#and old sewing machine for everything else

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all! Does anyone know anything about replacing light bulbs on sewing machines? I have a Viking Selectronic 6570 and the light bulb just burned out It was my grandma's machine, and I did not even know it had a light for like a solid year of using it. Then it had to get a fairly major repair, and the shop replaced the light bulb, which was a surprise when I turned on the machine for the first time! That shop is unfortunately on the other side of the country from me, and the light is extremely useful when I'm doing super precise sewing

[david-watts]

I should start caring about my appearance more but I don't know if I yet have the confidence to wear ties casually. which is a shame because I have some truly hideous ones that I would love to inflict onto the public

[lemongrad]

Its a Singer model 12, from 1882!

This machine is in excellent working condition, complete with original bobbin winder and 'coffin' lid.

[vesna-v-irkutske]

hi vesna, wanted to know what the apparent letter that artyom sent to ''varya'' says if u have time😭

Hi! To be honest, this whole situation is very annoying and stupid.

First of all, who is Varya? Varya is supposedly a 15 year old girl who wanted to break up Artyom and Daphne. A couple of things: - the photos she sent weren't even hers (and they weren't NSFW); - it doesn't look like Artyom knew her real age. Some more information and rumors from r/IrkutskMolotochniki, most of it comes from a person with an extremely annoying way of talking who communicated with Daphne:

Comments from March 22, May 14 (pic. 2 and 3), May 20 and June 1, 2024.

In early August, Daphne made 2 posts on r/Earkutsk (her subreddit) explaining everything. You can read them here and here.

I have one of Artyom's previous letters to Varya, so I'll translate it first.

"Hello, Varya. I received the letter on September 26. I deeply apologize for such a long reply. I can't physically do it faster. I ask you to be understanding… or not =D O-o-oh, I also missed your birthday. This is somehow completely unjust. I apologize for that too. I understand how you've probably been waiting, but you see — I work at the sewing machine, so sometimes I get completely stitched up¹... =) If we live to see it, I'll do better by next birthday. Probably… =) • I'm not against communication, if you're not against communication in such a leisurely, to put it mildly, rhythm. Nice to meet you, by the way =D Thanks for the photo. You've really lifted my spirits. I spent half an hour admiring and licking my lips X) • Jurisprudence is a good choice, I'm a jurist too². What is the reason for this choice? • I'm doing fine, thank you for your concern. What about you? I fill my free time with a little bit of everything. I write letters mostly. Well, I also read, watch TV, listen to the radio, study foreign languages and do music. How do you spend your free time? • My musical preferences are about the same as yours — genre is not as important as quality. But still, by and large, they come down to heavy and electronic music. Do you have any favorite artists, compositions? • I'm both working and studying. Bad habits?.. o.O Well, let's say I don't smoke³. There's no need to talk about alcohol and drugs — there just aren't even such opportunities =) What else do you mean by bad habits? I don't think I have any, I'm almost perfect =D • My relationship with my mom is good. She doesn't miss a single long visit. • As for the girls, my interest here is situational. I don't gravitate towards any particular type, I evaluate all the details of the personality in the aggregate. As for the situation with Daphne, no comments yet =) Thank you for your congratulations and generous wishes. Even though I'm a month and a half late, I wish you well too, and I wish you all your dreams come true =) Since our communication will continue soon, in conclusion, I'd like to ask you what books do you read and what movies do you watch? Good luck! 27.11.2023"

¹ He meant that sometimes he gets too caught up in his work. ² I'm not sure he has a degree. He obviously wouldn't be able to become a sworn advocate AT LEAST because of his reputation. I think it's a matter of terminology. A jurist is a person with expert knowledge of law; someone who analyzes and comments on law. This person is usually a specialist legal scholar, mostly (but not always) with a formal education in law (a law degree) and often a legal practitioner. In the Russian Federation, a jurist can be a person who has received secondary professional or higher legal education. A jurist can provide legal assistance and legal services in criminal, civil, tax, labor, family, inheritance, housing, corporate, administrative and other legal matters. A jurist needs the status of an advocate only to defend someone in a criminal case. In some categories of criminal cases, protection may be provided by persons who don't have an advocate's status. So, basically, as I understand it, MAYBE he can be a jurist, but not an actual advocate/lawyer. Genuinely, whatever, take everything Artyom says with a grain of salt, he likes trolling. ³ Answers this question, I guess.

Now to the letter you sent. 👇🏻

"Varya, hi. I received the letter on November 30. Also, on the very eve of the New Year, I received a photo of you, which you intended to convince me of your coming of age... =) Great photo. You're irresistible =D • Before I get to the main content of your letters, I'll start with the non-main one =) I congratulate you on the past holidays and wish you good health, lots of money, always a great mood, and that everything goes according to plan, and, of course, great and pure love =D Speaking of love. It's a beautiful feeling, isn't it?.. =) It sometimes makes you do rash things, doesn't it? =) That's gratifying that you turned out to be a conscientious girl and immediately after your rash act you wrote to me and repented. This will definitely be counted as a mitigating factor for you in the future¹ =D And who is this girl whose channel² you sent the letter to? What's her name? Any idea why she needs it if she didn't delete it? And here another kind girl wrote to me that it was you who posted the letter in your channel... =) This is probably that misinformation about you. As for the dirt, insults, and threats, who exactly allowed themselves to do this to you? If possible, give at least a couple of examples of people who did this. At least you're not like them, are you? Not being rude or threatening anyone there? =) I don't recommend doing this. Those who do this, especially in relation to those whom I know in a positive light, may not expect anything good from me. • Okay, Varechka. You did something stupid and you did it. Who doesn't? Let's hope that this doesn't lead to more serious difficulties for you, in particular problems with the law. It also happens… Let's finally talk about you. How are you feeling? Not sick anymore? How did you spend the New Year holidays? And what's the news in general? What are you currently studying at your educational institution? You're getting a tertiary education, right? • You write that you go to the gym, well done. What kind of sport do you practice? Or just fitness? You're reviewing photos and videos of me? Well, you have great taste XD I have the same thing with my favorite music artists — I can't get enough forms to list them all =) Well, you know, you saw the playlist³ =) The TV series "Fisher"⁴? Well, yes, I can guess who it's about. Have you watched "The Method"⁵? I think you'll like it too =) • My favorite dish? I wonder why you need this? o.O Mostly pelmeni =D In general, I'm unpretentious in gastronomic matters. As long as it's tasty, healthy and nutritious =) And what's your favorite dish? • As for the cities I've been to, there's not even much to choose from… I've been to Ulan-Ude, Usolye-Sibirskoye (Irkutsk region), Novosibirsk, Omsk, Tyumen, Kirov, Vologda. In the last five of the mentioned cities, I was only in detention centers and saw a little bit of the street from the window of the paddy wagon =) In general, it was difficult to form an opinion about the cities. Well, judging by the data about the cities of the world, which became known to me from wherever it was, then... it's even more difficult X) First of all, I'd like to visit the city of Spijkenisse in the Netherlands⁶. It's a good city, they say =) But Moscow⁷, in general, is not bad either. If you know what I mean... X) • A movie? Perhaps, "Saw." For all time =) And what are your favorite city and movie? • Varechka, what can I sew for you? I can't sew anything but workwear. So no matter what I start sewing, I'll still end up with some kind of cop's or worker's clothes. You don't need that, do you? =) • I'm cool by nature =D There's nothing more to add. • How I feel about trolls on the internet. I don't give a hoot about the internet and everyone who lives in it =) I hardly ever go there, so I don't come into contact with trolls. I was a troll? o.O Where does this information come from?.. Tell me, who is without sin? We all get in the mood to troll. But depending on the skills, the result is different for everyone: who becomes a troll, and who becomes a sad shit X)

• The question about Zonatelecom's⁸ tariff seems to have an underlying reason... =) I haven't used this tariff, because I haven't used phone calls on a regular basis yet. I called with permission, which is not given as often as I'd like. So what's the point in me figuring out these tariffs? And even when you call regularly, I personally don't see the point in them, because if you get a cheaper call than usual, it means you're losing something, because for free pleasure, as they say, someone also has to pay. Thus, the cost of a telephone conversation decreases because the quality of connection deteriorates. And I treasure the connection with my loved ones =D • Oh, I got to your second letter. Hi, Varya =) Things, mood, well-being — everything's all right. And you? I'm glad to know about your dog =) I don't remember what a Yorkshire Terrier looks like, so if you want, you can send me a picture. • Well, Varya, I can't give birth to a story out of the blue, but when it's appropriate in our dialogue, I'll definitely tell you something. Be patient =) All the best! 06.01.2024"

¹ It's not me, it's him writing like an idiot. For a second, he imagined himself as a priest, to whom people should repent of their sins. I mean, this checks out. You know what they say about Christian priests. It's noteworthy that he uses the word "девочка" (little girl) instead of "девушка" (young woman), which would mean a more mature age. 🤮 ² On Telegram. I doubt it exists now, but who knows. ³ A few years ago, Artyom wrote a long list of songs that he listens to, and someone made a playlist on Spotify. ⁴ "Fisher" is a Russian thriller TV series. The plot of the 1st season is based on real events — serial killer Sergey Golovkin, who operated in the Odintsovsky District of the Moscow region from 1986 to 1992, had the nickname "Fisher." ⁵ "The Method" is a Russian crime drama TV series. Some of the characters were loosely based on real criminals, including the Academy maniacs. ⁶ Daphne, Artyom's fiancée, is from the Netherlands. ⁷ Varya probably said that she lives in Moscow. ⁸ Zonatelecom is an app for communication with prisoners. You can call them, write letters, send postcards, money.

Письма на русском для тех, кто хочет прочитать их в оригинале, но не хочет разбирать почерк Артёма. Орфография сохранена.

"Здравствуй, Варя. Письмо получил 26 сентября. Приношу глубочайшие извинения за такой долгий ответ. Быстрее физически никак не могу. Прошу отнестись с пониманием… или не относиться =D О-о-о, я ещё и день твоего рождения пропустил. Это уж как-то совсем неправосудно. Прошу прощения и за это тоже. Понимаю, как ты наверно ждала, но видишь — я работаю на швейке, так что иногда совсем зашиваюсь… =) Если доживём, то к следующему дню рождения исправлюсь. Наверно… =) • Я не против общения, если и ты не против общения в таком неторопливом, мягко говоря, ритме. Приятно познакомиться, кстати =D Благодарю за фото. Очень подняла настроение. Полчаса любовался и облизывался X) • Юриспруденция — хороший выбор, я тоже юрист. Чем такой выбор обусловлен? • Дела у меня в порядке, благодарю за беспокойство. А как у тебя? Свободное время я забиваю всем помаленьку. В основном письма пишу. Ну а так ещё читаю, смотрю телек, слушаю радио, занимаюсь иностранными языками и музыкой. Как ты проводишь свободное время? • Музыкальные предпочтения у меня примерно, как у тебя — не столь важен жанр, сколько качество. Но всё же по большому счёту они сводятся к тяжёлой и электронной музыке. У тебя есть какие-то любимые исполнители, композиции? • Я и работаю, и учусь. Вредные привычки?.. o.O Ну, скажем, я не курю. Об алкоголе и о наркоте и говорить не приходится — тут просто даже возможностей таких нет =) Что ещё подразумевать под вредными привычками? Пожалуй, нет у меня таковых, я почти идеален =D • Отношения с мамой хорошие. Она не пропускает ни одного длительного свидания. • Что касается девушек — тут мой интерес ситуативен. К какому-то определённому типажу не тяготею, все детали личности оцениваю в совокупности. Что касается ситуации с Дафной, то пока без комментариев =) Благодарю за поздравления и щедрые пожелания. Хоть и опоздал на полтора месяца, но и тебя тоже с прошедшим и желаю сбычи всех мечт =) Коль скоро наше общение продолжится, в заключение хотел бы поинтересоваться, какие книги ты читаешь и какое кино смотришь? Удачи! 27.11.2023"

Второе письмо мне пришлось разделить на 2 блока из-за лимита знаков, поэтому там внезапный разрыв. 👇🏻

"Варя, привет. Получил письмо 30 ноября. Также в самое преддверие Нового года получил твою фотографию, которой ты намеревалась убедить меня в своём совершеннолетии... =) Отличная фотография. Ты неотразима =D • Прежде чем я перейду к основному содержанию твоих писем, начну с неосновного =) Поздравляю тебя с минувшими праздниками и желаю здоровья, много денег, всегда отличного настроения, чтобы всё шло по плану, ну и, конечно, большой и чистой любви =D Кстати о любви. Прекрасное чувство, не правда ли?.. =) Оно порой толкает на необдуманные поступки, да? =) Отрадно, что ты оказалась совестливой девочкой и сразу после своего необдуманного поступка написала мне и покаялась. Тебе это в дальнейшем обязательно зачтётся, как смягчающее обстоятельство =D А что это за девочка такая, в чей канал ты отправила письмо? Как её зовут? Есть предположения, зачем ей это нужно, если она не стала его удалять? А мне тут другая добрая девочка написала, что это ты в своём канале выложила письмо... =) Наверно это та самая деза (дезинформация) о тебе. Что касается грязи, оскорблений, угроз, кто конкретно позволил себе такое в отношении тебя? Приведи по возможности хотя бы пару примеров лиц, кто это делал. Ты-то хоть им не уподобляешься? Не грубишь там никому, не угрожаешь? =) Не рекомендую этого делать. Те, кто так делает, тем более по отношению к тем, кого я знаю с хорошей стороны, могут ничего хорошего от меня не ждать. • Ладно, Варечка. Совершила глупость и совершила. С кем не бывает? Будем надеяться на то, что это не обернётся для тебя более серьёзными трудностями, в частности, проблемами с законом. Бывает и такое... Давай лучше наконец о тебе поговорим. Как самочувствие? Больше не болеешь? Как провела Новогодние каникулы? И какие в целом новости? Что сейчас проходите в вашем учебном заведении? Ты же высшее образование получаешь? • Ты пишешь, что в зал ходишь — это ты молодец. Каким видом спорта ты занимаешься? Или просто фитнесом? Фото и видео со мной пересматриваешь? Что ж, у тебя отличный вкус XD С любимыми исполнителями музыки у меня такая же фигня — всех перечислять бланков не напасёшься =) Ну, ты знаешь, ты видела плейлист =) Сериал "Фишер"? Ну да, догадываюсь, о ком это. А "Метод" не смотрела? Думаю, тебе тоже понравится =) • Моё любимое блюдо? Интересно, зачем тебе это? o.O В основном пельмешки =D А вообще я в гастрономических вопросах непритязательный. Лишь бы было вкусно, полезно и питательно =) А какое любимое блюдо у тебя? • Что касается городов, то из тех, в которых я был, даже и выбрать как-то не из чего... Я был в Улан-Удэ, Усолье-Сибирском (Иркутская область), Новосибе, Омске, Тюмени, Кирове, Вологде. В последних пяти из упомянутых городов был только в СИЗО и видел немного улицу из окна автозака =) В общем, мнение о городах составить было сложновато. Ну а если судить по тем данным о городах мира, которые стали мне известны откуда бы то ли было, то... ещё сложнее X) В первую очередь я бы хотел побывать в городе Спейкениссе в Нидерландах. Хороший, говорят, город =) Но и Москва, в общем-то, неплоха. Если ты понимаешь, о чём я... X) • Фильм? Пожалуй, "Пила". На все времена =) А какие твои любимые город и фильм? • Варечка, ну что я могу тебе сшить? Я кроме спецодежды ничего шить не умею. Так что, что бы я ни начал шить, на выходе всё равно получится шмотка мента какого-нибудь или рабочего. Тебе же такое не надо? =) • По характеру я клёвый =D Больше и добавить нечего. • Как я отношусь к троллям в интернете. Да мне по барабану этот интернет и все, кто в нём живёт =) Я-то там практически не бываю, поэтому и с троллями не соприкасаюсь. Я был троллем? o.O Это откуда такие сведения?.. Скажи мне, а кто без греха? У всех у нас бывает настроение потроллить. Только в зависимости от умений результат у всех разный: кто становится троллем, а кто — УГ (унылое говно) X)

• Вопрос о зонателекомовском тарифе, кажется, с подоплёкой... =) Я таким тарифом не пользовался, потому что вообще телефонными звонками я ещё на постоянной основе не пользовался. Я звонил по разрешению, которое даётся не так часто, как хотелось бы. Поэтому смысл мне разбираться в этих тарифах? Да даже когда звонишь регулярно, я лично не вижу в них смысла, потому что если звонок тебе дешевле обычного, значит ты чего-то лишаешься, ибо за бесплатное удовольствие, как говорится, тоже кто-то должен заплатить. Таким образом, стоимость телефонного разговора снижается потому, что ухудшается качество связи. А связью с близкими людьми я дорожу =D • О, добрался до твоего второго письма. Привет, Варя =) Дела, настроение, самочувствие — всё в порядке. А у тебя? Рад узнать о твоей собачке =) Как выглядит йоркширский терьер, не помню, так что, если хочешь, можешь отправить фотку. • Ну, Варь, на ровном месте родить историю я не могу, но когда это будет уместно в нашем диалоге, я обязательно что-нибудь расскажу. Запасись терпением =) Счастливо! 06.01.2024"

[vincentbriggs]

@once-a-polecat replied to your post “My uncle's friend asked if I wanted this machine...”:

So do Whites have the same parts availability as Singers? I see them around for a fraction of the price, I’ve just been holding out for a Singer because the parts are relatively easy to source. I’ve seen some really lovely White machines tho! I bet yours is going to look stunning when it’s cleaned up. That cabinet is {chefs kiss}

​I don't know, I haven't looked into it because mine's not missing any pieces and still has all 6 bobbins.

I think that as long as you can verify that it has all the parts, and at least one or two bobbins, it probably won't need any new ones.. ever? The little rubber ring on the bobbin winder and the treadle drive belt degrade after a few decades and need replacing, but you can easily buy those, and everything else is highly unlikely to break from regular use.

The one thing I was worried about was accidentally stripping the screws while taking it apart for cleaning, and there was one screw that I didn't quite have the right size of screwdriver for and it started to look a bit ehhhh so I just didn't take that part off. It wasn't one of the really gunky ones anyways, and I did my best to clean around it, and may try again someday if I get more sizes of screwdriver. So I'd advise making sure you have all the right tools before starting and slathering all the stuck bits well in kroil (what the guy in a video I watched yesterday used) or wd-40 (what I used) or some such loosening thing.

It seems like it's very hard to find new bobbins, especially since there are different styles of shuttle and the bobbins are not interchangeable. Mine's a boat style and my bobbins wouldn't work in a bullet style from a couple years later.

While cleaning this thing it hasn't even crossed my mind to wonder where I'd find replacement parts because, well, what could possibly break? Nearly every single piece is cast iron or steel, and it's already been used SO much that the decals on the bottom are almost completely gone just from the amount of fabric that's run over it.

As mentioned in the previous post it's about 140 years old, was owned by a woman who made her living sewing on it for many decades, and it still works just fine! I haven't got the bobbin winder cleaned up yet and it's still off the cabinet, but I couldn't resist trying it out with just the hand wheel (using one of the bobbins that was wound long before I was born) once I got all the bits back on and yeah! Perfect stitches right away!

As long as it's kept well oiled it's just gonna keep on chugging along indefinitely.

Are you seeing these White machines in person at secondhand stores and such? If you can check to make sure they have bobbins and that no pieces are missing, I'd say grab one! Maybe keep some reference pics of working ones so you can look and see, or even better see if you can make a stitch with it before buying it, and presumably if it can do that even slowly and gunkily then it'll just need cleaning like this one did.

By all accounts they're REALLY good machines! I'm super excited to try mine out properly, and to post more about all the features. It has a lip around the bottom of the needle bar so that if some oil drips down it won't get on your needle! Genius!! Why doesn't every machine ever have that?! It's also fairly quiet AND you can adjust the bobbin tension right in the middle of a seam without disturbing the sewing or taking the shuttle out. Incredible.

The manual for mine says "The Best in the World" on it, and while that's just a normal Victorian thing to say about a product, I'm not about to argue with them. There are a few little things that I like better on Singers, such as the quality of the hinges that hold the machine to the cabinet, and the way the presser foot attaches, but all in all this White VSII is extremely goddamn good so far and I have no doubt that once I get the bobbin winder cleaned up it'll also work perfectly!

So yeah, GET ONE!

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [05]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: none. slightly flirty Chris.

wc: 3109

Chapter 5: The Penthouse

It was the end of the month when the movers showed up at the penthouse, carrying the carefully labeled boxes that held the pieces of my old life. 

Clothes. Some books. Trinkets from my childhood I hadn’t been able to leave behind, and all my school stuff. Not much. It never felt like it would be enough to fill a place like this.

Chris wasn’t here. Of course, he wasn’t.

I hadn’t seen him since the engagement party, not really. There were a few short, stiff text messages, details about the move. Nothing personal.

The maid — an older woman with kind eyes — met me in the lobby and ushered me upstairs, guiding me through the sleek, cold hallways like I might get lost otherwise. She didn’t say much, just pointed down a hall and smiled.

"Your room, Miss," she said quietly.

There was a sticky note slapped onto the door, my name written in careful, neat handwriting. Aurora.

The absurdity of it made my throat ache a little.

I peeled the note off and pushed open the door. The room was... beautiful. Huge king-sized bed with dark gray linens. A massive window overlooking the glittering city skyline.

The movers came and went, leaving behind a mess of cardboard boxes and pieces of my life scattered across the polished floors. I stood frozen in the middle of it all, arms crossed tightly over my chest, trying to will myself to do something. To unpack. To settle in. But I couldn’t.

The massive closet stood empty and waiting. The huge king-sized bed was made, untouched. The floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the glittering skyline, cold and impersonal.

And my things — all my sewing supplies, my sketches, my mannequin, my fabric — were sprawled everywhere, looking heartbreakingly out of place against the sleek, expensive furniture.

Where was I supposed to put all of it? There was no sunny studio corner here like back home. Just a room that was too big, too clean, too foreign.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos around me. The sewing desk I loved was shoved awkwardly against the far wall, looking pitifully small compared to everything else.

My throat tightened painfully.

This wasn’t home. This wasn’t mine. I was just squatting in someone else’s life.

I dropped my head into my hands, letting the minutes pass, unmoving.

Outside the glass, the city buzzed — alive and pulsing — while I sat there, frozen.

Half an hour later, I heard the soft click of the front door opening. Footsteps on hardwood. Slow, steady.

I didn’t look up.

There was a pause in the hallway. Then more footsteps, growing closer.

Chris appeared in the doorway, tall and sharp against the sleek lines of the house. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and no tie. His hair was slightly messy, fluffy like he’d run his hand through it, and somehow that only made him look even more frustratingly handsome.

He stood there for a second, surveying the room.

His eyes moved over the unopened boxes, the mannequin half-draped in pinned fabric, the sewing machine teetering on the edge of the desk.

And then he pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, his presence immediately filling the space.

"You’re not unpacking," he said, voice low and even, but not exactly warm.

I shrugged, not looking at him. "I’ll do it later."

Chris didn’t leave. Instead, he slowly wandered through the room, his movements casual but sharp-eyed. He brushed his fingers lightly across a fabric roll, nudged one of the boxes with the tip of his shoe.

"You brought all this?" he asked, sounding more curious than judgmental.

I finally glanced up, feeling the heat creep into my cheeks.

“It’s for school,” I said, forcing the words out. “My final portfolio’s coming up. I need it to work.”

Chris gave a small nod.

“That’s fine,” he said simply. “Just keep everything in here".

I swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of his presence even though he wasn’t looking directly at me. The room suddenly felt smaller with him in it. Warmer.

He paused by the window for a second, glancing at the city lights outside. Then, almost like he remembered something, he turned back to me.

"There are a few things you should know," he said, walking slowly back toward where I sat. "House rules."

I nodded stiffly.

He stopped a few feet away, hands sliding into the pockets of his dress pants.

"The kitchen’s stocked. If you want something specific, tell Ana or one of the kitchen staff. They’re usually here in the mornings and afternoons," he said. "You don’t have to cook unless you want to."

I nodded again, gripping the edge of the bed to keep from fidgeting.

"And laundry — if you leave it in the baskets, it’ll get taken care of," he continued. "You can do it yourself, but you don’t have to."

His eyes flickered around the room again, taking in the chaos, but there was no judgment on his face. Just that calm, unreadable coolness.

"There’s a cleaner who comes every other day," he added. "If you need something moved or organized, ask Ana. Or tell me."

He said it casually, almost like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t used to explaining his life to someone else.

"I work late a lot," he said. "Sometimes weekends too. So if I’m not around, it’s not... personal."

Something in his tone softened then, just barely.

"And if you need anything," he finished, his voice dropping slightly, "don't wait around. Just ask."

The silence stretched tight between us.

He was trying. In his own cold, careful way, he was trying to make this easier.

I shifted a little on the bed, feeling small under the weight of his gaze. He was close now — not towering exactly, but big enough that I felt it. And unfairly good-looking. The way the low light caught the angles of his face, the sharpness of his jaw — it made my heart kick up nervously in my chest.

Chris studied me for a second longer, then — unexpectedly — he tilted his head, a slow, almost lazy gesture.

And then he asked, voice low and a little rough, "Are you scared of living with me?"

The question hit harder than it should have. Not teasing. Not playful. Just straight-up blunt, like he actually wanted to know.

My breath caught slightly. I hadn’t realized he was standing so close — only a few inches away now, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the faint clean scent of his cologne.

I looked up, wide-eyed, caught between the sudden proximity and the unexpected rawness of his question.

My mouth went dry. I managed to croak out, "What?"

It came out smaller, shakier than I meant it to. His mouth curved into the faintest smirk, not cruel — just a little cocky, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

He stepped even closer. I shifted back instinctively, but the edge of the bed was already pressed against the backs of my knees. Nowhere to go.

Chris tilted his head again, studying me like I was something interesting, something he couldn’t quite figure out. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and tilted my chin up with two fingers — light but firm, keeping me from looking away.

"You don’t have to be scared," he said, voice low and steady, almost coaxing. "You’re safe here."

My heart slammed against my ribs. Who's going to tell him the thing I’m scared of is him? I was sure he could feel how hard I was trembling under his touch.

Chris let out a low chuckle, quiet but undeniably amused.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, almost to himself.

I hated how warm his hand was. How gentle. How my body betrayed me by leaning the slightest bit toward him. His thumb brushed lightly along the line of my jaw, and I swore my brain just... short-circuited.

"You’re not a guest, sweetheart," he said, his voice softer now, something almost reassuring threading through it. "You live here now. This is your home."

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying desperately to get a hold of myself.

Chris's hand lingered for another breath, one, two — before he slowly dropped it, letting the moment unravel naturally.

For a second, he just stood there, still way too close, still watching me with those sharp, unreadable eyes, like he was waiting for me to believe him.

Then, finally, he took a step back, giving me space again.

The air between us stayed thick, buzzing with something electric and unspoken.

"If you need anything," he said again, his voice gentler now, almost like a promise, "ask staff."

Why did I think he was going to say Ask me, of course he’d want me to ask the staff. 

He held my gaze for one more second — a second too long — before he turned and walked out, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving me standing there, breathless, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out.

I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks, feeling the heat of my embarrassment spread. I hated how easily he’d thrown me off balance, how his presence reduced me to a flustered mess.

Christopher Sturniolo was insufferable — cold, arrogant, and distant. Yet, somehow, he’d made me nervous, without even realizing it.

I hated how effortlessly he could do that, how much control he had over my emotions, even when he probably didn’t care. His fingers on my chin, his voice low and steady — it all lingered, making everything feel more intense than it should have. I tried to shake it off, but the feeling stuck with me. 

I hated how much it bothered me.

CHRISTOPHER

I stayed locked in my office for hours after that interaction, pretending to be busy.

Emails, contracts, reports — all of it blurred together until the lines on the screen didn’t even look like words anymore. No matter how much I tried to bury myself in work, my mind kept circling back to her.

Sitting stiffly on that giant bed earlier, clutching herself like she didn’t know if she was allowed to be here.

Like she thought she didn’t belong.

I don't know why I even touched her or even got that close, but I couldn't fight away the though of loving how she looked under my gaze.

By the time the clock crept past 4 PM, I shoved my chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the hardwood. Ugh. Screw it. I needed to check on her.

The house was silent as I made my way down the hall, the kind of heavy silence that pressed against your ribs.

When I reached her room, I found the door open, lights off, and no sign of her. I frowned, tension snapping down my spine.

 Where the hell was she?

Then, the sound of quiet footsteps from farther down the hall. Toward the west wing, toward my side of the house.

My jaw tightened as I followed the sound, rounding the corner. And there she was.

Standing near my bedroom door, leaning in like she was trying to peek inside.

I stopped cold.

"What the hell are you doing?" My voice came out low, harsh, sharper than I meant it.

She jolted violently, whipping around to face me, her eyes wide and panicked. "I—I wasn’t—" she stammered, taking a quick step back from the door.

I crossed the distance between us in two strides, towering over her. "Why are you looking into my room?"

She looked down, flustered, her hands knotting in the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "I didn’t know it was yours," she said quickly. "I was just... looking around. I got a little lost. I didn’t mean anything by it."

For a second, I just stood there, staring at her. The way her voice trembled a little, the way she shrank under my gaze.

The guilt flared up instantly. But pride — that old, stubborn part of me — kept me silent. Kept me from saying the apology sitting bitter on my tongue.

Instead, I shifted my weight and let my voice drop lower, harder.

"Stay out of this side of the house," I said. "You have everything you need on your end. Don’t come wandering over here again."

Her face fell slightly, but she nodded, looking small and embarrassed. 

She didn’t know it, but I had made sure her room was far from mine on purpose. Deliberate. Safer that way — for both of us.

She mumbled a small, "Okay," and turned, walking quickly back down the hall without looking at me again.

I stayed where I was, watching her retreat. A tight, sour feeling twisted low in my chest. I told myself it was better this way.

The distance. The boundaries.

It had to be.

—

The hours dragged again after she wandered off. 

I shut myself in my office again, pretending to be busy—emails, contracts, budgets—but none of it stuck. The words blurred together on the screen, meaningless.

The house felt too damn quiet.

I checked the time—nearly seven. Right on cue, my phone buzzed across the desk. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Grinding my teeth, I answered, keeping my voice even. “Yeah?”

“Chris,” Aurora’s father’s voice came through, too bright, too forced. “Just checking in. Everything alright over there?”

I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. “She’s here. Settling in.” The words came out clipped. Harsher than I meant.

There was a pause. “You sure?” he asked, his voice dropping, threaded with a rare kind of concern. “She’s... she’s a sensitive kid. This is a big change for her.”

Something inside me snapped.

"If you were that worried, maybe you shouldn’t have handed her off like a business transaction," I said, voice low and sharp.

Silence crackled across the line. 

"Chris," he said finally, firmer now, "calm down. It’s not like that."

I bit back everything else I wanted to say. None of it would change anything. "Fine," I muttered. "She's fine."

Before he could get sentimental, I shifted the conversation back to business—the Sturniolo x Devereaux deal, projected numbers, timelines. Numbers I didn’t give a damn about right now.

When the call finally ended, I tossed my phone onto the desk harder than necessary. I sat there for a minute, stewing.

She's a sensitive kid. Big change. The words echoed in my skull, irritating the hell out of me.

I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping back. If he cared so much, he should’ve been the one checking if she’d eaten. If she was scared. If she was even unpacking.

The house stayed too damn quiet. I made my way down the hall to her room, hesitating for a second before knocking. Two sharp knocks.

Soft footsteps padded toward the door.

It cracked open, and there she was.

She looked... different.

Her damp red hair curled slightly at the ends, a little messy, a little soft. She wore a simple nightdress—loose, thin, falling just above her knees. 

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Her skin glowed from the shower, fresh and warm, and the neckline of the dress dipped just enough to make my jaw clench. I forced my eyes back to her face, clearing my throat roughly.

"You eat yet?" I asked, the words coming out gruffer than intended.

She blinked up at me, startled. Then slowly shook her head, tugging the door closer like she could hide behind it.

Something twisted in my chest, but I shoved it down. She hesitated, then slipped on her fluffy slippers, padding softly behind me down the hall.

She wasn’t comfortable. I could feel it in every step she took, and hell, I wasn’t exactly making it easy on her.

The dining room looked like a damn showroom—gleaming table, fresh food spread out perfectly by the staff. But everything felt... off. Wrong.

“Take a seat,” I said, pulling out a chair without thinking. She hesitated, then sat, folding her hands in her lap like she didn’t know where to put them.

The food was laid out—roasted vegetables, warm bread, a thick, rich stew that smelled like something good, but she just stared at it.

I sat across from her, watching her pick up the fork like it weighed too much.

"You haven’t eaten today, have you?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

She didn’t meet my eyes. "I don’t know... I guess I lost track of time," she said softly.

Liar, but I let it slide.

"You should eat something," I said, quieter this time. "There’s no reason to skip meals."

She gave a small nod and took a careful bite.

The silence between us stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable—for me, anyway. It was her silence that gnawed at me.

I picked up my wine glass, letting the cool rim rest against my mouth before saying, "So," I said casually, "did you find a spot for all your sewing and design stuff?"

She paused mid-bite, surprised. She hadn’t expected me to remember that about her.

"Um... not really," she said after a moment. "I haven’t unpacked much."

I just nodded.

We ate in silence after that, or pretended to.

I caught myself glancing at her—how she kept fidgeting with the hem of her nightdress, how she barely touched the food even when she forced herself to chew. It twisted something sharp inside me.

Finally, she set her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I should probably get some sleep," she said, almost like she was reminding herself aloud. "It’s been a long day."

I nodded, pushing back my chair, too. We both stood at the same time, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

"Thanks... for the food," she said, her voice soft, shy.

I shook my head. 

"No need to thank me, ma," I said, letting my mouth twitch in a smirk. "I wouldn’t let my fiancée starve."

Her cheeks colored slightly, and she ducked her head, hurrying out of the room with her slippers making soft sounds down the hall.

I watched her go, something uneasy still coiling low in my gut.

When I first agreed to all this, I figured I’d end up shackled to some spoiled rich girl, someone who’d spend her days whining and shopping. Someone is easy to ignore.

But Aurora was... the opposite. Quiet. Careful. Like she was trying not to take up any space at all.

It unsettled me. It intrigued me.

Almost.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: ahh ok first 5 chapters done. if you read this please reblog and like!! i want this to reach people since in new] — lots of love ceyana

[sodaneko]

𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒 (𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) ❦ 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝟎𝟏 ; 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭: 𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐚

♫ Nilüfer Yanya - midnight sun

Love is raised by common thieves // Hiding diamonds up their sleeves // Always I did it for you // Never felt so sure // You're my best machine // You're my midnight sun // Always I did it for you

word count: 4.3k

⭅ back to m.list

“And this is the secret snack drawer of our department. Bossman refills it every Tuesday so you gotta be quick if you wanna snatch your favs before someone else does.” “Alright, thanks Bokuto-san, I’ll keep it in mind.”

When they said office tour this wasn’t exactly what you imagined, but you’re not complaining. You trail behind this giant puppy of a man who can barely contain his excitement over showing you around the building. While he gives off the impression that there’s not a single thought behind these unsettling eyes of his, you can tell that he is a sweetheart to his core and you have a good feeling about working together.

It’s been an hour since Kiyoko from HR–the most beautiful girl you’ve ever laid your eyes on–dropped you off in the hands of your future team and so far you’ve seen: 

The half-heartedly fixed window on the 3rd floor a certain “Tsum-Tsum” broke during last month’s office party

The girls restroom where Yachi from Marketing could be heard crying (“She schedules her crying session between meetings, it’s normal for her so don’t worry!”)

The cafeteria and which vending machines there to avoid, as well as the ones Bokuto ended up being stuck with his arm in 

The rooftop where they hold events during the warmer months (and where you accidentally locked yourself out when the door fell shut behind you–thankfully a guy built like a french door fridge who introduced himself as Meian came to your rescue after twenty minutes).

The coffee shop next door where everyone goes because the in-house coffee is ass apparently and HR cut budget for a new coffee machine 

What you haven’t seen yet:

Your future cubicle and the floor your team works on

The IT department where you’re supposed to pick up your work laptop

The showrooms of the latest collection

The Bossman 

Still, your nervousness from this morning is easing slowly. When you applied for this position, you wouldn’t have thought that they’d actually hire you considering what a mess your resume is on paper. Moved overseas with your family in middle school and continued living there till a month ago. Dropped out of college to pursue a career as seamstress (all self-taught no less because an apprenticeship meant too much commitment). Then chased that promised record label deal with your band which didn’t happen before you crashed and burned out big time. 

Frankly speaking, you were tired. 

It’s as if every decision in your life was either taken away from you or led you down a miserable path. Everything you touched just crumbled underneath your fingertips. Sometimes you catch yourself thinking that maybe you weren’t built for this kind of life. Maybe you weren’t meant to be a dreamer. 

Something boring. Something stable. 

You applied for this corporate job with the hope in your heart that you can find some rest. Putting an end to worrying about bills at the end of the month, and finally knowing which bed you’ll fall asleep in at night, seeing the same old city day in, day out. Maybe a place to call home but then again you didn’t allow yourself to wish for too much. Just a change from whatever trainwreck your life had been prior to this would be nice. 

You loved sewing and making music with your entire being, but maybe you never should’ve built a living on it–if you could even call the past few years of your adulthood that. Living. It felt more like surviving. You’ve been missing that joy over these things you used to love the most for a long time now. 

So when you got the call that you got the job last month, you didn’t have to think twice. You started packing your few belongings into boxes the same day and gave notice to quit your shabby flat. The money you once saved to go on a world tour with your band now came in handy to fund your move back to Japan. It all happened so fast. In a way it felt like an escape, like giving up; but in your heart you knew this was the right thing to do. 

Maybe you had to take your eyes off the things you loved to really see them again.

“Hello…? Yes, she’s with me. What? No, I wasn’t showing her the view from the fire escape ladder. Should I? Why am I getting yelled at?”

You snap out of your thoughts when Bokuto answers a call that obviously makes him go through all emotions in the span of a minute. He gestures something to you and you have no idea what it means, but based on context clues you assume it’s “the bossman” on the other end of the line. 

“Meeting room on cloud nine, got it. What? But ‘ninth floor' sounds so boring… yeah, yeah, I’ll bring her. No detours, got it. Not even… no? Okay.”

Bokuto hangs up the phone and you swear his hair looks a little deflated, just like his overall expression. He really was an open book. It was kind of refreshing.

“Did you get in trouble because of me?”, you ask and he shakes his head vehemently. 

“No, no! I showed you all the important stuff and Omi-Omi–I mean, the bossman–will show you the boring rest. Like where your desk is and everything. He’s back from his out-of-office appointment and booked a meeting room for you two. I’ll take you there!”

Omi. The corners of your mouth twitch a little when you hear that name, a sweet memory unraveling in your chest. Bruised knees and ice cream dripping down your knuckles, small hands pushing you on the swings and braiding flower crowns made from daisies for you. Plucked out petals. He loves me, he loves me not. Friendship bracelets and baby teeth. 

You aren’t any good with names, but you’re sure you would’ve remembered this one during the interview process. 

“This Omi-Omi…” you wonder as you follow Bokuto’s lead, “is he a new hire as well? I’ve spoken with a ton of people for my interview but if I remember correctly the team leader was someone called Miya Osamu…?”

“Ohh, you spoke with Myaa-sam!” Bokuto’s eyes seem to light up. “No, he doesn’t work here anymore, just his carbon copy! Quit the job to follow his dreams, he said. He’s about to open his own restaurant just around the corner actually! We should go there for lunch once it’s open!”

A strange emotion tugs on your heartstrings. Following your dreams. Yeah, that ended disastrous for you but still you can’t help but feel a pang of envy over everyone who does it anyway. You try to shove it deep down, far away. It’s long in the past. You’re here now, a new chapter. New faces. New routines. All new. Same old you. 

“Omi-Omi got promoted when Myaa-sam left, so that’s why you haven’t met him during your interviews,” Bokuto adds and holds out a door for you. “Don’t worry about him. He can be a bit grumpy at times but he has a sparkly heart or whatever the saying is. You’ll get along just fine!”

Bokuto leaves you alone with your thoughts in the small meeting room. You’re not sure what to do while you wait. The prospect of sitting still seems awful but you also don’t wanna be nosey and flip through the fabric samples someone left on the table or read through the flipchart in the corner, even though you’re tempted, so you end up pacing around the room and looking outside the big windows. Everything outside seems so small from up this high. It makes you feel irrelevant too and it’s a strangely comforting feeling. Being nothing but a name, a small gear in a bigger picture. Maybe if you become a blank canvas, you can find the colors in your world again. 

You twirl around when the door clicks open, flattening down your skirt, suddenly now very aware that the moving box with your flatiron is still stuck on some container at sea. Doesn’t matter, maybe you can pull it off as edgy or casual chic with the right amount of charm and charisma. 

Behind you, the door clicks open, making you twirl around. 

And freeze.

“Sorry I’m late, I picked up your work laptop from the IT department on my way, so we can get started right aw–” 

Leather sleeve holders on a spotless white shirt. A black face mask covering the lower half of his face. Dark curls, moving like the sea at night. Hands so large they’d swallow yours easily if you ever get to hold them again. Two birthmarks, right above the eye–that’s where a lover used to kiss you in a past life, you remember saying when you were both kids.

“Kiyoomi,” you hear yourself mutter. It sounds distant, like an echo from the past. It’s been over a decade since you tasted his name in your mouth and even after all this time your hearts still recognize each other. 

“Ah,” he says and then, after a pause, “you.”

He looks dumbfounded and just stands there frozen, balancing a bundle of paperworks and a laptop in one hand and two styrofoam cups of coffee in the other. For a few seconds you just blink at each other, trying to process whatever cheap trick the universe decided to play here.

Sakusa Kiyoomi. The boy you claimed you’d marry one day when you were both just eight years old. You remember being so sure about it. How the thought never left you growing up; and how you broke down crying when your parents told you about their plans to move overseas for their work during your first year of middle school, the end of a dream. 

Eventually you snap out of your paralysis. 

“Ah, you. What kind of non-reaction is that?”, you ask and shake your head, laughing. You take the coffee from his hand and reach out to slowly peel the mask off his face. Despite his brows knitting together, he doesn’t protest it. It’s strange, seeing him. The boy you once promised your heart to in the sandbox and the grown man with the same face, just sharper. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you now. 

“Well, excuse me, but the girl who I still have a bite mark from when we were kids just spawned out of the blue in front of me,” Kiyoomi huffs, rolling his eyes like he used to when he was annoyed by your antics. He cups one side of your face with his now free hand and lifts it slightly as if to get a better look at you, his thumb idly caressing your cheek. It feels awfully intimate and you find yourself leaning closer into his touch.

Omi. Your Omi. 

It’s as if time stood still between you; as if not over a decade has passed since you last saw each other. Held each other. Murmured promises in each other's ears as you hugged goodbye in the pouring rain. Of course it was pouring that day, it was as if the heavens were weeping over the two of you being separated. Maybe that's the universe's apology for this past dick move, you think, the corners of your lips curling upwards.

Kiyoomi lets go of your cheek and flicks your forehead as if he read your mind. Another habit from back then.

“Still a daydreamer,” he remarks and for the first time since he walked into the room he smiles and it’s like the sun has risen again after years of winter. 

When you sit down together, so close that your knees under the table are touching, you find it hard to focus. Kiyoomi explains the applications you’ll work with, your logins, company security policies, which meetings you’ll attend with him the upcoming weeks and the hierarchy of your team, but you don’t follow. At all. You’re too distracted by the flutter in your chest and wondering what the shaved part in the back of his neck would feel like if you ran your fingers over it, as well as what he’d been up to over the past decade, and why he never answered your letters, and… 

Your phone vibrating on the table next to you snaps you out of your thoughts. You click your tongue in annoyance when you see it’s the moving company calling you. 

“Sorry, I gotta take this. Won’t take long,” you apologize and pick up the phone, leaving the room for an ounce of privacy–it’s not like the thin walls muffle much when you yell into the speaker for five minutes only to hang up in defeat. 

Kiyoomi looks up when you return, his eyes looking you up and down with the same intense gaze like he always did.

“Boyfriend trouble?” His voice is bland, seemingly disinterested, but no matter how much he tries to hide it you can still hear the underlying weight of the question. “Or girlfriend trouble. Didn’t mean to make assumptions.” 

You slump down on your chair again and sigh in defeat, shaking your head. 

“None of that. It’s the damn moving company,” you huff, slamming your phone back on the table. “They mixed up dates and now I’m here but all my stuff isn’t.” You rub the bridge of your nose in annoyance. “It’s been almost a month and my back will kill me if I have to spend one more night on an air mattress.”

Kiyoomi drums his fingers on the table, pondering. You can tell by the furrow of his brows and the intensity of his gaze. Once again you notice what a fine man he has become. His beauty would’ve been intimidating if you haven’t known him since you were little kids. 

“Stay with me.”

You look up from your phone where you wrote down the new date they gave you for the arrival of your furniture and blink at him slowly. Not fully registering what he’s saying.

“Stay with me,” Kiyoomi repeats again, noticing your confusion. “Till your things arrive. I have a guest room. It’s a short commute to the job. I cook and I clean.” He shuts his laptop and gets up, running a hand through his dark curls. 

“And…?”, you ask, as if waiting for the condition because surely it sounds too good to be true. 

“And maybe I’m also worried that you’ll turn out to be nothing but a fever dream if I take my eyes off you again.”

In the evening, Kiyoomi and you stop by your almost empty apartment to pick up your suitcases with a change of clothes. 

Sneaking away after work together without the rest of the team noticing was surprisingly easy–Meian had clocked out early to pick up his partner from school (Kiyoomi begged him to clarify that she was a teacher to avoid any future confusion), Bokuto and Atsumu were stuck in an elevator (“They’re not my responsibility after 5pm”) and Hinata went out for dinner with some business partners from Brazil. 

When Kiyoomi saw how you were dressed for the chilly autumn weather, he wordlessly turned around and disappeared in the office building for five minutes again, showing up with a scarf that looked suspiciously like the one the mannequin in the showroom wore, from the collection that wasn’t supposed to see the light yet. Nobody has to know, especially not how tenderly he wraps it around you, making sure you stay warm. He always did. 

Some kind of protective instinct within him kicks in when you unlock the door to your place. Kiyoomi, who huffed about the lack of security of your apartment complex for the duration of the whole elevator ride and then some more when you let him in, was now checking your windows and front door. 

“You’re gonna tire yourself out from all that head shaking and tongue clicking, Omi,” you tell him while you stuff your scattered clothes across the floor back into your two big suitcases. Most of them were absolutely not fit for the season because after spending half of your life abroad. You kind of underestimated how cold Japan could get during autumn and winter. Maybe you could sew a few pieces after work and on the weekends. 

“This place is a rathole,” Kiyoomi groans after turning the dripping faucet on and off and making a face of utter disapproval. “You should just move in with me permanently.”

“I’m not moving in with you, I just met you like eight hours ago,” you snarl back and roll your eyes, but maybe, in the back of your mind, you’re considering it. 

Kiyoomi crouches down next to you, taking your chin between his fingers so you’d look at him.

“Eight hours my ass,” he huffs. “Don’t act like we spent our childhood glued together. You slept more in my bed than in yours. The memory foam of my mattress kept the shape of you long after you were gone.”

“Now that’s kinda romantic.” 

You glance at him, a small smile tugging on the corners of your mouth. Your Omi. How you missed him. His thumb traces the outline of your jaw, and for a fleeting second you wonder if he’s gonna kiss you. 

Maybe you really want him to kiss you. 

You take a cab to Kiyoomi’s apartment (“What have you packed in these suitcases? Bricks? I’m not hauling these to the other end of the city. Get in.”) and he holds your hand for the entire duration of the ride under the feeble excuse that your hands are too cold. On the outside you watch the city lights pass by, an artificial milky way that unexpectedly lead you back into your first love’s arms.

Kiyoomi’s place is clean and spacious without being cold. The scent of it is making your brain tingle in a strange way, the subtle note of an almost forgotten childhood memory resurfacing again; the boy you once loved still living here but also someone else, someone he grew into without you.

You step out of your heels and shrug off your jacket and the scarf, dropping them carelessly to the ground. Behind you Kiyoomi bends down to hang it up neatly on the coat rack while you waltz inside as if you own this place. Another thing that hasn’t changed since you both were little. 

Expensive, you think, recognizing some of the furniture brands and decorations. In one corner of the living room stands a vintage serving cart, crystal glasses and pricey bottles of various alcohols on top of it. His walls are adorned with artworks of all sizes, but otherwise they’re bare, the shelves missing trinkets and personal touches like framed photos of family and friends. 

Still, the whole place feels like a home, lived in by someone as quiet and private as Kiyoomi. 

“It’s late, I’m gonna order us some food,” Kiyoomi announces when he appears behind you, fingers tapping on his phone screen in one hand while the other unbuttons his shirt a little. He doesn’t look at you, just hands you his phone, gesturing vaguely. “Pick anything you like. My treat.”

Sitting down on the couch with your knees hugged to your chest, you scroll through the food options. Your attention span is fleeting, your eyes darting from the screen to Kiyoomi who carries your suitcases to the guest bedroom. Giving you a place to be, to stay, like it’s the most natural thing to do. Suddenly you’re very aware of the heaviness of your bones and how tired you feel.

You’ve been running for a long time. You’re home now. 

Kiyoomi returns with a towel and a change of clothes, taking the phone from you again. He frowns when he scrolls through your food picks, letting out a small sigh.

“You still have the palate of a five year old.”

“You told me to pick anything I like? Just because you were fed caviar and gold dust as a baby… You pick something then.”

“I didn’t say I won’t order it, no? Go take a bath meanwhile. You had a long day.” 

A long day. If it was only that.

But you don’t say anything, just wordlessly take the stuff from Kiyoomi’s hands and let him usher you to the bathroom. He pats the counter for you to sit on while he runs you a bath, pouring some bathing essence that causes a mild explosion of bubbles (same as you liked it back then). The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up when he checks the water temperature before turning back to you. He walks over till he’s standing between your legs, his hands coming down to rest on the sides of your thigh.

In the confined space of the bathroom, he seems even taller, wider. Nothing left from his baby cheeks and soft features. There was a time when you could see eye to eye, but now he’s towering over you with ease. Your hands find their way to his hips, subconsciously making him inch closer. 

“You don’t have to do all of that for me, you know,” you mumble as you glance up at him. 

“I want to. So please, let me,” he replies quietly. His face is so close, you could count his lashes if they weren’t endless. Endless as his adoration for you–still, after all this time. You briefly wonder if you could love each other like you did back then. Or even more. Your heart is drumming, a nostalgic melody you haven’t listened to in a while but one that’s engraved into your being.

It would be so easy, loving him. Like breathing. 

Kiyoomi pulls you into a tight hug, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Your arms around him cling tight, as if part of you is afraid that he is just a fleeting illusion, crumbling the moment you let go. It seems like you share the same fear. He shakes his head when your grip loosens slightly. 

“Not yet,” he mumbles, his lips brushing over the skin of your neck when he does. “Don’t let go yet.”

Your fingers are tangled in his curls, keeping him close, your bodies pressed against each other. Hearts beating in unison. You silently thank the sun and the moon for bringing you back home into his arms. Only when his neck starts to hurt from the way he’s hunched over you, he reluctantly peels himself away from you, patting your side. “C’mon now. Your bath will get cold.”

He holds out a hand to help you down from the counter, slender fingers wrapping around yours. 

“But I wanna keep talking to you,” you pout, earning a small eye roll from him, but the faint smile on his lips is betraying the gesture.

“Then leave the door a crack open. I’ll talk to you, doll,” he replies and flicks your forehead. Before he leaves the bathroom he turns around again, as if there was something else on the tip of his tongue, but he decides to swallow it. For now.

Immersed in the bubble bath, you tell Kiyoomi everything that happened over the span of the past decade. From your life overseas and how lonely it had been, to the missing letters and how you tried finding him on social media when you were older, how much you loved sewing and making music and how it burned you out doing these things for a living. You pour your heart out. Somehow it’s easier when you’re not looking at him, when you can’t see your own sad reflection in his dark eyes.

You can hear him moving around on the outside, not peeking, but always near enough to give you short answers, ask questions or to simply hear him laugh through the small crack you left open. It is strange. Life is strange. One night you’re selling your bass to have something to eat for the rest of the month, then a heartbeat later you’re sitting in your puppy love’s bathtub while he orders you fries and waffles. 

That night, you fall in love again.

Or maybe you never fell out of it. But it’s there, tangible, glowing. You're tucked under a thick blanket, a photo album in your lap, and Kiyoomi is hand feeding you nuggets while you look over the slightly faded photos from when you were kids, some you have long forgotten about. 

The one where you lost your first baby teeth, grinning from ear to ear to show off your tooth gap. You cried horribly that day and to comfort you, Kiyoomi bought you a small plushie from his pocket money. It still sits next to your pillow when you fall asleep every night.

The one where you wore your middle school uniforms for the first time, not knowing you would be torn apart a year later and never got to graduate together. It’s also when Kiyoomi had another growth spurt and you realized you really, really liked this boy.

The one where you played dress up in your mother’s wardrobe, her wedding dress way too big on you, the veil awry on top of your hair, but Kiyoomi looking at you like you’re magic. It was all play pretend, but maybe in another life he really became your husband if life hadn’t torn you apart.

“I really missed you,” you sigh quietly, your head resting against his shoulder as you shuffle through the photos. The nostalgia is leaving a bittersweet taste in your mouth, the what if’s getting harder to swallow. It’s like the words are clawing in your throat, begging to be let out. Kiyoomi wraps his arm closer around you, pressing a soft kiss on top of your head. 

“Missed you too. More than anything.”

It seems like everything leads you back to him. In his arms, his home, his heart. You have a feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

a/n: i rewrote this chapter SO many times to a point where i wanted to rip my hair and my eyes out so here we are. omi loving demon and me are shaking hands rn, WE MADE IT. thank you so much for reading and loving omi as much as i do. this chapter is for YOU 🌷 ps: meian's partner mentioned is y/n from dodger's oh captain, my captain

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[leveragehunters]

Back in ye olde small phone days, I had this little pouch that clipped to my backpack strap and it was so great - my phone and transit card (and mini Maglite, chapstick, earphones etc) were right there! No having to dig them out of my pack! But all joy is fleeting and when I upgraded my phone, it didn't fit. No more convenient pouch.

Except fast forward to now, in possession of both loom and sewing machine, and it hit me that I could just...make one that did fit. So I did!

I wove the cloth on the rigid heddle out of 4ply merino/silk and the bands on the inkle loom out of 8/4 cotton, grabbed some quilting cotton for the lining, and sewed them all up into a little zippered pouch.

A band runs up the back with a clip that clips to the D-ring, and I sewed velcro to the side bands to wrap around the strap and secure it in place. It holds my phone and everything else, right where I need them, and I'm so chuffed!

[magiturge]

okay.. go my sheriff/hank ( individual and pairing ) headcanons / thoughts this is going to be really long, careful when you open it.

each dash is its own thing. for hank ( he / they / it / she is reserved. ) :

- hank is G01 / generation 1 grunt, but a particularly strange one in the sense that they are not a grunt. hank is a script. i headcanon hank as being the cannoneer / cannoneer script in the original marshmallow madness and how they are shown in the magiturge arena mode ending. i am on purpose ignoring that he was mentioned to be a G02 by swain.. hank is a script and as such behaves differently than everybody else because they were never intended to be a person or an entity. hank as the cannoneer script was intended to just be that, a placeholder with a face in the very early stages of nevada's creation and the nowhere. i started to lean into this headcanon a lot more when i saw a clip of krinkels answering a question regarding why the maker scribbles out hank in the cave drawings, with him saying "because he's a strange one. he's a very strange one. not really a.. not really a one with the identity as the maker understands it." ..i just think it'd be funny if hank was never meant to have an identity in the first place and was a function first before being a person. it's why hank is so down the straight and narrow about getting the job done, you gave him something to do and he will do it. i like to describe hank as being an extension of the machine itself as a script.

- hank's height, width and depth changes subtly to drastically with each time he dies and comes back. i like to keep his base height at 6'2" but if you were to linger around them for long enough, you might notice every so often that he seems a bit shorter than usual or a bit taller, or he has a bit more or less muscle somewhere. it's just a result of supply of material to sew him back together.

- hank harbors no sense of physical attraction to anybody in the sense of finding anyone 'hot', 'cute', 'pretty', 'sexy', etc. they see absolutely nobody as attractive in that sense and the most you will ever see in terms of complimenting appearances is with how much 'cool factor' there is to something.

- hank sees red. for them there is not really a black and white, a good vs evil, a grey area. everything is red in that everything and anyone can be a tool. it's not really a 'sees red and gets angry / violent' thing. everybody looks the same to it on a moral / alliance / loyalty point. it has no issue turning on you if you get in the way or alligning with you if you can work to the same goal it has.

- for awhile, hank behaved very npc like or average grunt like before the whole punching the boombox guy. a whole lot of no particularly violent activity until that incident and it being like the switch flip of 'oh wait. i dont really know why but i think ive done this kinda killing people thing before ( marshmallow madness ) but im really really enjoying it,' like it might be a natural thing hank knows to do. - almost all of hank's outfit is a diy project it works on when it is bored, parts are stolen during missions ( homes / clothing stores ) or straight from the garbage. in a sense that's how hank is gradually building an identity for themself.

∙ hank has no issue with dying itself, but it's a matter of what circumstance and how they die that will determine if that irritates it enough to come back. ( i.e some stupid rug pulling bullshit or getting a kill stolen by dying to something stupid. )

- much of hank's skin is discolored or outright not the same shade or tone as their original skin since they're a hankenstein of various people's body's now ( haha ). they're also missing some certain parts that don't particularly bother them. its more like accessory and so long as they have the necessary parts that won't cause them complications, it frankly doesn't give a shit if something is gone.

for sheriff ( he ) : - go my transgender bear. - sheriff self medicated with alcoholic and as a result, over the years became a functioning alcoholic. this is entirely based on the line of 'pass the whiskey' he has and also the whole.. debacle he's been put in. he smells always vaguely of whiskey as a result of this. he feels a bit braver drunk but y'know.. reality backhands him in the face again and he focuses.

- sheriff and jeb are not friends. at best they are aquaintances, allies by circumstance not by goal. sheriff is afraid of jeb and worries about pissing him off as it might mean he loses an ally and potentially gains an enemy if he doesn't comply with his orders ( i.e assisting jeb in plans like lending his men to deal with hank ). at this point in time, jeb seems wildly unstable and too zeroed in on his savior bullshit for sheriff to feel comfortable speaking up at all about not wanting to deal with this stuff anymore. sheriff was a normal guy first that had no intention of getting involved with this stuff in the first place until jeb pulled him into it with fear as a motivation. jeb isn't a friend, just a 'friendly-face'. - sheriff has gotten better at hiding his fear / non-fighter nature at least with the way he talks. the fear and the desire to live is always there but the way he presents himself feeds into how he is perceived. at the end of everything, sheriff is always running away from the site of conflict if he's in an unsafe spot or at a disadvantage. covering up his fear makes him appear very cocky and arrogant - sheriff's hair is long as well as his beard, it is like a mane. it's his pride and he tries his best to keep it well maintained but he's.. too stressed to keep it up all the time. there are some curly and wiggly looking hairs ( i don't know the right term for it ) sticking out, and some parts tangled and thick. he feels weird if he were to ask anyone of his men to brush it out. - sheriff is a lot better at fighting and defending himself at this current point in time ( mpn2 and ahead ) but he is held back by the fact he is worried about dying or getting injured in general. he's afraid of taking a risk and would much rather use traps and a whole lot of walls in the way. - sheriff likes to hum, whistle and sing quietly to soothe his nerves. unfortunately, given his desire to uphold a strong image, he overthinks that being heard humming or singing, even quietly, around any of the MERC units will have him perceived as too soft or an oddity. for this reason, he is usually found whistling little bits when he's actually roaming the MERC buildings and his humming and quiet singing is for when he's patrolling the industrial sector walls on his own. - he carries a level of care for the MERC under his leadership but has a confused relationship with his individuality and being a part of a group. he was a guy first and foremost and because of the responsibility that was put onto him by jeb to protect these people he feels an obligation to forego his feelings and emotional needs. as a result he doesn't really.. interact with them on a super friendly level as much as he would say, a stranger with a friendly chat. he sees them as just people to be protected, a group and not individuals. he can separate himself from them but he also cant. - the nutrient slop in a can he's been eating for so many years has dulled his sense of taste a bit. if you gave him something that tasted real, even as greasy as a goddamn burger his face would light up. hot food does things to your mind and you dont realize it until you've had it again. - sheriff and the industrial sector represent each other. with large walls and many defenses to protect himself but with unfortunate cracks and weak points created over time. there can be so many barriers but many pathways, many vents for someone to crawl through and find the weak point.

ok. go my old man yaori.

their entire relationship is a push and pull. - their relationship (?) is a secret for as much as they are capable of keeping it a secret. sheriff desperately wants to keep it a secret because he fears that his men ( MERC ) finding out could potentially get him exiled or worse killed for being a 'traitor'. he also doesn't want to lose that sense of safety and togetherness, a stable foundation for him to stand and walk on. it's why he kicks himself in the head about the whole thing because he knows he shouldn't be getting involved like this. - as i mentioned before, hank feels no physical attraction to anybody and that applies to sheriff as well. it feels nothing in terms of 'wow he's cute' or 'he's hot'. the times that it can be mistaken that hank finds something about sheriff that is cute in terms of physical appearance is for different reasons. for example.. sheriff blushing and hank responding positively to that is not because hank finds that image to be cute but because he understands that image to be a positive thing. if : sheriff is blushing, then : i did something good, since i understand blushing as something that happens when someone is flattered. it elicits a positive reaction from hank because he understands it as something good and beneficial, rather than it being found personally cute or pretty. - hank thinks that sheriff did have a sort of glow up and that he looks 'cooler' now ( i.e you don't look like a wimp anymore ) however he thinks that the absolute layering of clothes, body armor and ammo looks tacky as hell. he gets why sheriff is wearing all that but it could have better days. they do find the leather chaps sheriff wears to be the one thing that kind of look cool, so it has taken the liberty of messing with them a bit, with permission, to make them look a bit cooler. it likes leather. on the topic of what sheriff wears, hank also doesn't like what he's wearing because it makes sheriff obnoxiously annoying to fight in close combat. it'll swing at sheriff and feel the padding and get a bit irritated because he really is just layered in protection, no satisfaction that it normally gets from feeling the injury caused in a fight. ..hank knows that it'd be better to leave not too many injuries, but that doesn't stop it from being irritated when they trade punches and it can feel a bruise on the highway while sheriff likely hasn't gotten something so serious. it's the kind of bullshit it doesn't like. hank wears body armor and padding too but not nearly as much. - they're both at around level terms of fighting capability, it is their personalities and style that make the difference. hank does not like sheriff's style of fighting in the presence of other people watching whatsoever as he thinks it's cowardly and unengaging. he's always at a distance, rapid fire, itchy finger. it's like dealing with a turret with self awareness and a mouth to run insults at you. the bullshit bullshiiiit he doesnt like. it's why hank prefers the little spats they get in. - hank's biggest upside in their situationship is how direct and to the point they are, it really hates the dancing around the topic sheriff does. if sheriff is being particularly dodgy about something or acting differently or avoidant, hank asks directly what is going on. it figured out relatively fast that sheriff's cowardly avoidant nature applies to just about anything and it has to adapt to that. sheriff's biggest downside is his reluctance to vocalize his needs as he doesn't entirely perceive hank as a person yet, still seeing him partially as the man in the posters, meaning he doesn't believe hank is capable of accommodating, being affectionate, or being considerate of his needs.

- sheriff hates vocalizing or articulating anything that seems like proof to the world or himself of his affections towards hank. something simple as wanting to have an embrace, he does not want to say it. it's acknowledgement of his affections, and he doesn't want to acknowledge it. he would rather outright go for the hug or for hank to initiate it first. on the same note, neither of them say i love you to each other. hank doesn't particularly care.. it just sees it as another expression of affection and it doesn't find words to be as fun as actions. sheriff doesn't say it for the reasons above and it feels way too intimate for him anyway. it's like saying 'yes, hank j wimbleton most wanted person in nevada who has killed many many and killed me once as well, i lovey wovey you'. he feels stupid saying it. it's 3 words but he hears a lot more. - sheriff still maintains a grudge for having been killed by hank many years ago, it's sort of shallow now though. he already got even with hank at the start of this snowballing situation, as they had a spat and he shot them dead. - hank is the grounded one in the situationship, more mentally stable and.. decisively stable than sheriff. he often has to be very blunt so sheriff stops rocking around, thinking too hard about something. - they don't talk to each other that often but on the chances they do, they do have some.. detailed conversations on things. it can range from something mundane as guns, what attachments they like on theirs to .. more delicate topics.

- hank often returns to sq hq smelling faintly of whiskey and sheriff often returns to MERC warehouses smelling vaguely of rotting bodies and blood. they both have smelled each other and they both think they both smell like shit. when possible, sheriff will continuously nudge that hank go and bathe, though that means sheriff has to as well. - hank thinks sheriff is a bit.. like crazy? or at least not making the smartest decisions sometimes. he wonders why sheriff maintains really long hair even though he works around machinery a lot. hank thinks that he's beign a bit ridiculous for being such a worry wart and not doing anything about the glaring issue in his wardrobe. it has vocalized this issue and are usually met with sheriff giving him a bit of a dirty look. at the least, hank does like to touch his hair. sheriff doesn't particularly care that much about hank touching his hair, just that he doesn't cut it. it likes to feel the texture and pick out tangles, it gives hank something to do in a mundane slow time. - sheriff has one of hank's black bandanas. it let him keep it when sheriff as gotten a bit of a nasty slash during a spat they had together, hank had tied it around the wound and he let sheriff keep it. sheriff now uses it as part of his outfit from time to time. it alternates usually from 3 places : a hair tie for a low ponytail, tied around his arm, or most unseen, in his right back pants pocket. aaha. hheh. heh. ok i'm tired, there's more but big man wants to eat his damn ass food.. idk uh, my writing somewhat properly is escaping me

[furiousgoldfish]

To all of you who are feeling behind on survival skills, worried you won't be able to succeed in life because you're not allowed to learn/not able to learn, I want you to know that some basics are extremely easy to get once you're able to try it on your own, or even just have one person explain it to you.

When I ran away from home, I didn't know how to cook, I wasn't allowed to learn, and first month or so, I was preoccupied with just learning how to cook. What I learned was that it was far more easy than my parents ever made it seem. If you're trying to cook just for proper nutrition and not make some fancy meals, most of what you have to do is heat the groceries, and salt them. If you cut up some vegetables and put them in water an add salt, you will have a soup. If you lay them on a tray and put them in the oven, you've made food. You can put stuff in a pan with some oil and stir it on heat and you have a meal. For basic eating, it can be really that simple. I also was able to pick stuff up just from my roommates, who would happily answer my questions, and a lot of people out there will happily explain to you how they make a certain food, and of course, there's video tutorials for specific meals, if you want to make something more complex. Once you have absolute freedom in the kitchen, you will pick this up rapidly.

I have never used a washing machine prior to running away, and then one person showed me once how to use one, and that was that. I was washing-machine certified after that. I gained extra knowledge about cleaning it on the internet, and some people randomly had tips for me about it. I learned to handwash later as well, and that works good too.

I've struggled at the beginning, to find easy and cheap ways to get stuff; the most common way to get things is to go to the store, but I didn't have a lot of money, and buying things was too expensive for me. I've since discovered just where to find the second-hand markets, how to get people to give me their old clothing so I never have to buy any, how to temper with stuff I have so I wouldn't have to buy anything, at this point I even know how to fix shoes and sew my own stuff. I've fixed blinds on almost every window in here, without even knowing how, I just dismantled everything and figured it out. I've put together closets and lamps. I've learned to open up my own laptop and change the parts inside, I've even changed the screen on my own, by watching a video on how it's done. I've learned how to repaint walls, how to tend to plants, how to maintain a living space. Often I'd see someone else who is able to do these things, and just ask. People who are not parents have no reason to gatekeep this information, and they proudly told me how they do it.

I've learned to organize my stuff to the point where I'm able to easily clean a big mess, and I don't get overwhelmed with things anymore. I've had to do some reading on the internet to figure out the situation with finances and economy, and I also asked some people, got wildly different answers from every person. When I have the opportunity to chat with someone who has a specific job, I ask them about what they do, and have them describe to me how that field of work functions. It gave me insight into a lot of inner workings of society that were previously a mystery to me.

I was able to figure this all out while having zero faith in myself; I believed I was stupid, incapable of survival, honestly thought I would be dead within few months. I was reading army survival guides so I could survive in the wild if I ever got homeless. I was learning even without believing that all of this would help me, it's only now looking back at everything that I understand how much knowledge I gained just from trying it and doing it in every possible way until it clicked.

The most complex for me, were the social skills, since I'm still easily scared of people. But I am slowly making progress on that and finding better ways to deal with people's behaviours. Being curious works well because people love when someone is curious about them and shows interest in what they do. It's been a revelation that outside of my home, I really can just ask any question I am interested about, and will usually get some kind of an answer, and not 'how do you not know this already'. Outside of abusive homes, you're not expected to know everything, without ever being told.

While survival skills and independence are deeply forbidden in an abusive situation, being out of one will practically guarantee you that you'll get them. Sometimes you'll be forced to learn some stuff like cleaning and cooking and you'll have no choice but to learn, and it will become easier the more you do it. But nobody will make you feel bad for not doing it right the first time, there will be no punishment, no berating, you're free mess it up any amount of times, without any consequences. I would say that maybe you wasted some time and effort, but no time or effort is truly wasted when you're learning something; rather it takes that time and effort to learn. But it's not painful, it's not shameful, it's not forbidden anymore. You can learn a lot of things at your own ease and convenience, without worrying about someone's opinion on what you're doing. You can also learn dumb things and never be criticized or called out on it, you can do absolutely ridiculous stuff that brings you joy and no harm is done.

I know feeling behind sucks, and it feels shameful and horrible, but the good news is that you can catch up very quickly, and not only that. If you really want to have a lot of survival skills under your belt, and you keep learning, you will soon know more than most people do. You can out-do any person out there if you have a passion for it. I had people who were telling me how to do basic stuff, surprised at me knowing more than they knew, just months later. It's a great feeling!

[outlastrabbit]

Could I request Eddie Gluskin and a male s/o that sings with him please?

Reader Sings With Eddie Gluskin

You were wandering the vocational block as a variant, feeling almost at peace as a rare silence washed over this part of the asylum. You crept through the dark, looking over the old sewing machines when you heard a deep, rich voice sing…

“When I was a boy, my mother often said to me…” The man’s voice was charming and almost soothing, singing that old song you knew too well. “Get married, son, and see how happy you will be…”

You glanced around the dark room, trying to pin where the man was. His voice was coming from next door, and was slowly getting closer. It was a big risk, but you felt compelled to sing along.

“I have looked all over, but no girlie can I find…who seems to be just like the little girl I have in mind.” You sang back.

A silence fell back upon the vocational block. The singing man from the other room stopped in surprise to hear you sing along with him. The deafening silence was soon broken by the sound of his heavy footsteps, and he sang again…

“I will have to look around until the right one I have found.”

The singing stranger’s massive figure soon emerged from a dark doorway, revealing to be Eddie Gluskin. Your eyes widened as they met with his piercing blue ones, that grin still present on his scarred face. You couldn’t bring yourself to say something as he continued to stare creepily at you. Before you realised what you were doing, you finally opened your mouth again to sing…

“I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old dad.”

Eddie’s grin only widened as he slowly approached you, singing back… “she was a pearl, and the only girl that daddy ever had.” He sung in a now thin, excited voice.

Suddenly, you were all he saw. He was blind to everything else as he stalked towards you in the dark. The sound of your singing, your pretty eyes and your soft looking skin… he wanted it all.

And he was gonna take it.

[gulliblelemon]

hi there 🤗,

I re-read your fic "where we left off" yesterday (I was on a 14 hour flight 🫠) which I greatly enjoyed again, and I hope that you don’t mind me asking whether you have any headcanons about your very own wwlo-wilmon's future. Like 5 years later, where do they live, what do they do for a living, what hobbies have they got, what do they fight about, what do they dislike about the other, has Simon ever changed his hair style 🤭 and stuff like that.

have a nice day 🌸

Hi! Thank you for this lovely ask! I’m so glad my fic could entertain you on a flight.

I never mind being asked about my fics! I don’t always have great answers, but I do love talking about them. And I love that you’re interested enough to want to know.

I have actually started writing a small sequel to this. I hoped to post for the one year anniversary a few weeks ago but didn’t get round to finishing it. It’s not five years in the future though. It’s more a missing moment from Simon visiting Wille in England during the year he was away. That was supposed to be full of discovery and working out how to be together and fluff fluff fluff.

But five years later, I absolutely see them living together. Maybe a small house on the edge of a city? Close enough that Simon can visit his mum on the weekends, far enough that Wille feels removed from his old life.

But Wille did everything properly. And he feels content in the way he left everything. And his old life doesn’t haunt him. Much like a job that someone left because it no longer fulfilled them. He looks back with some fondness and some regret but no anguish any longer.

Simon went short (sorry!), he got fed up of maintaining the curls. Wille was a little upset, but he got over it. Because it’s Simon. And he loves everything about him. Maybe they’ll grow back at some point. Maybe Simon will miss how it felt to have Wille run his hands through them.

They’ve basically spent the last five years learning each other. They know each other so well, but also not at all. So the first couple of years were figuring out how they fit into each other’s lives.

I was purposely vague about what Simon was studying because I didn’t want to decide. I hope readers could insert whatever felt best for them. Maybe it was something music theory related? Or social work? Or something academic? Maybe it was science-y or book-ish or whatever else anyone can envisage him doing?

In my head, though, he has a steady job that keeps him engaged and interested and fulfilled but doesn’t take him away from his home and his friends and Wille too much. Wille spent a few years decompressing. There was also a lot leftover from his previous role, so he does some things from that still, because he didn’t want to leave anyone hanging. But he doesn’t mind. He was actually good at it. More recently I think he’ll have picked a vocation. Something that ignites him. Maybe something creative? Or maybe something that he thinks is helping people?

They fight about chores and household stuff. Neither of them are tidy, but both of them are used to living in tidy spaces. It took a while for them to figure out how to live with each other, but they got there, because they know so well what it’s like to be forced apart, and they refuse to let little squabbles get between them. They work so hard.

Simon has got back into music, Wille loves hearing him sing (obviously), but it stays as a hobby. Wille tries EVERYTHING, he’s trying to work out who he is outside of the monarchy. Maybe he hasn’t settled on anything yet. Maybe Simon sacrifices a room in their house for Wille’s abandoned hobby items: a sewing machine, model painting, knitting, painting. I think Wille takes up a sport. Maybe he joins a squash club to help channel his frustration.

They see Felice and Gustav regularly. Coffee dates and dinners and maybe even joint weekends away. Felice is still smug about it all, but they let her be.

But basically: the world is their oyster! Whatever headcanons you have can be true too!

Thank you for this ask! It made my day and Ive really enjoyed thinking about it 🥰

[pigeonwhumps]

Bruises

Everything taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Whumpuary day 21: bruises | "who are you?" | immortality

After being isolated and treated as a punching bag for far too long, Whumpee runs to the only place they hope they might be able to find safety.

1.7k

CWs: bruises, isolation, team whump, arguments, used as a punching bag, abuse, touch-starved

Whumpee knocks on the small metal door weakly, hand dropping to their side after three small knocks. They stand as upright as possible, hand on the wall to help, arm trembling under the weight, and hope it's enough.

The door opens after what feels like both a minute and an eternity, and Caretaker's there, seemingly unchanged after all this time in her ink-covered dungarees, hair braided and pulled back. She blinks at them, at their bruises and blood, at the patched drawstring bag over one shoulder and their scruffy, dirty clothes and shoes. They blink back, almost too tired to be embarrassed. Almost. How much of a mess must they look in her eyes?

"Whumpee?"

"You said once," they croak, "that if I needed someplace to crash then I could, no questions asked. Does that offer still stand?"

A million emotions flash through Caretaker's eyes at once, and Whumpee can't hope to make out what they are. Then she nods and steps aside.

"Honestly I was more thinking at home, it's more comfortable there, but sure. I have an armchair and snacks. Come on in."

Whumpee ducks their head and limps inside. They'd be happy naked on a cold metal floor so long as Whumper's not there. And she's not, would never be, because the whole reason Caretaker made the offer in the first place was because she didn't trust Whumper, didn't like her. It was why they fought.

She has every reason to say 'I told you so' and probably just as many ways to realise that, but she's not.

Caretaker's studio is nice. The old warehouse it's a part of isn't disguised entirely, old pipes and brickwork visible. Her rented space contains a sewing machine, cutting mat, screen printing press, inks and fabrics and threads of all colours and types, everything Whumpee would expect to see here, had they ever bothered to visit. They clutch the corded handle of their bag tightly. It's their most treasured possession, and this is where it's from.

Caretaker waves a hand in the direction of the armchair. "Get comfy. There's the sink if you need it, and the toilet's at the end of the hall. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Whumpee nods gratefully, waiting until Caretaker's left again before cleaning their hands and face, changing into fleecy pyjamas and curling up on the armchair, Teddy in hand. They avoid looking at themself while they do all of this, their appearance not something they want to dwell on. They must be making the furniture dirty, surely, but Caretaker told them to sit so she can't mind too much.

That makes a change. A change from being somewhere where they apparently matter less than everyone else, everything else, where they're so easy to dismiss that–

They swallow a sob, swallow it right down, keeping their emotions clenched tight inside. Caretaker doesn't need to see this, especially not when it's all their own stupid, naïve fault. Can't see what's right in front of their face sometimes, she said, and she was right. The bruises and cuts all down one side of their body from the last time they were dragged across the floor are proof of that. Fucking hell.

They close their eyes.

Next thing they know, someone's shaking their shoulder, setting their body throbbing. They snap their eyes open as Caretaker's hand withdraws.

Ow.

"Sorry. You still sleep like the dead. You also look like hell, so I've brought you a cup of tea, a pot noodle and some biscuits. Relax. You don't have to tell me what happened, I meant that, but I have some plasters and stuff if you need them?" Whumpee shakes their head. They're not going to use everything of Caretaker's when they can't even replace it, this is already way too much. "Okay. Well, drink, eat, sleep, whatever you need to do. I'll– I'll be here. This time. Okay?"

"It wasn't your fault last time," Whumpee whispers. They'd walked out on Caretaker, not the other way round.

Caretaker hums non-committally, in that way that means she disagrees but doesn't want to risk starting an argument, and Whumpee sighs, sipping at their tea with shaking hands. Chamomile, their favourite. They don't want an argument either. Everything has already hurt more than enough recently.

They eat half of the pot noodle without taking a breath. Then they force themself to put it down and look up at Caretaker, who has a concerned frown on her face as she works, sketching in her book.

"You were right. She was awful."

Caretaker looks up. "Whumper?"

Whumpee nods. All those awful things they'd yelled at Caretaker, because they were stupid and starstruck and couldn't see what was right in front of them. And they can't even excuse any of it, because she was right, entirely right, and she's just let them right back in like the last thing they saw wasn't her looking so completely crestfallen.

"I'm sorry, Caretaker. I was horrible to you and you just... you're too good." Too good for them, too good for this world.

She smiles bitterly. "I wasn't entirely innocent in that fight. You always act like I'm either one or the other. That fight was awful, on both sides, but we're here now. Water under the bridge. Okay?"

"Okay."

"For the record, I did hope I was wrong."

Whumpee nods and dives into the remainder of their pot noodle. Better eat now, while they can. Caretaker goes back to drawing at her standing desk.

After a while, they take a sip of their tea. "It was okay at first. Good, even. She was my mentor. I did what she said, I learned, I got to socialise with her and the rest of her team. I helped. It felt good. But then she... I don't know when it started but..."

They trail off. They don't know when Whumper started using her as a punching bag. It wasn't immediately, but then the tasks got harder and the punishments got harsher and Whumper got angrier and they were isolated and then there they were, a convenient punching bag and... other things. Worse things.

"I couldn't tell. Who would I tell? How would I tell? She threatened me. Threatened you. But I– I– it hurt so much, Caretaker."

"She's the one who left you like this?"

Whumpee nods. It's not the worst they've been, but they don't say that, not trying to garner unmerited sympathy from Caretaker. It's their own fault.

"I'm glad you got out of there."

"She's not the reason it hurt so much."

Caretaker cocks her head in concern. "Her team?"

Whumpee nods. Stops to take a long drink and sinks into their seat, wrapping their arms around themself. This is a lot to think about.

They don't know why they're talking, but they are, and that means thinking about it. About what happened, about everything. And that hurts. It's embarrassing, too, they should've guessed. Caretaker did.

They thought the team was just oblivious. Now they're not so sure.

"My first complaint... it didn't... I made everything worse even when I chickened out. Whumper knew I was going to, even though I didn't. And then I tried again through proper channels and it... Team Leader... he already knew. He asked me to... I showed him! And I got suspended when I wouldn't withdraw it. And Whumper... she... I was stupid, I stayed, I thought I could survive it, I thought I'd be fine but she... and now I'm just a coward. What if she hurts someone else? Or if she makes good on her threat against you? I thought she couldn't but..."

Caretaker stares for a moment and then grins cockily. "Come on Whumpee, you know what I used to do for a living, I'll be fine."

"Don't. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Stop acting like it's all fine. It's not, and you don't know that it'll be okay! This isn't an assassination and even if it was you remember how we met! Stop trying to– to– stop lying to me!"

Whumpee takes a deep breath, trying to calm themself. They're not being fair, they know that. She's trying to help. They just– how can she pretend it's all okay when it's so very not?

"Sorry."

Caretaker shakes her head. "I'm sorry. Maybe I'm being a bit flippant. But I will be okay. I'll make sure of it, I promise."

"You'd better."

Whumpee shifts, wincing. Curling up so tight hurts, tugging and pushing at the bruises and burns and cuts, but it's safer. No way to kick your chest in if they can't get to it.

"Are you sure you don't at least want painkillers?"

They shake their head. No drugs. No forced weakness and compliance. No weird hallucinations. No... god knows what. Not today.

"Okay. Try to sleep. If I'm not here when you wake don't panic, I just need to sort some things."

Despite the matter-of-fact soothing layered on top, Whumpee knows that tone of voice, all impending action. And they know what she's planning to do. They look Caretaker directly in the eyes.

"Don't do something you'll regret, Caretaker."

She looks taken aback for a moment at their sudden fierceness but then gives a toothy grin, like a predator that's scented blood.

"Oh, who says I'd regret it?"

"I mean just don't– don't get yourself hurt. She's dangerous."

"I know that. So am I." She must see something in Whumpee's bruised and battered face because she softens, tucking her pencil behind her ear and crossing the room to crouch in front of them. Broadcasting her every move, she presses a soft kiss to their forehead. "It was my job for thirty years. It's just a relief to find someone that I'm happy to use my skills on."

Caretaker rests her hands on their upper arms and they lean into the touch, despite the pain at the pressure. Tears prick at their eyes. This warm closeness without malicious intent... it's been too long.

"If you get yourself captured or killed I will bring you back from the depths of Hell and skin you alive for doing that to me. So don't. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Whumpee glares half-heartedly. "I promise."

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Improper - A Luca Changretta/Reader One Shot Story.

Ahhh, this took me back to my youth, besties, writing the experience of a first time with a first love! So yes, as I mentioned yesterday, this features a young!Luca, he and reader both losing their virginity to one another ahead of their wedding. Because they're naughty. Haha! Enjoy :)

Words - 3,750

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

He was always the handsomest boy in school, with the darkest hair and the most irresistible, peridot flecked eyes, the Italian blood running through his veins giving him something extra where appearance was concerned. Nobody else looked anything like Luca Changretta. He was tall, too. Even at twelve when you both left the classroom behind, but god, what four years did to that handsome boy, turning him into the most gorgeous young man you’d ever laid eyes upon.  

He knew it, too. Knew what he had. Knew he looked more like a twenty-year-old than a kid of sixteen. Knew there were grown women in their early twenties who – as they put it - ‘wouldn’t half give that Changretta lad a run for his money, I can tell you!’ as they viewed him with lust in their eyes, their improper thoughts spoken in hushed whisper. After all, for a lady to speak that is wholly uncouth, but you could scarcely blame them. He is magnificently handsome. 

Luca doesn’t want them, though. His desire only has eyes for one. You.  

Mills & Floss is a small factory operation right on the boundary between Small Heath and Bordesley Green, where you’ve found work as a sewing machine operative. From seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, your fingers feed delicate fabrics into a sewing machine. Curtains, tablecloths, cushion covers, everything relating to home furnishings. It’s tedious work, but it’s a wage, a few vital shillings to go towards your mother’s pot at the end of every week to pay your keep.  

In your household, you either worked or you married. The latter was going to happen, too, your parents and Luca’s arranging everything, a summer wedding scheduled for that year of 1896. With just weeks to wait, it will be simply wonderful; no longer seeing him under the supervision of a chaperone, free to do whatever you want with the boy who has enamoured you completely.  

What you want above all? Well, it’s what all young people wish for secretly, beneath the veil of modesty and properness. As it turns out, you will receive it much sooner than your wedding night, too.  

“’Ere! Your young man is waiting for you outside, (Y/N)!”  

Your head shoots up from where you’ve been retying your bootlace, the boom of Victoria, the loudest of the sewing machine operatives reaching you from the window she peers out of. Bustling over to her side, your grin widens in an instant to see your love there, the women all cooing softly as they notice the rosy blush flushing your cheeks.  

“No chaperone either, ooh! Now there’s a thing!” Elsie, a girl of your age whispers, all the women giggling. 

You wave a dismissive hand. “There is bound to be one. His cousin will be milling around somewhere, he always is.” Indeed, your meetings with Luca are always supervised, that supervision usually coming in the form of both of your parents when the families meet for dinner, or Fabrizio, Luca’s cousin, who watches you both like a hawk should Luca call to court you away from either of the family homes.  

Even a simple stroll around the centre of Birmingham, or a visit to the park to spectate at the band stand, and you must be escorted by a third.  

It is a surprise to have your love meet you from work, even more so that when you peer into the street below, there is no sign of Fabrizio. You were expecting them both a little later to call upon you at home, Luca mentioning something about a walk to the local boating lake.  

“He’s probably gone to buy cigarettes.” You decree, feeling a little uncomfortable about the connotations of it, your love waiting for you with no chaperone in sight. What would people think? Moving away, you collect your little lacy shawl and wrap it around your shoulders, lifting your dress as you take the stairs down to the bottom floor, past the rows of sewing machines now come to a still, the factory about to close for the day.  

“Afternoon,” Luca greets you with casually, chewing on a matchstick nonchalantly, removing it to take your hand and kiss it. “You look beautiful, as always.” 

Oh, his charm. He’d be insufferable with that little slither of arrogance, if he wasn’t so damned cute with it, too. It's the little hint of boy there still lurking within the tall, gorgeous young man that sets your heart to flutter every single time.  

“Thank you,” you smile, “and you appear to be missing a cousin.”  

The way his lips curl into a grin has your insides melting. He never fails to make you swoon. “I am. Do you want to know what else I’m missing?” he asks, loosely draping his arms around your waist. 

“Go on,” you urge. 

He leans to your ear, fingers teasing a little circle over the boning of your bodice. “Parents at my house. They’re out until later tonight, Angel is god knows where, so I have an empty house and beautiful girl I want to take back to enjoy it in.”  

Your gasp has him laughing softly. “Luca! You don’t mean...” 

“I do.” He continues to laugh as you take his arm, walking away from the factory. “You need to stop with that prim and proper demeanour. When Fabrizio left us alone last time, the way you kissed me said loud and clear exactly what you wanted.”  

You can’t help but tease a little in the face of his cockiness. “And what do I want, Luca?” 

“Me,” he begins, leaning in close, “naked against you, pushing my nice, thick cock right up into your...” 

“That’s enough!” A slap hits his chest, your love laughing loudly. “At least in public.”  

Those words put a definite spring in his step as you walk towards the horse tram stop. Luca’s house isn’t too far, but with an added urgency to return, a faster means of transportation than mere feet upon cobblestones is required. He pays for you both while you greet the two beautiful, black shire horses with a stroke upon their velvety muzzles, climbing aboard to sit at the rear.  

The tram moves off after a few more people have climbed aboard, and for the entire duration of the journey, you are beside yourself with nerves and excitement in equal measures. Sex before marriage is scandalous, shocking behaviour, definitely not to be partaken of. Your love is not the type of man to be so dissuaded, though. He’s rebellious through and through, and that in itself makes it all the more exciting.  

You’re about to go and partake in something very enjoyable; the reality that you both know you shouldn’t be doing it only adds to the thrill. As does the fact that he sits with his hand rested upon your thigh, fingertips gently squeezing.  

“I can’t wait to take this dress off of you, peel away your underwear and kiss you all over, my sweet amore,” he whispers, kissing the side of your neck, making you shiver as you try not to grin. There’s an older woman sitting nearby, looking at you both with utter distain for such public displays of affection. “And I do mean all over.” 

To kiss him right now would be enough, but hearing how he wants to place his mouth all over you has heat gently misting your skin, the confidence he shows over what’s about to happen adding to the heady rush. He’s never done it before, or at least if he has, he fibbed to you when he said that he hadn’t.  

He speaks with all the confidence of a man who has enjoyed a woman, though, and goodness how it turns your senses inside out. It makes you feel daring and full of zest, enough to take your fan from the small bag you carry and flick it open, giving yourself a liberal wafting before holding it in front of your face, boldness ensnaring you, pulling him into a heated kiss behind it.  

Those kisses have you tingling between your thighs, his tongue nudging and swirling with yours, pulling away from him before it gets a little too heated. You shan’t disgrace yourself publicly, although the move did attract a few negative eyes. All except for one lady, surprisingly the most elderly upon the horse tram, who chuckles to herself as you blush a little.  

“Oh, ‘tis young love!” she admonishes the whispers of the other passengers. “Leave them be, for heaven’s sake!” Shaking her head, she turns to you. “These pompous women here, acting as if they never kissed a boy behind a fan. I certainly did when I was a girl.” She then stands, smoothing her billowing skirt, ready to alight. “Enjoy your afternoon, my darlings.”  

“We will.” Luca chimes brightly, nudging your side. Oh, he truly is pure devilment. Those women still view him with utter distain, your love smirking, eyeing them back with defiance until they look away. They’ve picked the wrong lad here, if they wished for him to feel shame. You’re quite certain that Luca doesn’t know the meaning of the word.  

Four stops later and you are climbing from the tram, taking his arm once more and walking a little further up Coventry Road, towards the townhouse the Changretta family call home. It is a stark difference to your own residence, your family not poor but not as wealthy as his, your home above the pub your parents run much less spacious. Luca even has his own bedroom, a foreign concept to you entirely, having to share with your younger sisters.  

That bedroom is where he takes you after entering the empty house, removing your boots at the door as per Luca’s mother’s wishes, passed on through him. The anticipation ramps up with every step you take up the steep staircase, your heart thrumming as the nervousness of it winds through your belly.  

Entering the room, you glance around, taking in your surroundings. The bed is actually a double, Luca having told you that already, that he enjoys spreading out as he sleeps so nagged his mother into it. It’ll be coming with you to your new home once you are married, along with all the dark, carved wooden furniture. Vincente and Audrey have been very generous in purchasing a little back-to-back for you to begin married life in, and you cannot wait until you are carried over the threshold in your wedding dress. 

The only dress on your mind at the moment is the one your love’s hands smooth over as he stands behind you, fingers pattering over the fastening of your bodice as you remove your shawl, feeling the lacings binding you tightly begin to loosen. He pauses, and you feel him stiffen a little. He’s never undressed somebody before, of course.  

Turning to him, you reach behind yourself, loosening the fastenings further, allowing you to wiggle yourself free of the tight restrictions, pulling the ribbon that ties your underskirt as well, the masses of fabric pooling in a froth around your ankles as you step from them. His eyes ink with lust at seeing you there before him only in undergarments, your hands still toying, unhooking your brassiere before revealing your breasts to his hungry eyes.  

“I think the rest should be easy enough for you to take off yourself,” you speak, reaching for him.  

His hands roam over your skin for the first time, and your heart pangs a little to feel them tremble against you, a little slip in the bravado he’s show so far. Unless those shudders are excited energy. Perhaps a little of both as he steps nearer, nuzzling you softly before his mouth covers yours.  

The kisses you share are urgent, but not frantic, building steadily as you move with him to the bed. He sheds his jacket, your hands taking up the task of undoing his tie and shirt, the movements all a little awkward as he removes your undergarments. Seeing what lies beneath his clothes is a sight that you shall never forget, a beautiful, lean body ridged with slender muscles, smatterings of dark hair flecking his chest and belly, his light olive skin celestial soft and blemish free.  

Your hands explore him, nails softly grazing, your lips pressing kisses against his chest. His skin is hot, sumptuous in feel, shaky hands wandering as you finally dare to lower your gaze. Oh, wow. So that’s what a cock looks like, swollen and hard, begging for your hand as it bobs a little. You’ve no clue what on earth to do with it, but the grasp and gentle tug as your fingers close around it pulls a soft groan from him.  

He remains standing as you seat yourself on the edge of his bed, your hand running from the base to tip of him, tongue licking over the line of dark hair running down from his navel. A shy smile spreads across your mouth, tongue circling his navel, watching the way his hips tremble. You have him at your mercy, and the brand-new sensation of sexual power over him is a strong current that runs right through you.

“If you wanted to put your mouth where your hand is, I wouldn’t stop you,” he speaks, voice deepened a few octaves, that gravelled rasp making your cunt twitch.  

Humming a chuckle, you flicker a lick over the head of him, his breath catching in his throat. “I bet you wouldn’t.” Participation is learning, you figure, guiding that silky skin covered steel to your lips and closing them around the head, sucking gently, his knees almost buckling. A little more pressure has him panting, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling the combs that keep it in its neat updo free to tumble, groaning as he watches himself vanish in your mouth.  

“Fuck,” he grits, the cuss making your insides tighten pleasantly, “that’s so fucking good.” His praise spurs you, pausing to trail your tongue all over his hardness, your nails gently grazing his chest. You can feel his heart pounding hard, excitement that you are the one evoking such tingling over your bones as your eyes find his.  

“I love the way it feels in my mouth. It’s bloody beautiful. I’ve heard the girls at work call them ugly, but yours isn’t.” You praise, licking the head with a little flicker, his moans deepening so much, you do it again. Trembles wrack his muscles, goose pimples rising over his skin, his hips beginning to sway back and forth, cusses falling from his mouth upon every groan until he pulls away suddenly, pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Feels too good. Don't want to be spent before it’s even begun.” His lips meet yours, his body pinning you down into the bed, the heat of his skin wickedly beautiful as it presses to your nakedness. Hands and mouths wander, the exploration so shiny and new, flocks of butterflies blooming into flight in your belly, his mouth delivering keen kisses to your neck.  

You inhale a sharp breath to feel the heat of his mouth suck upon your nipple, Luca shifting off you a little, access to stroke your body granted as his hand lowers, your thighs parting. That first stroke through your folds causes the breath to hitch in your throat, his lips finding yours, both panting against the kisses you share. You almost feel shame at how wet you are, a little embarrassed at the keenness your body shows, but the way his fingers feel as they glide over the silky petals of your cunt quickly diminish that.  

He plays with you gently, each stroke lowering, a finger breaching you. You feel beautiful to him, slick and hot, heavenly upon the inside as your walls pulse upon his finger, adding a second, slowly pushing them back and forth. The pleasure of it darts hot beneath your skin, the sensation of a part of him within you, the intimacy of it, stroking his face as your hips buck up against his touch. On instinct, his fingers curl a little, and it sends lightning flickering up your spine, whimpering as he kisses your neck, his mouth descending as his body shifts down the bed.  

His eyes shine with arousal as he finally reaches your sex, his fingers replaced, steering a firm lick between your folds. You whimper, that first contact so good, your legs close tightly around his head. 

“Sorry,” you offer as he pushes them apart, Luca laughing quietly against the slick wet of you. 

“At least I know you like it.” There’s an upside to being clamped between two thighs, you suppose. Another lick gilds you, sends warmth rushing over your skin, especially when you feel his tongue nudge at your little bud, your back arching as you gasp. 

“There,” you pant, practically writhing before him. “Oh, right there!” 

He seeks it, the tip of his tongue snaking back and forth, smiling as your reaction delights his ears, those sweet moans and cries like celestial music. He can’t get enough of how you feel against his mouth, the taste of you intoxicating as he laves thirstily, sucking, kissing your tender nub, tongue flicking over you, your nails trawling his scalp as he gives you exactly what you crave. The nectar of your cunt floods his tongue, and it makes his heart skip a beat, the intimacy of it, how much it arouses him to have his mouth all over your most sacred of places, the noises it draws from you making his cock throb. 

“You taste beautiful.” he murmurs, arms winding beneath your thighs, gripping them, treating your aqueous slit to long, firm licks, evoking quivers that shiver you from head to toe. He grants no clemency from the hypnotic beat of his tongue over your bud, tasting your hot, pink folds with swirls and flickers as you gush onto his lips.

You twitch against each lick, every carefully administered circling of his hungry tongue, your hands gripping his slender shoulders, your hips keening against the utter glory of what his mouth conjures. He draws cusses from you as you pant, your body spasming so hard as he begins to suck your bud that you’re unsure if your response is of pulling away or shunting closer, crying out as you’re eaten with ruinous gusto.    

He’s certainly thriving on doing this, and lord, how it shows. 

He has you beginning to spark against each well-placed lick, his mouth making you tighten, your walls in full clench, only sated by the arrival of his fingers into your slick, raking firmly, a smile playing his lips as he watches you tremble.    

The heat of his mouth has you literally melting for him, Luca panting against your dewy folds as he assails your clit with firm circles, driving out pleasure from the very root of you, skittering through you as your hips purl and flex, the waves of your release washing over you ceaselessly, leaving you a panting, shaking wreck. So, that’s what it feels like to come for somebody. Goodness, it felt like absolutely nothing else you could ever compare it to.  

Pulling his head from between your legs, you fight for breath, your love leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses up your body until he’s claiming your lips once more. Reaching between you, he positions his cock at your still fluttering opening, nuzzling you sweetly, pushing until he slips in with ease.  

Your body tenses for a second, expecting pain. You’ve heard that the first time hurts, but you feel absolutely nothing even remotely close to discomfort at taking him inside you, stroking one another tenderly as you kiss, your mutual gaze so loving and fond.  

“Ahhh, fuck. You feel incredible,” he groans, stroking your face. “Does it feel okay? Not hurting you, am I, amore?”  

His care touches you deeply, running your fingers through his soft, dark hair. “No, you feel perfect. You and your beautiful cock.” you chirp, making him laugh softly, that chuckle turning into a groan as he pushes a little deeper, filling you. The warm pool of syrupy heat bathing his cock sends little shocks skittering through him, the feel unlike anything else, ecstasy raining comets to burn his blood as those same little hails of light flicker through you.  

It's a sensual, blooming rush of pleasure, your arms entwining one another, your bodies moving a little awkwardly together to begin with until the rise and fall is met with perfect sync, his mouth placing tender kisses at your neck. Every ridge of his cock scraping against your tender walls feels wickedly decadent, pleasure coiling tightly, his body quickening as you wrap your legs around his slender waist, nails digging into his back. 

“Oh my god, yes, fuck me!” you wail, clutching on around him as he pounds you into the bed, head lowering to suck your nipple with a deep, gritty groan. The heat of it burns like a furnace, that pleasure winding ever tighter as you feel yourself escalating, your nails grazing down his back as your spine-melting release rushes like a spring breeze over your nerves. It’s white hot and consuming, feeling his cock twitching as his teeth clamp on your nipple and he floods your cunt with cum, leaving you dizzy and panting.  

It feels like your entire body is a garden bursting into bloom beneath him, the sweetness of your release still tingling through you as you kiss him, feeling his cock gently twitching within the snug clasp of your sodden cunt. Oh, how you can barely wait to be his wife, and enjoy what you just did with him whenever you want to. You must admit, though, the fact that you shouldn’t have done it was half the fun of having sex with him in the first place.  

Still, nothing can take the sheen of it away. That sheen lasts right up until your wedding day, hardly able to wait until he carries you across the threshold of your new home, placing you down in the lounge.  

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he sighs against your neck, unfastening your wedding gown. 

You can’t help a little sarcasm. “Oh yes, those three weeks truly were an eternity, weren’t they?” 

“Shut up,” he chides, slapping your bum. “Of course, they were. I knew how good what I had waiting for me was.” 

It’s even better the second time around.  

[thewritingbeforesunrise]

Crave.

18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI

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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?

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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.

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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

[miniscule-meow]

Isabell and the Lads (15)

Masterpost Wordcount: ~2.5k First Part | Last Part | Next Part

The quiet morning slipped pleasantly into the afternoon. Zeke brought her pancakes for breakfast, along with water for a hot bath, assuring her that ‘the internet’ said she was allowed to get her stitches wet now.

She’d never had access to that much water, never mind hot water. Going to collect water is enough of a hassle, but having to heat it up too? It’s almost never worth it, especially not for something like a bath. Hygiene is important, absolutely. Staying clean is an important part of staying healthy. But she achieved that through practical means, like with dips in cold puddles after a storm, or with a collection of lukewarm water from a leaking pipe.

Zeke wasn’t stingy when he placed a full bowl of warm water on her shelf, like it was nothing to him.

Her own mind tussled with itself for a moment, warning her that she can’t get used to something like this. Food being brought to her, warm baths being made for her. It feels like a luxury, but she needs to consider the cost. If she stayed like this, she would be no better than a pet. She could survive cold showers if that meant that she had her freedom.

Of course, her worries melt when she submerges herself in the pleasant water. Feeling weightless, the tension unwinds from her shoulders, a sigh escapes her lips. This might be the happiest she’s been in weeks. A human gave her this. It’s still so baffling to her, but she can’t make herself worry about it when everything feels so good right now.

After taking the time to just enjoy the water, she gets to work scrubbing herself clean. She takes extra care around her wounded leg.

Now she’s full, she’s clean, with a fresh bandage on her leg, and she’s just finished combing out her hair.

She feels like a new borrower.

Now comes the matter of getting dressed. Her old clothes are obviously ruined. She washes what she can save, but for the most part her outfit is shredded and stained with blood. So, she turns her attention to the pile of doll clothes Zeke placed in her room. He had taken the Velcro off of them, and upon her stuttered request, he gave her a needle and thread so that she could make her own modifications to the garments.

She sorts through the pile. There are a couple large t-shirts that would be practical enough to wear, but aside from that her options are mostly limited to dresses. She holds one up. It’s…. pretty. And entirely impractical. The powder blue fabric would blend in with nothing. The layers of the skirt only go to her knees, but she can imagine the flowing ruffles getting snagged on everything.

She puts it on anyway.

The halter neckline ties around the back of her neck, then the dress ties together at her low back. This leaves her back entirely exposed. Leaning against her crutch, she turns in the mirror, and frowns. Something like this wasn't made for something like her. Isabell can see the dark edges of bruises blooming across her ribs all across her right side. Over her shoulder there’s an old scar from a run it with a rat. Then of course, there’s the bulky bandage holding her leg together. She’s got more bumps and scrapes than anyone would know what to do with. With her rotten luck, it’s a miracle that she’s still alive.

Despite feeling as though the beauty of the dress is lost on her, she leaves it on. At least for now. It’s soft. And besides, when else would she have an opportunity to wear something so frivolous?

She spends some time sewing, resolving the undergarment situation, and making some shorts to wear under the dress.

Eventually, footsteps approach once more. Her heart stutters, and her wide eyes jump to the curtain. She holds her breath, waiting. But the human doesn’t come over to the shelf at all. She hears the squeak of a chair, then the rhythmic hum of a sewing machine. Zeke. She’s sure that before this month is done, she’ll be able to tell the humans apart by their footsteps alone.

They exist in this space for a while, near each other, yet separate. Zeke sits at his desk, sewing, and Isabell stays on her shelf, doing the same. Honestly, it’s kind of nice. It makes everything seem a little less lonely. There is no pressure to really socialize. There's no having to confront the reality of their vast size difference. It's just nice. After a while, he breaks the comfortable silence between them.

“Hey Isabell,” his chair shifts, but he doesn’t approach just yet. “I can grab that stuff out of your room, if you’re ready.”

“Alright,” she calls out to him, setting aside her project.

He finally comes over, his shadow darkening the curtained wall before his fingers reach in, pulling up the fabric dividing her from the rest of the room. Despite his size, he doesn’t feel imposing. She doesn’t know how he’s managing that. It could just be that she’s more relaxed now. It could be how purposeful his movements are. It could be that she trusts him. Her, trusting a human? Impossible. But she does. At least, she trusts him enough to know that he’s not just going to grab her. It's not much, but it's a start.

When he does reach in, his movements are slow and intentional. She doesn’t even flinch as he clears away the napkin from her breakfast, and the bowl she took a bath in. Once he’s cleared the stuff away, he glances over to find her sitting comfortably on her bed. Her dark hair is down, and mostly dried now. It’s curling in gentle waves over one shoulder. He does a double take when he sees her, and her pulse quickens now that she’s the sole focus of his attention. She hugs her arms to herself, suddenly aware of how bare they are.

“You look nice,” he breathes quietly. Her cheeks flush, his words catching her off guard.

“T-thank you. I, I’m uh, It’s good that I don’t need to go out borrowing like this. I- this isn’t exactly subtle,” she attempts a smile, fluffing out the fabric of her skirt. “I don’t think I’d blend in with anything wearing this.”

“Probably not,” his lips pull into a humored smirk, the look sends a warm flutter through her stomach. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“I, yeah. I feel a lot better.” Honestly, she feels better than she has in months, minus the pain in her leg. But even that has numbed to a bearable thrum now that she’s actually been staying off of it.

“That’s good,” his nods, “I’m going to take a break here in a little bit, for lunch. I can just leave you be and bring it to you when its ready, unless you need anything?”

“I-I’m alright. Thanks.”

He nods, pulling his gaze away from her. He reaches to pull down the curtain wall once more. He’s entirely content to just… leave her alone. It’s such a little thing, but it means a lot to her. All morning, he’s been willing to let her do her own thing. He hasn’t wanted to toy with her, or observe her, or have her entertain him. He’s let her simply exist. He's really unlike any other human she's ever had the misfortune of meeting. She thinks back to the meager trust she's built with him, and before she can overthink it, she speaks up.

“Actually, Zeke?” Her words cause him to pause. “Can, um, I know you’re probably busy, but could I- um, if you don’t mind, a-and I could entertain myself I just… I could be… out there. We could hang out? I mean- I mean I’d let you work, I could just read or something but. O-or I could stay in here, I just. Either way,” she stammers through this, butchering the request entirely. Zeke looks at her for a moment, mentally deciphering what it was that she was asking of him.

“Oh. Yeah, of course you can come out here,” He reaches back in, slowly resting his hand down in front of her. "I'd be happy for the company," he adds gently.

She places herself in the center of his palm, settling in, letting him carry her over to his desk. This whole 'trusting a human' thing is tentative and new for her, but it’s enough that she’s comfortable letting him hold her, at least for such a short trip. She knows he won’t grab her; she knows that he’s careful. This should be fine.

It should be. But once he stands, he doesn’t get further than one step before halting suddenly enough to jostle her. She twists to look at him as he sucks in a sharp breath. His stoic features reveal very little, but something is wrong. Instead of continuing on to his desk, he pulls her up closer to his face, turning his hand to see her back again.

Oh, right.

She didn’t consider that her gnarly bruise would be fully on display for him in this dress. The open back showcases the purples and blues smattered across her entire side, letting him see just enough to know that it’s worse moving under the fabric. Her heart pounds against her chest, her shoulders tense. Isabell twists to look at him again, but he’s observing her so closely, all she’s met with is his furrowed brow, and his giant green eyes filling her entire field of vision.

“Let me see,” he says firmly, twisting his wrist again to position her where he wants her.

Right where he wants her. And what could she possibly do to get in the way of what he wants? He's the human after all. She's the foolish little borrower that thew herself directly into his hands.

Her breathing quickens, growing shallow in her chest. The intensity of his gaze against her exposed back skyrockets her pulse and sends cold sparks down her spine. She feels so bare, so vulnerable, so tiny.

“Is that from me?” He asks, his voice low, dangerous. Every alarm in her head is going off at once.

“It-I- It’s n-no. No,” she barely chokes the words out. “It’s- It- It’s from- um- It’s- uh- from before.” She squeezes her eyes shut, bunching two fistfuls of her skirt in her hands. She tries to remain calm enough to form coherent sentences, but she can’t seem to catch her breath.

“Isabell,” he sounds dead serious.

“Can- can you- can you put me down?” The words spill out of her, her whole body is trembling now. It’s hard for her to breathe, harder for her to focus on anything more than the panic igniting through her veins.

Zeke hesitates, and for one terrible moment she’s certain that he’ll say no. The sprouting blooms of trust have withered inside of her. This was a horrible mistake. She put herself right in this situation, and now she's going to be surprised that this was the outcome? She mentally scolds herself. Of course this would happen. He's a human, she's a borrower. They mix like oil and water. She can only expect that things will just get worse from here.

“Put-put me down,” she insists, growing frantic. She twists to face him again, “Zeke? Please?”

“Okay," he blinks, pulling her away from his face. "Okay, I’m sorry,” He moves her to his desk. As soon as his hand touches down, she scrambles from his palm, taking her crutch with her. Not wanting to keep her back the the human any longer. She whirls around quickly, her skirt twirling around her. Zeke stands over her, retracting his hand slowly. His eyes are glued to her with an intensity that is doing nothing to calm her sporadic heart rate. Is he afraid she'll run? How much running could she possibly do with the state her leg is in. No, she's trapped and he knows it.

Zeke sits in his chair and leans down slowly, putting his massive form on her level. Or at least, making an attempt to do so. His eyes flick across her form, taking her in, assessing the damage.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Your side is… that’s pretty bad, huh?”

“It’s not from you,” she asserts firmly, shaking her head. She focuses on slowing her breathing down before telling Zeke about her failed borrowing mission, and the misfortune she faced even before slicing through her leg and winding up stuck with them. “The guy, like, kicked me across his entire living room,” she finishes. Zeke just looks at her. The way he's chewing his lip piercing and fidgeting with his hands tells her that he is uncomfortable, even though he has yet to say anything. “I think that he thought I was a mouse,” she offers.

“That… doesn’t make any of that any better,” he says numbly.

She doesn’t have a response for that.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt?” He asks.

She doesn’t have a response for that either. She opens her mouth, but no real sound comes out. She shrugs, resisting the urge to just curl in on herself.

“If I had known I… I could have been more careful. I mean…” he shakes his head. “Did I hurt you last night?” He asks, leaning in a bit closer to her.

She has an answer for this one, but she would really rather not give it to him. Putting everything in perspective, he didn’t really hurt her. But then, she remembers the panic she felt when he grabbed her, and how she thought she could fight her way out against someone whose hand is larger than her whole body. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The vertigo of being tumbled to his other hand. His thumb pressing firmly into her tender ribs. The air being briefly forced from her lungs as she was shoved against his fingers. She shudders at the memory. Zeke takes her haunted silence as her answer.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again looking away from her.

“It’s… I don’t blame you. If anything, I deserved it—” Zeke doesn’t interrupt her, but from the intensity of his gaze snapping back to her, she knows that she’s said the wrong thing. “I-I just, I mean, I… I bit you.”

“So?” He practically growls the word, “That doesn’t mean I just get to retaliate however I want to. I could have handled that whole situation differently, then you wouldn’t have felt like you needed to defend yourself. I… You can’t seriously believe that you deserved to get hurt.”

“I bit you; you squeezed me. It’s just… It’s a-a natural turn of events. It makes sense. Cause and effect,” she grumbles. “It wouldn’t have been a big deal if my ribs weren’t already messed up.”

“Are you sure it’s just a bruise? Nothing is broken?”

“I don’t think you can do anything for a broken rib. You’re just supposed to deal with it and… avoid breaking anything in the first place,” Zeke responds with a dissatisfied hum.

“You must think we’re monsters,” he sighs after a moment, not looking at her now.

“No,” she says with heavy consideration. “Not you. Not Marcus.”