our thank you cards, the printed ones came but I will probably still do hand written smaller notes. But for now the printed ones are stuffed and names are in the envelopes.

I spent some time on my sewing machine. Doing the first pass on the last 5 squares. But I didn't want to sit there anymore. Instead moving to the living room sofa to embroider the next letter on Sylvia's jumpsuit. Slow going. I picked a terrible stitch. But whatever.

Once I finished that I would do some more cleaning. Fed Crabcake. Moved some stuff around the basement. And felt tired and moved upstairs.

I would lay down and scrolled and read on my phone. I did not sleep even though I wanted to. I spent time with sweetp. Wanted a soft pretzel but didn't want to leave the house again so I had some dried cereal instead. Talked to James about dinner. I requested a fake meat and stuffing. The fake meat would be the fish fillets.

When James got home they would make me dinner right away. I appreciated them doing that before they jumped on their call for their podcast. I get upset when they say they are going to make dinner but I have to wait until 8. This was better.

Now I am hanging out in bed. Wishing for James to be done their recording. We talked about some home stuff we went to finish before baby comes. The hall painting. Covering outlets. Pinning down cords. We are slowly slowly going to baby proof but man is that going to be tough.

Tomorrow I have a nice open day and then we are going to have dinner with some friends. I can't believe tomorrow marks 34 weeks. Wild. Absolutely wild. The longest year of my life and also somehow it is flying by.

I hope you all have a great night. Stay safe out there. Good night!!

[somediyprojects]

DIY Zippered Throw Pillows

Project by Brett Bara:

Throw pillows are another fantastic way to incorporate cute textiles and DIY flair into your home without a great investment of time or money. If you’ve ever gone into a fabric store and wanted to buy everything because it’s just all so gorgeous, then pillows are a great way to put those fabrics to work in your decor. Bold or loud prints that would be too much used in large scale (like in curtains) can be just right for a little pillow pop on a sofa or bed.

I’m going to show you how to make a zippered pillow cover, which is easier than it sounds, I promise. It looks super-professional AND has the added bonus of being easily changeable—I love the idea of making tons of different pillow covers and just swapping them out whenever you want a little change in a room.

The best part? You can make the pillow shown here in less than an hour! –Brett Bara

A Word on Zippers

Ok, I know you’re not going to believe me when I say this, but installing a zipper is REALLY EASY. (There are many ways to install a zipper —some more refined than others—the method I’m sharing here is basic and very simple!) BUT, if installing a zipper feels like it’s just too much, don’t give up. I’ll give alternate instructions at the end for how to make a pillow without a zipper. Everybody happy now? Let’s get started!

What You’ll Need

½ yard fabric (if your pillow is larger than 16”, you’ll need more fabric)

1 pillow form (buy this at a craft store or upholstery shop)

1 all-purpose zipper about 4” shorter than the edge of your pillow

Thread to match your fabric

Seam ripper

Sharp scissors

Straight pins

Tape Measure

Sewing machine

Zipper foot attachment for your sewing machine

Selecting and Preparing Fabric

Almost any type of fabric can be used for a throw pillow, but for beginners I recommend starting with medium-weight fabrics that are smooth in texture, like cottons or cotton-linen blends.

I’m using a Japanese print from the fantastic Etsuko Furuya for Echino line.

If your fabric is machine-washable, wash and dry it before sewing. This will pre-shrink the fabric, which is necessary to prevent the seams from puckering during future washings.

Finally, thoroughly iron the fabric before beginning.

Cutting

Cut two pieces of fabric that are the size of your pillow form plus 1” in length and 1” in width. So, if your pillow form is 12×16”, you’ll need two pieces of fabric that are 13×17”. This allows for ½” seam allowance on all seams.

Installing the Zipper

Place both pieces of fabric together with the right sides of the fabric facing each other and all corners aligned. (Be sure to situate both pieces so that the print pattern is facing in the same direction.)

Center the zipper along what will be the bottom edge of the pillow, since you’ll want the zipper to be on the bottom edge of the finished pillow. (Here, my fabric is flipped with the bottom edge facing up, just to make it easier to work with). Place a pin near each end of the zipper, just INSIDE the metal stops at each end.

With a ½” seam allowance, sew the two segments on the outside of each pin. (This should be a short space of just a couple inches between the pins and the corners of the fabric.) Reinforce these seams by back-stitching at the beginning and end of each seam.

Next, change the stitch length on your machine to the longest length, which will allow you to baste the next seam. (Basting is sewing a long stitch which will later be removed; the long, loose quality of a basted stitch makes them easier to remove than regular stitches) With the stitch length set to long, simply sew the space in between the two short seams you just made. (Do not back-stitch to reinforce basted seams.)

Iron this seam open.

With the wrong side of the fabric facing up, place the zipper right-side down, aligning the zipper teeth directly over the seam. Pin it in place.

Change your machine’s presser foot to the zipper foot. Consult your manual for help with this if necessary; usually the feet snap off and on rather easily.

A zipper foot (shown here on the right) can be different for every sewing machine model, but it often looks like half of a standard presser foot (shown on the left). It allows you to sew right along the edge of the zipper teeth neatly and easily. The zipper foot has a little sliding part that changes it to a right or left position, so just slide it accordingly depending on whether you are sewing the right or left side of the zipper. (That means you have to pop off the zipper foot after sewing the right-side seam, slide the zipper foot thingie over to the left position, then pop the foot back on the machine. All this only takes a second once you get the hang of it!)

Note: Be sure your stitch length is back to normal length for the remainder of the sewing. Starting at the bottom of the zipper on the right side, with the zipper foot in the right-side position, sew down the side of the zipper. When you get near the end, stop the machine. Leave the needle in the work, but raise the foot, and gently move the zipper pull back behind the needle. Then lower the foot again and sew to the end of the zipper. Backstitch at the end of this seam.

Next, change the zipper foot to the left position, and repeat this process on the left.

And your zipper is installed! (That wasn’t so bad, right?) The seam is still basted closed, so from the right side, use the seam ripper to gently remove the basted stitches. (They’ll pop out really easily; just pick out any remaining thread pieces that are left dangling.)

Change back to the standard presser foot. Fold the two pillow halves so that they are aligned with right sides facing each other and all corners and edges meeting. Pin in place. Sew around all three sides with a ½” seam allowance. (The fourth side, of course, is the side with the zipper installed.)

Here’s how to sew around the corners: when you reach each corner, leave the needle in the fabric and raise the presser foot, then pivot the fabric 90 degrees, lower the presser foot again, and continue sewing.

Clip the fabric at the corners. (Removing the excess fabric here helps give you a nice, sharp corner once you turn the pillow inside out.)

Turn the pillow cover inside out, ironing the seams flat.

Insert the pillow form, and you’re done!

NOW FOR THE NO-ZIPPER PART

If you’d rather skip the zip, just use your sewing machine to sew the two pieces of fabric together around three edges, plus about 2” on each side of the fourth edge. Clip the corners and turn right-side out, iron the seam flat, then insert the pillow form. Using a needle and thread, hand-sew the opening closed. Of course, this pillow cover won’t be removable, but it will still be lovely!

[broken-clover]

11- Memento

a bit shorter today, sorry about that. This is another one that's a little less cheery than the others, so I didn't want to stretch out too much.

I like animal crossing. I haven't played it in a while because the characters remark how long you've been gone so I feel too embarrassed to pick it up again because I feel bad about it. Still, I love the characters and their charm. Sable in particular has a really interesting backstory for such a relatively lighthearted series, having to raise her own siblings alone after their parents died. I wish we could do more for her and her family. It seems like she's got a lot going on. Like I said, this one's a little less happy, but I was trying to go for a bit of catharsis. The end is still happy.

-

Though Mabel was too young to know for herself, they’d still managed to hold onto many of their parents’ old things. The hanging paintings, the blurry watercolor mugs, and the old sewing machine they still used had once belonged to their mother and father. Mabel was never very careful with them, but it was hard to chastise her for it. She didn’t have the same attachment. She barely remembered their parents at all. Sometimes, Sable envied that.

Still, when she asked with those wide, curious eyes, she’d share fond old memories. Sable would dredge up soft snapshots of a life that still felt perfectly real at times, even after so long. Their mother carrying baby Mabel around before she learned to walk. Tottering in their father’s too-big shoes until he found them and laughed at the sight. Trying to help with the sewing, back when their paws were too small to even hold a seam ripper properly.

Sable didn’t resent her place in life. The two of them had made something lovely, even if it wasn’t the life they’d expected. Their tailor shop was a flourishing business, ever more popular with the townsfolk with every passing season. Finances were hardly an issue, and, even if they were, sweet old Tom was always happy to lend a paw when they needed it. They were content.

It did little for the days when Sable awoke with an ache in her chest.

On the rougher mornings, she would hobble down the stairs and into the main floor of the tailor shop. It always felt as though something was calling out to her, whispering her name. The old quilt hung on the wall by her sewing machine. She undid the pins and took it down.

After so many washes to clean it, there wasn’t much of a smell anymore. Sable still buried her face in it and pretended that it carried the fragrance of someone else’s quills. It was a big blanket, designed to drape along the back of a wide sofa- or to cover an entire family as they sat together. Far too big for one single hedgehog. The fabric bunched and pooled around on all sides in its own little lake of tapestry.

She was familiar with the little flaws it hid away within. One spot by the left-top corner had a crooked stitch, only visible if you pushed the material back to look at the line carefully. One side of the pattern was just slightly smaller than the other. A tiny bit of batting poked though the back where there hadn’t been enough material to fully enclose it.

(Sable had once noticed the mistake and asked her mother about it. With a coy smile, she’d said that she planned to fix it, but just hadn’t found the time to do it just yet)

Fixing it now didn’t feel right. Even the flaws were a memory.

The window shutters were closed, as they would be for a few more hours. She spared herself the moment of indulgence, sitting by the wall while wrapped up in her mother’s quilt.

Sable couldn’t remember falling asleep, but she was awoken by the overhead lights. She rubbed the blurriness from her eyes, and found Mabel standing at the foot of the stairs, looking on.

“Wha- “ Mabel blinked in confusion. “What’re you doing out here? You're not in bed?”

She winced in embarrassment. Getting spotted hadn’t been the plan. All she had wanted to do was take the quilt down, hold it for a bit, and put it back without anyone realizing anything. She had to look pathetic.

Despite that, Mabel padded closer, eyes soft with sympathy. “What’s wrong, sis…?”

Even if it was embarrassing, she didn’t want to be alone right now. Sable coaxed her sister under the quilt with her. Neither said anything for a while. They only sat.

“...Do you miss mom and dad a lot today?”

She nodded.

Mabel leaned over and let her head rest on her sister’s shoulder. “Yeah. Me too. Do you wanna do a half-day today? We don’t have to get up yet.”

That sounded nice.

[moderngharana]

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[yarn-manufacturers]

What Are Sewing Threads and Why Are They So Important?

Sewing threads are the unsung heroes of every stitched creation — whether it’s a T-shirt, sofa upholstery, or industrial textile. These thin strands bind fabrics together, ensuring durability, flexibility, and neat finishes. Without high-quality sewing threads, seams would easily break, garments would fall apart, and textiles wouldn’t survive regular wear and tear.

Modern sewing depends on strong, reliable threads, and one of the most widely used types is poly yarn, also known as polyester yarn.

What Is Poly Yarn and How Is It Used in Sewing Threads?

Poly yarn is short for polyester yarn, a synthetic fiber made from petroleum-based polymers. It is highly valued in the textile industry for its strength, stretch resistance, and color retention. When processed into sewing threads, poly yarn becomes an excellent choice for machine sewing, hand stitching, embroidery, and even industrial applications.

Thanks to its durability, poly yarn is now the go-to material for making high-performance sewing threads.

Why Is Poly Yarn Preferred for Making Sewing Threads?

There are several reasons why manufacturers and crafters prefer poly yarn for sewing:

Superior strength: It holds seams firmly even after frequent use and washing.

Low shrinkage: Unlike cotton, it doesn’t contract when exposed to moisture or heat.

Colorfastness: Polyester sewing threads retain color well and resist fading.

Abrasion resistance: Perfect for high-friction stitching like denim, bags, and shoes.

Because of these benefits, poly yarn sewing threads are ideal for both home and commercial textile production.

Also Read: Understanding Textured Yarn and BCF Yarns

What Types of Sewing Threads Are Made Using Poly Yarn?

Poly yarn is incredibly versatile. It can be spun, twisted, textured, or finished into different types of sewing threads, including:

1. Spun Polyester Sewing Threads

These are made by spinning staple polyester fibers. They look similar to cotton but offer better strength and elasticity. Commonly used for general-purpose stitching.

2. Filament Polyester Threads

Produced from continuous filaments of poly yarn, they offer a smooth, glossy finish. Ideal for decorative stitching and embroidery.

3. Core-Spun Threads

These feature a strong polyester core wrapped with cotton or polyester fiber. Best for denim, heavy fabrics, or workwear.

4. Textured Polyester Threads

Used mainly in overlock or serger machines. Soft and stretchable — great for sportswear and lingerie.

In all these types, poly yarn remains the backbone of durable and efficient sewing threads.

Also Read: Everything You Need to Know About Polyester Stretch Yarn

How Are Poly Yarn Sewing Threads Made?

The journey of poly yarn into sewing threads involves several steps:

Polymerization: Creating polyester from petrochemical compounds.

Extrusion: Melting the polyester and forming long filaments.

Texturing or spinning: Depending on the thread type, the yarn is either textured or spun.

Twisting: To increase strength and reduce fraying.

Finishing: Application of lubricants or dyes to enhance performance.

Winding: The final thread is wound onto spools or cones for use.

Throughout this process, maintaining quality ensures that the final sewing threads perform reliably in all kinds of fabric.

What Are the Main Applications of Poly Yarn Sewing Threads?

Poly yarn sewing threads are everywhere — from household use to industrial production. Common uses include:

Apparel stitching: T-shirts, jeans, undergarments, uniforms

Home textiles: Curtains, bedsheets, cushion covers

Footwear and leather goods: Bags, belts, boots

Automotive upholstery: Car seats and interior trims

Sportswear: Due to their elasticity and moisture resistance

In each application, sewing threads made from poly yarn offer long-lasting performance.

Is Poly Yarn Eco-Friendly When Used in Sewing Threads?

While traditional poly yarn is petroleum-based, today’s textile industry is shifting toward sustainable practices. Many manufacturers are now producing recycled poly yarn from used plastic bottles or textile waste.

Using eco-friendly sewing threads made from recycled poly yarn helps reduce waste and carbon footprints — a step forward for sustainable fashion and textiles.

Also Read: Best Nylon Yarn Suppliers & Polyester Stretch Yarn

How to Choose the Right Poly Yarn Sewing Thread for Your Project?

Choosing the right sewing threads made from poly yarn depends on:

Fabric type: Heavier fabrics need thicker, stronger threads.

Machine compatibility: Ensure the thread works well with your sewing machine.

Finish required: Use filament threads for shine, spun threads for a cotton-like feel.

Durability needs: Core-spun or textured threads are ideal for heavy-duty use.

The right choice enhances stitching quality and extends product lifespan.

Why Are Sewing Threads Made from Poly Yarn So Popular Today?

The popularity of poly yarn sewing threads is not just a trend — it’s a result of performance, cost-effectiveness, and versatility. Compared to natural fiber threads, poly yarn offers superior strength, low maintenance, and excellent seam retention.

Whether you're a home sewer, textile manufacturer, or fashion designer, using poly yarn sewing threads ensures your work stands the test of time.

Final Thoughts: Are Poly Yarn Sewing Threads the Best Choice for You?

In short, sewing threads made from poly yarn deliver everything today’s textile world needs — strength, durability, colorfastness, and cost-efficiency. Whether it’s for daily wear, industrial gear, or premium embroidery, poly-based threads are a smart choice for every project.

If you’re looking for a sewing solution that won’t let you down, poly yarn sewing threads are the dependable, high-performance option you’ve been searching for.