#i like to clutter spaces for more lived in look instead of too much empty space so it just sucks theres sm space/limit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

weaselle · 8 months ago

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@ffoxer howdy! happy to oblige :)

i used to have a dresser and a bunch of hangers in my closet and like, closet organizer thingamabobs, but instead of using any of that stuff my clothes were always in several piles around my room.

And i felt shitty about it all the time but couldn't seem to make myself the kind of person who kept their clothes folded and organized. My room was constantly cluttered with clothes like drifts of snow scattered and piled here and there. Like, i felt really REALLY shitty about that. Deep shame

any ADHDers and spoonies out there relate?

SO one day, i said to myself, what if i'm okay the way i am? What if i just need to refine how i already do things a little bit instead of insisting on reinventing my entire identity?

Did i really care about being the kind of person who's socks were rolled just so, and whose shirts were all folded perfectly and arranged by color or whatever?

What i did care about was not living in a cluttered, messy, unorganized, embarrassing space.

And it turns out my piles WERE an organization system. What's more, my piles were a system that had been shaped by the way i actually use my clothes, it was a system that made sense for how i live my life. And i bet it's the same for most of you who relate to what i've been saying so far.

There were the clothes that were dirty, the clothes that had been worn but could be worn again, and the clean clothes (often dumped from the washer to the bed with the intent of folding and putting away, then slept next to when that didn't happen, and finally transferred to the floor next to my bed or piled in my closet once i gave up)

These three piles (dirty, clean, wear again) made up my "i wear this stuff all the time" wardrobe, and then everything else was still in the dresser i never actually used, with a few remaining almost-never-worns hanging in the closet.

This made my dresser, essentially, just a bin of clothes i could label "rarely wear"

And the thing i hated about my piles was that they looked messy, and took up too much space, and cluttered my room, and anyone who came into my room instantly assumed i was a disaster of a human because that's what it looked like. And, honestly, that's what it felt like too.

But i could change all of that and still have piles if i just... put my piles in bins! Then they would clearly be on purpose. And contained. And on purpose contained piles aren't a mess! They're a tidy organizational system.

So i got rid of my dresser and most of my hangers and i bought four of those plastic bins with the lids that you can get anywhere from hardware stores to target. Now, if you want to inhabit a fancier lifestyle, you can get nicer bins, they make all kinds, from canvas to wicker to polished wood or whatever suits your style and budget, I'm currently using the plastic ones, but when i move i'm planning on getting something more like this

the point is, these bins contain my piles without me having to change the piles at all.

now instead of having to sort all that stuff into different drawers i just have 4 simple bins

1: clean clothes

2: dirty clothes

3: stuff i might wear a second (or third) time

4: clothes i almost never wear

remember how those first three piles make up my "wear all the time" stuff? Well, each of the first two bins are big enough to contain all those clothes (which for me is about two loads of laundry).

I have a smaller bin for clothes i've worn but could wear again. And the last one, almost-never-wear, is actually the biggest one. And naturally a couple almost-never-wear things still get hung in the closet.

So when my "wear all the time" bin is empty, that means the dirty bin is about full, and i just add the might-wear-again stuff to it and carry that bin to the washer. When it comes out of the dryer, i still follow my natural instincts to dump them in a pile and forget about them, it's just now i dump that pile into the clean bin, where they belong.

And when i'm digging for something in the bin and can't find it, just like when i would dig in my closet, i can just dump it all out on my bed to find things like i used to, but then it goes back in the bin with a sweep of the arm.

The clothes naturally sort themselves out this way, too. Say every time you go to do your laundry because you "have nothing to wear" there are the same few items left in the bottom of your clean bin. Well those are clearly part of your almost-never-wears and you can dump them in that bin before you wash your laundry. When the weather gets cold, i put most of my shorts and tank-tops in the almost-never-wear bin. I make room for them by taking out my everyday winter wear to go in the clean bin.

I can put the bins where it makes the most sense for how i use my room naturally. For instance, my sweatshirts and jeans i might wear again always used to wind up draped over the back of my desk chair, so now i put my could-wear-again bin right by my desk. If I want my room to be extra tidy, i just stack all the bins in the closet where the dresser used to be, which takes like twenty seconds.

and the BEST part is, because my bins are just the piles i was naturally already creating, my clothes stay in their bins, which is inarguably a system of organization, and my room is actually clean and orderly, no messy clothes piles in sight!

i did a similar thing with my paper piles and now there's very little clutter and i don't feel like a failure of a person about my room the way i used to!

I have accomplished Clean Organized Room without having to change who i am or how i live! 10/10 highly recommend

#my life #spoons #adhd #laundry

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dumbass-tumbler-cryptid · 2 months ago

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I'm very curious how you imagine Quaritch and Hunter's/Paz and Spider's house in Parents Trap Au! I love the detailed descriptions of places of residence, rooms and if it's not too much trouble for you could you share your thoughts about it? And also the boys' reactions to these differences in their homes where they were raised, the other's bedrooms (which I imagine were very different)

oh my god I love talking about little detailed stuff like this! And I'll do you one better because instead of describing where they live I went ahead and built it in the Sims!

So first up Paz and Spider's place in Pandora

It's really just a trailer in the middle of the forest. The labs would have also been really close by I just didn't build that.

this is the layout. It's small but Paz would make is really homey. There's not a lot of room in there actual bedrooms so there hobbies/work get spread throughout the trailer. Spider has an easel in the hall and a guitar in the living room. Paz has a little workstation in the hall by her room.

This is a close up of Spider's room. His bed is lofted so a desk can be put underneath for him to do school work. He's also the only one with a computer. After the boys switch places Hunter would just stay in his brother's room. He feels really claustrophobic in there but he thinks the aesthetic is cool

and this is Paz's room. It's pretty basic. Really just a place for her to sleep but there's still some personality there.

Now onto Quaritch and Hunter's house. I use the same lore for all of my modern au's that Quaritch is basically rich from being a high ranking workaholic cheapskate who didn't settle down until he was older. Because of that him and Paz custom built their house on a lot outside of town. They're completely secluded there, although there town is only fifteen minutes away.

So this is the house, not just for this au but also Cabin, Military Brat, and all the other modern au concepts I have on here.

I'm going to have three different versions of the same room. I imagine that after Paz left and it became clear that she wasn't coming back that Quaritch stripped the house of everything that was "her" and redecorated to his own boring taste. So this is his kitchen.

this is how the boys redecored .

and this was how Paz had it

Quaritch's dining room

the boys redorating

Paz's

Quaritch's living room

The boys

Paz

This is Paz and Quaritch's bedroom. He didn't really change it after she left him

If your curious this is what Spider and Hunter's nursery would have looked like at the time they were seperated. This would later be Spider's room. I imagine that Quaritch would have given Hunter a sad beige baby room in the empty room on the right. Not for the aesthetic of course but because he has no taste. the old nursery would just be locked up after that. Every couple years or so Quaritch would send Hunter off for a weekend at one of his aunts or uncle's houses, so that he could move in new furniture and decorate for a son he hoped to see again one day. also in the left corner is Quaritch's office.

This is Hunter's room before he came back from Pandora

and this is it after.

and then this is Spider's room. You can't see it because of the angel but the walls are decorated with art. Also I imagine him as a very messy teenager (something that drives his dad crazy) so there's a lot of clutter and dirty clothes on the floor. He would never admit to it but Spider really likes all the space he has in his room. It's not overwhelmingly big and he can do whatever he wants with more privacy than before.

this is the sunroom that leads out to Paz's garden

this is Paz's garden that the boys started back up.

also here's the play area for the kids. (this wouldn't be there in Cabin since Spider would have been too little but it would be there in Military Brat, probably built around the time Spider was 5 or 6)

and lastly here's the basement. There's a little home gym down there for Quaritch that i imagine the boys would pretty much play with instead of seriously working out like their dad. There's also a guest room down there, a third bathroom and the laundry room.

I don't think Spider would like the interior of the house thinking it to dull and lifeless but he would love the outside since they're on such a big property. Once he has to stay though and him and Hunter redorate he would start to like his home. It's not complete until his mom comes back but in the meantime he's at least not drowning in a sea of neutrals

So yeah that's their homes! I hope you liked my builds! Thanks so much for the question because I had so much fun making these 💞

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another-anonymous-sideblog · 1 year ago

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What about a fic where Nagito and Hajime raise plants (Nagito definitely gives the plants names)

This might have been the most fun I've had with a fic in a long time. Thank you for requesting this, I hope I did your idea justice :]

It starts in the hospital.

Komaeda takes a lot longer to recover from the program than the others. Hajime spends more than a few sleepless nights by his side, watching as his vitals tick on, hyper aware of every twitch of his face, every too-shallow breath.

The walls are white, the floor is white, the bed is white, and Komaeda looks like a corpse against the colourless sheets. It makes Hajime anxious, so at some point during his recovery, he briefly leaves the hospital, only to come back with a small potted plant.

It isn’t anything special; a young basil plant he ‘borrows’ from Teruteru’s small greenhouse. But the little green leaves do wonders in the sterile room, and when Komaeda wakes up and sees the plant sitting on the windowsill, Hajime watches his brief surprise soften into a tiny smile.

He wants to see that smile again. So, for the next few weeks, whenever he gets the chance to go out he looks for other plants to bring. At this point, the greenhouse is still very small and more of a shack than anything, so he takes to the island’s natural greenery, keeping an eye out for any small flowers or shrubs he could maybe transfer to a pot. Soon, Komaeda’s room is alive with green, flowers and herbs and pretty weeds planted in pots, and mugs, and anything Hajime can get his hands on. When the windowsill fills up, he moves the small table closer to the window to put plants on as well, until the room is more cluttered than anything and Komaeda jokes that they’ll have to stage an intervention.

But every time Hajime brings a new plant, his eyes light up and he gets that small, quiet smile that lights a fire in Hajime’s chest.

Maybe he does need an intervention, because he’s addicted to the feeling he gets when Komaeda looks at him like that, soft and bright and alive.

The plants can’t all come with him when he’s finally discharged. He teases Hajime in the light, gentle way he’s taken to doing, telling him it’s his own fault, and Hajime blushes and stammers an offer to help him take the ones he wants to keep. They end up carrying four back to his cottage: two flowers, a small shrub with colourful leaves, and the potted basil that Komaeda carefully cradles in his hands as they make their way back to the main island.

The cottage is sparse, but not empty. The others have all had enough time to fill their living spaces with things they like, but Komaeda’s cottage started out as the rest did: a bare mattress, blank walls, nothing but the four poster bedframe and the curtainless windows. However, the thought of sending him back from the hospital after almost a month to a completely barren cottage didn’t sit right with Hajime; so, a few days ago, he’d raided the warehouse for things to make it seem a bit more homey. He’s a bit nervous opening the door, an irrational fear that Komaeda will hate it and never speak to him again rising in his throat.

It’s nothing special. A light grey bedspread is neatly made over the mattress with a few of the softer pillows Hajime could find. Sheer curtains hang from the bedposts, and he managed to find some light blocking white curtains for the windows, since he knows Komaeda tends to get overstimulated and figured having something to darken the cottage would help. There’s a stout bookshelf with a few books he found at the library lamely stacked on the first shelf, and a lamp with a light blue shade on top, since he feels like Komaeda might like a gentler, warmer light in the evenings instead of the slightly harsh ceiling lights in all of the cottages. A soft blue rug is spread in the centre of the room, Hajime’s lame attempt to tie it all together the best he could.

It’s really nothing much, and he would be wringing his hands as Komaeda steps in if he wasn’t carrying three plants. He watches as Komaeda slowly walks to the middle of the room, seeming stunned as he looks around. When he finally looks back at Hajime, there’s no trace of disappointment or disgust; instead, he’s looking at him like he hung the stars, mouth slightly open and still clutching his plant.

“Did you do this?”

Hajime nods slowly, some of the nervousness receding, replaced by a warm, fluttery feeling at the base of his throat.

He helps Komaeda arrange the plants on his windowsill, taking a few minutes to point out everything he thinks he might need before leaving him to it. Komaeda stops him with a soft call of his name just before he reaches the door.

When Hajime looks back, there’s an unreadable expression on Komaeda’s face, but it’s not unlike the look in his eyes when he gently tends to the plants.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and when he smiles, the fluttering in Hajime’s chest turns to an almost sickening swirl of butterfly wings beating against the inside of his throat.

He keeps bringing Komaeda plants. They’re mostly herbs and small shrubs, a little bit of greenery to make him smile. But sometimes he brings flowers, things he finds around the islands and puts in pots, colours he thinks Komaeda will like. Kazuichi tells him he’s in deep, and Hajime doesn’t know what he means but rolls his eyes anyways.

Komaeda gets stronger every day, and eventually he’s healthy enough to start helping out around the island. Hajime tries to give him jobs that pose the least amount of danger, but his clumsiness is truly enough to rival Mikan’s, and eventually he starts taking him around with him as he works.

He usually prefers to work alone, but Komaeda is good company. He likes having him around; even if most of the things he does are distracting. Sitting and reading, handing Hajime tools, drinking water, watching him work…everything about him is enough to catch Hajime’s eye, make him forget what he’s doing, wipe his mind blank when Komaeda meets his gaze with puzzled grey eyes. He’s prettier than he has any right to be, and Hajime finds himself bringing him flowers more often, because he loves the way Komaeda’s lips part and his eyes light up and his cheeks blush a soft pink.

He’s prettier than any flower Hajime has managed to find so far, but he keeps looking.

It’s while he’s working outside that he sees Komaeda crouched in the brush, looking at something. He tries to keep going, but curiosity and the general distraction that Komaeda brings eventually win, and he hops off of his ladder and walks over.

“What are you doing?”

Komaeda glances up briefly, and his eyes are shining and he points to something in the greenery. Hajime crouches down and squints, seeing a flash of pale pink just out of reach.

“I can’t quite see what it is,” Komaeda says, flattening himself to the ground and craning his neck, “but it looks strange, like a dandelion almost. And I tried moving the branches, but there are thick thorns, and I think I may have killed one of them.”

“What do you mean?” Hajime asks. Komaeda sits up and sadly points to a thorny branch, limp, folded leaves pathetically hanging off of it.

“I just brushed against the leaves to move the branch out of the way,” he sighs, “but they all folded up and started drooping. I’m not sure why, but surely my luck has something to do with it.”

Hajime looks closer at the leaves, then at the fanned out leaves on the branch beside it. He gently runs a finger along them to confirm his suspicions, and sure enough, the leaves fold in on themselves instantly. He grins slowly, tugging at Komaeda’s sleeve.

“You didn’t kill them,” he says, gently moving the branch closer to show him. “This is a mimosa plant. They’re very sensitive, so when they’re touched, the leaves fold up for a little bit. See, look.”

He points to the branch Komaeda had showed him, and Komaeda watches in awe as the leaves slowly begin to fan out again, until they’re fully extended, just as lush and alive as they were before.

“That’s…” he trails off, reaching out a hand before quickly pulling it back, looking awed. “That’s amazing.”

“It is,” Hajime agrees. He leans down again to look at the flower Komaeda had seen. “They’re flowering trees, so that’s probably part of the plant. The flowers are really interesting, I can try to get it for you.”

“Ah—” Komaeda quickly sits back, pulling his hands to his chest and looking suddenly uncomfortable, “That’s…the branches are thorny, I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Please, don’t worry about—”

But Hajime is already laying down on his stomach and wriggling forward, fitting himself in the gap between the branches. Komaeda yelps in surprise, stuttering out a protest, but Hajime ignores him as he stretches his hand forward until he can pinch the delicate stem of the flower between his fingers.

He slowly retreats from the bushes, careful not to let the flower catch on any of the thorns. Komaeda looks positively terrified, but Hajime smiles as he sits up and holds out the flower.

It really is interesting, almost like a powder puff of pale pink and lavender hues. Komaeda looks down at the flower, then up at him again, as though asking for permission. When Hajime nods, he hesitantly takes it, holding it close to and examining it.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, and Hajime has to agree, despite the fact that he’s no longer looking at the flower. When Komaeda looks up, he’s got stars in his eyes, and his hair is falling just over his brow and his pink lips are slightly parted, and oh.

The realization hits Hajime like a train. Komaeda is beautiful. Komaeda is pretty. Komaeda is bright and warm and soft and he makes Hajime feel all sorts of things, things he's grown addicted to without even realizing.

Hajime has fallen hard, he’s in deep, he’s absolutely, irrevocably fucked, and he feels like he needs to gasp for air, but before he can there’s a sudden warmth in his space, and his breath is stolen as Komaeda’s lips cover his.

The flower flutters to the ground between them, and something in Hajime soars.

The others notice, despite Hajime not saying anything. They look at him as he walks into the restaurant with Komaeda, then look at each other with smirks and eye rolls. He swears he even sees items changing hands, like there was already some sort of bet.

It’s almost unnerving how quickly they accept it, but it means that Hajime gets to hold Komaeda’s hand and tease him in the way that makes his cheeks go red, and wrap his arm around his waist and kiss his temple and brush his hair behind his ear. It means he can pull Komaeda close and kiss him sweetly and stare at him across the room, and some of his friends make fun of him, but most of them say they’ve never seen him so happy, and Hajime has to agree.

He spends more time in Komaeda’s cottage. He’s left all of Hajime’s additions, but he’s added his own little touches as well: more books from the library, a desk with drawing paper and some manga Mitarai lended to him, pressed flowers in frames hanging above the bed. And, plants in pots and mugs and glasses from the kitchen, lining the windowsill and the bookshelf. Hajime had eventually toned it down, partly because Komaeda’s cottage was becoming a veritable greenhouse, but also because they were running out of things to put the plants in, and Teruteru threatened them both after the third time he caught Hajime sneaking coffee cups from the restaurant.

They have an actual greenhouse now, and it's where Komaeda has started spending a lot of his free time. Hajime starts assigning most of his work there, tending the fruits and vegetables and herb gardens, and it seems to be paying off. The plants are flourishing, and Komaeda is practically shining underneath the dirt he always manages to get smeared across his face and clothes.

He’s named the plants, which Hajime finds utterly, almost catastrophically adorable. They’re all named after the classical literature he consumes at a practically inhuman rate, and Hajime can hardly keep track of them all but he apparently has a system. The herbs are poetry, the grapevines are Roman myths, and the tomatoes are Shakespeare, because apparently Komaeda hates Shakespeare almost as much as he hates tomatoes. Hajime catches him ranting to a small cherry tomato plant apparently named Benvolio about how ‘your insolence is almost as dramatic as that overrated hack,’ after having to transplant it a third time to keep it from dying.

Hajime just has to kiss him on the spot, laughing as he feels Komaeda’s pout against his lips despite his hand coming up to cup Hajime’s face. He only realizes later that he has dirt on his cheek, after Sonia points it out with poorly hidden amusement.

Komaeda comes alive when tending the plants, and sometimes Hajime sits and watches him work when he’s on break. They eat lunch together in the greenhouse while Komaeda rants about his latest novel, or excitedly tells him how well the strawberries are doing. Hajime could watch him for hours, if it weren't for the fact that every time Komaeda’s eyes light up in the way that makes his heart flutter, he just has to kiss him silly.

The first time Hajime sleeps over, he wakes up to Nagito singing to his plants.

He rolls over in bed, watching through sleepy eyes as he carefully waters the flowers on the windowsill. He’s singing something Hajime doesn’t quite recognize, though it sounds familiar, almost nostalgic, and he thinks he could probably fall asleep again listening to it.

And then Nagito turns around and sees him propped up on his elbow, watching him, and his face goes a delightful shade of red. Hajime smirks a little as he puts down his small watering can and coughs, looking anywhere but the bed, before eventually groaning and burying his face in his hands.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“What are you talking about?” Hajime asks, softly, as to not disturb the peace of the early morning. Nagito peeks out from behind his fingers, and Hajime holds back a laugh as he has the nerve to glare at him.

He sits up with a stretch and a groan, noting with amusement how Nagito’s eyes drop to his bare waist as the blanket slides down his body. Hajime smirks.

“See something you like?”

Nagito huffs and turns back to his flowers, and Hajime rolls his eyes and stands.

He finds his sweatpants from last night crumpled on the floor a few feet away and pulls them on, before sidling up behind Nagito and wrapping his arms around his waist. He buries his face in the crook of his neck, brushing his lips against a mottled purple bruise and smiling when Nagito shivers.

“What are their names?” he murmurs. Nagito hums, and for a moment Hajime thinks he’s going to ignore him in favour of relaxing back into his arms. However, after a moment he runs a hand down Hajime’s side and stands up straighter.

“That’s Delilah,” he says, and Hajime can hear the smile in his voice as he tangles their fingers together over his abdomen. “Then there’s Ida, Edgar, Ruthven, Sannox—”

“Are you naming them after horror novel characters?”

Nagito laughs softly, leaning back in his hold.

“Gothic horror,” he corrects, “and authors. It’s fascinating.”

Hajime chuckles, pressing his lips against his neck.

“Let me guess: Sonia?”

“She’s had some very interesting recommendations. But Ida is from an old fairytale I used to like.”

They stand there for a while, enjoying the closeness and quiet. Eventually, Hajime begins kissing up and down his neck, and Nagito sighs softly and nestles closer.

He’s warm in Hajime’s arms, and he laughs softly when he pulls him back to bed, and his breath hitches when Hajime kisses down his chest, and he is alive. They’re alive.

And the green leaves catch the light of the sun, and they bloom like the love in Hajime’s chest.

#komahina #komahina fanfic #req

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abandoned-apothecary · 8 months ago

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"Mold In This Home."

A metaphorical story about letting go of codependent relationships.

Boxes crowded the living room, the walls had been stripped of their pictures and other decorations, what used to be an extravagant living room had turned to a pale lifeless empty room.

I’ll admit it was hard and sad to leave behind something so familiar, I remember so many nights of pouring my heart into this home, giving it all that I was to make each room look enchanting.

The blisters, bruises and calluses had never gotten to me, no matter how much my friends or family pointed out how unhealthy the decorating had become over the years. What would they know? I would ask myself some nights I put in the work to keep this home, I love it enough to make the sacrifices for it. They’ll never understand

The choice to leave had been on my mind for a while yet nothing but anxiety and intrusive thoughts had stopped me from leaving this all too familiar safe space of mine.

“If I give it up now then I never truly loved this home properly.” “I’m nothing but careless” “Only a heartless person would make this decision, don’t you love the home?”

I felt alive when I decorated this home or as alive as the momentary gratification allowed me, being away from the home sometimes made me sick to my stomach, my hands would shake uncontrollably at the thought of something drastic happening to the home if I weren’t present in times of chaos, the anxiety of a storm or weathering of the home drove me mad some nights.

In my eyes the home and its appearance always came first, who exactly would I be if I left? I'd based my entire identity in being its designer, my worth was completely tied to everything about the house.

My mind had always been preoccupied worrying and thinking about the home and whether or not it was safe and secure.

Mirrors had never been an item of decor I’d ever looked into, why would I? I have a home and I should be lucky, why worry for myself or my appearance? Wasn't the appearance of this home enough for me?

I never understood the few mutual friends of mine who had homes yet also kept mirrors, don’t they realize there just isn’t enough time for both?

My home had become my mirror, I felt like myself when I was close, I felt alive, the thought of owning a mirror mirror had become pointless in my eyes because "if I was with the thing that brought me the most gratification and put a stop to the anxiety I felt when I was away, then why bother searching?"

Things started to escalate as they went down hill, no matter how much I catered to making the home look nice, no matter how much I attempted to pour my heart into finding that spark that I once had in decorating, my mind would always slip off wondering where my mirror had gone.

The home and its decor had began to slowly become mold in my life, it invaded my mind when I was away, like thick black mold, the clutter from the previous decorations had started to become a mess around my house, the clutter had started to become discouraging, the yearning for a mirror of my own began to grow, to see my reflection again instead of seeing the overwhelming amounts of clutter from the home started to be an every day thought.

How could I even think about the idea when on top of the decorating I had the clutter to now clean up by myself, a mess I created myself, I often felt frustrated some nights, attempting to find a substitute for the mirror, attempting to manage the anxiety of being away from the home. I'd feel defeated some days as I’d attempt to feel my face, trying to figure out my features and who I was before the home came into the picture.

The bruises and calluses had also started to manifest in my life, the nights I spent adding more decorations would often end in unexpected injuries to myself that became too painful to ignore.

Decorating the home I loved so much had became a chore I dreaded on one side of my mind, yet no matter how much I tried to pull away and take breaks from the decorating an amount unbearable of anxiety eventually caught up to me, leading to days of daydreaming about going back to decorating soon, it had become a nightmare, it began to be my only sense of identity and worth, it swallowed my whole life and my identity with it.

I don’t want to live like this anymore. I began to think to myself when I felt the urge to decorate again, the days had become gray and miserable without the home when I took breaks. The mold from the my "safe space" then began to affect my health, my sleep, my identity, it took it all from me.

I felt hopeless somedays, I often spent days hating myself for wanting my own mirror, hating myself for not decorating as much and thus proving my point that I was neglecting the one thing I promised I’d love the day I bought this space.

I knew where my mirror was but the anxiety of outgrowing my love for this home scared me, the anxiety that if I saw my reflection I’d never return to the home again, it felt like war in my mind.

The home had been mine for years, when I’d first bought the home I made a promise to myself that no matter what I’d put all my effort into it, I promised myself that I’d be better than any of the previous owners.

Things started to fall apart, the home began to become unsafe for me, the mold in the walls began to slowly creep down the walls, it often felt like being in the eye of the hurricane before pure destruction.

I don't exactly know how or why but something snapped one night inside of me, my body felt like it moved on its own as I made my way to the closet, my hands shook as intrusive thoughts desperately tried to direct me back to attending to the home.

"I am something without it" I thought as I forced my way through the clutter closer to the closet.

"Things will be better, please don't look in the mirror" My pleaded with me.

The home had been all I’ve known for years, seeing my reflection again after so long became a path I had always been too scared to go down. "What if I'm---different?"

The moonlight illuminated the mirror, my mind pleaded louder for me to turn my attention back to the home, it pleaded with me to make one final attempt to find that spark in decorating that I had in the beginning, as I looked into the mirror, the thoughts began to quiet, the thoughts slowly redirected their attention to the nights where I’d pushed myself so hard to the point of tears to be enough, to make this home my top priority.

As I met myself again for the first time in what felt like decades it was as if nothing changed, my high cheek bones, my olive skin tone, I felt as if everything with the home and the decoration evaporated into thin air.

I paused and looked back at the home, the spark I once felt had vanished as I finally admitted to myself "The home you once had is gone after all those years."

I smile to myself as I remember who I am, who I was without the home.

I can survive without you after all.

You'd lost your power over me, I slipped through your fingers as I learned to live my life properly without you, without your harsh expectations of me, the absence of you helped me to realize “I am enough.”

The End.

---

:) Sorry if this is a little choppy, I'll be posting more in the future.

#my writing #mental health #codependency #recovering codependent #writing prompt

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1988hc · 2 years ago

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I love you, but I can't

1988, 1.8k words, hurt no comfort, break up, unhealthy relationship dynamics, unhappy ending

“I can have it painted. Remodel.” “But you won’t.” Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient how well Jonny knows him. How stubbornly he insists on demonstrating it. How Jonny always knows better. “Then what will you have me do? Live out of the team hotel?” Pat can feel his heart beating faster, his muscles tensing, everything in him shoring up for a fight, another blow of epic proportions. It’s one of Jonny’s worst qualities, how he can be this brick wall that Pat smashes himself against again and again, grinding himself into dust.

“Don’t buy it. You can’t live there,” Jonny says, because he’s a weirdo who doesn’t know how to start a phone conversation with ‘hello’.

Patrick rolls his eyes, glad that Jonny can’t see him, and closes out their now moot text thread to pull up the real estate listing again. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

He swipes through the pictures, even though he’s seen them all before. It’s a nice apartment. Marble countertops, floor to ceiling windows, good neighborhood…

“It’s a shoebox,” Jonny complains, sounding offended on Patrick’s behalf. Which is oddly sweet, in a very roundabout Jonny way, but also entirely misguided.

“It’s a two bedroom. I’m not gonna need a home theater and basement gym and rooftop garden, and nobody’s asking me to shelter any rookies.” It’s just gonna be Patrick living there, how much space could he possibly need? “I’ll hardly be here, anyways.”

He doesn’t specify whether he means during the season or long-term. In too many ways still, he doesn’t want to be here. But he has to be, for now.

“Travel in the east is a lot shorter, you’ll be there more than you know.”

Looks like Jonny is still as loath to talk about the future as Pat is thinking about it. At least they still have something in common.

“I can’t afford a bigger place. Prices in New York are crazy, man.”

Jonny laughs. It’s not mean, per se, but something about it still stings. “Like fuck you can’t. I’ve seen your accounts.”

Pat doesn’t really want a bigger place. It’s not like Jonny will be there, taking up space with his clutter and his presence and his dreams of buying a dog. It’s just gonna be Pat rattling around in there, and he doesn’t want to get lost wandering aimlessly from empty room to empty room, thinking what could’ve been. He doesn’t know how to say any of that to Jonny, though, doesn’t want this to end in another fight.

“What about this one instead?” He sends Jonny another link.

It’s slightly bigger, and consequently a lot more expensive. Fucking New York, man. Pat’s not really relishing the idea of dropping so much money on a place he has no idea how long he’s even gonna be in. The team had offered to board him in a hotel for the remainder of the season, but that prospect is even more unappealing than buying something short term. ‘New York is a hot market, you can always flip it,’ Steve, his finance guy, had said, and Pat didn’t have any retort to that, so he’d started to make some calls.

“No,” Jonny says, quick enough that he can’t have done much more than pull up the site and glance at the listing.

Pat pinches the bridge of his nose. He only had a question about the energy rating and thermal insulation methods because he remembered vaguely reading something about long term health effects, but he really should’ve known better than to ask Jonny. It’s a hard habit to kill, still his first instinct whenever he turns around, to ensure Jonny’s on board with any major decision because for the longest time it used to be imperative he was. That’s what you do when you’re together. Jonny’s always been his go-to person.

And Pat misses that. More than the team, and the UC, and playing for a franchise he grew up in, that’s been so good to him, in a city that felt like home. He misses having Jonny there, a steady presence by his side, misses having someone to talk to, someone who’ll give Pat his honest opinion. Jonny used to be his sounding board and his reality check and his rock. But Pat’s in New York now, chasing a long buried dream, and Jonny is playing what’s gonna be his last games in Chicago, even if neither of them is willing to admit it yet.

Just another giant elephant in the room. There’s so many nowadays Pat feels like he’s barely got space left to breathe, skirting from one conversational land mine to another, always on tiptoes, braced for the next explosion. It’s why he went, and Jonny stayed.

“Too small?” He asks, and fails to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Jonny scoffs, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “It’s ugly.”

It’s true, the walls are a putrid yellow color that made Pat flinch the first time he saw it, and the all black kitchen isn’t exactly his style.

“I can have it painted. Remodel.”

“But you won’t.”

Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient how well Jonny knows him. How stubbornly he insists on demonstrating it. How Jonny always knows better.

“Then what will you have me do? Live out of the team hotel?” Pat can feel his heart beating faster, his muscles tensing, everything in him shoring up for a fight, another blow of epic proportions.

It’s one of Jonny’s worst qualities, how he can be this brick wall that Pat smashes himself against again and again, grinding himself into dust. Jonny can be so goddamn absolute, hard and unforgiving, managing to make Pat feel dumb and small and stupid for trying. Pat bites his lip, using the pain as a focal point to push the tears threatening to spill over back down, tries to breathe even though his chest feels tight. He can’t even tell whether it’s frustration or hurt that’s making him feel this way, emotions he’s not willing to examine bubbling inside him, vulnerable and raw.

Maybe he’d know if he’d gone to therapy like Jonny wanted him to, but Pat didn’t particularly feel like letting a stranger tell him all the things he was doing wrong in their relationship. He got enough from Jonny on that.

Jonny’s breathing on the other end of the line, so Pat knows the call hasn’t disconnected. Jonny’s quiet, though, probably clenching his jaw and staring off into the distance, drawn inward and fucking impenetrable, alone with his thoughts, leaving Pat like a stranger standing outside, banging against the door begging to be let inside.

This is why they stopped working together, why Pat had to go away, break free.

A tiny part of Pat had hoped that with distance, not seeing each other every day fighting over unopened mail and dirty dishes and stinky socks on a wet bathroom floor, it would get better. That maybe having some time away from each other would allow them both to find their equilibrium again. Instead Pat’s never felt more off-kilter, trying to acclimate to a new team and new city, everything suddenly blue and loud and big, and even winning had felt strange somehow, like Pat didn’t really deserve it.

“What about this one,” Jonny says, because when shit gets tough he’s always liked to retreat to the task at hand, as if everything would somehow magically fix itself if Jonny could just ignore it long enough. Pat’s phone plings with another link. He swipes the notification away.

Nothing’s really changed. It’s been a couple weeks now, and Pat thought that maybe— but Jonny’s still barely talking to him, and when he does it’s about inane stuff, or this. No matter how hard Pat tries, somehow they always end up fighting. They used to be on the same side, but now there’s a rift between them, and Pat doesn’t know which one of them switched sides, or when, or how.

It would be easier if it were something tangible. If someone had cheated, or said something stupid, or whatever. Then they could’ve fought about it, and it would’ve been ugly and a shitshow, but they could’ve moved past it eventually. Or at least Pat would’ve known why they stopped working. Instead it’s been this, a slow death that Pat hadn’t recognized before he’d woken up one morning and suddenly found himself on the outside of Jonny’s fortifications, a wall impossible to scale.

He’s so fucking tired.

The link is an olive branch of sorts, a chance for them to keep talking.

But Pat’s been down this road too many times before.

Jonny’s gonna send him links of condos that Pat is gonna hate, if not for the condos themselves then for that fact that Jonny picked them, Pat resenting that he let Jonny have a say in this and yet unable to tell him to back off. So he’s gonna end up giving in to one of Jonny’s choices just to keep the peace, and resent Jonny even more for it, and himself for being a pushover, and Jonny will be annoyed that Pat’s crabby, and he won’t understand what the problem is when Pat tries to talk about it, because Pat agreed to the condo didn’t he, and if he doesn’t like the condo why did he buy it, when it isn’t even about the goddamn condo. It’s never been about the condo, or money, or their last summer vacation, or Pat spending Christmas with his family, or Jonny’s kooky nutritionist and faith crystal healer, or the right AC setting at night.

It’s always been about them. And Pat can’t do it anymore.

He tried, he tried so goddamn fucking hard. But nothing Pat tries ever makes a difference, nothing he does will ever be good enough, nothing he says manages to get through to Jonny anymore.

He’s been shut out, with no way in.

The rift between them is yawning, a gaping abyss, and Pat can feel it swallow him whole.

“Sorry, Jonny, I don’t think this—” Pat chokes halfway through the sentence, all the old hurt and anger flooding through him anew, an unhealed wound someone’s picked off the scab bleeding fresh and scarlet red. “I have to go.”

He hits disconnect, not giving Jonny a chance to reply.

A drop hits the black screen of his cell phone, and Pat pushes it away, buries his head in his arms folded on the table, and cries. Ugly, wracking sobs that shake his whole body, and once he’s let go is like an avalanche, the dam breaking, the flood sweeping every last, flimsy defense away, leaving Pat floating and unmoored.

It hurts worse than anything Pat’s ever felt before. His chest is the epicenter of it all, pain radiating outwards to his limbs, like someone drove an ice pick straight through his sternum. He tries to curl up, but it’s no use. The pain is inside him, there’s no refuge. It’s cold and cruel, a gaping hole where he used to be whole, like someone’s gone and ripped away a piece of Patrick.

Gone gone gone. Should’ve known better, should’ve tried harder. I hate you, I miss you, I need you. Fucking why, I’m so fucking tired, why did it have to end like this. I can’t I can’t I can’t, oh God.

Why do I fucking love you. Why does it have to hurt like this.

No matter how tight he screws his eyes shut, the truth is right there, staring him in the face, hammering behind his temples to the beat of the ice pick getting hammered into his chest, a steady drum ripping Pat apart.

Pat needs to get out. He needs to breathe. He can’t do this anymore.

Him and Jonny are over.

#1988

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mellyyoutubestuff · 2 years ago

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Hungry Nicole English Version

Lyrics By Melly

(If you can't see lies, you'll mistake them for the truth)

(That's why I know that there's no saving you, saving you)

(Nothing except livestock, growing fat, and drooling, too)

(Waiting for leftovers, nothing to do)

(You looked so arbitrary)

(But you talked so insolent "Do want it copied?" "No I want to burn it.")

(Please don't look down on me - try to talk me down instead)

(It's a piece of cake to recall in your head)

(Limit, limit, limiting)

(It's my only, only duty)

(I gave in and gave myself to you because of that happy smile)

(Without giving a thing away, you say, "You're my everything")

(Oh, you have so much pride)

(That it hurts, hurts, hurts)

(Living in the nectar of the pain and the distress)

(The foolish corpse is startled by all of the nonsense)

(You gulped it down without stopping to chew)

(But that's just what you do)

Tea tea

(My upset stomach just won’t settle)

Meat meat

(More than your body, your mind)

Drink drink drink drink

(The vintage wine holds all our lies)

(I'm beyond full, so I retire)

(I remember when your umbrella looked like a cross)

(For now, you remain, but in the end, your body burns)

(Your organs polluted, terribly they start to rot)

(From eating any realities you have caught)

(My world looked so small until you broke down that wall)

(Standing to help reason, but can't be help. Can't be helped)

(Saying "Not to worry," I've been craving for the taste)

(Ignore bad habits making with haste)

(Squeezing, squeezing so tightly)

(Hands around your throat lightly)

(Taking my time too lightly, even though it almost emptied)

(But still in your stubborn mind)

(Tedious insults all in kind)

(But soon, my body will rot, so just dance, dance, dance)

(Living in a space with your lust and in your ego)

(Lost in memories, there's a sentence I'll let grow)

(Reverence is getting sicker closer to demise)

(It's your punishment in rise)

Leaf leaf

(It’s bitter and too young to die)

Steam steam

(So the path won’t bid me goodbye)

Pig pig pig pig

(My confession has proclaimed a life of slavery)

( No, no, no)

[Haha, party time!]

(Living in the nectar of the pain and the distress)

(The foolish corpse is startled by all of the nonsense)

(The words that you gulp down without vomiting them out)

(Are now inside you without a doubt)

(A prima donna stained with disappointment and resent)

(Does a show with dancers close together to repent)

(Presenting deep desires without any room to budge)

(I just refused to judge)

Meal meal

(Praying at His closing supper)

Fish fish

(The scales flying off my eyes were clutter)

Sheep sheep sheep sheep

(It's a trick that's has been seen)

(Forever a sacrifice from me- oh no, oh no)

(I'm full beyond any help, so I reti-oh no, oh no!)

#hungry nicole #nilfruits #niru kajitsu #vocaloid

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with-love-from-love · 2 years ago

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beginning

So where do we begin, the first thing that comes to mind is my desire, desire to dream, to think, to be alive. The internet makes me feel like a corpse, like I am just a reflection of a reflection, it sucks away my creativity at alarming speed. I never want my criticism of something to end at “thing bad,” but at the end of the day, instagram, is very bad. It used to be this platform that really excited me, when I first started tattooing and sharing my art it seemed wonderful, I was able to open up my world and create relationships with kind and interesting people. I still have connections with many lovely people, but unfortunately, I have almost the same amount, if not more, connections with people who I despise. I first started tattooing at a very strange time in my life, and I was taught by two people who now no longer speak to me because of decisions they made that pushed me very far away, and then transition. I was a about a year into tatting when I started my transition, and the fact that I was so visible online was absolutely a detriment to my mental health. I appreciate every bit of love that I received, and I appreciate the wonderful people who really supported me, but the amount of transphobia, transmisogyny, and general anger at my existence that I still experience to this day is far too much for my little heart to bear.

So instagram is going to be left in the past, it’s a part of my life that I hope to leave behind very soon, I want to disconnect, I want to decomodify, I want to decolonize, I want to rip out every wire that the fascists try to plug into my brain. I want to return to the woods, to dance and sing, to drink wine with my sisters under the moonlight. I titled this letter “beginning,” because I want to tell the beginning of a story. A story about what? I suppose I know just as well as you. A story about art, about love, about new friendships, about fixing my broken mirror. I’d like to share a poem that I wrote sitting on my friends couch, I was listening and watching as she and her girlfriend moved about a cluttered room, shooting ideas back and forth about change, and kindness, and how to best make use of a space for creation. It made me think about my dreams, about the ideas that filled my mind while I was floating in the womb.

Limitless, endless, vast

And terrifying

And wonderful

Dreamcatching, dreaming of

A forgotten place

Maybe it’s when you were small

Maybe before that

Maybe when the earth was new

Fertile

Fleshy

Sticky and sweaty

Maybe it’s back when the bugs were big enough

To pose a threat

When the ocean was shallow

And warm

When it was filled with cephalopods

Empty giant twisted shells

On shores of my memory

Those dreams once more

Filling my little mind

Who knows

On what shore

I will wash up, and awaken

The past year has been intense to say the least, transitioning, moving back home, making art that I’ve felt pressured to sell, trying to give love to the fullest extent of myself. At times I feel extremely overwhelmed by every tiny little branching path that my life takes, but then I really think, I think about how many lives I’ve affected, how many lives I will continue to affect, and I feel so lucky. A part of me had given up on finding love in another person, and yet I have. Another part of me had given up on thinking I would ever have friends that really care about me, and life continues to prove me wrong. I always thought it was completely impossible for me to look in the mirror, and not only see myself, but think of myself as beautiful, and each day I am more beautiful than the day before. I need to listen to my own advice, when I first started my transition, I told myself to stop searching for answers, instead to fill myself with questions, and I think I almost forgot.

How can my art be more beautiful? How can it be more truthful? How can I love deeper? How can I kiss better? How can I fill my life with more joy? How can I come to understand pain? How can I treat myself with more kindness, more understanding, and be less cynical? Who knows if I will ever find the true answers to these questions, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that searching for a “true” answer to any of these questions is an exercise in disappointment. Instead I will embrace the strange, the absurdity of life. I will open my heart to the stories of the people I love, and I will pray to goddess, that those with hatred are healed of their terrible festering wounds.

So you’ve gotten this far into my brain, I’ll say something more cohesive. I want to write this newsletter monthly, I want to make a website where I can share my tattoos, my photography, my poetry, my hopes and dreams for the future. I want open up a tattoo shop, a place where trans girls can feel comfortable, a place far away from the commercialization of this ancient sacred art. I want to write a novel, something about a doll, about her perspective pre and post transition, I want to make a comic, about a doll in a fantasy world, fighting demons and falling in sapphic love. I don’t want to put any limitations on myself, on my heart, on what I put into the world, I spent far too long pushing everything down, pushing myself down. My friend had this wonderful idea for a project that we’re now in the beginning stages of creating together, a magazine highlighting the art of transsexual women. It will start small, but it’s something that we can build together, as sisters, as a community. We all live complex, difficult, earth shattering lives, some of us far more difficult than others. The most vulnerable of us sometimes never get a chance at happiness, so I will never stop. I will never stop creating, and dreaming. I will love harder each day, I will tell the people I love, that I love them. I’ll do this forever, until I am only a memory. I often think back to an interaction I had many years ago. I was on a bus home from a semester at college, and I was sitting alone near the back. This trans girl came and sat next to me and saw me working on music. We shared music back and forth, and we talked about how much we loved to create weird textured electronic sounds. I don’t remember her name, all I remember is how kind she was, how honest and friendly, how she treated me like a person with depth and complexity. I have to wonder if she could see in me, what I was unable to see in myself. I hope she’s doing ok, I wonder if I will ever see her again.

I have to end this at some point, so why not with another poem. This one I wrote while I was jotting down ideas for the magazine, I hope it leaves you with more questions, I hope that you look out into the world, and find that sense of wonder, that desire to be joyful, that desire to be alive.

The reflections of imagined space

The more rules you put in front of yourself

The more you will see them broken as you live

Something you once thought unthinkable

Suddenly material

In your soft hands lovely lovely

With love from love

Sasha Love

Please donate to FOR THE GWORLS, a collective providing mutual aid and support to black trans people. https://www.forthegworls.party/home <3

Also please go subscribe to my best friend’s newsletter. She is an amazing tattoo artist, painter, and writer, as well as a mother to two wonderful cats :) https://tinyletter.com/angelauratat222

Some books you should read:

The Bluest Eye - Toni Morrison

Conflict is not Abuse - Sarah Schulman

Ain’t I a Woman - Bell Hooks

Nevada - Imogen Binne

The Unreal and the Real - Ursula K. Le Guin

The Flowers of Evil - Baudelaire

The Artist's Way - Julia Cameron

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karolatea · 2 years ago

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Musings on Minimalism and Cluttercore

Disclaimer: I’m neither a practitioner of minimalism nor cluttercore. Please feel free to let me know if I’m getting it all wrong.

For the past five years or so I’ve been trying to reduce the amount of stuff I own. Moved house which is easier with less boxes, and if you have less stuff you need less space to put it all, which means a smaller -cheaper- apartment. So I also spend some time watching videos on minimalism, decluttering, KonMari, etc.

Second disclaimer: When I say “minimalism” I’m referring to “practical minimailsm”. Less stuff owned. Not aesthetic minimalism, plain colours, simple designs etc.

I never really liked aesthetic minimalism much personally, instead I adore the aesthetic of Ghibli movies. So a few days ago I stumbled across “cluttercore”, which also seems to be inspired by that. So, I thought, what would a minimalism cluttercore room look like? But ask google that and it’ll inform you they’re entirely opposing concepts. I only found a single article that sees some common point. https://minimumman.wordpress.com/2021/07/31/cluttercore-vs-minimalism/ If there’s any others, please share!

However I think that practical minimalism and aesthetic cluttercore have a lot in common, and are, indeed, compatible.

Firstly, a lot of the pictures I found for “cluttercore” are of small rooms. Often what looks like a teen bedroom: Which functions not just as a bedroom, but also as an office and a living room. So of course they’ll be a bit more full of stuff. Even if you don’t own a lot of stuff, you’ll need some for daily life. And if your whole life essentially happens in one room (as is the case for a lot of children/teens/young adults in their first student apartment) all that stuff will be there. Making it inherently look a bit more cluttered.

A lot of pictures you find searching for “minimalist” are of big empty rooms. If you count “space” as “stuff” too you could even argue that a tiny cluttered room is more minimalist than those huge empty rooms.

But you could probably also make a tiny room with lots of stuff look uncluttered by hiding it all in drawers and behind closed doors. However, one other point I often encountered in the minimalist videos is to actually use the stuff that you do have. Wear the clothes you own instead of having them hang at the back of the wardrobe, etc. So how does that apply to things like sentimental items, things that don’t have a direct “use”, but you still own? (Which some minimalists may tell you to throw out, but at least the videos I watched absolutely endorse keeping some of them.) I’d argue the way to get the most use out of the things you own would be to display them. See them every day. If it brings you joy, why hide it in a box?

Since cluttercore main focus isn’t a coherent design, like colour scheme, you also don’t have to buy specific things or redecorate to match that style. Just use the things you already have, or whatever you can thrift for cheap. This ties in with the ideas of sustainability, buying less, that a lot of minimalists also follow.

From what I gathered cluttercore mainly aims to show your personality, to create a room that tells a story about you. With sentimental items as decoration, or also things strewn about that you use daily. Which sounds like you could easily do that with few items as well. Both ideas make you think about the stuff you own and your relationship to it. Minimalism with the aim of getting rid of what you don’t need, cluttercore with the aim of highlighting the things that are important to you. So not only can you do both, they actually complement each other.

Maybe you don’t just want a room that shows your individuality, but actually like the “cluttered” aesthetic, while also not wanting to own a lot of stuff. Of course, with very little stuff you might not have a room looking the same as one filled with collections of toys, flowers, and other pretty things. But start with a wallpaper with a busy pattern, same for curtains, carpet/flooring, bedding, and any other large surfaces, and the room immediately looks more lively. Keep the book you’re reading on top of the nightstand and pens on top of the desk instead of in the drawers underneath, other things on open shelves instead of in boxes or behind closed doors, maybe even a wardrobe with a glass door. Adding pictures/posters to the walls or doors is technically adding stuff, but c’mon, a bit of paper isn’t exactly a lot of physical mass. Boom, cluttercore aesthetic with minimal stuff.

Which a lot of the pictures I found actually seem to mostly be. Sure, there’s quite some purely decorative items or collections, but a lot of the visual clutter actually just comes from pictures and every day stuff being out in the open.

Last disclaimer: This is just random thoughts. I’m not here to judge anyone’s personal interior design tastes or anything. My walls are white and empty and my shelves full of books I haven’t read.

Another article I read: https://lifehacker.com/you-can-embrace-cluttercore-without-your-house-looking-1849079164

A video I watched: https://youtu.be/VL58h47_QIU

Some pictures of cluttercore bedrooms:

https://media1.faz.net/ppmedia/aktuell/629409008/1.8757823/default-retina/mehr-ist-mehr-statt.jpg

https://media.homeanddecor.com.sg/public/2023/02/cluttercore-meaning-singapore-decor-3.png?compress=true&quality=80&w=480&dpr=2.6

https://pyxis.nymag.com/v1/imgs/a91/b3b/a32eb3461261800c2998c1e03f0492ef3d-Cut-Cluttercore-LEDE.rhorizontal.w1100.jpg

https://www.myhomebook.de/data/uploads/2023/02/gettyimages-83175491-1040x690.jpg

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fff777 · 1 year ago

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Watched Markmin cut of Where is my home?

I didn't realize they did this during Glitch Mode era, for some reason I thought this appearance was much older lol.

I found out about this show because I heard that apparently Jaemin has a lot of practical knowledge about houses lol.

So it looks like they'll be looking for an apartment that suits the couple.

This version didn't sub the parts that didn't feature Markmin so I skipped a lot of the first apartment ^^;;

Ok onto the Markmin apartment lol

MASSIVE foyer with lots of storage space. Like, bigger than the one I have in the townhouse I live in lol.

I don't love the furniture, I guess the ornate style of the furniture in the living room makes the apartment feel a bit cluttered.

The chandelier gag was dragged out too long ^^;;

VERY LONG balcony. If it's south-facing, it would probably be good for growing plants, even if it's facing a forested mountain.

I'm glad we're getting silly Jaemin XP

Jaemin's weakness! PINK!!

This chandelier looks too low though. I feel like I would bump into it a lot.

Losers lol.

It looks like everybody in the family uses the one room to store their clothes. Both the master bedroom and the daughter's bedroom don't have storage for clothing.

Could you imagine if your favourite celebrity came to your room and promoted their new song in your room X'D

In terms of my own thoughts on this apartment, I felt that spending so much time highlighting the interior design of this house was unnecessary because all of that can and will be changed. I don't think the apartment would be sold with the furniture, and the chandeliers can be changed out for other lights. I also felt that the apartment was a little small and closed in, and the furniture didn't really help that. Instead, I think the tour could have highlighted the big balcony and other uses they could have for it. I also liked that Jaemin brought up feng shui, because that's the kind of stuff I find interesting when looking at houses. Just how the way rooms are placed or walled may make a person feel. I just felt that the show forgot to showcase the apartment itself, and instead focused on the interior design and decor that was all going to be changed as soon as a new person moved in.

Again, mostly skipped third apartment because it was not subtitled ^^;;

We love a tax-aware man, that Na Jaemin.

On to the fourth apartment.

This apartment building is one unit per floor.

Even more massive foyer. Is it popular in Korea to have huge shoe closets? I remember in an Exo dorm tour, there were huge shoe closets; at the time I thought it was perhaps added in because there were so many members living there. But even these houses have massive shoe closets.

"This is house." It sure is my guy.

There is a lot of storage space, but the shelves are very short. I wonder if they can be adjusted.

Ok letting someone else do the Yo Dream chant is pretty amusing.

Pretty roomy washroom in the master bedroom, because counter space has been moved outside.

Jaemin has a favourite toilet brand?? Dude I just go.

Jaemin snooping around in the kitchen :3

Jaemin just going "OH MY GOD" while opening and closing the oven door ToT he is ON today

ToT

The second kitchen is extremely narrow

Jaemin knows the ins and outs of stoves eh.

So Jaemin is trained to be malewife

Oh what the heck, this closet is deeeep

I didn't know about the South Korean housing subscription points system so I had to look it up

I much preferred this house tour. The house was mostly empty, so as the viewers we were able to see the space and project what it could be used for.

Again, skipped most of the tour for the fifth apartment.

The couple ended up choosing the fourth apartment (which the Dream team did a tour of).

I think I would have enjoyed this show more if they played it just as an apartment show, rather than mixing it with some variety. The gags got real old real fast and personally I was more interested in descriptions of the space.

#screencaps & commentaries #nct #nct dream #jaemin #mark lee #jaemin & mark

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smalltragedy · 8 months ago

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"Mm - no, not invisible - I fucking, see them now." Their voice is - light, lighter than it'd been in recent days; fingers sliding from coat collar to collarbone - drumming against the hollow of her skin. "Spotted all over you, chicken pox." A light press of fingertip - as if they could siphon her warmth into themselves; and an involuntary lean into her own touch - hand peeling off where it pressed against opposing frame to cup her hand into theirs and press it against their cheek. Warm. Lana had always been like that - not just in body, but... everything. Practically emitted light like a firefly - wandering into people's lives and leaving a faint trace of cherry behind her wherever she went. Viktor missed her; so much so they hadn't any words left to express it, a Lana - sized imprint in their - everything - when she'd left for Furore. They had the brief thought of burrowing into her skin, making a home between ribs and just... staying there, selfishly living off of her - a parasite to everything good. Viktor leaned forward and pressed a firm kiss against Lana's hairline. "Yeah? I'll keep that in mind. Order an axe off some freak on Craigslist selling his great - great - great grandpappy's collection. Chase you all over the place - just can't, fucking - guarantee murder, though. Don't think I'm capable of it." Viktor closed the door behind her, slinking up and past her - further into the narrowed hallway; cluttered with empty frames and slashed - through canvases, unopened mail left at the foot of the door like a dog waiting for its owner. His apartment was - clumsily messy; strewn about, like someone had rummaged through all their belongings, looking for artifact or heirloom and finding nothing of the sort. Nothing of value - commissioned sculptures piling corners, art crookedly hanging over the peeling - paint walls. Coffee and cigarette smoke in the air, a haze to the air. Some sort of rock emitting sound from the living room - though after a glance back at Lana, eyes helplessly trailing her form, a soft "Nice tits," leaving their lips with a softer, reminiscent chuckle - Viktor turned left, into the kitchen instead. Couldn't deny a lady a drink - couldn't deny Lana anything, they often thought that they'd drop anything to please her. Hadn't spoken to Mercy in months - barely a thought in their mind when Lana already took up so much of their space. They were so in love it was downright pitiful; doglike in the way they knew they'd always wait at the foot of her bed, at the doorframe of her heart - knew that they'd never step in the way of her happiness - even if it wasn't with them. Especially if it wasn't with them.

"Got fucking, uh - wine. Lots of wine." They said, again - after rummaging through their fridge; barren except for copious amounts of alcohol, and half - rotted leftovers from god - knows - when. "Gin in the cupboard." Viktor straightened up, forcing their eyes not to linger too long on Lana - hadn't bothered waiting for preference before pulling the already half - out cork from the already half - drunk bottle of wine. Took a small swig before extending the offer towards Lana. "Fucking, dunno - just. Shit. Wanted to do something... nice, for Rosa - painting her friend from fucking... childhood. The one who died. Haven't finished it." Painted her - a couple of times. More than a couple of times. It was veering on creepy, the amount of times Viktor had found themselves mindlessly stroking auburn locks of hair onto a canvas, even when the subject piece hadn't been her. Dozens of Lana's - obscured beneath paint but still present, somewhere on those canvases. Pitiful, how much they missed her. "Jude?" The name broke Viktor out of their thoughts, and they just shook their head - small in their smile, "Haven't thought of that - fucking, rat bastard in ages. Eons. Does he still smell like ham? Poor fuck. Maybe should give him a call - steakgate 2.0." And then - because she always lingered on the back of their mind, even when she was right in front of them - talking to them - because they always felt it, her absence - as sharp as a blade pressed against their throat, "I missed you - a lot. You know?"

Maybe there was something in the air. She really tried; tried to be a tinkling ballerina in a jewellery box, play people a delicate tune as they rifled through their glinting jewels, only hoped to catch a refraction or two of their pretty lights in thanks; but lately something was off with her melody, a mechanism come unsprung. Kicked out of the company. Kicked out of whatever it'd been with Teddy. Lana found herself stuck in the constant flux of a drunk camped on a curb after last orders. Where were you meant to go when there wasn't anywhere to go any more? "Um, hello, I'm like an internet browser? I have, like, thousands of cookies inside me, invisible to the naked eye. I'm like that one, um -- that one Gym Class Heroes song." Cookie Jar. Bit on the nose, really. Lana allowed Viktor to fiddle with her coat, hand gone lax as soon as they began, reaching out to trace a light stripe from the middle of their brow to the tip of their nose, same as she'd once seen a cowboy in an old Hollywood movie taming a wild horse. They looked tired. She did always jest to Freya that it was probably totally exhausting, being that sexy, a constant weight on their often deliciously smug shoulders, but this was something different; more, worse, scratchy on the swallow down. "It's cool, I like barbaric. I think I'd make a good viking. I like their axes and pointy hats. I had this dream one of them beheaded me with one, once -- the axes. Honestly, it was kinda saucy. Like a really saucy bolognese. I think it'd be a sexy way to go." Slipping inside, Lana didn't bother shutting her coat; let it flutter like an errant stream of ribbon might from a straw hat, nips surveying the space, Viktor's face, same time as her eyes. Maybe it'd cheer them up. She wasn't very good at saying the right thing, as far as she knew, but people seemed to find her nipples incredibly cathartic. Even more so if it meant she stopped talking; still, she couldn't seem to put a cork in it at the best of times. "Um, yeah, thanks -- I could slurp. Un petite slurple, as they say in Francais. Just whatever, really. What're you painting? Jude tried to show me a painting, the other day. It was, like -- wait, do you guys, like, hate each other, actually? I forget. Something about a steak being thrown, I don't know. Rosa told me once. We don't have to talk about him. I can, like, Irish jig as a diversion, if you want. I've been told I'm something of a Niall Horan at the craft. Or do a really, like, fucked up tap dance, go full demonic Shirley Temple."

#˗ˏˋ interactions ⟶ ❛ viktor samuels ❜#˗ˏˋ lana jameson ⟶ ❛ viktor samuels ❜#c: lana jameson #i split it at more dialogue only bc tumblr made me.#death mention #alcohol mention #knife mention #idk. whati should tag im in a rush I GOTTA GO!!1

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kim-monsterlings · 4 years ago

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Galan - M Gargoyle x F Human (Reader) // NSFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon; moving into a new home, mention of a ritual (just some words), tentative friendship turned intimacy (+ bathing him, no explicit nudity), nervous gargoyle, fluff, drinking alcohol (reader - not drunk), kissing, minor angst, fluff, inexperienced monster, general dirty talk, handjob and giving oral (no release yet), receiving oral, penetrative sex, kissing, clitoral play (+ with his tail), alluding to more

Notes: Galan is a really old idea of mine. I’ve wanted to redo him for ages, and I love him so much. He’s a sweetheart. I think this is my favourite mood board, too. It’s so pretty.

Wordcount: 4835

Masterlist

Of your closest friends - those same people lending a hand to rearrange your new furniture, or to offer help in lugging weighted boxes indoors, too many had asked when you would dispose of the stone creature resting in your garage. Only with a slight pinch of guilt were you glad to finally be alone now.

This new home of yours was beautiful. Beyond the garage full of your old clutter and a south-facing balcony leaning to the small woodland, the promise of the gargoyle had sold you. The last owners had little love for the statue, never removing the sheet darkened by dust in their years living there, and that sheet had been thrown over it from their sellers.

With the incessant ribbing - in particular that the stone would only waste space, it was with a struggle that you dragged him from the garage and up. On a thick quilt to protect the walls and new flooring, you fell onto the same bedding when you finally had him resting in sunlight on your balcony.

He belonged there, on display; the protector of your home.

As beautiful as the faded stone was in the dimming sunlight, it wasn't only for decoration. There was no promise he had ever been sentient, but you still lit the small tealights - more for the aesthetic, and lifted your hand to the broad expanse of cold stone, unwarmed by the setting sun. You kneeled between two, muscular forearms, the gargoyle perched on thick knuckles, and rested your forehead where the dip of his strong chest fell.

Not that you had a pinch of magic coursing through you, but this ritual was standard practice - nothing more elaborate than a few words whispered. If it failed, you could try harder and seek someone with experience in waking gargoyles.

You hoped he would wake.

Though when you uttered the last word with half in a foreign language, a tongue you weren't familiar with, the candles surrounding you extinguished. Maybe the wind, but you couldn't smother the rush of warmth rising through you.

The sun set slower, like a taunt.

Waiting for the last glimmer of sunshine to fade brought with it a chill, and one you couldn't yet ease without abandoning the creature of stone. To wake him, if he woke at all, and then have him wake from years unconscious and alone would be too cruel, so you tucked your knees against your chest and hunched back against the wall beside him.

The ache in your chest seemed binding as the sky darkened and your breaths began to cloud before you. It wasn't so late you were tired, so you left him with a lingering stare back.

Within the rite, it required the gargoyle to bathe in sunlight. He had only been free of the garage for one afternoon and you had all of tomorrow before repeating the ritual. Simpler than that, even, your pronunciation may have been off.

If he didn't wake tonight, you would try again.

No sound had come yet from the open door in your absence, yet you rushed in making a hot drink. With a blanket and thicker socks, you returned to the cushion beside him, though your presence earned no response; no flitting of those delicately carved wings nor a twitch to the thin tail curled to his back thigh. You resigned yourself to finishing only this drink before locking the door for the night.

It was an hour from sunset with your mug now cold and emptied that you sat up. If he became no more than a decoration to your new home, the gargoyle was still captivating, with curves of precision following the bend to his posture. Mug aside, you leaned closer and touched him for the first time properly bar the ritual, to trace the deep grooves dirtied with years of abandonment along his ridged wings.

Sharp claws pressed to your wrist. Dust clouded your failing sight but through it, you discerned a tremble to the stone, those wings tucked tighter against the large frame now angled towards you.

"You're awake," you whispered. His hand tightened - almost a paw, with a smooth touch of pads along his palm, his fingertips pinching. Slowly so the wholly dark stare could follow, you lifted your other hand to his, carefully easing him off. "You're okay. You've been sleeping for some time. Do you have a name?"

Unmoving, he stared back at you. Only the slight curling of his fingers against yours betrayed him, assuring you he hadn't fallen into a sleep again.

Really, you hadn't anticipated this working. There hadn't been guidance for how to greet newly woken gargoyles, and you couldn't leave now to research, not with his head tilting down in scrutiny.

Even bowed low, he was larger than you.

You introduced yourself quietly and held your breath at the pull of his thick lips when you rose closer. Whatever you whispered worked, be it an assurance of no harm or a promise to be careful, and you brushed your hand against the soft skin of his cheek. It was so soft, you wondered if it nearly felt furred.

His face mimicked that of a canine, with a jaw jutting forward like a smaller snout, his teeth evidently sharper. His nose scrunched back and was far from human, so unlike those eyes widening and focusing on yours when your thumb ran the length of his angular jaw.

When you lifted your hand back to trace the curve of his ears, a deep rumble rose from his chest. The gargoyle trembled and fell into your touch, but you faltered when he spoke in a rough breath, "Galan."

"Galan?"

"My name," he said. "You woke me."

"How do you feel?" Now tracing the two stubs of horns at his temples, his hand curled against yours. "You're supposed to stay in sunlight for a day until you've woken properly. After that, you could stay here on the balcony, or the garage-"

Lengthened claws pricked your palm again. "No."

His immediate aversion to going back twisted your stomach and you nodded. "Or, you could leave. I'll be here. You don't need to decide now."

The angling of his body back captivated you. Galan's strong frame trembled, muscles along his bare chest tensing, but you couldn't help watching as his breath left when finding the clear sky overhead.

"Here."

"You want to stay outside?"

"Tonight," he said, equally as tentative, and his hand squeezed yours. In an echo of you, he looked to the sliding, balcony door. "Go indoors. I will be here."

After waiting since moving in days before for this very moment, the rejection stung, but you left him. It was he who had just woken after however long in the garage, and not your place to demand his energy.

He would be there come tomorrow evening, and when you woke to a bright day, Galan rested in the same position. Crouched onto knuckles again, though his head no longer turned down but up, like his last thought had been to watch the sunrise.

Keeping his awakening to yourself burned the tip of your tongue. Not in doubt of your determination but in disbelief, your friends had never expected anything to come of the ritual should you have gone through with it like you wanted to - like you had, and now you had a new friend at home.

You would tell them soon. Soon, or whenever Galan was comfortable around you, first.

Some small part of you expected to find your balcony empty even before sunset, but he remained there, frozen, long into the evening. Time from returning home passed slowly until you settled in wait on your bed, the door opened just an inch.

The soft gasp and groan from his waking tugged you to stand, but you hesitated. From this angle, through the glass, he was still leaning down, the strain of his consciousness running back through the shaking of his head to the sway of his tail where the tip coiled and unfurled like a clenching fist.

Galan greeted you with a lowering of his head, but you lingered in the doorway until he turned as though to invite you out. Tonight, you didn't sit beside him, but rested by your shoulder to the wall.

Not admiring the deep rise and fall of his shoulders became a difficult task, so instead you stared out to the trees with him.

"How do you feel?"

He spoke hoarsely with a quiver to his voice. "Tired. Thank you."

With a returned, small smile, his revealing the larger curl to his lips, you asked, "how long have you been asleep?"

"Too long."

The night was somehow not as quiet as him, but the silence between you wasn't yet uncomfortable. He continued to shift his balance, and each gentle flutter of his wings let off a slip of old, ingrained dust.

"Galan?" The ear closest to you twitched in such an instinctual reaction, you smiled. "Would you like a bath? I could clean your wings."

When his head twisted back, a wing extending, you were torn between laughing or marveling; formerly at the frown twisting his scrunching face, and the latter for the beauty of his stretched wing, with how it rose into talons at the top of each.

Then, he looked to you. With only a soft nod, he began to rise and crept closer with his frame remaining lowered. Galan paused at the threshold, his arms crossed tight to his chest.

"We usually… usually stay outdoors."

"I can bring up a bucket and sponge, if you'd rather," you offered, only half-serious, and his lips twitched. "I'm asking you indoors. It's okay."

The bathtub wasn't small, but as Galan removed what little clothing he wore from its tie at his hips, somehow pliant though once stone, fitting him in it was harder. He sat angled, one wing curled to his side, the other extended beyond you.

He stiffened at the water filling around him until it began warming with bubbles, and you wetted the flannel. It felt right to begin with his face, but his hand rose to yours before you could, drawn against his cheek with a sharp breath.

"You are so soft," he whispered. "Be careful."

"I won't hurt you, I-"

Galan's almost inaudible laugh rumbled through him. "Careful I do not hurt you. Here," he said, and guided your fingertips to the small horns.

Too breathless even as he returned to hunching over his chest, clinging to the edge of the tub, it was his temple nudging up to your hand drawing you back to present.

"I'll be careful."

With every wringing of the flannel, the water dirtied until you filled the tub several times until it ran clear. Galan's eyelids had fluttered shut not long after you traced the deep lines of his face, reveling in the natural shade of his body emerging. His lips were a shade darker but you forced yourself not to linger.

Rather than risk overstepping - though he assured you with a gentle smile that he didn't mind when you hesitated at his breastbone, you instead sat back on your heels. "Could you turn?" Water nearly overflowed in his haste, until wings spread, translucent beneath the pale bathroom light. "Are they sensitive?"

"Quite. The talons-"

"Galan," you sighed, and his guilty smile fell at your first, gentle touch to the thin membrane. "Did I hurt you?

With a choked hum of denial, you rested your free hand to his bare back. Though as carefully as you could, his muscles still twitched with each run of the flannel, locking tight when you cleaned the hooked talons.

When you began to aimlessly trace them, you retreated to your lounge and left him to finish washing in private. Now, more than anytime before, you wanted to tell your friends - to tell anyone, but that urge hadn't overcome your desire to ease his transition back to living as much as you could, nor would it.

Gratitude rose from a wide smile as Galan emerged, still dripping a little. He could rise to his full height in the living room without tucking back his wings.

Curled to his shoulders, water droplets fell from his hair, and in an effort to convince yourself to look up from the towel at his waist, you asked, "want me to dry your hair?"

No amount of reassurance lured him back indoors, even with the hairdryer on the lowest setting. In his recoiling, his hand had risen not only to defend himself, but to coax you closer to him, and it fell to the heat in your chest how he stood tight to you; your protector.

Instead, you accompanied him outdoors, where Galan sat against your legs and you on a chair. His hair slipped like silk through your fingertips in plaiting it.

"Tell me of yourself," he said after you finished the first, thin plait. Hardly your finest work, but it saved him from the chill in the damp hair this late. "Who am I protecting?"

Whatever little you had to tell him - of the mundanity of your working life, of snatching your dream home and waking him, he listened with delicate twitches of his ears, sometimes brushing to your knuckles.

Leaving him tonight, you were content. Galan rested nearer the balcony, head angled up, but he turned with a smile and a nod when you locked the door.

Since the rite, each passing day had been only sunny and warm. By midday after a warm morning, the sky darkened and only with luck on your side did you snag a rain sheet on your way home from a shop on the way, one large enough to drape over his hunched form. Tucking it to his horns was the most you could do for him then, but come sunset, you were tucking yourself beneath the sheet, too. Galan woke with a soft sigh, far gentler than usual, and his arms swept forward to pull you close before he'd so much as opened his eyes. Your lips parted on a rushing breath with him so close, still rich with the scent of your fruity bath bubbles.

"You will grow ill outside."

"So will you!"

Galan's cheek rubbed against yours before you were both moving, with his free arm now beneath your knees. "I will not. You covered me?"

"From the rain. I didn't want you cold." In the fleeting moment before he lowered you, his arms had tightened. You tucked the sheet against the door. "Were you?"

His throated tightened. "Sorry?"

"Cold," you said. Water glistened in the stray hairs fallen from plaits around his horns. He turned into your hand as you reached to rub the rain from his cheek. "Galan?"

"No. No, I… we don't feel. Not like that."

Your hand fell. "Oh."

"Thank you. I," he paused, and in a sudden and sweeping step closer, curled you into his arms. His head rested to yours and after a deep breath, you embraced him, too. "Thank you."

That little touch played in your thoughts each following night you lured Galan indoors. On nights resting beneath a clearer sky, his wing would curl to you and tuck you close, but it came so naturally that you were often already leaning into him.

Still, he hadn't said anything of his plans; plans to remain or plans to go, and you weren't comfortable bringing them up. Selfishly, you wanted him to stay, and he hadn't made any moves to leave - yet.

Even having a work friend over late one evening, they were gone before sunset so not to overwhelm him, with Galan still startled by your presence so soon after waking, and to maintain this new and precious haven.

That same night, Galan followed you back inside - always coming indoors only at your invitation, before his face scrunched and his tail twitched.

"Smells strong," he'd said, and you struggled not to laugh when he lifted your near emptied wine glass.

Though he had no need for food nor drink, he could still indulge, and you grinned. "Try it." The dark wine painted his lips pink, but it was soon spat back into your glass. "It's an acquired taste."

He handed it to you with an eagerness to be rid of it as you left it by the sink. "Why drink something so… so-"

"Strong? It's for fun, usually. It makes people happy. It makes me want to dance, sometimes," you said, and his wings ruffled slightly. You faltered on your way to sitting down and instead offered him your hand. "Would you like to dance?"

"With you?"

"You won't hurt me, Galan. I might stand on your feet, though."

"How would we dance?"

"However we want to.”

In taking your hand, Galan tucked you close with such grace, you were entirely as ease. Claws traced down your scalp in tucking you beneath his chin, your arms risen to fall around his broad shoulders.

Your dance never amounted to more than a gentle sway until you leaned back. "Spin me out?"

Delicate touches freed you to lure you back again in a blanketed embrace between his wings and his chest. Talons tucked to your shoulders, Galan's body pulled nearer, and with your heart beginning to race, you tiptoed.

"Please," you whispered. "Kiss me."

Stone had never been so warm and soft, his lips fainter than his stuttered breaths. For only a fleeting second, he was there, until he tore away, the balcony door closing at his back.

He left you cold and aching.

With the balcony his safe space, you busied yourself - tried to, though you couldn't stop clinging to the fading warmth of his body pressed so close. Without him here, you fretted over how much of an overstep it was, to use this new relationship, being his only real friend, to feel for him like that.

He had been the one to lean down, but it couldn't undo the ache in your chest.

The balcony was bare when you peeked out to apologise. Nothing replaced him but empty space, no cloud of dust left to signal a recent disappearance.

You slept, but barely. When morning came, you crossed your fingers to your chest.

No stone creature waited for you. The space remained deserted and your composure cracked.

Galan had nowhere else to go - that you knew of. Unless he travelled in the short while you left to bed at night, he could have lost himself.

There wasn't anything you could do but wait. Wait late into the evenings with a blanket gone so long untouched since his wings would cradle you, it felt wrong. Wait from waking until sunset, hoping impossibly that somehow, he would return.

Seven days and seven nights gone, he hadn't.

On the rare occasion you had friends over later than usual - why wouldn't you, now? - one stepped into your bedroom, and your smile faltered when they presumed your ritual hadn't worked to wake him. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, you only refilled their glass and yours with a white wine instead of red.

The first rainfall from his vanishing came a week and a half from the night you couldn't stop replaying. The rain sheet tucked by the door flapped in the wind as though beckoning you out and wherever he was, you hoped he was safe, but you couldn't rest with the sheet outdoors and tormenting you.

It rained harder on top of the garage. Full of your old boxes and miscellaneous nothings somehow too important to throw away, you winced on hitting something hard a step in and hit the light.

You almost buckled.

Just home from work, you knew he wouldn't wake, not yet, but you ached to hug him close. Galan bowed low in the dark corner but curled into himself, wings risen like a shield.

It could only have been a shield against you.

However long he'd been there, you couldn't snatch this from him. That he had resorted to the garage he loathed sickened you, and rather than lay the sheet nearby, you tucked it away so not to disturb him.

Though in bed before sunset, you weren't asleep.

Distant flapping and a soft rap on your door roused you to turn, but the shadow huddled beneath your rain sheet beckoned you to let him in.

He came inside without needing your welcome, the thin fluff to his arms soaked. The sheet fell with a small puddle formed at the door, freeing the silhouette of wings you missed.

"I'm sorry, Galan," you whispered. When his head tilted, you distanced yourself a step, tucking your hands against your chest to stop yourself reaching for him. "It wasn't fair of me to expect so much of you just from waking. You've hardly been living and to force myself on you, I…"

"I'm your protector."

If he declared himself to be, had he been here the whole time? Your breath caught. "So you'll stay?"

Galan's thin wings bound to his slumped frame. "Who will you protect you from me, if I stay?" His curved ears twitched at your shuffle nearer. "I've never… I've never been with another, not a human."

"You do want me?"

"That was never in question," he muttered, only to stutter on a gasp. Those familiar wings tucked you close and you whimpered at the fluttering kisses against your face. "More than anything, I want you. Is that what you thought?"

"You left after I coerced you into a kiss."

"Coerced? No." When the warmth of his lips brushed to yours, he lifted you to your tiptoes and whispered, "if I were to hurt you-"

"Is that why you left me? Galan," you said, tiptoeing to reach for his turned face. He shuddered at your touch but didn't refuse it, the warmth of his wings now ghosting along your back. "I'm human, but I'm not so breakable. You'd be surprised."

His hands brushed against your waist. "I want you."

"We don't have to rush anything."

"I need you."

Gentle kisses warmed against your cheek, still an avoidance of kissing you how you dreamed. Though with his wings embracing you, Galan followed with your every step, until whining quietly as you settled on the bed before him.

The fabric knotted at his waist almost fell apart from the simplest of tugs, and Galan with it. His sharp teeth bit into his lip and his palms cradled your head.

"I can see you need me," you whispered, and gently lifted your hand to stroke along the thick length of his cock. Ridged and thick, it twitched against your palm and you coaxed a breathless moan from him, stroking the pad of your thumb to its throbbing head. "Is this where you need me?"

His claws pressed enough to your scalp they stung, and he whimpered. "Be careful."

Giant wings unfurled with your lips parting at his tip. Galan's whines became soft groans and he eased your mouth wider, guiding himself against your tongue with a stronger hold. The musk of him had your thighs clenching, gently stroking what you couldn't take.

He held you there, unmoving for a breath, long enough that you squeezed his thigh. Every flick of your tongue weakened his stance, until only the expanse of wings held him upright.

"Please. Please," he rasped, a slight buck to his hips forcing himself deeper to your throat. When your breath caught, his cock twitched, and he cried with your hand rolling his heavy sac. Galan's touch tightened against your temples before he angled himself away, laying you down in the same move. "Enough. Enough of me."

"Enough of- Galan-"

The gargoyle pressed his lips to your navel and tugged at your clothing, an impatient nip to your stomach stinging. He hesitated until you softened, though drawn to the weight of his cock against his stomach, still slick with you.

Not his intention, as you discovered when his hot breaths flushed against your bare heat. With hardly any time to ready yourself, Galan's thick tongue slid up through your folds. You collapsed back against the bed and far harsher than him, tangled your fingers through his hair.

"Good?"

Such a soft laugh sent a tingle deep through you when you lifted your hips for more, curling at your toes when his tongue flicked your flushed bud of nerves.

"Is that good?" Those dark eyes blinked up, only for you to groan and clench around his shoulders. "So ready for me," he gasped, not a second before the length of his tongue eased into your tight slit, an exploration for himself as he groaned.

Somehow crooking, your stomach fluttered at the drag against your body, before you gasped. "Galan, I'm close. I'm so close."

One last hum, the tip curling, and he whispered, "let me see how pretty you are," before sucking against your clit.

The heat overcoming you came hard. Galan stroked along your tense thighs but never sought a breath apart from your heat as you came, sharper gasps torn when he slipped his tongue back into your fluttering channel, chasing the remnants of your orgasm.

Warm kisses peppered from the dip of your navel and to your chest in your high. Galan held your limp legs to his shoulders until the slight stretch burned and you tasted yourself on his lips.

"Need your little body around me," he gasped into your throat. Galan's head dragged against your sensitive clit and again as you bucked. "Gently, I promise."

"I trust you."

"I'll take care of you," he said, lips to the shell of your ear, and the thick head of his cock filled you. Galan's promise of tenderness fell from your thoughts at the near immediate hastening of his pace, his hips rolling deeper until you dizzied. "Oh. Oh. That's it. Feels so good around me. You feel so good, so hot."

His rumbling and the sensation of him rutting in slow, sharp anglings of his hips burned in your stomach. The barely gone orgasm stole your breath and then Galan was filling you again. Faster, deliberately, and deeper.

Shadows cast with his wings spreading wider. Beneath him now, you could only whimper and clutch tight at the sheets. Galan teased you - though hardly intentional, by something so simple as taking your hips in his large hands with a roaming touch, exaggerating the arch of your body when lifting you further off of the bed.

"Kiss me. Kiss me," you whispered, and it was then he paused, his tongue jutted through his lips. The sharper teeth never fazed you and you coaxed him closer with your legs clenching against him, until he stuttered a breath and parted his lips for you. "I need you to touch my clit, please. Make me come again. For you."

"For me," he echoed, a soft rumble vibrating down to your bodies tucked tight together. "Here?"

It wasn't his hand that flicked your bud - both still stroking along your rear, claws tight to your soft skin and flexing with every faster thrust, but the tip to his prehensile tail.

With another stroke from the thicker tip and his lips soft to your flushed nipple, that heat rushed up through you once more. Your breath left you gasping and whimpering into his hair, against his horns, trembling beneath him when you felt his cock stiffening.

"I want to feel you in me," you breathed, and he came with a weak growl.

His hips angled as deep as they could when hot ropes pulsed through you, until he collapsed, wings fallen limp around you. The ache in your legs helped you loosen them to his waist, only to hold him close as he moaned.

Laying over you as he was, you traced the ease to his pale face. Gentle breaths flushed to your breast, his lips risen in a soft smile at your falling touches. Down to the skin between his wings and following the dip of his spine, until tracing the base of his tail, and his hips bucked into you with a softer whine.

With your thighs still slick and your bodies still flush, you felt him throbbing inside you, unhindered by your breathlessness. Galan murmured incoherently before kissing along the column of your throat and slipping his arms beneath you. He laid you carefully beneath him, now propped back against the pillows.

"Need you again," he whispered. His smooth hand framed your cheek and stroked under your blurred eyes. "Want you. Please."

"We've all night," you said quietly. You hugged him close, content to rest for a breath, but he returned a grin.

"All night," he echoed, and with your eyes rolling back at two, careful fingers rubbing alongside your clit, his hand against your crown, you knew he would have you up until sunset, but you weren't complaining.

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im-in-love-with-pizza-bites · 3 years ago

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Yours, Mine, Ours: Chapter 13

Single-Dad!Chris Evans X Single-Mom!Reader

Series MasterList

Series Summary: Your husband Caspian Richardson Senior died while serving in the military, so you move your three sons to Boston, MA. Where you meet an actor and his sweet daughter.

Chapter Summary: Caspian's point of view.

Series Warnings: Death of a spouse/parent, divorce of parents,

Chapter Warnings: angsty, little fluff, death of parent

A/n: italics is flash backs. This chapter is mostly Caspian, but it's an important chapter sooo.

Thanksgiving is a hard holiday, it was one of senior's favorite holidays. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. The turkey was prepped, your mom went out and bought everything she needs for her "world" famous pumpkin pie, Mary went with her to get stuff to make chocolate chip cookies with the boys.

Connor and Jace were in the living room showing their grandparents how to play fortnite. You were finishing up with laundry while the grandparents spent time with your youngest sons. Caspian was chilling in his room alone.

Caspian looked around his bedroom. The walls were bare except for a couple empty shelves. The walls were the same color as they were the day he moved in. His desk was cluttered, seeing as it was a catch all space. His dresser was bare except for a basket holding his deodorant and other hygiene products. He never really decorated his rooms. Usually move after a little while anyway, a part of him knows this time is different but he just can't be bothered.

He looked at the photo of him and his dad, he was eight year's old standing next to his dad in his dad's cover (the hat a soldier wears) on and they both had a hand up in salute. Nothing bad ever happened to him. No heart break, no loss just happiness. Oh how much he'd give to have that back. He remembers that day too.

Caspian sat in class doing a worksheet. Only an few hours left of school to go and couldn't wait. It was the last day of school before winter/christmas break. He was feeling bummed because his dad couldn't come home for Christmas that year. You and his dad told him last week that he couldn't get leave. So instead his dad will be celebrating Christmas over face time.

The phone rang but Caspian didn't look up he kept doing what he was, until he heard.

"Caspian can you head down to the office, I need you to grab some papers for me."

"Yes ma'am." Caspian nodded standing up. He hurried down and knocked on the door of the office.

"Come in!" His principal exclaimed. He opens the door walking over to the desk not noticing the soldier standing by the door he just walked in.

"Turn around."

"Dad!" He jumped into the man's arms.

Caspian smiles at the memory. There were so many memories like that. Home comings mostly don't forget him leaving.

Caspian sat on the couch watching his brothers have an emotional goodbye with his dad. He was home for two years and now leaving for two more. Senior looked at his oldest son with a sad smile.

"Junior." Senior said, Caspian stood up walking over to his dad. "Hey, I'll see you before you know it okay? It'll go by real fast."

"Yeah." Caspian shrugged. Senior frowned.

"Hooah." (Who-uh)

"Hooah."

Senior smiled hugging his son.

"See ya later alligator."

"After a while crocodile." Caspian said before hugging him again and letting the tears fall. "Love you love you dad."

Caspian sighed how come that was the last time he got to hug his dad. Why did his dad have to join? Sure he knows it's because of 9/11 but still he could've chosen reserves, rarely see combat if ever. He can't change the past even that day he found out he was fatherless.

A scream echoes through the house. Caspian looks up from his phone. He exits his room cautiously before sneaking into Jace and Connor's to grab Jace's baseball bat. He heads down the stairs bat ready. Sure it was unlikely it was an intruder but who knows. He barely make it down the stairs before he sees you on the ground. Then the soldiers at the door.

"The commandant extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your loss." One of the soldiers finishes. The pair looks up at the noise of a metal bat dropping. He didn't notice the look on those men's faces when they saw the boy. Caspian stood there looking at the soldiers. Caspian turns around and walks back up those stairs and into his room. He throws himself on the bed.

"No!" Caspian shouts muffled by a pillow. He cried into the pillow until he fell asleep, you had checked on him but he was already asleep.

The next morning he felt numb inside. Like he wanted to cry again but he just didn't have it in him. He could hear people downstairs and he knew should go down cause he recognized those voices as his grandparents and Uncle but he couldn't face them. He sighed standing up from the bed he walked to the bathroom using it before going to the sink. He washed his hands before looking at himself in the mirror.

He took a deep breath splashing water in his face before going down stairs. Connor and Jace were asleep on the couch. He enters the kitchen, Maya was standing there making breakfast holding a one year old three year old Matty. They lived on the other side of the base. But he's known them most his life. His dad and Hank were in basic together

"Aunt Maya is Uncle Butler okay?" Caspian asked, senior and Butler got deployed together. They were a great team.

"Yeah sweetie he is. He's coming home with... Let's not talk about that. I'm making eggs, your grandparents, Uncle Benji, and Mom are in the dining room." Maya said.

"Okay." Caspian nodded taking a deep breath before going into the dining room.

"Hey kid." Benji looked at him. Caspian said nothing just sat down resting his head on the table. "Come here." He pulled the tween into his arms.

He sighed wiping his eyes. That was the worse day of his life. He didn't really talk much for a few months. Especially during the days leading up to his dad's arrival back into the states.

Caspian didn't really talk much the days leading up to his dad's body coming back to the states. He remembers that day too well. A casket covered in an American flag was brought off the plane by six soldiers, including Hank Butler. He straightened his stance before bringing a hand to by his eye and as it was sat in that van he let the salute go.

He eventually fell asleep with his thoughts.

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emeraldenha · 3 years ago

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TRUST FUND BABY

pairing: ex!taehyun x gn!reader | genre: the five stages of grief (bargaining), breakup au, lovers to exes, angst | w/c: +780 words | warnings: none <3

click here to check out the Thursday’s Child series masterlist!

When you told Taehyun that it might be best to part ways, he didn’t quite understand.

It was so out of the blue — no signs, no warnings. He didn’t even get a chance to see or talk to you one last time. All he found was a handwritten letter and your half of this month’s rent waiting for him back at your shared apartment. The place felt so empty. The closet that used to be cluttered with all your clothes was suddenly filled with space, one pillow instead of two on the bed, your toothbrush no longer by the bathroom sink. When he tried to call your phone number, it automatically went to voicemail. You were gone without a trace.

Seated at the kitchen counter, letter in hand, he almost didn’t want to open it. Opening it would be acknowledging that this was real, that the bubble Taehyun was living in — thinking that everything had been fine — would be shattered. He took his time processing the words you wrote that felt so definite and of defeat, the paper also slightly tattered which told him that you had been planning this for a while.

He didn’t realize how much you were hurting. It was honestly a complete slap in the face. You wrote about how much things have changed since the beginning of his and your relationship, specifically how much he’s changed. You said it wasn't his fault; you weren’t mad. It was just that the future he had in mind clashed with yours and it was only a matter of time before separating paths.

When you and Taehyun first met, neither of you were considerably good people. You became friends through hanging out with the wrong crowd and would often spend time together to escape the realities you both were avoiding. Though as much as you embraced the worst in each other, it wasn’t long until that surface level fun turned into something deeper, confiding in each other’s every secret and learning a newfound sensation of happiness through falling in love.

You promised him that you’d work on improving yourself, and he promised you the same.

Looking back, Taehyun wished he appreciated you more. You were the reason he stopped crashing at his friends’ places and settled down on a decent apartment, you were the reason he got a stable job, you were the reason he wasn’t afraid to love again. He used to thank you every chance he could but now he’s so busy drowning himself in work that he oftentimes falls asleep at the office and barely ever returns home, home to you. He was like a ghost.

To Taehyun, that was normal. He was admittedly obsessed with money more than anything as he refused to be the loser that hit rock bottom like before. Devoting himself to his job was how he kept himself motivated from falling into old habits. That didn’t mean he never loved or missed you when he was away, he just happened to prefer the subtle moments. Eating makeshift dinners because you’re both too exhausted to cook or falling asleep next to you on the couch while you were watching one of your shows — that was enough for him.

He knew to an extent that this bothered you. While he relied on his workplace to be his safe haven from the past, you relied on Taehyun. You hated seeming pushy, but you craved his attention. You used to nag at him constantly for his repeatedly short responses or halfhearted efforts. Taehyun would try to accommodate, but at the end of the day, he brushed off the issue thinking it wasn’t a big deal.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one while curled in bed, facing the side you once occupied. “I won’t be greedy anymore. I’ll remember every second to love you like you’re the only person on earth. I’ll talk to you about my day when you ask, make something for us to eat even though it might not be edible, whatever you want. I’ll tell you all the things I think but never say. Just please come back.”

Taehyun was tired of being a loser, because in his world, there was no such thing as happy endings for losers like himself. That’s why he tried so hard to no longer be the person he once was.

But despite all that, without his lover, he felt like the same old loser nonetheless.

A tear falls from the corner of his eye, silently. “If only I could turn back the clock… I would’ve never let you go that easily. I would’ve never let you go until you really knew how much I love you. I’m sorry, at least know that I'm sorry.”

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captains-simp · 4 years ago

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Valkyrie ~ Queen's Stress Relief

Valkyrie X fem!Reader Smut

Word Count: 2,752

Includes: established fwb (kinda) relationship, dom!Valkyrie, spanking, degrading, oral and strap on

[ masterlist ]

Buy me a coffee ☕

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Everyone knew that being the Queen of Asgard was no doubt a very stressful job.

On the good days it consisted of settling petty debates very few people cared about. On the bad days it including making hard decisions that could lead to some sleepless nights.

Valkyrie excelled at the role of Queen, just as everyone predicted. But despite this the stress of the job could sometimes get to her.

To her people she was a fearless leader who was firm but fair, never failing to do right by them. But you saw past the sterdy walls she had built. You knew she hated when there were things that were just out of her control. So you tried to help your Queen in anyway you could.

It was an arrangement. That was what you had offered. When things became tough and she needed something to take her mind off of her responsibilities, you would be there.

Granted, it was mainly just sex. A way for Valkyrie to regain some form of control and have something to provide her with a kind of stress relief. Something to give her full, undivided attention to. Moments in which it felt as though you too were the only ones that existed in the world.

But as you spent longer around your Queen you found yourself helping her in other ways. She never kicked you out after sex, so you prepared meals for her when you knew she wasn't eating. You put things away when her house was becoming cluttered. You ran small errands for her so she had time for more important things. You did everything you could.

All she had to do was send a quick text. Your job at the town pub hardly took up much of your time and allowed for you to be at Valkyrie's beck and call, not that your arrangement was all that regular. She rarely had the time and a quickie wouldn't cut it.

You never asked questions about what was on her mind. That wasn't what you had offered and you knew she would have denied the arrangement if that was what you had pitched. She appreciated that you understood that. But that didn't stop you from subtly dropping that you were a great listener every now and then. She always smiled at that.

It was late on a Friday night. You had just finished covering a shift for a friend at the bar and decided to walk the long way home on that particularly quiet night, catching a glimpse of the sun setting over the calm sea.

There were a lot of bonuses to living in an asgardian village, one of which was never having to worry about not being safe in the town. You could stroll through it at midnight without a single concern, never once considering who or what was lurking in the shadows. So it was baffling to hear that the rest of Earth wasn't the same way and that people didn't feel safe walking alone so late.

Your phone buzzed from your jacket pocket so you went to look at it without hesitation. You smiled as you saw it was a message from Valkyrie.

It's been a while, want to come over? It read. You agreed instantly and altered your course to head towards Valkyrie's house in the middle of town.

It had been a while. You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss it. Miss her.

You arrived at the Queen's house in no time, probably aided by the fact you had half skipped most of the way, and tapped at the door three times.

Valkyrie answered in less than 10 seconds and looked as beautiful as ever.

She wore her lazy day outfit that you thought always made her look so warm and inviting, like you would be able to stay in her embrace for hours on end. You knew you shouldn't think like that. Shouldn't make up scenarios, no matter how short, about your Queen. But scolding yourself never stopped the thoughts.

"Hey." Valkyrie greeted with a small smile.

"Hey." You smiled brightly, looking more excited than you had planned to let show. Valkyrie didn't notice though, and if she did she didn't say it.

You glanced up at her mesmerizing brown eyes to see her looking at you with that 'I know you're not paying attention' look that always made you weak at the knees.

"I'm sorry." You muttered, realizing she had told you to come in.

"Long night?" She enquired, it was the only sort of small talk that would happen.

You hummed in response as she placing her hand on your lower back over your jacket and pushed you lightly in the direction of her room.

Despite knowing the layout of her house as well as your own, you let Valkyrie guide you through her home silently, too focused on the light touch of her hand on your back to think of anything to say and barely taking in your surroundings. It wasn't an awkward silence, but one filled with tension.

You were vaguely aware of going through the living room and arriving at the foot of the stairs. Her hand left your back and your body yearned for it to come back.

Instead, she called over her shoulder as she continued towards the kitchen counter. "Upstairs." Was all she said.

You took the stairs two, sometimes three, at a time and almost leapt in Valkyirie's room.

Nothing had changed since you had last been there. Different clothes were scattered across the floor and you spied a couple of empty beer bottles next to the bin, but over all she was doing well. Her King sized bed looked as inviting as ever and you were quick to scramble onto it and place your jacket on the chair near the bed.

You smiled to yourself as you undid the button and zip of your jeans and lowered them slightly. Valkyrie's steps were heard on the stairs so you leant back on your hands and tried to paste an unreadable expression on your face.

She strolled back over to you, her eyes never leaving your own, as she came to kneel on the bed and parted your legs, crawling slightly to meet you all while you held your breath.

Her hand trailed up your jean clad legs and came to rest on the zipper that you had undone yourself. Valkyrie hummed as her fingers slipped between the zips to brush against the thin fabric of your panties.

"Someone's impatient." Valkyrie stated more to herself than you. She gripped your hips suddenly and flipped your whole body onto your front as though she was turning over a piece of paper.

Just as you pictured how her muscles might have strained a little under her jumper you were snapped out of your thoughts when you felt a harsh smack against your ass. You moaned slightly as you jolted forward, not expecting the motion but definetly being aroused by it.

"I haven't even taken your jeans off yet." Valkyrie chuckled as she pressed herself against your back and breathed lightly on your neck. You arched your neck slightly in an automatic response to her close proximity and felt her hands snake around your stomach.

Her hand caressed the bare skin of your stomach, relishing in the way your slight stomach muscles tightened at her touch. They then wandering down to the hem of your jeans again.

"I bet you'll look so weak below me when there's nothing between us." She husked as she bit your earlobe and unzipped your jeans.

That was something Valkyrie always liked to do. Act like she didn't know exactly how these nights would play out. Like she hadn't memorised every inch of you. Like she didn't know the ways she could pleasure you and how much she enjoyed doing so.

You couldn't form a response to her words and only tilted your neck more for her in a hopeful attempt to have her attention there. You were glad to feel the sensitive skin being met with her warm, soft lips.

As she kissed and sucked on patches of skin along your, neck her fingers slipped into your jeans and didn't hesitate to rub your lower lips over your soaking panties.

"Such a needy slut, desperate for my touch." You moaned quietly in response and closed your eyes to the feeling if your wetness spreading.

Valkyrie was holding you down by the space between your shoulder blades while her fingers altered to massaging slow circles against your clit.

You bit back a moan at the sensation, almost wanting to speak up and ask her to remove the barrier. Valkyrie always wanted to do things at her pace, which could drastically vary from one time you see her to the next.

She pulled down your jeans and tossed them across the room before lifting your ass up into the air and taking your ruined panties off too.

You turned around to catch a glimpse of her but was met with one of her warning glares that sent shivers down your spine that never failed to rest between your legs.

"Look forward." Valkyrie ordered as she rubbed the smooth skin beneath your panties. "And count." She finished.

Just as you registered what she was saying you felt a sting across your ass and a loud smacking sound echoing throughout the room.

"One!" You moaned out and pressed your head against the sheets. Valkyrie didn't give any kind of recognition before bringing her hand down harshly across your ass again. You whimpered slightly as you managed to speak again.

"Two." More of a whisper this time. It wasn't common for Valkyrie to spank you, in fact it was rare. It meant something hadn't gone her way

"God you're such a slut for pain." She spat with a smirk. "You're going to be a mess in no time." The degrading backed up your theory. Not that you were complaining, just a little worried. You would try your luck with talking to her later.

She spanked you again, just as hard as the previous two but hurting more due to your fragile skin. As much as you loved what she was doing, it hadn't happened in a long time so your tollerence to it was nowhere near what it once was. You couldn't help but be filled with excitement at the thought, having craves that kind of pain for a while.

"Three!" You moaned into the sheets.

Valkyrie continued this unrelenting for 20 hits before rubbing your ass soothingly and soaking up the view of you exposed glistening folds.

"Such a predictable whore." Valkyrie said coldly. You blushed deeply at her words, your core squeezing around nothing in response. Of course, with your luck, she noticed.

"Oh? You like it when I treat you like the pathetic little slut you are?" You moaned out into the sheets from arousal, but this wasn't what she wanted. "Answer me." She demanded and pulled your hair back roughly to force you to look at her.

"Yes...! I love it." You admitted and felt yourself gush with wetness at the feeling of her fingers trailing lightly over your folds.

She flipped you back onto your back and aching ass before kneeling down infront of you, maintaining eye contact as she licked a strip through your folds.

You moaned and arched my back the moment her tongue made contact, feeling the older woman smirk against you and hum softly.

She wrapped her full lips around your clit and sucked eagerly. You continued to moan breathlessly at the action and felt a knock immediately grow in your abdomen the longer she sucked the sensitive bud. She dipped her tongue into your folds to taste your juices and moaned against you. The vibrations made you shudder in the most unsubtle way possible.

Her tongue sunk further into your weeping channel and you found yourself gripping the sheets beneath you even tighter, your knuckles soon turning white with every passing moment of having Valkyrie's tongue inside you.

"Mistress! I'm gonna-"

"Not yet." Valkyrie said clearly as she leaned back. You should have been glad at that, knowing you would have been embarrassed if she had made you cum so quickly.

And yet, you were still about to whine in displeasure until I saw her throw her sweatpants across the room to join your own discarded clothes. She stared into your eyes as she did so and revealed to you the strap she had been packing.

The sight of the strap firmly attached to the harness that clung to your Queen's curves made you want her all the more.

Valkyrie returned to the bed where she swiftly straddled your sides before taking your top off. She reached back to unhooking your bra and didn't suppress the pleased smile on her lips.

She leaned down to kiss the areas around your nipples and occasionally nipped and sucked on small patches of skin. I moaned lightly at her actions and closed your eyes with a smile. You wanted to grip her hair to push her to actually giving your nipples attention and eventually further down, but you didn't dare.

You sensed the older woman's hips shift on you and brush her strap against your throbbing clit. You whined lowly at the teasing feeling across your body.

She finally captured one of your nipples in her mouth and swirled her tongue over it. You gasped out at the sensation, even more so when she pinched the other nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

The older woman kissed up your neck again as the strap parted your folds for her. Valkyrie pushed onwards and very soon the tip of the strap sunk itself into your wet channel.

You moaned at the feeling of Valkyrie filling you up quickly and without hesitation. You clenched around the invader as she pushed onwards and stretched you to accommodate the girthy strap.

"Your cunt takes my strap so well, baby." Valkyrie moaned above you as her hands moved to either side of your head, her face inches from your own and locking you in an unbreakable gaze.

Once she bottomed out with an unexpected force she stilled for a short.moment before retracting her hips and snapping them back in place.

You could even hear the noise of your wet pussy everyone the strap returned to you between the heavy breathing and moaning you couldn't contain.

Being so close to your Queen after all that time made the heat between your legs grow and you knew Valkyrie could pick up on how much you gushed with wetness.

"Oh fuck." You moaned below her as her hips picked up speed. You gripped onto Valkyrie's back like a lifeline and prayed she wouldn't protest. Instead, she took the motion with a new vigour in her ruthless thrusting.

"Mistress!" You moaned louder as you dug your nails into her smooth skin.

"Please...don't stop!" You begged, too engrossed in the pleasure to care how desperate you sounded.

She complied without a word, her hips guiding the strap to mercilessly thrust into you at an overwhelming pace that was nothing short of pure bliss.

"I'm gonna cum." You moaned out, her pace unrelenting and hitting the back of your pussy without fail every time.

"Cum." Was all she said as you came hard on her fake cock, staring into each other's eyes and seeing the immense amount of pleasure you were receiving from your Queen.

She watched as though in a trance as you rode out your hide, clenching desleretlt around the strap as her pace finally slowed and she pulled away, leaving you feeling empty.

Valkyrie handed you a glass of water as she fell down beside you and waited for you to finish. You had expected her to get up and shower like she usually did, but instead Valkyrie wrapped one of her strong arms around your waist, closing her own eyes as she held you close to her. You smiled at the extremly rare gesture.

Sure, the arrangement had started out as just sex. But you had eventually learnt that these affectionate gestures helped your Queen settle her nerves too. It had taken her a long time to display this and it was always very limited. You loved every second of it.

Always willing to provide whatever Valkyire needed and secretly hoped that one day it could grow to become more.

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