#and that made that whole process a lot easier

[playstation-dreamcast]

guys, wanna see the commission I wrote for @nshtn !!!!

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Summary: After a long day at the lab, Wesker comes home with a terrible migraine, and you run him a bath to help him feel better :) Warnings: Some slight Yandere themes and possessive behavior, but for the most part this is pure, SFW fluff!

Wesker never would have called himself an “obsessive” man before. Driven, focused, compulsive even, sure. But never obsessive. He wasn’t quite sure when that changed, but he knew that at some point it had. And it had everything to do with you. 

Today had been long. It wasn’t often he left you in your shared home alone, but he knew he was on thin ice after the last time you had been to the lab with him. He spent hours coaxing you back into his arms after you saw the true nature of his research, and realized he wasn’t the do-gooder looking for cures that you thought he was. If you had seen what he was working on today, you would have been packing your bags for sure.

Not that you would ever actually be able to leave him. No, he was sure that you both knew that you were in  far far too deep for that. But, you being complacent in your imprisonment situation made things a lot easier, for all parties involved. He preferred you that way, anyways. Your love had always been so much sweeter when freely given. 

Still, a part of him had wished he had dragged you with him to the lab today anyway, if for no other reason than because your presence just made the day easier. He could feel the tension headache forming at the back of his skull. A soft sigh of relief left him as he entered the home he made for you. He shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his heavy boots, more suited for a battlefield than they ever were for lab work.

He wasn’t shocked when you didn’t come to greet him. Your reaction to his work with the plaga had been…less than ideal. He expected you’d be cold to him for the next few days while you processed it all. Still, he felt your absence acutely in the silence, and it set him on edge. He was used to you talking about, well anything really as you took each other's coats off and made your way to the shower to wash the day off. It had become one of the comforts he didn’t even realize was a comfort until it was gone. His fingers twitched with the need to grab. pull. hold you. 

This headache was quickly becoming a migraine. He decided to just call the day here and head to the bedroom, hoping to find you there, and crash for the night. He rubbed his eyes  from under his sunglasses as he opened the door, struggling not to flinch at even the soft light of the bedroom.

“Al?” your sweet, soft, voice called and instantly he felt his shoulders relax- even if it was just for a fraction of a second.

He removed his hand from his eyes and gave you a soft smile. You looked so adorable, curled up in his blankets, reading one of the books he bought you, in the bed you shared with him. Safe, was the primary word that came to mind. “Good evening Dearheart, I trust that you had a good day?” he asked.

You ignored him. “What time is it?” You asked as you checked the alarm clock on your nightstand. It was only 3:30. “You’re home early.” You noted. It wasn’t like him to ever leave work early. 

He nodded in acknowledgement, not even really bothering to change out of his work clothes before collapsing into the bed. Not like he worked with any samples today. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I left early,” He explained. 

He suppressed a smile as you placed your cool hand against his forehead, checking for a fever. “You don’t feel warm,” you muttered, “Another migraine?” 

“Heading that way.” He said, pulling you against his chest. You didn’t fight him. You were good like that. He closed his eyes as he focused on your breathing, and the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his own. The world was slowly starting to feel right again. Having you by his side, safe in his arms, was the only way he could feel human whole these days. His soul craved you, and no matter how much he may resent that fact, there was no changing it now.

You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, and looked at him through your eyelashes. “You smell like the lab.” You pointed out.

He gave a humorless huff of a laugh. “No doubt. I’ve been in it all day.” He muttered, closing his eyes to try and block out lowlights of the lamps in your bedroom. You hummed and patted his chest, silently requesting to be released.

He held you tighter. No, he wasn’t ready to let you go yet. He just got you back, and you couldn’t even give him five minutes? Ungrateful little-

“Al.” You said softly, patting him again, “I’d like to get up.” He held back a growl. He wanted to tell you no, but…your voice was so soft, and tender. And he knew you still weren’t happy with him. He was trying to sew you back to his side with a very delicate thread, and he had to be careful where he pulled. 

So he sighed as he let you go, scowling softly as you got up. He didn’t open his eyes, but he did notice you turn off the lamp for him, and listened as you padded into the ensuite bathroom. 

🧬🧬🧬

“Al…” your soft voice cut through the darkness. How long had it been? Had he fallen asleep? “Albert.” You said a bit more forcefully this time, placing a gentle hand on him

“Yes Dearheart?” He finally said, not removing the arm from over his eyes. When did it get there? 

“I, uh…I ran you a bath.” You whispered.

He lifted his arm and finally looked at you. Someone took off his sunglasses, he noted. “Did you now?” He asked as he sat up. 

“Mmhm” you nodded as you led him to the bathroom. The fresh scent of a douglas fir hit him as he walked in, followed by the realization that the bathroom was only lit with your candles. Fine by him, overhead lights were his enemy at the moment. He stretched out his neck to try and relieve some of the tension there, and as he did you moved to start undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Albert made no move to stop you. He’d always liked when you undressed him. He smirked as you undid his belt, a familiar smirk you knew all too well, joined by a small chuckle.

You couldn’t help the flush that came to your cheeks. “Shush.” you reprimanded.

He returned it with a condescending smile. “I didn’t say anything.” He pointed out.

“You didn’t need to.” You giggled softly as you finished undressing him. Wesker gave your face a loving caress before going and sinking down into the lush bubbles of the warm bath. He was taken a bit by surprise by the jets being on, but quickly came to appreciate them as they started to work the stress knots out of his back. 

He didn’t hide his near lascivious grin as he watched you undress. He knew the big bath tub was worth the extra money. His eyes followed even your smallest movement as you got yourself ready for the bath, and lowered yourself into the water next to him. Migraine or not, Albert was quick to pull you close to him, kissing your neck and grinning into your skin at your soft giggle. 

Your hands naturally found his hair, carding it in a way that almost seems like muscle memory. His face was still in the crook of your neck as he dragged his teeth over the seemingly permanent bruise he left there. Any time it started to fade, he’d sink his canines into you again, revealing in the way you gasped maybe a little bit too much. It was a sacred ritual for him, as well as an idle pass time. He adored the way you looked covered in his marks, the evidence of his presence in your life almost impossible to ignore. 

You hissed a little as his teeth found their home in your neck. He held you tighter, delighting in the way you squirmed as he suckled on the delicate skin there. He pulled back to admire his work, only letting up once he was satisfied that his mark wasn’t going anywhere. Ever the perfectionist. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” You muttered, moving over to the other side of the bath and to the basket of products you kept there, “I wanted you to try this.” You said as you held up a jar.

Albert took a second to read the container in your hand in the dim candle light, his cat-like eyes doing a lot of the heavy lifting here. “A face mask?” He asked, voice unamused. 

You nodded, “A hydrating face mask.” You clarified for him. 

“And why would I need that?” He questioned. Despite what one might think, Wesker wasn’t big on the whole “self care” thing. He took care of himself of course, but just washing his face at night felt like a more than adequate skin care routine.

You moved back to him. “Because they feel nice,” You explained, “And it’s not a crime to do something just because it’s fun every once in a while.” He found your word choice near comical, all things considered. As if he had ever cared about what the law said before. Still, He closed his eyes, letting you gently apply the mask with your fingers.

He wasn’t expecting the coldness of it, but, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome either. The scent of what could only be described as “clean” mixed with the fir of the candles and the lavender of the bubbles, and Wesker slowly came to the realization that his jaw was unclenched. Now, he had always been a man of science, but some small, secret part of him was sure you had cast some sort of spell to make that miracle happen.

Or, maybe it was just the way you lovingly applied the mask that made it happen. The tips of your bare fingers gliding over the apples of his cheeks and down his nose. You even earned a little huff (That you were reasonably sure was supposed to be a laugh) from him as you booped the tip of his nose.

He heard the soft tap of the container being put to the side, and felt you move behind him. “Now what?” He muttered, careful not to move his mouth too much and disrupt your work, as he leaned back into you. 

“Now we wait.” You informed him. Joy. Despite how often he found himself doing it, Wesker had never been a fan of waiting. He was willing to do it to reach his goals, and could in many ways even be described as a “patient” man. Still didn’t mean it was one of his favorite activities. 

He nearly jumped when he felt the warm water cascading over his hair. He hadn’t heard you pick up the cup to do so, but he definitely heard you chuckling now. “Sorry,” You said, though anyone could tell you were most definitely not sorry, “I should have warned you.” 

He gave an annoyed hum in response, leaning back into you. He was much more prepared for the water this time, and even found himself relaxing as you wet his hair. He heard the soft click of a shampoo bottle opening, followed by the feeling of you working your fingers into his hair. A soft, contented sigh left him as you massaged his scalp. He’d never admit it outloud, or even to himself for that matter, but the feeling of your hands in his hair would always be his favorite feeling in the world.

He tried to remember the last time he felt safe enough with someone to let their hands get this close to his neck while he had his eyes closed. Maybe William? And even then, it was mostly just that he trusted Birkin not to kill him while he slept. If he woke up to his hands in his hair, well…for one that would have been a very awkward conversation to have with Annette, but beyond that he probably would have punched him on reflex alone. 

He had never felt the need to keep his guard up that high around you though. You had always been so gentle, so sweet. A soft bunny that had no idea it was playing with ravenous wolves. Perfect for him to model the “comfort” action off of, for lack of better phrasing. He wasn’t sure when it changed. It happened when he wasn’t looking, it went from just another experiment to something more.

He felt that twinge in his chest again. The one he only got when he thought of you. The all too familiar and uncomfortable contraction that reminded him that no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, to run away from the fact, he still had a human heart. A human heart that beat in time with yours, for yours. A human heart that was always more yours than it ever was his. 

You were rinsing the shampoo out of his hair now, careful to make sure you got all of it out. His eyes were still closed. “No one’s ever washed my hair before.” He muttered.

“Yeah, that's not shocking to me,” you said, already working the conditioner into his hair, “All things considered.” It was more of an observation to himself, but- he did say it outloud- so he shouldn’t have been shocked by your commentary. He’d never been particularly open about his childhood with you. Mostly because he couldn’t bear the horrified, heart broken look in your eyes when he told you some of the lighter stories. Still, with the little information you had it didn’t take a giant leap of logic to figure out that Albert had spent his younger years isolated. Alone. 

Touch starved. Maybe that was why he always leaned into your touch, even the slightest graze. Why he insisted you be in his lap at all possible times. Why he could never really let you be that far away from him. 

Why he got jealous of any of the other researchers you spoke to. Why he had to know your location at all times, beyond just “wanting to make sure you’re safe.” Why you had become his own personal chew toy, covered in more “love bites” than you could ever hope to cover. Maybe he was just touch starved and making up for lost time. 

His hand found your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. You were both shocked it took him this long to do so. You flinched a little as you felt his nails did into the tender skin, but knew better than to say anything at this point. Wesker's love had always come blood soaked and tinged with pain. You were fairly sure it was the only way he really knew how to love.

His grip loosened before doing any real damage though, so progress was being made on that front. It was just a slow process. While you waited for the conditioner to set in his hair, you grabbed one of the soft rags from the towel bar, wetting it before gently wiping the mask away. He raised a hand to rub his cheek when you were done. You were right, his skin did feel noticeably softer.

Or maybe it was just the placebo effect. Who knows. He opened his eyes slowly, smiling as he saw yours looking back down at him. “Hello Gorgeous.” he hummed to you, smile growing as he watched your face warm up.

“Hey Handsome.” You replied, brushing a stray hair out of his face, “Close your eyes again.” You instructed. For once he did as you said without a fuss, letting you rinse the conditioner out of his hair. “Are you feeling any better?” You asked softly.

He has almost forgotten about the migraine entirely. “Much.” He confirmed, looking back up at you. Normally, he preferred you in his arms. But, he could get used to the inverse too. “Some days I feel like I don’t deserve you, my Dearheart.” He mused, taking your wrist and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. He relished how flustered you got as he did so. He always knew exactly what to say or do to get you worked up, and it was a sight that never got old for him. 

“Come on Al, don’t say that.” You shook your head at him, “We both know that’s not true.” 

His grin only got wider. He loved it when you played his game with him. You both knew the thought that he wasn’t absolutely entitled to you had never once crossed his mind, let alone the thought that he might not deserve you. But, you’d both hide behind the nicer interpretation of your words. “Will you be staying in the bedroom with me tonight?” he asked.

He didn’t have to put any emphasis on the “with me” for you to feel it. You had slipped off to sleep in the guest room last night after he had fallen asleep. An act of defiance that he would normally never let slide, purposefully ignored. He knew you were struggling with what you had seen in the lab, and had learned from you to give space when things such as this happened.

But you both knew he was tired of giving space. And it hadn’t even been a full twenty four hours yet. You were quiet for a moment, before you nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be in there with you tonight.”

“All night?” He didn’t mean for there to be that much edge to his voice, but after a long day he was done masking.

You nodded again. “All night.”

He smiled, reaching up and pulling you down for a quick kiss. “That's my good Bunny.” He praised, eliciting a delightful smile from you. You were still his, no matter what you had seen in that lab. You’d always be his, the red string of fate tangled and twisted around your necks, keeping you together no matter the circumstances. 

The water had gone tepid, and the froth of the bubbles had long since dissipated. He stood, holding out a hand to help you up. The bath was drained in favor of a quick shower, mostly to rinse away any remaining suds. As you stepped out, he wrapped a warm fluffy towel around you, a tender act that you returned in kind. 

You brushed his hair, telling him it was part of the “full princess treatment.” He allowed it, if for no other reason than it was yet another reason for you to play with his hair. He insisted on brushing yours as well, saying you deserved the “full princess treatment” just as much as he did. And yes, it was a thinly veiled excuse to play with your hair. 

Relieved from the migraine, the two of you were able to indulge in a movie to continue winding down for the night. He still insisted on cooking, being very vigilant of your diet. Nutrition was important, and he was a pretty good cook all things considered. He happily made your favorite before settling in to watch…

Whatever it was you put on. Honestly, he wasn’t really paying attention. He was far more occupied with the adorable pet on his lap, showering you with kisses and affection. Wesker was a fair man, he returned the treatment given to him. To the best of his ability. And he was more than happy to lavish you with his attention and praise. He didn’t realize just how much he missed you today until now.

He wasn’t going to do that again. If today had been any indication, even when you were scared of him, you still wanted to take care of him. Perhaps he had underestimated your tolerance for his work. Maybe you just needed to see more of it. Build up a tolerance via exposure. You’d come to see things his way eventually. You’d have to.

Before you knew it, he was holding impossibly close, against his chest, in bed, as if he was scared that if he let up you might disappear. A not impossible outcome, considering the night before. He buried his nose in your hair, getting lost in the familiar scent as he seemed to hold you just a little bit tighter. “I adore you, Dearheart.” He finally mumbled to you. 

 “I love you too, Al.” you promised, reaching out and turning off the lamp for the night. 

______________________________________________________________________________

A/N: AHHSDFHCDHIUHDVHV9UPAH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY!!!!!!!!! Thank you, so so much for commissioning me to do this, it has in fact, made me smile bunches! I just love writing for my lil Weskee.

Bonus! The song that has the lyric the fic was named for: Human Zoo - Aphrodite, Your Electric Sexiness ft. Will Wood (Animated Lyric Video)

[m1d-45]

i’m having shining nikki sagau thoughts everybody beware. so first of all like i remembered that elves canonically exist in miraland (idk if we ever mentioned this before) and there’s elves or at least elf-like creatures in teyvat…… i’m connecting the dots (<- they’re not connecting shit)

second of all. the new skins. “sailwind shadow” and “blossoming starlight” are SUCH designer’s reflection names like if i opened up shining nikki and saw those there they wouldn’t even be out of place. idk about everyone else but i think it would be cute if sailwind shadow was bandit. i have more to say but i need time to put my thoughts in Order - teddy anon

shining nikki!!

honestly despite red being in my head on and off, i didn’t even CONSIDER sailwind shadow and that is a tragedy. i have his skin but didn’t do the quest relating to it yet (it’s a costume he wears for a play right?) but the entire thing with this event. god he’s so perfect.

blossoming starlight is probably just klee but higher energy and less fear, and while i don’t doubt the power of klee dps i do doubt your conscience allowing you to bring a child into battle, double so after red split. she’s just. a little girl. so we move on.

sailwind shadow. i’ll choose to interpret him as a mix of the dagger bandit and kaeya himself, which makes for a fun little guy in my opinion. always trying to sneak you off to somewhere “more interesting than sitting around all day, no?” and thinks that the others are being far too uptight. does he understand the gravity of the hunt? absolutely. but whereas red (and the two archons) want to keep you safe in the cave you’ve made home, he’d much rather whisk you away down a path in the forest.

less for combat, i’d imagine, leaving that to nikki and the others. has quite a few stories to tell, most made up but some gathered from his weak memory. dislikes kaeya, but less so than red, surprisingly. he seems to view him as having no other choice, that he’s “already conflicted enough without that fake touting him about as their sword.” he views kaeya with more pity than anything else.

he and red have a.. strange relationship. at their cores, they are diluc and kaeya, but that affection is hidden beneath the several layers of trauma painted over. they both worry for the other in their own ways—he checks red for injuries from afar when you all regroup after a fight, and red makes sure to make chicken mushroom skewers when he’s having a bad day—but it’s still a tough trial. it’ll probably go quicker than diluc and kaeya, but you’ll have to wait a while before they connect properly.

in his early stages, he’s not all that dissimilar from red. clingy and always hesitant to leave, but does do more to try and keep your attention on him. he’s kaeya at his core and the costume is from a play, so he’s got quite a few tricks up his sleeve to prolong his stay.

(these tricks commonly include starting to tell you a story only to reveal that the ‘ancient artifact’ is one of fischl’s arrows, or red’s rings. your laughter is enough to keep him stealing them back—anything to be the source of that shine in your eyes.)

less prone to violence than red, and definitely safer to take out in public after everything’s over. at worst, he’ll make a passing comment, but is too worried about his image. what if you see him sneer, or if the other person sees and tells you? no no no, it’s far safer to just pull you away again, even if he has to lie as to why. you’ll understand if the crowds are getting to him, or if he feels trapped indoors, right? you were meant to be amongst nature anyway, so if anything he’s just doing you a favor, surely.

(he doesn’t often leave your side as you sleep, but he did see red in the middle of.. taking care of some things once. while he prefers to keep his hands clean—it’s awfully hard to lie to you, and he doesn’t think he could stay quiet if you asked—he doesn’t look down on red’s choice of problem solving. he recognizes the person beneath his boot anyway, hands slightly twitching at the memory from earlier today. when the two of them return to camp by morning, he lets red do most of the talking, only adding in the small half truth of “just having some fun” when prompted. he did his best to wipe his sword clean of any unsavory stains, but does keep it safely in it’s sheath whenever you’re around.)

however, just because he’s less violent than red doesn’t mean the source of said violence went away. he still gets jealous, and if he finds his theatrics don’t make you laugh as much as they used to, he‘ll begin to panic. are you growing bored with him? are his stories getting predictable? do you look down on him for running away with hunters with you instead of staying like the others do? he promises he’s not just dead weight! please, what does he have to do? do you want him to be more like barbatos? he can’t quite help you fly like he can, but he can try to pick up a bow! do you like red more? he’d really rather not get blood on his outfit, but anything for you. anything, anything at all… just keep your attention on him for a little longer. please?

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[doomdoomofdoom]

Screaming this one from the rooftops

man. People get so upset when you call things social constructs. Thinking that if you say something is a social construct that means it's fake and unnatural, and following that, that that means it’s bad. Something being a social construct means that it’s socially constructed. That’s it.

Money is a social construct. Weekends are a social construct. Vegetables are a social construct.

That doesn’t mean it’s okay if my paycheck is withheld or my rent is late. Doesn’t mean I don’t luxuriate in sleeping in on Saturday. Doesn’t mean the nutrients in tomatoes or spinach aren’t good for you.

What it means is that the way we think about things is socially constructed, and could be constructed a different way. Why do we base our society around money? What does value mean outside of money? What is “value”? The way we construct it isn’t the only possible way.

Why is a week a cycle of seven days, and five of those days are for working and two of those days are for resting? Could we organize our time differently? Should we? What would that look like? Other cultures don’t/didn’t have seven-day weeks with a five on-two off cycle. It’s not inevitable. It’s historically and culturally specific.

“Fruit” has a scientific definition but “vegetable” does not. Many parts of plants are culinarily defined as vegetables. Fruits (eggplant, avocado, tomato), stems (celery, asparagus), leaves (kale, lettuce), roots (carrots, potatoes, turnips)… all of these are culturally categorized as vegetables. And nutrition advice is based on this cultural categorization. Is a mushroom a vegetable? It’s not even a plant! Why do we categorize it this way? Why isn’t wheat or oats considered vegetables, but corn is, except when it isn’t? Could we categorize our plant-based food other ways?

Calling these social constructs doesn’t mean they’re bad or unimportant. It just calls attention to the fact that they aren’t inevitable. That they could be constructed in different ways, and that is worth thinking about, and thinking about the value we get in constructing things the way we do.

Gender is a social construct.

Romance is a social construct.

They are based on feelings, desires, and experiences, but how we name and categorize and express and act on them are fully culturally constructed. Other cultures do and have constructed these concepts in other ways. You can like the way we do it now. You can find it stifling. But the way we do it now is not the only, inevitable, inherent, real way. It could be done other ways, organized and categorized and conceptualized in other ways. And that’s not a bad thing either.

[go-fornicate-yourself]

Every day I am in the trenches fighting for my life defending this poor man. He was going through so much and people online demonize him and say he's as bad as his abuser

(I've got a lot of thoughts about this so I'll make sure to separate things to make it easier to look at lol)

Curly is a victim of abuse. Jimmy is his abuser. This is something that I feel a lot of people tend to brush over or don't acknowledge it often.

And I'm not just talking about post-crash. Jimmy's abuse of Curly is there pre-crash too. The party scene where the crew learns about the company going under is a huge example of this. Jimmy verbally abuses him, he gaslights him, he blames him for their (his) misfortune. Jimmy accuses Curly of thinking he's better than everyone (better than him), that he doesn't care about them (about him). That he's going leave them (leave him). Which is not true. Curly tries to explain himself but Jimmy shuts him down and he just takes it.

The fact that he just allows this to happen makes it seem like he's used to this... That this kind of behavior is a recurring thing with Jimmy. And the fact that nobody else tries to defend him or stands up to Jimmy just normalizes it for him. When Anya tells Curly what Jimmy did it catches him off guard. Bc he genuinely didn't think that his friend was capable of that. It wasn't something that was obvious to him. There were absolutely many red flags in the past but they were subtle enough for him to not see them bc he cares for Jimmy, he trusts him. Jimmy's the only one he feels he can open up to, who he can let his guard down with. Jimmy's his home. That's how close they are.

Because of this deep love for his friend and the subtlety of Jimmy's cruelty, he doesn't see the constant verbal and emotional abuse as what it is: abuse. Which is why he finds Jimmy's abuse towards Anya so shocking and jarring.

He isn't a man covering for his rapist friend bc of the 'bro code'. It does look like that from a certain angle and it's understandable why people see it that way but that's not what his character is really about as much as it makes sense otherwise.

He's essentially a battered housewife who's still in love with her husband but is realizing for the first time that the man she loves is a monster. That the man she loves and devoted her life to has been hurting her this whole time and she didn't even realize it. That the man she loves and spent so much of her life caring for has gone and hurt someone else. That he's most likely hurt others before and she's been utterly unaware of it the entire time she defended him and made excuses for him when he wasn't the best or the fairest or the most responsible or when he screwed up yet again solely bc of how much she loved and cared for him.

And Curly barely had any time to process ANY of that before Jimmy decided to try and kill them all to avoid the consequences of his actions. It was ultimately a selfish act even if he thought he wasn't just doing it for himself. Jimmy is selfish and needs to be in control or he loses it. He cares for Curly. He loves him. Curly's done so much for him. Curly's the only one who understands him, who doesn't hate him. Curly's his home. He resents how 'successful' he is but that's only bc he thinks so highly of him. He constantly puts himself down and put Curly on a pedestal and worships him while simultaneously mistreating him.

He treats his best friend like shit, he's awful to him. But he's not aware that this is the case or maybe he's in denial about it. He can't or just refuses to see how he's doing all of what he does for himself in the end. He justifies his attempt to kill them all (to himself and to Curly) by claiming he's doing this for them both. That if they were to get back to earth it would all be Curly's fault, that it'll ruin his life and career... despite the fact he had basically nothing to do with Anya's abuse. Jimmy's shifting the blame on him while acting like he cares for him. Well, he does genuinely care for him but clearly not nearly enough to not mistreat him or use him as a scapegoat for his own guilt.

Jimmy is the rapist, Jimmy is the one who does all of these horrible things. And yet it's highly likely that Curly would just blame all of it on himself bc that's exactly what Jimmy did to him. He's in so deep he can't see the facts of the situation.

It takes abuse victims so long to come to terms with their abuse. It takes time and reflection to see things with an unbiased and healthy perspective. Abuse (especially years of it) isn't just something you can just escape. It consumes you and can twist your reality. Curly had about a week or less to process all of it and then take action in a way that protected his crew and abided by Pony Express' guidelines. Dealing with something this serious in a setting that makes resolving it extremely difficult in a practical sense is already hard.

There were no locks on any of the doors except for medical and the cockpit. They couldn't just kill him. There was nowhere they could detain Jimmy that wouldn't involve corporate potentially penalizing the entire group. They could have used the cryopods but then there'd only be three available for any actual emergency and there were already five crew members and four pods in total. Also, I doubt corporate would be 'okay' with them using the cryopods for anything other than their intended purpose. Hell, even if they were able to make it back to earth without any incidents there's a good chance that corporate would consider the situation 'poor team synergy' and collectively punish the entire crew for Jimmy's actions.

So on top of having to deal with an already difficult situation, Curly has to grapple with the realization that Jimmy a: abused Anya, b: has been abusing him as well (for a very long time too), and c: has probably abused others before Anya and he had no idea about it. He needed to act but he didn't and it doomed all of them.

But it's so unrealistic (maybe even cruel) to put that much pressure on someone, force them through an utterly earth-shattering realization, and then expect them to do the correct/right/responsible thing in that moment. It's a little ironic how people vilify him for that when other characters do the same thing that nobody blames for it.

Anya is the ship's nurse. Curly is the ship's captain. They both have duties and responsibilities on board the Tulpar. She has to keep the crew healthy and safe and is the only one with enough medical knowledge to do so. He has to make sure that everything goes well and goes according to procedure. He's responsible for the crew, the cargo, and even the ship itself. Both positions are integral and require a lot of responsibility to do properly

They're both put through distressing and traumatic situations where due to them being human people with emotions and fears that make them essentially avoid their responsibility/doing what's required of them.

Curly has a freeze response and doesn't act when he should have when it was crucial to have done so. Anya has a fawn response and essentially puts her patient in danger and harm's way. She knew full well what Jimmy was capable of. She experienced it herself and she witnessed it happening to Curly as well. And yet she allows Jimmy to be alone with Curly while being fully aware of how dangerous he is. Which she shouldn't have, that wasn't the 'right' thing to do. Keeping him safe was her responsibility.

But Anya's human. She's going through a lot at the moment. She's terrified of Jimmy and she's trying to appease him so he doesn't hurt her again. It's a natural very understandable thing to do even if it's not the 'right' or 'responsible' thing. They failed each other when they needed each other most and I think that's the most tragic part of it. If anything, all of them failed each other in some way, shape, or form.

So it's incredibly frustrating to see people give Anya so much sympathy and grace for doing something so human yet still 'wrong' but then turn around and give Curly none of that for doing essentially the same thing she does.

I don't know for sure if it's actually because Curly is a man or if it's only part of it or maybe some people just lack that sense of awareness but it's depressing and frustrating as fuck as a male victim of sexual violence and abuse to see this kind of behavior and this much victim blaming towards a character who is undeniably a victim of abuse like I am.

[pressureplus]

Sebastian Solace Kissing Headcannons

Warnings: N/A

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

• No, he does not taste like fish, Yes I know you've giggled about that at least once so I may as well knock it out of the way

• Considering he's been confirmed to smoke and it's safe to say he eats from the vending machines pretty consistently, he usually tastes like cigarettes and chips

• Occasionally, he may taste like other snack foods, namely: Chocolate, Peanuts, Hard Candy, and those weird prepackaged vanilla cookies

• At first he didn't want to kiss you at all, even when you two got your confessions out

• His mouth is so inhuman and sharp, with rows of shark-like teeth... It made him really nervous about kissing you for a long time

• What if seeing it up close made you not like him very much anymore? What if it just doesn't feel right to you? He'd rather avoid making you uncomfortable like that

• There's only so much defensive sarcasm and passive aggression can do for you, and it isn't gonna fix heartbreak

• Makes fun of you for even wanting to kiss him, have you SEEN him??

• Will accuse you of having a thing for fish 💀

• You're going to have to kiss him first, he isn't gonna pop that safety bubble himself

• That first time, his whole body locks up, breath held for the long moment it takes for him to process what's actually happening

• He relaxes slowly into actually kissing back, that familiar wall coming down

• After this, he'll start initiating them

• At first it's these stiff little pecks on the cheek and corner of your mouth, but he quickly gets a taste for you

• When he starts kissing you directly, he gets hungry for it, starting to sneak them in any time he can find

• The kisses get longer and slower and easier for him, humming into every one of them so affectionately

• He's needed the touch for years, so naturally he's going to have his hands on you the whole time. Yes, all three of them.

• Likes to pick you up, means you can't get away when he goes to tease you about wanting to kiss such a scary thing like him

• Absolutely gives you little snake kisses, his tongue flicks out at you a lot when he's giving you smaller kisses

• That mean ass mouth doesn't get any nicer, but at least you get kisses for putting up with it

• He's going to nip and nibble at you too, overall getting really comfortable with the mouth affection

• He does this all the time, too, and most enjoys bothering you while you're trying to work by sneaking up and biting your neck

• Seriously tho, how is he so quiet?? He's huge???

• Oops, hickeys! He's too pleased with leaving marks not to ❤️

[emiliaoleary]

Hooking rugs that look like dogs

Here's how I do it:

The process I use is called rug hooking (not latch hook or punch needle or tufting, though it is the forerunner of the latter two techniques). Rugs are hooked by pulling loops of fabric strips or yarn through the holes of a base fabric with a coarse open weave, like burlap, or linen, or rug warp. The loops are pulled through the fabric with a squat-handled hook whose business end is shaped like a crochet hook.  There are no knots and the loops aren't sewed down in any way.  The whole thing stays put just by the tension of all those loops packed together in the weave of the foundation fabric.

This isn't a true detailed tutorial but a walk-through of my particular process. The same information is on my web page, emilyoleary.com .

I hook with yarn, rather than with cut strips of wool fabric, which is what many rug hookers use.  I can get a looser, more organic distribution of loops with yarn than I could with wool strips, which are hooked in neat lines. 

Mostly I use wool yarn. In terms of yarn weight, I can use DK, worsted, or Aran.  If I'm using thicker yarn, I leave more holes un-hooked; if I'm using finer yarn, I hook more densely or double up lengths of it.  I particularly like using single ply yarns (like Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride or Malabrigo Worsted).  I don't keep count, but I think I usually use around two dozen types and colors of yarn per dog.  

This is my yarn wall in my apartment. Mostly brown and gray yarn!

I start from a small drawing in my sketchbook, then I head to FedEx office to use a copy machine, blowing up the drawing repeatedly and experimenting with how big the dog rug should be. 

After transferring the image onto my linen, I immediately go over it with Sharpie, because the Saral is really difficult to see and really easy to rub off.

The rug is held taut by a PVC quilting frame that I set on my lap.

I push my hook down through the fabric with my right hand and my left hand stays below the fabric and guides the yarn while I pull it up and through with the hook. Not every hole in the fabric is hooked. Hooking every hole would make the rug too dense. I do hook pretty densely, though-- If you pick up one of my rugs you’ll see they have a slight curl to them, which is because they’re hooked pretty tight. I'm using all different weights and types of yarn, so it's a challenge to keep the overall tension even.

I hook my loops at varying heights to create a very low relief. Sometimes I trim the loops to make them fluffier or wispier or to shape a particular part. I look at a reference photo while I work and pull out and redo sections a lot.

My q-snap frame can accommodate the growing dog rug. I have extenders to make it bigger and I can clamp around my hooking.

The back of a rug looks like lines of little stitches. The lines are little worm trails snaking around because lines of hooking are not supposed to cross over each other. It's important to start a new length of yarn rather than cross over a stitch you already made! I read this when I first started and took it to heart. It makes it much easier to undo and redo hooking if you have to (and I redo sections A Lot). It also keeps the back from getting too bulky and resulting in uneven wear on the back of a functional rug that gets floor use.

When I’m done hooking everything I turn the rug over and brush watered-down Sobo glue on the edges of the dog, making sure to get one or two of the outermost lines of hooking. I do a couple coats of this thinned out glue. I'm careful not to use so much that it seeps to the front of the rug. When the glue is dry I cut the rug out, but I don't cut so close that the loops don't have any linen to keep them in.

​ It generally takes me at least several months to finish one dog rug. My hooking frame and yarn bag are very portable (though bulky) so I can hook out and about at coffee shops or the library or a brewery if there's enough space and light.

Hooking in the wild makes me an ambassador for making things in general and rug hooking in particular. I answer people's questions and always emphasize how relatively easy it is to get started hooking. Sometimes I get anxious that other people will hook rugs that look like mine but better, but I think that working in a traditional medium means you should share your knowledge for the good of the craft.

[tieflingkisser]

‘The machine did it coldly’: Israel used AI to identify 37,000 Hamas targets

Israeli intelligence sources reveal use of ‘Lavender’ system in Gaza war and claim permission given to kill civilians in pursuit of low-ranking militants

The Israeli military’s bombing campaign in Gaza used a previously undisclosed AI-powered database that at one stage identified 37,000 potential targets based on their apparent links to Hamas, according to intelligence sources involved in the war. In addition to talking about their use of the AI system, called Lavender, the intelligence sources claim that Israeli military officials permitted large numbers of Palestinian civilians to be killed, particularly during the early weeks and months of the conflict. Their unusually candid testimony provides a rare glimpse into the first-hand experiences of Israeli intelligence officials who have been using machine-learning systems to help identify targets during the six-month war.

[...]

“This is unparalleled, in my memory,” said one intelligence officer who used Lavender, adding that they had more faith in a “statistical mechanism” than a grieving soldier. “Everyone there, including me, lost people on October 7. The machine did it coldly. And that made it easier.” Another Lavender user questioned whether humans’ role in the selection process was meaningful. “I would invest 20 seconds for each target at this stage, and do dozens of them every day. I had zero added-value as a human, apart from being a stamp of approval. It saved a lot of time.”

[...]

Several of the sources described how, for certain categories of targets, the IDF applied pre-authorised allowances for the estimated number of civilians who could be killed before a strike was authorised. Two sources said that during the early weeks of the war they were permitted to kill 15 or 20 civilians during airstrikes on low-ranking militants. Attacks on such targets were typically carried out using unguided munitions known as “dumb bombs”, the sources said, destroying entire homes and killing all their occupants. “You don’t want to waste expensive bombs on unimportant people – it’s very expensive for the country and there’s a shortage [of those bombs],” one intelligence officer said. Another said the principal question they were faced with was whether the “collateral damage” to civilians allowed for an attack. “Because we usually carried out the attacks with dumb bombs, and that meant literally dropping the whole house on its occupants. But even if an attack is averted, you don’t care – you immediately move on to the next target. Because of the system, the targets never end. You have another 36,000 waiting.”

[...]

“We were constantly being pressured: ‘Bring us more targets.’ They really shouted at us,” said one intelligence officer. “We were told: now we have to fuck up Hamas, no matter what the cost. Whatever you can, you bomb.” To meet this demand, the IDF came to rely heavily on Lavender to generate a database of individuals judged to have the characteristics of a PIJ or Hamas militant.

[erwinsvow]

hii shea idk if someone has already made this type of request if that's the case please ignore me but i can't stop thinking about shy!reader absolutely cock drunk asking for the first time rafe to fuck her raw and the question caught him so off guard that he felt feral and dizzy, his composure slipping away just wanting to please his sweet girl<3

hi baby omg no i don't have any reqs like this here it is hope i did it justice <33

rafe was teasing you today.

after more than an hour of back and forth at whatever party you two had gone to for the evening—and only because rafe wanted to sell and your friends had already promised they'd be there—you were more than ready to go home.

except rafe hadn't taken you home yet. instead you'd been all around the house—on rafe's lap in the living room to start. leaning in to your boyfriend's ear, you know he can tell how desperate you're getting.

you don't do well with denial anymore—rafe had spoiled you too much for that.

"can't we go now?" the words are whispered to rafe, and you rest your head on his shoulder, blinking up at him while you wait for a response. one of his hands leaves the armstand of the sofa and grips your exposed thigh, skirt riding up a little too much.

"it's early. hold out a little longer. can you do that for me?"

you think your eyes are going to roll all the way back. the answer is yes, of course, you can do that for him. you would do anything for him. you just don't want.

following that, you accompanied rafe to the other side of the house where a whole swarm of people were chasing their next high. though you should really stand next to him, you just can't find it in you today, instead staying his back, peering out every now and then like shy children do.

it's all worth it, because moments later rafe takes you upstairs, murmuring something about how you're being a good girl for holding out. there's an empty bedroom that you think is the perfect place to spend the next hour.

rafe's talking to you—though you're so deliriously horny you can't really hear him. you nod and stare up, agreeing to whatever your boyfriend wants to do, just wishing he would hurry up and do something already, when the door opens.

you're not naked, though if they had barged in a few minutes later, you might have been. and normally you think your face would be burning, that you might die of embarrassment at someone catching you like this.

instead you're just mad.

it's the owner of the house—which makes sense, since your boyfriend has brought you up to the master. he's got a girl of his own on his arm, and you grind your teeth getting up with rafe, furious and impatient now.

"at least knock next time!" you yell when you shuffle through, ignoring splutters of it's my house!

you think rafe is going to ask you what you want to do next—but he doesn't. your boyfriend, like always, knows what you need before you can even know it sometimes. you follow rafe back to his truck, ready for, at the very least, some peace and quiet.

when you finally get up to rafe's room, the buzz of the party is wearing off a bit. your feet hurt from your heels and you can't believe you yelled at someone. lost in your own thoughts, you don't even process rafe sitting down next to you, until he takes your feet into his lap, undoing the strap of your shoes for you.

it's instant—one touch from him is enough to set your skin on fire.

"oh," you say, at the sudden realization you might finally be getting what you want. you stare at where rafe is holding your ankle in place, shoes on the ground now. "thank you."

"s'nothing, kid. get on the bed." eagerly, you comply.

in the vain hope that rafe was as impatient as you are—you thought he would just fuck you already. but it seems not, with the slow way he kisses up and down your neck, down to your tits and your stomach.

you find it a lot easier to ask him for things now—a new dress, dessert, money for your nails—but it seems impossible to ask him for this, so you opt for enjoying it and staying silent.

but even then—rafe always knows when something is wrong. you're practically vibrating from anticipation—you had wanted your boyfriend to fuck you hours ago on that stupid couch from that stupid house. it seems your body was only now realize how long you'd been clenching your thighs, biting your cheek and ignoring the tense knot in your stomach.

a few touches from rafe was enough to have you practically melting—staring up and still not saying anything.

"y'okay, kid?" he asks, and you really don't know how to answer. "s'okay. you're getting what you want."

you can do this. you're patient—you've always been patient.

"can you-please, just-" alright, maybe not. "can you please just fuck me raw, please, please, just fuck me-"

of course, rafe's not stupid. he could tell you've been on edge all night, he just hadn't known why. he stares down at you, all flushed, hot skin and heavy breaths, looking up at him. he knows whatever reaction he gives you will stay on your mind, and though he can try as hard as he wants, you are impossible to say no to.

"jesus. s'that really what you want?" you nod eagerly. "can't regret this later, baby. once we do that, it's-it's serious. what if i knock you up, huh?"

rafe watches you take in the words, facing twisting in understand.

"please knock me up."

[anniebeemine]

I’d love to see dad Spencer finding out his teen daughter has a boyfriend and reader is just like “this is normal babe” and he’s just so that dad who doesn’t want his little girl to grow up

Spencer wasn’t sure when it had happened. One day, his daughter Eliza was running around the backyard, obsessed with dinosaurs and space, and the next, she was texting non-stop, staying up late on the phone, and hanging out with friends. She was growing up fast—too fast for his liking—and now, at sixteen, she’d hit him with something he was entirely unprepared for.

“So...I have a boyfriend,” Eliza said casually, looking down at her phone while sitting at the kitchen table.

Spencer nearly dropped his mug of coffee.

“What?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, and Eliza’s head snapped up to meet his wide-eyed stare. She bit her lip nervously, but her expression was mostly amused, like she had expected this kind of reaction.

“I said, I have a boyfriend, Dad,” she repeated, more slowly, as if that might make the shock easier to absorb. “His name’s Ethan, we’ve been texting for a couple weeks and...we’re going to a movie this weekend.”

Spencer felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. A boyfriend? His little girl had a boyfriend? This wasn’t supposed to happen, not yet. Not ever, if he had his way.

You, standing by the stove and flipping pancakes, glanced over at the scene unfolding. You were smiling softly, clearly not surprised by Eliza’s news, and you gave Spencer a knowing look as he struggled to find words.

Spencer had noticed the changes, of course. How could he not? Over the last few weeks, Eliza had been giggling at her phone more than usual, texting away with a grin that made him wonder what was so funny. She’d been asking to stay out an extra thirty minutes before he picked her up from her friend's house, her voice casual but always a little too hopeful. And then there was the way she was suddenly excited to go to school—something that used to take a lot more convincing, especially for early mornings.

But Spencer had brushed it off at the time, chalking it up to normal teenage behavior. Maybe she was just hanging out with her friends more. Maybe her classes had gotten more interesting. He hadn’t connected the dots.

Now, as she casually mentioned having a boyfriend, it hit him like a freight train.

He should have paid more attention.

He stood there, still holding his coffee, realizing that all those little signs had been pointing to this moment. The giggling, the extra time with her friends, the sudden enthusiasm for school—it all made sense now. Ethan.

“Eliza, when exactly did this start?” Spencer asked, trying to sound calm but knowing he wasn’t pulling it off.

Eliza shrugged, still scrolling through her phone. “A few weeks ago. It’s not that serious, Dad.”

Not that serious? His daughter had a boyfriend, and she was acting like it was just another Tuesday.

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but you gave him a gentle nudge before he could start spiraling again. You’d been watching the whole thing unfold, a soft smile on your face as you watched your husband try to process this new chapter of parenthood.

“Spence,” you said gently, catching his attention, “it’s normal, you know.”

“Normal?” Spencer repeated, his voice incredulous as he turned to you. “Our daughter—our little girl—has a boyfriend, and that’s normal?”

You laughed softly, walking over to him and resting a hand on his arm. “Yes, it’s normal, babe. She’s a teenager. This was bound to happen at some point.”

“I wasn’t ready for this,” he mumbled, still staring at Eliza like she had just told him she was moving to another country. He thought back to all those little moments he hadn’t fully paid attention to—the way she’d been giggling at her phone, how she always seemed to be in a good mood after school. The puzzle pieces were coming together now.

Eliza, for her part, rolled her eyes but smiled, clearly amused by her dad’s overreaction. “Dad, relax. It’s not a big deal. Ethan’s nice.”

Spencer opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled, “Nice?”

You squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Why don’t you meet him before jumping to any conclusions?”

Spencer was already shaking his head. “I don’t need to meet him. I know boys his age and they-"

“Spence,” you interrupted, shooting him a look. “Eliza’s smart. She’ll be fine. And besides, you trust her, right?”

Eliza gave him a hopeful smile. “Yeah, Dad. You trust me, don’t you?”

He hesitated. Of course, he trusted her—she was the most brilliant, thoughtful person he knew. But the idea of her being out there with a boyfriend, navigating relationships and the teenage world, it was overwhelming. She was still his little girl.

But he could see the way her eyes were watching him, waiting for his approval, and he couldn’t be the dad that held her back from growing up. With a deep sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the tension out of his shoulders.

“I...I trust you, Eliza,” he said finally, though he still looked like he was struggling to come to terms with it. “But, uh...maybe I should meet this Ethan kid before your date.”

Eliza grinned, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Of course, Dad. I’ll make sure he’s ready for the interrogation.”

Spencer groaned, looking at you for support, and you just laughed, wrapping your arms around his waist. “See? Not so bad.”

“It feels bad,” Spencer muttered, though his heart was slowly warming to the idea. “Can’t she stay ten forever?”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Nope. But she’ll always be your little girl.”

And even though Spencer wasn’t entirely ready, he knew you were right. He watched Eliza happily texting away, already excited for her movie date, and couldn’t help but smile. He might not like it, but he’d be there to support her every step of the way, even if it meant meeting her first boyfriend with a million questions lined up.

Spencer nodded, though the reality was still sinking in. His little girl was no longer just the dinosaur-obsessed kid running through the backyard. She was becoming her own person, with her own life and experiences. And while he wasn’t quite ready for all the changes, he knew he’d be there for her, through every giggle and every milestone, even if it meant meeting Ethan and doing “the dad thing” with a nervous smile.

For now, though, he’d take a deep breath and try not to panic—too much.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

You know that feeling when you want to make a good impression and eveything you do feels low-key humiliating

Or when you're just perpetually mortified about every word that leaves your mouth by default regardless of what's happening or who you're talking to like I am—

ANYWAY HERE'S SOME HEADCANONS ABOUT THE BOYS BEING EMBARASSED OR SOMETHING—

Oooh Nooooo

Zoro, Sanji, Shanks, Mihawk, Buggy x Reader

Needless pointless fluff with the tiniest bit of hurt-comfort or something

Live-action or anime/manga canon, either or both

I don't think there are any TWs?

Sorry for wasting all of our time with this silliness

Anyway here's some Nu.

Zoro

He just pushes himself much too hard sometimes.

Sitting down and "taking a nap" after training, when he's clearly well beyond his limit.

Or rather "passing out from utter exhaustion with his swords unsheathed across his lap."

It could have ended a lot worse than a rogue wave washing across the deck and a gash on his arm.

Grumbling about how he's fine and doesn't need any help the whole time you're wrapping bandages around his arm and chiding him.

Going silent and tense for a moment when you wrap him in a tight hug and softly ask him to be more careful.

No, he's not blushing, he's never blushed in his entire life, shut up

Hugging you back? What are you talking about?

Gives a little growl of annoyance, refusing to let you go for longer than he's willing to admit, and will probably say it was for your benefit if anyone asks.

Sanji

The old *whoops* with the pepper shaker.

It had already been a long day, he was just trying to wind down in the kitchen.

Trying to season a very simple, very straightforward sauce.

And the entire lid falls off of the pepper shaker, and into the pot, along with a massive pile of ground black pepper.

And he just lets out a groan of defeat, dropping to his knees and letting his forehead fall against the edge of the stove with a weak little thunk.

But no no no, you're already hurrying over to help scoop out the excess pepper, reassuring him that it'll definitely be fine.

Your rush to assist him is enough to make him smile in itself, to let out a small affectionate chuckle as he watches you grimace at the taste the ruined sauce, before you meet his eye and try to fake a smile.

Decides to repurpose the sauce in question, to get back at the idiots that loosened the pepper shaker lid in the first place.

The two of you are left snickering to yourselves while the rest of the crew fights over the nearest jug of fresh water after tasting it themselves.

Shanks

Man could probably drop a knife and sever three of his toes and still manage to laugh it off, what is "embarrassment...?"

Well, it's a little more subtle.

It's having to relearn how to use both a sword and a pen after losing half of his dominant arm.

It's laughing off how his handwriting looks like a child's now.

It's getting mildly annoyed at trying to button a shirt one-handed and simply tucking it into his belt instead.

It's refusing help with simple tasks that could be made far simpler if the stubborn idiot would just let you help already—

It's hearing him chuckle and agree when you call him a stubborn idiot for refusing any help, settling his hand in your hair and pulling you close.

The whole process is embarrassing in itself, but he's got you, and he's got his crew, and that makes it all so much easier.

Mihawk

What on earth could he possibly have to be embarrassed about?

World's Greatest Swordsman, one of the seven Warlords, with a sense of wit as devastating as his blade.

And yet, despite all his efforts to hide it, he's just a big softie.

As if it wasn't already evident from how he allowed Zoro to live after challenging him and subsequently trained him, with the convenient excuse of wanting a worthy rival.

He's going to glare at you with a sharpness that could slice clean through diamond if you suggest out loud that he did any of it out of kindness, much less fondness.

But he's also going to sigh in an irritable sort of defeat when you kiss his cheek and compliment him for finding such a perfect balance between mercy and murder.

And mumble just as irritably about how you're lucky he finds you endearing enough to keep around, begrudgingly proving your point without even realizing it.

Buggy

Lives in a perpetual state of embarrassment that he tries to mask with haughtiness and aggression.

It mostly revolves around the elephant in the room.

The very red, very round elephant in the room, attached to the very center of his face.

The one he might just slaughter anyone for mentioning in front of him.

Who nose what that could possibly be *wink-wink*nudge-nudge**stupidest-pun*

But the second you plant a kiss there and say how cute it is, in a way that makes it clear you're not condescending or taunting him about it, he's too busy blushing and sputtering over his words to remember what he was supposed to be angry about in the first place.

[planetpedri]

I loved the new Jobe fic you wrote it’s very nice! I was wondering if I could request a Jude one….if not you could write it for Jobe I don’t mind. One where you’re in a secret relationship and you end up being in the same place as him and his family. You both just staring at each other. Maybe you work somewhere or something else. But you can’t let anyone know you both know each other or that you’re together. So it’s just to sad and heartbreaking. Later you guys have a call or meet and it’s just breaking you both down but it’s still not a good idea to go public because of the public and their reactions. If you can and want to id love to read something similar. Thanks a lot

Ripples — Jude Bellingham.

Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Fem!Reader

Summary: Having a famous boyfriend wasn’t easy, what wasn’t making it any easier, was how adored he was by fans. Any spark of dating rumors sent them spiraling, and Jude never wanted you to be subjected to that. You’d hit your breaking point when you had to seat him and his family at a table, and all the while, pretend as if you didn’t know him.

Word count: 1k+

Disclaimer/s: Angst with resolve + hopeful ending.

A/N: I hope I did this justice.. idk

Tightening the waist apron around you, you make your way to the front. It was shift change, and you were now taking over for your coworker. She handed you the notepad and pen, wishing you a quick, ‘good luck’ before leaving.

You let out a loud sigh, making your way to the front as there was certainly customers waiting. It was noon after all.

You’re too busy making sure everything was in your apron pockets to notice the family of four at the front. “Hello, I’m—“ You look up, breath hitching in your throat. You stutter out your name, swallowing thickly to calm your nerves, “and I will be your waitress today. Please, follow me.”

Your boyfriend and his parents, along with his younger brother Jobe, did just that. Jude seemed to be the only one who noticed your reaction, his heart thumped in his chest the second he saw your face. You’d stiffened instantly, tension clear in the way you held yourself.

Taking them to a booth, your eyes flicker to Jude’s. You watch him sit down, sending you a quick smile. Nothing significant, he’d do it even if you were just another worker.

You set out the menu’s, forcing a smile onto your face. “Can I start you off with drinks?” You ask, taking out the note pad and pen.

Denise started off with the ordering, and when it came to Jude.. well! You couldn’t even look at him. He was watching you though, trying to hide the upset in his voice as he spoke. Of course you noticed, you’d heard that tone multiple times.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” You nod, hastily making your way to the back.

The first thing you do, is hand the notepad to a co worker. “I’m not feeling well, could you take over my table?” She had nodded, concerned, but didn’t press further.

The rest of your shift went smoothly. You had unsuccessfully avoided the Bellingham’s table completely, somehow always in sight of your boyfriend. He stole glances your way, and the few times you caught them, you immediately looked away. That same thing went back and forth for the whole hour his family had dined there.

The second your shift ended, the grey cloud that had followed you around the whole day, somewhat lifted. You’d finally started to chill out when you got back in your car and drove home.

Jude had texted you multiple times, but you’d ignored them until you got into your apartment. Collapsing on your bed, you shoot him a quick text, asking him to come over.

Within seconds he replied, ‘already on my way’ and that was that. You had to impatiently wait to see your boyfriend in the safety of your apartment. No cameras to see you, no fans, no family.

The few soft knocks on the front door tells you Jude had arrived. A swarm of nerves hit you like bullets as you made your way to the entrance. You unlock it, pulling it open in the process. You’re immediately met with a half-smiling Jude. Half as in it didn’t seem to reach his eyes, which you knew meant you were in for a talk.

“Hey.” You say, opening the door wider to let him in before shutting it behind him.

Jude makes his way toward your couch, plopping down before replying. “We should talk. About today.” He adds the last part as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Yeah.” You nod, sitting down a few feet away from him. “Why would you willingly bring your family to that restaurant? You knew I worked there!” Your voice was raising slightly out of frustration, which you immediately tried to stop. It was no use to get angry about this.

Jude straightens, his eyebrows pulling together. “It wasn’t my choice? My parents wanted to go, so we went. And I tried to give you a heads up, but you weren’t answering.”

“Yeah, well, I was working.” You chuckle humorlessly. “It’s fine, though. I just hate having to hide like this. Do you know how upsetting that was for me? To see you with your family and for them to not even know who I am?”

Jude nods in understanding, his lips pulling into a frown. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t like this, but the fans—“

“I’m a grown woman, I can handle it! I’d rather be harassed online than have to duck and hide every time we’re in the same vicinity.” Desperation clings onto your voice, your eyes softening as they dart up to meet your boyfriends.

He plays with the couch cushion mindlessly and chews on his bottom lip. “What if.. we compromise?”

This peaked your interest, your eyebrows lifting slightly. “How?”

“You meet my family and a few of my friends, but we keep it private still? And if it ends up getting out… it gets out.” It was a half assed attempt at fixing things. He couldn’t lose you, but he also couldn’t bear to think about how the public would react, which would inevitably lead to you getting hurt. And if he had to choose, Jude would rather lose you than you getting hurt in that way. “Plus, not being able to talk about you to my family is killing me.”

Half way was better than no way, so you sigh. “Fine. I can deal with that.” Scooting closer to your boyfriend, he meets you half way, using his long arms to pull you into his side. The last part of what he said suddenly clicked, a smile making its way onto your face, but you don’t say anything about it.

You two lay like that silently for a few moments, Jude’s hand coming up to play with the ends of your hair. “Y’know… my mum gave me that look at the restaurant when you walked away. I think she may have a hint of whats going on.”

Chuckling into your boyfriend’s chest, you smile. “And here I thought we were always so subtle.”

Likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. Leave a comment if you’d like to be tagged in any future posts whether it’s specific or all <3

DTS , @halfwayhearted + @spidybaby !

[tremendouscreationperson]

A few of you wanted a part three so here goes

Reader gets called Doll and Toots but other than that I think it's pretty GN

Part 1 Part 2

Ford - no Stan - had spun his tale. You weren't sure any of it could be possible. How was you supposed to believe that Ford was alive but not in this universe/realm/reality?

You sat in the lab he had brought you to - it was cold and dank, stark lights illuminated metal plates and cascaded up the walls to show off a large triangular 'portal'.

"Why'd you have to die?" You asked, eyes glued to the journal upon your knees.

For-Stan had been waiting for any questions, willing to provide you answers. "Seemed easier."

"And lying to me?" You flicked through the stained pages. "That was easy?"

"It wasn't." He told you honestly, just hearing his voice was crazy. You had believed he was dead for two years and he wasn't! He was here the whole time. "Gotta admit, I had you fooled."

The attempt at a joke was not humourous in the slightest. "This isn't normal behaviour."

Stanley didn't know what else to do. He hadn't thought you would ever realise, perhaps that was stupid on his part but he really thought he was able to coexist with you as Ford.

"So..." You took a deep breath. "Recap: this is Ford's journal and he wanted you to take it away and you both argued and he got sucked into that thing and now you're him and Stan is dead and you're trying to get him back?"

Stan nodded, twiddling his thumbs. "Yeah. It's been hard, I had to relearn math."

"Who else wrote in here?"

"Huh?"

You pointed at the page. "That's not Ford's handwriting. Although look, 'ford' signed it." A humourless chuckle escaped. "Who else is pretending to be your brother?"

Stan was at your side in an instant, looking over your shoulder. Being so close to him was maddening.

He was alive.

Your Stan was alive.

Yeah, maybe he was a fraud and there was weird space mumbo jumbo that you still don't entirely believe but he was alive.

Your face was turned towards him as he studied the page, his fingers grazing yours underneath the words. How did he look like him now?

You didn't see Ford in him at all.

The way he stood, his neutral expression, even his hair was different. Was Stanley.

"I didn't notice that." He spoke lowly due to the proximity.

"Is there anyone else in the town called Ford?"

Stan's gaze landed on you, his nose inches from yours and he opened his mouth to speak before closing it and just observing you. He really took you in.

Despite the lies you were still here. Still entertaining this. He really wished he had more to offer you but he didn't.

He was just him. He wasn't his brilliant brother or full of mysteries or answers. He was just Stan, a con artist who scammed people daily.

"I don't know." The words finally left his mouth and he quickly stood upright.

~~

Rather than leaving tonight, you had stayed longer because of the news, calling in sick at work, how often could you say someone had come back from the dead?

The two of you ate half the pasta you made, sitting awkwardly opposite each other at the table.

He had been open and honest, answering all of your questions keenly and encouraging you to ask more. And you had to admit that was nice but the news still sat heavily on your shoulders.

Mostly because: FUCKING HELL THIS WAS CRAZY and a slither of: you had told FORD THAT YOU LOVED STANLEY AND BROUGHT HIM UP IN MANY CONVERSATIONS AND HE WAS THE ONE YOU WERE TALKING TO AND YOY WERE EMBARRASSED AS FUCK BUT YOU NEEDED TO HELP AND HDJAKSIEIES

"You, er.. you okay?" Stan toyed with a meatball.

"It's just a lot to process." That wasn't a lie. "I'll probably be like this for a few days."

He gave you a sincere smile, "take your time, do-"

Your eyes snapped up to his pink face. "Were you going to call me doll?" He nodded in affirmative, his ears reddening as well. You weren't sure why but you spared him with: "Hmm, better than toots."

"That was one time!" He insisted.

"That's all it took."

"I only said it to piss you off." He smirked cheekily, his face returning to its usual hue.

"It worked." Rolling your eyes as you giggled. You didn't hold any real malice, he was being cocky demonstrating his pick up moves and they did not work... Well they did but it was easier to pass off your hot face and wide eyes as anger rather than awe.

Stan laughed along with you, enjoying the sound. Loving how easy it was to just be himself. He didn't have to wear the gloves which made everything impossible, he didn't have to act stiff and drop big words into his 'lexicon', and he didn't have to lie. He could be himself.

He knows he doesn't deserve this, by God he knows that, but he would take all you'd willingly give; if that was just dinner before you drove away forever then he would take it and be thankful for the time.

"Want a beer?" He found himself asking.

You didn't reply straight away, ideas tumbling around your head. He loved watching your mind work. "Got anything stronger?"

Stan winked and disappeared to get the whiskey he'd stashed away.

And so the two of you found yourselves sitting on his 'balcony' (a little ledge, that you had to climb through a window to access, underneath the 'mystery shack' sign) forgoing glasses and passing the bottle between you.

"Must feel good to tell someone." Your words slurred as you laid on your spine, staring at the stars beyond the trees.

"It does." He took a sip. "Feel bad that it was you though."

You swivelled your neck to give him a confused face. He bellowed out a laugh. "Oit, don't laugh at me." Your socked toe jabbed his thigh.

Stan placed a hand over your foot, just holding it, forcing your hips to manoeuvre into a more comfortable position. You faced him as he watched the treeline. "Sorry to drag you into this."

"Sorry I didn't notice sooner." How didn't you? He was clearly Stan. There was nothing here that said Ford. "You're so obviously my Stan." You rolled your eyes and folded your arms in annoyance at yourself.

Stan's brows shot up and he turned to catch you grumbling at yourself. "Your Stan?"

Your eyebrows met and you scrunched your face in confusion again. "What?"

"You said 'my Stan'." His lips began to lift into the smuggest smirk as he leaned forward, entering your bubble. "I didn't realise I was your Stan."

"Shut up." You playfully pushed him away. "We're drunk, you don't know what you heard."

Stan didn't let up, instead he found your hand and intertwined your fingers. "I kinda like being someone's Stan." He spoke with a half shrug.

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Was this a dream fueled by your longing and whiskey? "Well, you know how I feel because you were spying on me! Pretending to be Ford to hear what I had to say about you!"

"Hey, I told you Stan liked you too!" He defended.

"Do-" You paused. When did the two of you get so close? You were nose to nose. "Does Stan still feel that w-"

You weren't given a chance to finish the question because his lips were on yours. He kissed you slowly, one palm on your cheek as the other wound around your spine, pulling you in close. Your hands were pinned against his chest as you kissed him back enthusiastically.

Stan's slow kisses morphed into an intense make out session as he ran his tongue across your bottom lip and you gave him access. His hands exploring all over your body, squeezing and caressing your sides and chest causing your spine to curve.

The two of you were buzzing and the kiss was a little sloppy but it was perfect. You wouldn't want it any other way.

He finally allowed the two of you a breather, kissing his way down your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive flesh. You squirmed again, back arching as a whispered moan tumbled from you.

That sobered him up, Stan raised his head from your neck, looking down at you and saw the needy look in your eyes. "Maybe we should wait 'til we're not blitzed."

The automatic frown you wore had him chuckling as you pulled his face back to yours, kissing him with as much vigour as you could muster.

Stan bit your bottom lip and his fingers settled on your thighs, how he managed to find himself in between them he didn't know but you pulled him closer with your legs and he had to pinch himself.

This was real.

All the shit he had done.

Every scam, every fraud, every crime, everything.

And you still looked at him with those eyes.

Fuck.

Maybe he loved you.

.

.

.

@aratheegreat @ngs991-2 @seahorrorz @misty-eyed-memory @50shadesofwinchesters @ryoiii @viceroywrites @atseoks @countlessimagines @aweleyirene @hesthermay @darlingdia1007 @piningforstan @emmygirl33 @imafangirlofeverything @daniel-meyer-03

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.

I work in a DIY shop and this is what I had to look at for the majority of my shift 😂😭 he haunts me

[drfleetflower]

The Arrangement

~Requested~

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader

Summary: Behind your back, your parents arranged for you to marry the President of Panem: Coriolanus Snow. You have mixed feelings and as the wedding continues, your feelings get even more mixed up.

Warnings: Angst, light fluff, arranged marriage, puking, allusion to intimacy, slight mention of drinking kind of

There will be a part 2!

WC: 2.3k

As the President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow was expected to have the best. The best housing, the best clothing, the best display of wealth and power, and more recently… He was expected to have the best wife. The idea irritated and concerned him, his mind swimming with memories of his failed relationship with Lucy Gray. He couldn’t- no he wouldn’t let himself be fooled again by a pretty face and an enchanting voice. He wasn’t going to tempt himself to fall into the vulnerable and aching embrace of love. But, of course, he couldn’t marry someone completely unappealing either. They would be a public representation of himself and a status symbol. It would be a difficult decision.

- - -

“This is an honor.” Your mother tells you in a soft voice. She tucks some of your loose hair behind your ear and you look down at the letter in your hands. 

“I know.” Is all you can respond with. You do know, but that doesn’t make the news any easier to swallow. Behind your back, your parents arranged for you to marry the president? You hadn’t really thought about marriage, and now you were expected to get hitched to Coriolanus Snow? Not only was he the president, but his family had a long line of power and success. The name Snow was a legacy of greatness, and it would soon be your name. 

It was presented as a choice, but you knew rejecting the proposal would be the wrong one. Your parents were successful, sure, but being the first lady would raise your family up higher than you could imagine. You couldn’t help but wonder why he picked you. 

Your mom waits, more impatient than not. You can tell by the way her knee shakes lightly and her eyes watch your face intently. “I’ll do it, mom.” You finally answer, a slight snip in your voice as you feel rushed to say that. It’s not like anything could change your answer, though. You didn’t need time to think, just time to process. 

Your mother quickly nods in response and, noticing your hostility, leaves just as quick. Likely to bring the good news to your father. You stay right where you are, mulling over this absurd idea. You were convinced as soon as you met Snow, he would laugh in your face, the whole thing a big joke. Or worse, he’d change his mind. How wrong you were…

---

You stepped out of the slick black car sweating, but it wasn’t the heat from the sun turning the car into an oven, the car had air conditioning. What else could you expect from a car the President of Panem owned? It was your nerves. And they got in the way of a lot of things. Impairing your judgment, slowing your movements and making them uncoordinated, you even tended to have trouble speaking properly. Anyone would think you were drunk. 

The driver, an Avox, helped you up the steps leading to the door of the President’s mansion, your skirt was tight and your heels high, doing nothing to help your shaking. Your mother insisted you wear her highest heels, a status symbol? You could manage if you weren’t having trouble hearing anything besides your own quick heartbeat. Despite your parents never being particularly comforting, you felt yourself needing their presence. Being alone made the whole thing that much bigger. 

But they would be at the wedding. The wedding that was set to occur in no more than three hours. The wedding that would be broadcast to all of Panem. The wedding to the man you hadn’t even met yet. The wedding that had your face pasty, your stomach twisting painfully, and your guts spilling out onto the clearly very expensive carpet of the entrance to the President’s home. Not good. 

You look up at the driver and other Avoxes that have suddenly flooded the room. You cringe but they all give you soft looks and some lead you away to get cleaned up while others stay behind to get the carpet cleaned up. That, or just throw it away and replace it, Snow could certainly afford it. 

You’re taken to a surprisingly normal sized room, the furniture dressed in delicately designed skins of floral patterns that look simple but if you looked close enough it was clear that a lot of effort was put into them. And you were looking closely, the whole of your attention on the threaded flowers as the Avoxes wiped your mouth and took your now lightly stained clothes. 

Soon, after you were washed and made into a clean slate, a couple designers you recognized from the Games came in to get you really ready for your wedding. They were stingy with your makeup, a soft and sweet look with colors that complimented your features nicely. Your hair was primarily left alone aside from some shaping to fit a veil. And then your dress… Your dress was not simple. It was decorated with exorbitant beads and jewels that you were impressed avoided looking tacky. You were in awe of yourself as soon as they slipped the dress on. Was that even really you in the mirror? You wouldn’t bat an eye if someone said it was all an illusion. Maybe this was just a strange dream. As they fit the veil into your hair you felt airy and light, like at any moment you could simply float away. 

As the weight of the dress finally settled on your shoulders you were hit with reality again and swallowed down the threat of another ruined carpet. The bouquet, filled with only white roses, was set in your hands and you hoped you wouldn’t drop it when making the treacherous trip down the aisle. Between the weight of the dress, bouquet, and veil, your heels wobbled as you stood. 

The stylists had you walk around the room a little bit, but it didn’t help you to be more steady on your feet. Either way, they seemed satisfied, at least you had yet to topple over. 

It was time. You wished time would move slower.

You closed your eyes as you were set in front of the two glass doors that were dressed with curtains, so you couldn’t see outside and no one could see in. These doors would lead you to your fiance. President Snow. You said the name over and over in your mind, President Coriolanus Snow, you still couldn’t get a grasp on the situation. Your heart was beating so fast you were worried you might actually have a problem. What if you just passed out on your way down the aisle? You take a deep breath.

You hear the Capitol anthem begin to play and take more deep breaths. You jump when you feel an arm link with yours. Sigh. You forgot your father was meant to walk you down the aisle. You give him a weak smile and he returns the gesture with a much more reassuring one and a squeeze of your hand. You turn your attention back to the doors and grip the bouquet firmly with both hands. 

The usual wedding song begins to play and two Avoxes open the door for you and your father. You put on a better smile than the one you gave your father, or you hope you do. Your breathing stops and your feet refuse to move when you look down the aisle and see the President. 

Coriolanus Snow was… Is there a word? Is there a word to describe the perfect man standing in front of you? Well, he would be standing in front of you, if your feet weren’t cemented to the floor. His suit looks similar to your dress in that it’s white and has the same beads and jewels, except it’s toned down. He had a white rose set in his lapel, matching your bouquet, and his blonde, curly, breathtaking hair was neatly styled. Deep breaths. 

Your father took the first step, forcing you to go with him. The closer you got to the beautiful stranger that you kind of knew, the tighter your chest got. The wedding song ended a few steps before you got to Coriolanus Snow and you felt embarrassed at how slow you were, but nothing about this event was helping you walk. Coriolanus Snow smiled at you as you took your space in front of him and if your father wasn’t still holding onto you, you would’ve toppled over from the way it made your knees even weaker. He gave a nod to your father and my father did the same and then the wedding was to commence. 

Coriolanus Snow’s hands stayed folded in front of himself, his eyes never wavering from yours, and you desperately hoped your blush didn’t show. He only finally moved when it was time for the rings. You had to hand your bouquet off because there was no way to carry that thing with one hand. You held out your shaking hand and Coriolanus Snow steadied it with his. His hand was firm and warm, soft and gentle. Your breath hitched and suddenly you felt on the verge of tears. You cursed yourself. What was wrong with you? You really needed to reel yourself in. This was a business arrangement, that’s all. You repeated the affirmation in your head as he slipped the ring onto your finger: a delicate ring with a simple band and single white diamond. 

Your turn. You held his hand and followed instructions as he had, slipping his simple band onto his finger. You take the bouquet back in your hands. 

Then the ‘I dos’. Coriolanus Snow first, then you. You surprised yourself when your words came out clear and unwavering. 

Then the kiss. The kiss. How had you forgotten about the kiss up until this very moment? The kiss. How did people kiss at weddings? You had only been to a handful and the memories were erased as you watched him slowly lean in. You were as still as a statue until he touched your chin and moved your head for you. You closed your eyes when you felt his breath fan over your cheek and soon his lips met yours in a chaste kiss. That one, much too short, second made your skin light on fire and the butterflies in your stomach flutter in chaos. His lips were just the right amount of plump and he used just the right amount of pressure. He was just right.

You blinked a few times when he leaned back, his hand leaving your chin and instead snaking around your arm. 

“Introducing to Panem: mister and misses President Coriolanus Snow!” The guests, crowd outside the wedding, and the people of Panem who couldn’t attend, erupt into applause and cheers. 

---

The ceremony is a blur for you. You try to throw the bouquet as best you can to the crowd who scream and almost tackle each other. You and Cor- your husband cut the cake, the two of you being very respectful. You dance your first dance… Your hands entwined, your other on his shoulder and his gripping your waist, his cheek resting against your forehead. He can probably feel how hot your face is as you sway lightly together. People make toasts, which takes a considerable amount of time. Family members and friends say their piece while other guests simply vie for the attention of the President.

Finally, you can go home. Well, technically you’ll be going to the President’s home, but it is yours now too right? Anyway, it was your new home. You get into a similar car to the one that took you here, except it’s white. Your husband helps you inside before entering himself. You copy him when he waves out the window at the crowd. Then the car is very silent. You occupy yourself by running your hands over your dress, trying to get it to lay flatter. Coriolanus Snow occupies himself by staring at you, his eyes sharp. 

When you arrive at the mansion, you’re helped out of the car and up the steps for the second time of what would be many. Coriolanus Snow’s eyes continue to follow you and you wonder if regret is already festering in his gut. Maybe you did something wrong? He had yet to say a word to just you. 

Once you enter the building though, he clears his throat. “Did you enjoy it?” He pauses and then continues when you don’t answer right away. “The wedding.” He clarifies. 

“Yes. Yes, I did. It was very grand.” You smile, nodding.

He smiles back. “Good… You’ll get used to that.” 

You continue to nod a bit longer than necessary as you look into his eyes, getting lost. He lets out a hum and looks away. “You must be tired. Would you like to head to bed?” He asks, holding out his arm to you. And you take it.

To bed. You would like to go to bed, but did he ask this earnestly? Would you really be sleeping? You reminded yourself this was a business arrangement for the millionth time. But even so, would he be expecting something? At some point he would want children for sure. So soon? It’s possible. 

You resisted the urge to chew on your lip as you two made your way closer and closer to the bedroom. Then, he stopped in front of the door to the side of the one you knew led to the master bedroom. “Here is your room. Mine is there.” He points to the two intricate doors. “You may knock if you need something, but ring for an Avox first, see if they can’t help you.”

Oh.

“Goodnight Y/N.” He smiles and orders a couple Avoxes to help you get ready for bed.

“Goodnight-” You fumble with his name and he raises one of his perfect blonde brows. “What do I call you?”

“Coriolanus is fine. Coryo in public.” He answers, by the way he says it, it’s not a request. 

“Goodnight Coriolanus.” You say softly, and then he heads to his room and so do you. 

[moonchildstyles]

rosemary

rosemary part one: harry has a lot of secrets and has perfected the art of being alone. y/n likes to wear bows in her hair and tries harder than anyone harry has ever known.

wordcount: 14.5k+

—————

The sound of the lock clicking in place as Harry twisted the deadbolt on his front door had his shoulders relaxing. The kind of comfort a locked door brought was something he'd never take for granted. 

He kicked off his shoes beside the door, the dingy carpet making his beaten Vans look a lot cleaner than they really were. His keys clamoring atop the rickety side table he had set up next to the door had him wincing at the volume. He didn't like loud noises much anyway, but especially not after one of his longer shifts. Harry bypassed the single curtained window in his apartment, leaving the drapes heavily closed despite the morning light crawling over the horizon. 

First order of business was changing out of his work uniform. He hated nothing more than relaxing in the same pants he had worked all night in, even if the dress code of the grocery store was on the lax side. He flung the maroon collared shirt into his hamper, followed by the set of stiff, dark pants he wouldn't wear ever in his daily life. He could have melted as soon as he threw on a heather grey t-shirt and tattered sweats. 

The second he sunk into his bed, springs creaking under his weight, he felt the knots in his muscles begin to loosen. He'd never worked over nights before at any of his previous jobs, and he hadn't anticipated how hard it would be to adjust to falling asleep when the sun came up and the challenge his body would pose over working when he should be resting. At least, he was home. 

His studio apartment wasn't heavily furnished—or even lightly furnished, if he was being honest. This was his seventh home in the last handful of years, and after a while the idea of lugging furniture around and anything other than the essentials made him just as exhausted as the actual process of moving. It was easier to pack up and leave when there wasn't much for him to miss. Instead, he often bought secondhand, or anything cheap whenever he settled in a place that seemed good enough for the time being.

This particular move left him with a plain bed frame, the legs uneven but fixed with the help of a couple of old books. His pillows were thin, matching the frayed sheets he had stretched across his mattress and the threadbare comforter topping the whole thing. Like with most of his past apartments, the carpets held stains from before he moved in, walls yellowed from cigarettes he didn't smoke, and the kitchen appliances worked at their convenience. The only things that were truly his, that he never parted with in any of his moves and made this place less of a crash pad, were the few well-loved books under his bed that weren't being used to prop up the frame, and the small photo of his mother and sister sitting on a shelf he was lucky enough to have found at a garage sale when he moved in. 

Despite it all, Harry liked this place. 

The town he'd landed in was on the quieter side, too small for much trouble to rise up. He hoped that would make it an easy place to stick around for a while.

His body felt heavy when he forced himself to stand from his bed and pad over to the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner of the space. As exhausted as his body was, his brain was still very much awake and urging him to eat something before he settled any.

His kitchen was made up of limited cabinet space, a trio of stubborn appliances, and a square of loosely-laid tiles marking the confines of the space. The flimsy cabinets were barely hanging onto their hinges, from before even Harry moved in. The shelves were sparsely dotted with canned food and boxed snacks. They were the easiest and cheapest things to grab, even if they weren't necessarily bites that he liked. Plus, they were easy to travel with if he needed to leave in a split. 

The stubby refrigerator manning one of the walls held only the bare essentials, leaving the shelves and door more bare than not. The appliance mostly held the frozen meals he was able to get a discount on through his job. The microwave embedded in the wall stunk like burnt hair every time he ran it for longer than ten seconds. The stove was the most reasonable method of heating up food in this apartment, Harry had found, even if only two out of the four burners operated on more than a simmer. He had never used the oven in the three months since he made this his home, despite the fact it had been cleared by his landlord on move in day. The exposed wiring sticking out of the back looked like it would cause a house fire instead of just heating a lasagna. 

Harry bypassed it all as he rifled through his near-empty cabinets. To be fair, this wasn't the worst place he'd ever lived, so he'd take it if things were on the rundown side and carried an odd smell if he paid close enough attention. It was a routine the way he pulled out a can from his cupboard, a Spaghettio's label wrapped around the tin, before reaching for the misshapen pot he kept in a lower cabinet. His movements felt robotic as he went along, forming his meal out of habit more than any conscious thought. His brain happily turned onto autopilot as he stirred the runny tomato sauce, noodles floating through, until boiling bubbles broke through the surface. 

Taking it off the heat, Harry scooped it into a bowl. This was good enough for him. 

With the pot in the sink to be washed and the can in the trash, he moved on tired feet back to his bed. He didn't have a dining table to eat at, and he didn't really care if he was honest. It wasn't as if he was hosting dinner parties or entertaining guests. He was happy enough with nestling into his blankets and eating on his bed. 

Tucked underneath his pillow, Harry pulled out a well-worn book. A dog-eared page marked his place in the oil-softened pages. The spine no longer cracked when he folded open the pages, the stiff set in the glue having settled somewhere after his fiftieth read. The bent and frayed cover no longer phased him anymore, nor did the name inscribed in the inside cover that wasn't his. No matter the state, this book followed him through every move, every change, and every sleepless night.

He knew this love story like the back of his hand; the pages one of the only constants in his life of transiency. 

Harry wasn't even that much of a reader the first time he had picked up the volume. He had only been looking for something to escape into when he first started going on jobs, the stress and guilt beginning to warp his mind. These pages still hadn't lost their shine in his eyes, this story having been one of the only bright points when he swore he was digging himself to rock bottom. 

Absentmindedly spooning bites of his meal into his mouth, Harry slipped into the familiar story. The comfort was almost enough to have him lulled into something safe enough that he could have fallen asleep where he was sitting, memories of every sleepless night when he had turned to this book hitting his system. It was a feat little else had been able to achieve, and Harry was grateful for that. He couldn't keep staying up at all hours now that he had the challenge of flipping his days with this new job. 

Sitting on his well-loved bed, a well-loved copy of his favorite book in hand, and something that could pass as breakfast if he squinted hard enough, Harry felt at peace for a moment. 

He didn't mind being alone, not when it was like this anyway. He hoped he wouldn't have to move on from this place for a while. 

—————

Cardboard scraped against Harry's forearm as he reached into his box, digging through the packages of cookies and crackers that filled this specific shipment. The fluorescent lights above him felt especially fried now that the sun had gone down, washing out his skin and paling the ink of his tattoos. 

While the rest of the night crew were paired off and working together to stock the shelves, Harry was commissioned alone. He worked better by himself, he knew that, and it was nice to have his boss know that now too. It only took almost two months into his employment until everyone realized he wasn't the kind of person that enjoyed idle chatter or wanted to get close to any of these people around him. Now, he was able to enjoy his music in peace, the white wire connecting the buds hitting his chest as he moved. 

Harry had a system with the way he worked. He wanted to finish as fast as possible, and not waste any more energy than he had to. He tried to organize his boxes as much as he could on the cart before he was stocking each line of product as quickly as he could, extras being cast aside until he could make a trip to the back room. It was all a system, something he planned out without even thinking. If not for the fading ache in his shoulders and knees he would feel at the end of his shift, he wouldn't even really remember his movements. 

Given this focus, there wasn't much that could distract Harry as he worked. His goal was to finish as fast as possible and move onto something else to fill his mundane nights, not to linger on the guests of the grocery store or fill the silence with small talk he didn't care about. There was a reason he gravitated towards the operations side of this job and not the customer service aspects.

That's why he didn't give it much of a thought when he saw a pastel streak flash in the corner of his eye. He continued doing his job, organizing his box some, as he filtered through the packages of biscuits and sweet crackers, soft sleeves of cookies, and bags of other products. It wasn't until the pastel streak drew closer did he instinctively glance in its direction. 

Her back was to him as she held her gaze upwards. She was scanning the shelves, this woman, complete with an overlarge cream sweater and a peach colored bow in her hair that shone in the light like the velvet fuzz of the color's namesake. One of the grocery store's signature maroon baskets was at her side, the handles tucked in her elbow. There was barely anything in her basket, but that isn't what had Harry's brows knitting in the middle by the time he stitched his attention back on his work. 

It was way too late for anyone to be doing any menial shopping in his opinion, especially not a girl who looked as if she might deem throwing flower petals in the face of an attacker to be sufficient self-defense. But, that wasn't his business, he reminded himself. It didn't help soothe the tears in his mental health to imagine the worst possible scenarios starring those around him. 

A centering breath was sucked in through his nose as he flicked the switch in his brain that had him thinking only of his body's movements. He curled around himself, stepping out of the way as much as possible so the pastel-peach girl could go about her business and disturb Harry as little as possible. The less approachable he looked, the less he'd be approached. 

He didn't know if she wandered that aisle for the next couple of minutes or traced down the shelves on the other side before coming back, but that telltale shift in the air around him told him she was now behind him. The static told him she was right there, at his back. 

Harry didn't acknowledge her presence, instead making it clear he was working and didn't want to be disturbed. He hoped she could see the wire of his headphones that much clearer against his dark shirt. He wasn't inviting her presence; if she needed help, Brett and Fawn were just a couple of aisles down and much more friendly. 

As with some attempts at camouflage, it didn't work in Harry's favor. Some people didn't always see what was clearly in front of them, he knew that. 

A small hand, complete with pearl polished nails and skin smelling of something sweet like honey and the savory bite of herbs, landed on the crook of his elbow. "Excuse me?" her voice leaked through his headphones. 

With a tick appearing in his jaw and a pace of breathing he was sure looked just as forced as it was, Harry halted his work with a sleeve of graham crackers in his hand. His features felt stiff when he turned towards this girl. 

He spoke as he twisted in his spot with a hand yanking his headphones out of his ears, her touch falling from his arm just as quickly. "What?"

When Harry's gaze brushed over her, cataloguing details to add to the pastel streak he had thought her to be before, the same attention that went into his work was now employed in keeping his features stoic and muscles hard. This woman... was very pretty. 

Her cream sweater he had seen from behind was actually a cardigan, buttoned loosely over her torso with a pale peach top underneath. The buttons were pearls, matching the shifting light that characterized the varnish on her nails. Her jeans were high waisted, ripped in places that lead to a pair of pristine white tennis shoes, complete with a set of pink laces threaded over the tongue. The bow held back pieces of hair that would have normally fallen around her face, leaving small strands fluttered as if matching the tendrils of her bow that drifted down her back. 

In the time he was trying to figure out who was standing right in front of him, she blinked at his harsh tone, almost recoiling as if she'd been struck. Her hands became a bundle at her middle as he squirmed under his gaze. Harry swallowed harshly. 

"Sorry to bother you," she started, recovering some with a short smile on her lips, "I was just wondering... God, this sounds so much more dumb out loud than I thought it would." She cut herself off with a soft laugh, dropping her gaze from his to settle on the cardboard box on his cart. "Do you have any of those white chocolate raspberry cookies that come in the bag in your box? The soft ones?" she tired again, shuffling her toes against the linoleum, "I didn't see any on the shelf, so I was hoping you might have some in one of your boxes. They're my favorite so..." 

Harry wanted to be annoyed, he really did. There were hundreds of less offensive situations he'd been in that bothered him more than he knew his mother would be proud of him for, but this just couldn't be added to the list. And that annoyed him. Though, there was something in him that felt a bit contented knowing that there was still a heart buried somewhere inside of him that wouldn't allow him to get upset at someone like her. 

"Let me look." His voice was gruff as he brushed a knuckle under his nose. 

He knew exactly what she was looking for, the packaging coming to mind. He liked this brand too, though he rarely ever felt as if he could spare the cash to indulge. He'd never tried the raspberry variation, though. 

Working stiffly, he rifled through the box until he found the bottom layer of product. A white, rustic looking bag was tucked in a corner. The brand name stylized as if it were embedded on a wooden board was printed on the white bag, with the name of the cookies and the variation underneath. 

White chocolate chunks with bites of real raspberry in a soft cookie. 

That's the one. 

Fishing it out, Harry unceremoniously presented it to her. He made a point to keep his eyes from lingering on her for too long. He needed to keep his clear head. 

"This one?" 

She lit up in a way Harry couldn't ignore. Her eyes had to have been holding glitter behind her irises the way the color brightened, matching her smile. Creases appeared around the corners of her eyes, soft lips stretched and complemented with laugh lines. 

"Yes, yes, those ones!" she chattered off, reaching out to take the bag from him. 

Harry shoved the crinkling bag into her grasp, watching as she stumbled back some before placing it in her basket among what he could now see was a bundle of rosemary and a package of noodles. Nonetheless, her smile didn't falter as she turned towards him again.

"Thank you..." she trailed off, her gaze dropping to his chest where a name tag was pinned to the breast, "Harry." 

There was a lag in between the second he heard her voice wrap around his name and the beats of Harry's heart resuming at a rapid pace. His throat went dry for a moment, something he couldn't believe was happening to him over something like this. When was the last time someone learned his name just because they wanted to know him? 

He swallowed that line of questioning down as soon as it popped up. "Um, yeah," he told her, turning back to his box as soon as he had the words out. 

His headphones he had dangling in his grasp were replaced in his ears, his music still playing on, a different song now filtering than the one that had been when he ripped them out. Harry pushed his objective to the forefront of his mind, leaving little space to keep up with the way his stomach tightened hearing this girl's voice saying his name. He didn't want to focus on the fact he could still feel her presence for a moment after he had dismissed her. He wasn't going to let any of this fluster him—or whatever it was that could happen to a person who barely had any feelings left. 

Calculating his movements was the only viable distraction until he could feel that static of her presence flitter away. It was only then that he dared to indulge himself in a short glance aimed in her direction. He caught the barest view of her wobbly bow and the edge of her loose cardigan before she disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone once more. 

He was going to forget her, Harry decided. Whatever reaction he just had, wasn't going to happen again. 

—————

Gazing down at his hands, Harry only saw red. It wasn't his blood that tainted his skin, but there was a pain in his body that made him want to argue that there was no way he wasn't injured. From somewhere far—but not far enough—away, a crashing sound rumbled through the warehouse. He felt his bones vibrate and his head go fuzzy. More blood dripped from his skin. 

Another crash sounded, this time much closer to where Harry couldn't move his feet. It was as if he were bolted to the spot. More blood, more scars. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw someone. They were walking with a purpose, heavy on their feet. 

His hands still shook even when he took his eyes off of the thick crimson dripping from his fingers. The person coming towards him looked familiar. Too familiar. 

The second they were close enough, Harry recognized that it was himself. There was a gun in the clone's hand, the barrel pointed right at his head. 

Another loud crash.

Harry woke with a start, rocketing up in bed. His breathing was heavy, thick and humid, with his hands shaking where they were clutching the thin bedding askew over his form. There was a sheen of cold sweat covering his body, his hair clinging to the back of his neck.

Looking at his hands, untangling from the bedding, Harry felt his heart rate go down a notch when he no longer saw blood coating the appendages. His vision still blurred at the edges as he came down, his lips mouthing a mantra he wanted so badly to believe: 

It's not real, it's just a dream. It's not real, it's just a dream. It's not real, it's just a dream.

He didn't live that life anymore, he reminded himself. That was a part of his past, but it's all over now. Those scars would never reopen and his hands would never be stained that way again. He would make sure of that. 

As he talked himself down, the rest of his apartment came back into view. The edges of his vision sharpened, showing him the rest of his full bed, rumpled sheets, and the book he had dropped when he finally managed to fall asleep in the middle of a passage. He busied his hands as fixed his book, righting the bent cover and smoothing back the crease that folded into the page he left on. With that sweat on his bare chest and thin comforter falling to his lap, he realized just how cold his apartment was.

Taking a deep breath, his lungs shuddering as he fought to regulate the pacing he lost in his sleep, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He worked slowly as he replaced his book back to his rightful slot underneath his bed. Lethargy weighed down his limbs as he searched for his phone somewhere on the floor as he sat with his legs crossed underneath his bottom, the scratch of the carpet dragging across his ankles from where his pants rode up grounding him. 

The screen of his phone was far too bright when he powered it up, the time being of no surprise to him even if he was disappointed. He only got a few hours of sleep before that dream woke him up into the real world, plenty of time left before he should begin getting ready to go to work. 

This was how it always was for the past handful of years. Harry was lucky to have slept at all really, as some days he wasn't that fortunate, but there was no way he was going to be able to drift off again. But, he'd gotten rather good at finding ways to fill his time. 

Standing on wobbly legs, Harry took his time stripping his bed. There was time to get through some laundry, he figured, hauling both his bedding as well as his full hamper to the rickety washer and dryer stationed in the hall closet. 

Every movement was a distraction: separating the colors of his clothing, the measuring of the detergent, and the three times he had to set the cycle before the machine finally came to life all did their part to keep him from obsessively staring at his hands as if they would do something bad if he wasn't watching. It was routine the way he didn't allow himself to dwell on the dreams he could no longer forget like he could when they first started sporadically. 

Harry felt like a shadow as the hours passed, even after a cold shower shocked his nerves and a bland meal had warmed his stomach. But, at least he was awake. 

—————

Watching his hands as he stocked and stocked the shelves in front of him, more and more of himself came back to Harry. This was the perk of the more manual of jobs he had. He could use his body and keep track of every movement he made, every stretch of his muscles coming from his own volition. 

It felt like a ritual the way a pastel flash struck the corner of his vision. 

It'd been almost a month since the first time he'd seen her, and she made more trips with a basket tucked into the crook of her elbow than he had seen most other patrons. Maybe he only noticed her now that he recognized her and the phantom ache that touched the muscles of his stomach every time he saw her wander close to him. Nonetheless, he saw her more often than not, barely anything in her basket but small items and snacks, never once with a full shopping cart or a list in hand. 

In an odd way, he'd almost begun to expect her—look for her. It was a part of his shift to see her drifting through the aisles in something comfortable, a ribbon in her hair, and that ever-present smile on her face. He'd never admit that though, even to himself. 

Instead, when he saw her drift into his aisle—the frozen meal section tonight—he kept to himself. Harry didn't even bother to look up at her for more than a glance, even when he paused his music as he listened to her footsteps padding over the floor. Just like she always did since the first night she went out of her way to read his name tag, she offered him a soft smile of recognition as she passed by. Even though Harry hadn't reciprocated a single one. 

Just like that, she kept moving, Harry's ear trained to hear her pad off until he couldn't distinguish her footsteps against any of the other noises filtering through the grocery store. He played his music again then, allowing something else to fill his head before she could wiggle her way inside. 

Though he would rather not acknowledge it, there was something about the fact that the haunted feeling that had clung to him since his nightmare earlier in the day, finally began to dissolve. That turning in his stomach every time he saw one of the thin scars of his hands turned into the residual flaps of a butterfly's wings, even if he didn't dare give the feeling a name or even think of the cause. 

Despite the fact there was something loose in his muscles now as he worked, his head a little bit more clear with that dream tied up in a peachy bow in the back of his mind, Harry was going to ignore it all just as he had every time he saw that girl. 

—————

"Thank you, Harry!" 

The bow girl's chirping gratitude only had Harry looking at her stiffly with a grumbled Yeah falling from his lips. Just as she had done the last couple of months since she made herself a presence during his shifts, she simply gave him a smile before bouncing away with her basket only containing a carton of banana milk and her favorite cookies. She was no longer perturbed by the standoffish responses he gave her. Harry couldn't decide if he liked that or not. 

It was like this at least a couple of times a week. She never did a big shop, only stopping by at later times to pick up individual ingredients for a dinner she had chatted to him about, or little snacks she couldn't seem to go a day without. During at least one of her trips, she found an excuse to talk to Harry; she asked him about his day if she was close enough to feel comfortable starting a question (Harry never gave her a good answer, honestly), she told him about her own day and what she was shopping for if there was anything specific she had in mind. She almost always had a bow pinned to her hair, fluttering behind her and matching whatever soft piece of clothing she had cinched around her form. Harry had even begun fishing out a pack of her favorite cookies from his boxes if he was stocking that aisle, just to make it easy if she came in and asked him for assistance. It made the interactions quicker and less bothersome—at least that's what he told himself. 

He knew more about her and her routines than he had any of the hundreds of people he'd met in the last handful of years since he started moving around. Even if that did make him feel a bit guilty knowing that she didn't have a clue about who exactly she was sharing these parts of herself with; she didn't know the mess she was tiptoeing around every time she interacted with him. 

Tonight was no different, her leaving a rattling in Harry's bones that he wanted nothing more than to ignore like every other part of his life. If he was superstitious, he would think she could have cast some kind of spell on him with the way she and her little bows lingered in his brain long after she had checked out and gone on her way home. 

That rattling followed him as he made his way into the backroom, his empty box needing to be replaced. An exasperated sigh fought to leave his chest when he saw almost half of the overnight team huddled in the area, puttering about as they chattered and pretended to work. He didn't like being roped into their conversations, and that almost always happened when he ran into more than two of them at once. 

Harry didn't say a word as he broke down the cardboard box on his cart, pushing it off to the pile of the other flattened boxes before he reached for another. The conversations had quieted some when he walked in, but he could still hear what sounded like Brett and Fawn flirting in the back corner with a cart of refrigerated items that needed to go on the opposite end of the store, and Theo talking to two of the other guys that Harry hadn't bothered to remember the names of. 

"Busy night, huh, Harry?" Theo started, dropping whatever topic he had been rambling to his friends about just a moment before. 

"Yeah," Harry answered, voice stiff. It wasn't any more busy than any other night as far as he was concerned. Besides, he had other things he needed to worry about than to be making conversation with a coworker he barely knew. There was still a peach colored ribbon tying his stomach in tiny knots that he needed to fix. 

Soon enough, a silence fell through the backroom when the others made their way out. Only Harry and Theo were left, Harry doing his part to semi-organize his chosen box before heading out on the floor again. 

Maybe it was the rattling in his bones, or the vision of a peach colored bow that he saw every time he blinked, but something in Harry felt a little reckless when he peeked over at Theo focusing on his own box. 

"That girl," Harry rumbled, feeling odd in his skin as he spoke, "The one with the bows in her hair... She comes in a lot." 

Theo looked taken aback for a moment, his eyes wide with furrowed brows as he looked in Harry's direction. He even glanced over his shoulder as if there were anyone else there for the conversation to be aimed at. Harry had to keep from scoffing, dropping his gaze back to his working hands. 

Floundering over his words, Theo tried to catch up once he realized Harry was voluntarily talking. "Um, the—uh—the one with bows in her hair?" 

Harry hummed in response. "She's in a couple of times a week." 

"Ohhh," Theo sounded, familiarity touching his tone, "You mean (Y/N)?" 

Harry swallowed at the sound of her name. He'd never asked for it himself. "If that's her name." 

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Theo nodding his head. "She comes in a lot, yeah. She's not good at keeping a list and always forgets stuff if she tries to do big shops, so she just comes in when she wants something or runs out." 

Though he didn't want this information to mean something to him, Harry felt a part of himself slowly being fulfilled the more details he learned. She didn't tell him these kinds of things when she rambled about her dinner choice for the night. 

Keeping his gaze tacked to his hands, Harry kept his words measured and calculated. "Oh," he started, "Is she from here?" 

"She's lived here forever, yeah. Why?" 

A beat passed as Harry opted to ignore the second part of Theo's response. He didn't need to have any details as to why Harry was asking after someone after working together for five months with only a handful of interactions. Even if he did want to share that, Harry didn't have any real answers to that why, anyway. 

"Does she... What does she do?" Harry asked, the phrasing of his words feeling awkward falling out of his mouth. He was lucky he was so used to shielding his emotions and staying stoic, otherwise he would have cringed where he stood. 

"Like for work?" Theo asked, his eyes warm on Harry's profile. 

Lifting his shoulders, Harry only shrugged in response. It was probably a good idea to keep his mouth shut. 

"She—uh—she works at the bakery over on Windsor. She and my sister work there together," Theo told him, acting as if Harry was supposed to know what bakery he was talking about and who his sister was. "(Y/N)'s pretty nice, though." 

"Right," was all Harry offered by the time he finished organizing his box. He didn't bother to give anything more in response or wait for Theo to elaborate before he was walking out on the floor again. Even when he could feel Theo's eyes stuck to his back.

No doubt would this interaction make its way to the rest of the team before the end of the shift. 

It was harmless curiosity, Harry argued. He just had to believe the harmless part. 

—————

It's funny the kinds of things that happened in the day that then were transported and highlighted in a dream. Stranger's faces, odd conversations, a passing thought, things that normally wouldn't have been catalogued at all by a waking brain but were held tightly in the middle of sleep. 

Despite the fact Harry made it home from work at three in the morning, he still ended up waking in the early morning after a lingering dream. He didn't remember much about the scene the longer he was awake, but he knew there were swaying bows in pretty hair. A soft voice could have been there too, along with a subtle smile, but he couldn't remember. All because he had seen those ribbons and heard that voice the night before. 

For a split second, when he was surfacing from sleep, he wanted so badly to just roll over and continue whatever play was running in the back of his mind. But, sleep didn't come easy for him; he'd have to take whatever small amount of hours his body allowed him and be grateful. 

That left Harry to lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling above him, peeks of sunshine beginning to filter through the heavy drapes on his single window. He pretended as if he wasn't waiting for flashes of the dream to come back to him, even as he reluctantly found his footing in the real world. 

He was off work for the next two days. Forty-eight hours he would have to fill with the kinds of tasks he dreaded almost as much as actually reporting in for a shift. 

Grocery shopping was at the top of the to-do list as well as the hated tasks list. He hated going into his work on his day off just so he could shop the canned food aisles and dodge small talk from the dayshift coworkers that pretended as if they had met him more than once during his training shifts. A trip to the library was due as well, his borrowed books packed away under his bed and read from cover to cover in the week since he'd last visited the building. There was also always cleaning and laundry to be done, more things to keep him busy before he would undoubtedly retire to his bed for the rest of the day and read as much as he could to keep his brain from going to mush. 

Harry sighed at the day's agenda. This was the life he wanted, though, so he was going to appreciate every day of the boring tasks and the mundane dredge. 

By the time he had a load of laundry running in his machine and his hands buried in the sink, doing dishes he put off until his weekend, Harry's mind was already wandering somewhere outside of his apartment. 

Theo had been complaining last night towards the end of the shift about how his sister needed him to pick her up from work today. She was opening and had stayed the night at her boyfriend's before, but he wouldn't be able to drop her off and pick her up. That left Theo to take up the job in exchange for gas money and whatever treats his sister could sneak from the bakery. Theo kept droning on about how since it was Sunday, the bakery opened up early, leaving him to have to fight to stay awake after going home so he wouldn't miss picking up his sister. 

Throughout all of the petty complaining and meaningless rambling, the only thing that stuck out to Harry was the hours of this bakery being narrowed down. He didn't mean to pay attention, not now after knowing who else worked there, but it was just another one of those things that stuck in his brain like a dreamy detail. 

An early opening could mean that his bow girl—(Y/N)—might be there as well. 

Harry's hands flexed under the soapy water. It wouldn't be such a bad thing to go to a bakery on a Sunday morning. No one would think anything of it—and neither should he. He liked pastries as much as the next person. Even if trying out one of the town's baked goods wasn't necessarily his goal for the outing didn't mean that it would be a bad idea. He had more self-control than most people—a bit of indulgence wouldn't break him. 

Before he could get too far ahead of himself, Harry focused on washing the dishes in the sink. He laid each piece gently out on the tea towel flattened out beside the sink, taking extra care as if his slow pace could prove that he still had all that control he was boasting about. If he was really on the edge of breaking—about to make a bad decision—he wouldn't be so in control, he argued. He even waited for the load of laundry to make that erratic beeping noise that notified him that he could trade into the dryer. 

Still clad in only a pair of sweats that acted as his pajamas, Harry lazily reached for his phone before looking at the time. Just before nine a.m. According the Theo, the bakery opened at eight in the morning today, right when he was picking up his sister after her early morning shift. Harry held onto that air of nonchalance as he looked up the open confectionaries around him, finding a link at the top of the page for The Flour Pot. 

They were marked as open, hours laid out on the same popup. Only a handful of miles away from the grocery store and on the same block as his library. It wouldn't take him longer than fifteen minutes to get there. He could even stop by the library on his way back or do his grocery shopping. 

There, he cemented. That just proved this whole thing wasn't just to see a fluttering bow or hear a soft voice. He had other things he needed to do, and after hearing so much about this bakery, he could try it out while he was in town. 

With his laundry rumbling in the dryer and his dishes laid out to dry on the counter, Harry changed out of his sweats and threw on a hoodie to keep him warm against the chill in the morning air. He tucked his library books under his arm and started out the door, locking up behind him just like any other day. 

Just as he figured, he was back in town in less than twenty-minutes, the directions on his phone taking him just a few buildings down from the library. With the early hour, he couldn't see the bakery being especially busy, but when he found a parking spot across the street from the building, his hands clenched around the steering wheel. 

Through the lit windows, he saw a line inside. Morning sunshine kept the glass especially translucent, even through the decals pasted to the panes boasting the bakery's name and pots of leafy plants to play on the pun of the title. He could spot glimpses of patrons lounging in the few tables provided while others were waiting in line, the queue long enough to have others shuffling aside when the door behind them swung open. 

Harry's heartbeat quickened at the sight. He never liked being where so many people were crowded. It was hard to keep track of so many and what they were doing and saying when they were packed in a tight space. He thought—hoped—that with the early time he'd be beating out the crowds. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry reminded himself that there was no harm in having more than ten people in one space. This was something he needed to work on anyway—something he was working on. There was no point to becoming so nervous over something like this. The odds of someone recognizing him or something out of his control happening were slim to none. 

The whole point in leaving those years ago was to have a normal life. This was part of that. 

Before he could dwell on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, Harry swung open his door. He planted his feet on the solid ground, stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, and trekked on. 

Keeping his eyes on his feet as he walked, Harry didn't look up until the entrance to the bakery was right in front of him. He had his phone gripped in one hand, prepared to pull it out and fiddle with it in an attempt to sate his nerves, while the other reached out for the golden handle embedded in the glass and wood door. 

One peek through the crystal had his hand falling from the handle. 

Behind the counter was (Y/N). 

She had her back to the door, but he knew that bow. She'd worn it before. He knew that silken pearl color, the slightly lopsided loops, the fabric nestled in with the mess of hair on the top of her head. He knew that if she turned around, even spared a glance over her shoulder, what kind of smile would be painted over her features and the soft set of her features that was practically her trademark. He wanted her to turn around just so he could compare that smile to the ghost of the one in his dreams

It's the fluttering in his stomach and the pacing of his heart behind the cage of his ribs that had Harry turning around. He didn't care if anyone saw his reaction, if anyone noted just how weird the whole moment was. He wasn't able to make those extra steps to go inside. 

He shouldn't be that happy to see her. That wasn't the kind of reaction someone in control would have. That only showed him the kind of weaknesses the walls around him had, the bits of crumbling stone that he was going to have to solidify before he could boast about all of his self-control. 

This was the reason he never allowed himself to grow attached to anyone. The fact that she was the only person in five years to even bother attempting to penetrate those stone walls should have no bearing on how he conducted himself. He knew better than to let her soft smiles and fluttering bows and gentle conversations get to him. He was the one who knew better in this situation; (Y/N) didn't know what kind of person she was offering those niceties to, and it would be wrong of him to accept and even seek them out. 

She didn't deserve what could happen if he let this loss of control continue. 

Slamming his car door shut behind him with a reverberating rattle of the frame, Harry vowed that whatever had caused that flutter in his stomach and the clench of his heart would stop now. He can't feel that way about anyone or anything. He was taking back control now. 

With his hands tight around the steering wheel and the thought of the bakery wiped from his mind, Harry hoped he never dreamt of bows again. 

—————

Harry pretended as if he couldn't hear the conversation happening at the end of the aisle from him, a couple loudly wondering where they could find the artisanal bread. He didn't want to help them. 

This was why he hated coming in any earlier than the call time for his overnight shifts. Even with the fact he was only covering a couple of extra hours—coming in at six instead of eight—the difference in clientele was too stark for his comfort. It was too early in the night even to justify sticking in his headphones and drowning out the noise of others. 

Instead, he hoped that the slight frown on his features and the furrow in his brows would be enough to warn people away from him as he continued his stocking of the soup and other canned goods he was tasked with for the time being. The outfacing shelf gave him the advantage of leaving his back facing most of the customers that walked through, though he made a point to drift away whenever a patron stalked a little too close to his personal space. 

Despite it all, a part of Harry was grateful for the distraction of work and the extra people around him. That was why he had been picking up hours here and there throughout the week. Anything to keep his brain busy since he had recoiled from the bakery a week ago. 

He'd done a good job in his opinion, of keeping (Y/N) and all of the bows in her hair off of his mind. His resolve was being rebuilt brick by brick, reminders swirling in his brain of why he's never experienced those kinds of butterflies and the anticipation in his heart before. He wasn't the kind of person that needed that kind of feeling—deserved that overflowing of joy in his veins. He kept himself tucked away for a reason, and he needed to remember that. 

His shifts no longer held a current of anticipation, waiting to see if this would be the night she would wander on by, sparing him a smile and a breath of her attention. Her place in his brain had been corralled to a back corner that he was adamant on keeping the barriers to steady and clean. 

That was why when he saw a pair of white sneakers with pink shoelaces threaded through, he pretended as if his brain didn't go to one person immediately. It could be anyone in the world—should be anyone else. He shouldn't be able to recognize her from such a minute detail, but there was already that beat against the ladder of his ribs that told him everything he needed to know about how poorly he had maintained that corral in the back of his mind. 

With a tick in his jaw, Harry reminded himself of his resolve. He kept his focus on his cart, taking more time to dig around while he waited for those shoes to disappear from the corner of his eye. 

Of course, he couldn't be so lucky. 

"Harry?" that soft voice asked him. 

A slow breath was sucked in through his nose as he stood to the full of his height. He turned to find her looking at him with those eyes he could only remember glimpses of from the haze of his dream. Her face was clean from makeup, hair twisted back into a clip as she had forgone a bow for the day. Comfortable clothes adorned her body, slouching and stretching with pastel hues stitched through her top and flowers adorning her leggings. In her hands, nails sparkling with a pearly white polish, she had a solid block of cheese. 

Harry didn't bother to offer a response. (Y/N) was used to it by this point, though. 

"Do you know if this is any good?" she started, emphasizing the cheese with a flick of her wrist, "I googled a recipe for a grilled cheese today, and it wants this kind of cheese, but... I don't know. I just want to make sure I'll like it before I buy it, and all. Have you tried it before?" 

If Harry could draw his eyes away from the dewy planes of her face and the glimmering sheen of her eyes, he might have been able to read the label on the block she had in her hand, but that didn't seem to be an option his body was willing to follow. 

He knew he had been following the line of her nose and pillows of her cupid's bow for a beat too long when she tipped her head, a crease appearing in-between her brows. Clearing his throat, he dropped his gaze from her eyes to fall in the neckline of her top. He schooled his features, keeping himself in line as he brushed the tip of his nose with the knuckle of his index finger. 

Skimming his gaze over the white cheese in her hand, he shrugged some. "Um, probably," he mumbled, voice a rumble.

That glimmer in her eyes flashed to amusement. "You've probably tried it before?" 

Under layers of the stoic front he put up, Harry could feel himself cringe. He knew he wasn't giving her a smart answer, but he didn't anticipate sounding that stupid. 

Again, he shrugged. That was as much of an answer as he could formulate at the moment. 

That same part of him that cringed at the lame answer he gave her, curled in on itself when he saw for the first time, (Y/N) grow crestfallen. She had always been very stubborn in her sunny disposition, only having been taken aback the first time they had met. Other than that, no matter how much of a downer he acted, there seemed to be a smile on her face she didn't mind offering to him, even if he didn't deserve it. 

This time, he watched her brows pinch in the middle, her smile falling some to leave a barely there, lopsided curl that didn't reach her eyes. She dropped her gaze down to the block in her hand. Even her body seemed to shrink under his gaze, drawing her limbs close to her body in a recoil. 

"Well, thanks anyway," she got out, the tone the same chirping pitch as usual, but there was no current. Nothing authentic sat beneath. 

He watched as she lingered for a moment longer, her eyes attached to the label pasted to the cling wrap fitted around the cheese, before she began to head in the other direction. He'd never seen her so dejected before, even if she was only matching the energy he constantly gave her. 

Guilt pooled in his stomach. It wasn't a nice feeling to see a light like her's becoming extinguished, especially from his own hand. 

Before she could trail too far away, he peered over her hand and read over the label attached to her cheese. He recognized the French name from when he would help his mother in the kitchen. He knew this as one of the ingredients she would use for her macaroni and cheese; shredded and added to a pot to melt before being added to the spirals of noodles. He remembered how his main job when he was too young to properly help was to stir the cheese sauce, his eyes following the swirls and strings tracing through the cream. 

Harry wasn't even aware he was taking a step to follow after her until he felt his toe push against the linoleum. "Actually—um," he started, watching as she turned to face him, features lightening, "That's a good cheese. Melts really nice. It'll probably be good for whatever recipe you found." 

Instinctively, he wanted to curl back into his work, give himself a distraction and soothe some of that rattle in his bones. Instead, he forced himself to stay firm in his spot as she made those few short steps back to him. 

(He couldn't help but to feel a bit silly, if he was being honest. All of this over a conversation about cheese. It verged into the territory of ridiculous if he wasn't actually experiencing it). 

"Really? Thank you!" That genuine contentedness he had missed from her voice before was back, lilting and molding her words. "I read that it was good for melting, I just wasn't sure if I should slice it or shred it. The page didn't really tell me much on that." 

Shrugging, Harry pretended to care about the box left on his cart he still needed to sort through and stock. "Shredding is good," he offered, "It melts easier that way, I think." 

(He actually knew that, but he didn't really want to get into the story of the time he had tried to make his comfort meal shortly after he was separated from his mom. He had gone about it all wrong, having sliced it without thinking only to have to go through the too-long process of watching it melt in a puddle of milk. He would have attempted it again after that, but money was especially tight right after he left home and the ingredients for a single meal were too expensive. Besides, it would never taste as good as the one his mother made, and he didn't need to break his heart any more with the attempts).

Decidedly, (Y/N) dropped the block in her sparse basket. "I'll try that tonight and I'll let you know," she told him, the stray tangles of her hair swaying as she spoke, "Thank you, Harry." 

Harry nodded his head, reaching into the cardboard box piled with different soups. "Yeah." 

It was hard to breathe when she heard him say his name with that smile on her face. 

But, (Y/N) didn't leave right away. She lingered for a moment, a step between leaving him behind and staying right there with him. He couldn't decide which outcome he was hoping for. 

A beat later, she swung back to face him. "Have you ever been by the bakery a few blocks over on Windsor Ave?" 

He swallowed. The vision of The Flour Pot immediately came to mind. 

"No, I don't think so." 

(Y/N) looked at him with a smile with shy edges, rocking on the balls of her feet. "Well, we have these cheesy breakfast soufflés that we only make on Friday mornings, that are really good. I bet you'd really like them if you like cheese and stuff." There was a slight wince and a huff of a laugh falling from her lips as (Y/N) finished. 

She must also realize how silly they both sounded, too. Breakfast and cheese, the great unifiers, Harry supposed. 

With the faint amusement bubbling in the back off his mind, Harry still felt something in him catch. Her recommendation felt something like an invitation. An invitation to go somewhere she would assumedly be. 

Harry checked his expectations as he dropped his gaze to his hands, rolling a can of loaded potato soup so the barcode faced him. "I usually work all night Thursdays, so Friday mornings can be a little hard to make when 'm tired." 

That nervous rocking continued even with the bright smile molding (Y/N)'s features. "I work there, so you can let me know when you have time to stop by and I can make sure we have an extra one for you," she told him, hands bundling together at her middle, "Or, just pop by whenever. Everything we have is really good, so." 

Around him, Harry could still hear the annoying couple from before complaining about the layout of the grocery store. The overhead lights were mismatched on this section of the store, leaving some amber spots to combat against the stark fluorescents. There was a buzzing to the left where the refrigerators were keeping the cheese section where she had shopped from cool. But all of his attention was placed a few paces before him. 

Harry spent years pushing people away. Not once had anyone ever been able to wiggle through even one layer of the protective walls he had around him. He made a point of that; it was the way it was supposed to be for everyone's safety. He didn't invite anyone into his life, and no one invited him into theirs. 

Of course the first person to do so would be someone like (Y/N). She would be the one to dare to cross that line, offer a hand out to someone so adamant about not wanting anything of the sort. He knew those butterflies in his stomach were a warning; they were creatures to be heeded, not cradled. 

Despite it all, Harry nodded. He looked at her, leaving his idling hands to play around without him. "I'll see what I can do." 

It was the smile that bloomed across her lips that had Harry remembering that there were flowers that were meant to unfurl in the night. 

"Cool," she said, something giddy replacing that authenticity, "Have a nice night, Harry."

"Have a nice night," he got out before he turned on his heel, pinning his attention straight on the box awaiting him. It was an abrupt ending to the conversation, but he couldn't look at her any longer if he wanted to keep some of his head. She was driving him mad again already. 

When Harry looked up, he found her turning the corner of the aisle. Their eyes matched for a moment when she looked back at him too, a ghost of a smile stretching her cheeks before she was gone. 

Taking in a deep breath, he centered himself. 

Harry can not go to that bakery. 

——————

As much as Harry loved his comfort reads, the volumes that became like classics to him, he couldn't read them all the time. Besides, he liked libraries. 

While every building was different, the librarians with their own rules and nuances that ran the shelves, the spirit was always the same. Even the smallest of towns he travelled to had their own shelves to peruse. The crackle of the covered spines, some old enough to still be sporting checkout cards in the front cover, with pages loved by others, made him feel less alone. The library in this town was no different. 

A quiet librarian manned the front desk or puttered through the shelves, offering Harry a quiet kindness he appreciated more than if she had given attempts to get to know him any more outside of the process of getting his library card. All she wanted to know was what kind of genres he liked so she could recommend books when he came in the more regular he became. He was left to ghost through the shelves, fostering books as he went before returning them home once their time was up. He was able to be comfortable there. 

But, this town had to be mocking him at this point. 

While he's been making a point to keep his head down and focusing on only himself and definitely not (Y/N), old habits die hard. A hefty portion of his life was spent with his eyes sharpened, taking in every detail and every person and every place around him. Even with years away from the circumstances that had him looking over his shoulder with every step he made, he couldn't shake every habit. But those habits made it way too hard to ignore what was going on just down the street from the library. 

The Flour Pot was busy as usual when he stepped out of his car, library books held at his side with his fingers flexing around the plastic covering. A line was trailing out the door with as many people walking out with the brown paper bags or cake boxes as patrons were walking in with hunger in their eyes. Harry could almost hear the bell chiming above the door every time it opened, just like he swore if he listened close enough, he could hear a familiar laugh. 

It took effort for him to keep his eyes ahead of himself, fingers tight around his books. He didn't allow himself to linger on the sidewalk or his gaze to stray, heading directly into the library. 

Harry could feel his features twisted into frustration even as he stepped in the substantially quieter building. But even with his furrowed brow and the tight line of his mouth, Ms. Klarke didn't bat an eye. She had to be used to it at this point. 

A lined smile had her lips stretched, showing off white teeth. "Done with this week's, Mr. Styles?" 

He only nodded with a hum as he approached the desk, dropping the trio of volumes on the glossy wood. It was instinct the way he worked, pulling out his green library card. 

Ms. Klarke worked with familiarity, scanning the code on his card before clicking through his profile. Her eyes didn't move from the computer screen as she spoke, "We got some new books in yesterday. I saved a few that I thought you'd like in the back." 

Perking up at the prospect of the new arrivals, Harry felt his features smoothen out, a light falling into the usual rumble of his voice. "Really?" 

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, a short smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she slid his card back. "Mhm. I'll be right back." 

Taking his returns with her, she stepped into the backroom positioned just behind the front desk only to come back a moment later with another set of books. The volumes were freshly wrapped in the crinkling plastic, the covers still vibrant underneath without any smudging or scratching marring the art. 

"I've heard good things about these," Ms. Klarke said, spreading out the trio on the wood for him to look at. "The descriptions sound like something you would like." 

They were romances—the genre he had divulged to Ms. Klarke all that time ago. He recognized the covers and the authors, having read his own reviews and takes on the literature. Bright colors were splashed across, with the hallmarks of the genre coming in depictions of flowers or the minimalistic art that was becoming the norm. A twitch itched the corner of his lips seeing the pages she saved for him to have first. 

"Thank you," he told her, looking at her through the lashes as he kept his hands at his sides, "I've seen a lot about these, too." 

Ms. Klarke's lined features brightened at his words. "Gonna take them home with you this week?" 

"Yes, please," he answered in a rush, "If that's alright." 

Her brows pinched in the middle, already grabbing the books to scan them onto his profile for the week. "Of course it's alright. I saved them for you for a reason." 

Harry was struck then. He stood, listening to the sounds of her hands clicking the keys on her computer and the beep of the scanner reading the barcodes, his hands shoved deep in his pockets with his fingers clenched in tight curls. 

While Ms. Klarke didn't know really anything about him, she still had him in mind when she read these titles and made a point to save them off for him. She only knew him as far as the kind of literature he liked to spend his time with and the kind of care he treated each book with, but she knew him enough to trust him with these new reads. 

She knew him enough. 

He forgot what it felt like to be known. He missed the feeling of being known. Even if it was his fault that he was pushed into that forgotten corner in the first place. His impact wasn't supposed to be felt, even if he still felt the absence of the familiarity he had in a past life. 

Two people now, in this town, had given Harry more than a passing thought. 

The feeling was overwhelming. 

"Thank you," he repeated when Ms. Klarke passed back his books for the week, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

With his books in hand, he exited out onto the sidewalk. Down the block he could still hear the faint commotion from the bakery, but his stomach didn't sour like it had only ten minutes prior. In that kitschy shop was the one other person who was trying to know him, even when he insisted on being alone. 

The thought of walking in didn't sound so bad, even if he still kept on his path to his car. 

—————

Harry had a plan. 

Days after visiting the library, he had been tucked away in bed reading one of his new books when he couldn't get his mind off of (Y/N). The main female character was a baker with a softened heart, a bubbly demeanor shining through. Given the nature of the book, every peek into her heart was romanticized, especially in the first handful of chapters he was still working through. He couldn't help but to picture (Y/N) the more he read, disregarding whatever physical description the character was given. 

She hadn't left his mind since. 

Maybe it was the fact there was a scene written where the lead male character visited the pseudo-(Y/N) at the patisserie she worked at, but there was a niggling thought in the back of his mind that it might not be such a bad thing to take up her invitation from the week prior. While he was nothing like male lead—not in demeanor nor backstory—, he couldn't ignore the want he had for a moment like the one inked across the page. 

It felt entirely reckless to give into that want, the kind of idea that would come to him after too many hours spent awake and too many romance cliches floating through his thoughts, but he'd done worse. Indulging in the pattering butterflies and bruising beats of his heart would land at the bottom of the list of the most dastardly things he'd ever done.

Besides, if this Sunday morning was anything like the last, it wasn't like there would even be enough time for his defenses to weaken enough for an impact to be made. If anything, he would see her in passing, the flutter of the bow in her hair as she bustled through the shop, and that would be it. Maybe a smile in his direction, but he couldn't imagine any more being spared for him. 

He didn't need anything more than that, anyway. 

Harry would be careful. Butterflies weren't strong enough to break stone.

—————

His hands were clenched into fists in the pockets of his coat, the sign to The Flour Pot gleaming on the glass window from the corner of his eye. Though he knew well that there were just enough patrons inside to create a hustle within the shop, Harry kept his resolve strong as he stepped over the pavement. He didn't skip sleep for the last handful of hours since his shift ended just to run home without even taking a single step inside. 

Slipping inside, Harry forced his gaze to lift from his feet, a deep breath filling his lungs. Those small tables he had spotted from the windows were twisted wrought iron, the backs outlined with intricate shapes of flowers, hummingbirds, and shining suns. Cushions padded the seats of the chairs, a charming combination of mismatched patterns that all seemed to work together to make the space that much cozier. Customers Harry could recognize as some of the people he saw at the grocery store were littered about, though they looked decidedly much cheerier in this environment. Even with the chill in the air, hints of spring lingered within the confines of the shop. 

Butter and sugar kissed the air, twining with notes of lingering herbs and spices, different ingredients that made up the confections filling the display case up front. Tiny lights were embedded in the trim, shining right on the flaky crusts of croissants, glimmering glazes on sticky buns, and the golden skin of homemade baguettes. More intricate cakes and laborious treats were held in glass cabinets behind the desk. Warm wood made up the front cash register area, the grains twisting and curving in the way only real wood could. Hanging from the ceiling behind the desk was the menu with every treat laid out and priced, twirling descriptions following just underneath with every add-on available. A note on the bottom recommended talking to the bakers about seasonal specials and their favorite combinations. 

Everything looked new but second-hand at the same time. Harry didn't know what to compare the space to other than a home opened up for visitors. The treats in the case were just a bonus of being invited into such a home. 

The flapping of the cafe doors leading to the back caught his attention, pulling his gaze from tracing over the space that felt as if it lived within candlelight. (Y/N) emerged from what he assumed to be the kitchen, a pan in hand full of something golden brown and filled with herbs. She dropped that pan onto the back counter before disappearing again, a pearly gold bow pulling her hair back. Her uniform consisted of a long sleeved brown top with The Flour Pot printed in yellow lettering as if the words were dripping in honey. He felt like a moth the way his eyes followed each of her moves, her being the flame he didn't want to lose track of. 

That smile he pretended to not care about had her lips stretched with smile lines bracketing the curl. He watched on as she spoke to the dark-haired girl and the shorter boy working behind the counter, nodding her head with the tendrils of her bow going flying before she seemed to count out certain items in the case all before leaving to the back once more. In her hands, another pan reemerged with her.

As his eyes followed her, he was grateful for the first time for the amount of patrons occupying the building. The line in front of him gave him enough time to watch her—to get his fill to quell the battering ram made of butterflies in his stomach. Even if he wanted to keep his eyes to himself, drop them to his feet or find a blank spot to fix his eyes too, he didn't think he had it in himself. 

With the line moving, Harry shuffled forward a pair of spots. At that same moment, the cafe doors swung open once more, (Y/N)'s arms empty as her eyes scanned across the guests in her shop. She found Harry in an instant, her eyes brightening and smile blooming. She brought her gloved hand up to wiggle her fingers in a quick wave for only him. 

Before he could even lift his hand to wave back, she had sidestepped behind the desk and whispered something to the dark haired woman working the register. A quick conversation played out while Harry watched, (Y/N) whispering while the other woman gave small reactions. The conversation lasted only a couple of beats with the line still waiting before them, (Y/N) disappearing into the back after shooting Harry a look with bright eyes and a wide smile. 

In (Y/N)'s wake, the cashier gave Harry her own look. It was something quiet and knowing, a short curl only on the corner of her lips before she slid her gaze back to the patron waiting in front of her. 

(Y/N) and her bow didn't return again as the line slowly moved forward. Only the dark haired cashier and a shorter boy were working the counter, working as a team with the boy picking the pastries with gloved hands and the woman taking orders and collecting payments. The line dwindled as they worked, guests leaving with small paper bags and smiles wider than the giant muffins that took over the bottom shelf of the case. 

While Harry felt like he could breathe better with every person that exited, it all moved too fast. By the time he reached the counter, Harry's brain was filled with nothing more than a buzz. In all his distractions of watching (Y/N) and being a little too aware of the others around him, not once did he really examine the menu. He didn't have a plan of what he wanted to order, every quick glance at the menu hanging above was more panicked than the last, nothing being absorbed. 

The last patron in front of him worked quickly. The chatter of her voice was almost drowned out by the blood rushing through his ears, her order being rattled off in an instant out of practice before she was stepping off to the side to await her own brown bag of treats. 

Stepping forward to the counter, Harry couldn't help but feel a little silly. The amount of high stress situations he's been in in his life, the kind that warranted the kind of panic and fight-or-flight reaction he could feel himself building to was more than any person should ever go through. But in all of those moments, he remembered moving through them like an expert, not thinking before doing. 

This—ordering from a bakery—was going to be the one thing that broke his brain, it seemed. Figures. 

The dark-haired girl behind the counter held that same guest service smile on her face when Harry approached, only the ends curled that much more when she saw it was him. "Good morning! What can I get you today?" 

Harry's mouth dropped open, words intending to come out before nothing actually did. He barely recovered in the way he instead said, "Ummm." 

From the corner of his eye, the cafe doors to the kitchen swung open. A pan full of stacked baguettes were in (Y/N)'s arms, eyes trained on the pyramid before she chanced a glance up. That same wide grin pulled at her lips the second recognition filled her eyes. 

"Hi, Harry!" she chirped out over her shoulder as she deposited the pan onto the back counter, "How are you?" 

His dry throat finally began to work again when he swallowed, his nervous hands beginning to pluck at his cuticles in the pocket of his hoodie. "'M good, thank you," he mumbled, "You?" 

"I'm doing good, thanks!" She spun on her heel to take over the spot by the register. For a second, he saw the dark-haired girl bump (Y/N)'s hip with her own, before taking over the second station just to the left and tending to the line from there. It was a move that had to have come with a plan. "I wish I knew you were coming in today, I would have made you one of those soufflés I was telling you about." 

"Oh, sorry," he told her, shuffling on his feet as the rest of the line behind him meandered around him to the available register. 

The tail of hair she had pinned back with her bow bounced as she shook her head. "No worries at all! What did you come in for?" 

For the first time since she stepped out, he pulled his eyes from hers to the sign above her head.

Maybe it was the noise around him, the chatter of other guests, the way he was hyperaware of every inch of space around him and how close others were getting to him before hiking left to the other register, or the fact he knew (Y/N) had her eyes on him, but the letters didn't make any sense when he tried to take them in. He knew the words, could associate them with different treats, but there was nothing that connected his thoughts. 

Silence fell from his floundering mouth, the kind that felt too loud in a busy place like this. 

In a second, (Y/N) sidestepped to the case at her right, her eyes bright and still on Harry as she nudged the sliding door to open for her. "My favorite at the moment are the raspberry and almond scones," she bubbled off, using her gloved hand to grab the pastry from the tray, "I just finished a batch, too. They also come with this lemon cream kind of glaze, if you wanted to try it that way." 

Her energy didn't deplete as she spoke, showcasing the scone for him to see. She saved him from the way his throat was beginning to tighten the longer it took for him to come up with an answer. 

Chunks of raspberries were visible in the pale base of the scone, sprinkled with almond slivers. It reminded him of the cookies she so favored at his own place of work. 

"I'll try that," he told her, the even pacing of his breathing returning, "Thank you." 

"Perfect!" she chirped, looking genuinely pleased at his response. Nothing inauthentic touched at her features as she gazed at him. "Do you want the glaze and everything?" 

"Um, sure," he said, a nod of his head throwing a curl over his forehead. 

He saw as (Y/N)'s gaze tripped upwards, trailing along the length of that stray hair brushing the bridge of his nose. A glittering sparkled in her irises. 

The rest of the transaction went quickly, (Y/N) shedding her gloves and taking his cash as she asked about his work. Noncommittal answers were shared from Harry (he barely remembered the shift if he was being honest. His brain had been too fixed on this morning's plan). 

"I'll have that ready for you in a second," she told him, toothy smile and all, "You can wait over there in the meantime." 

A mumbled, kay... fell from his lips as he exhaled a deep breath. He nodded his head before he followed her direction and stepped off to the side. He half expected her to continue helping the line that had dwindled behind him, instead watching as she stepped off the side with his treats in hand. 

Dropping his gaze from her, Harry pulled his hands out of his hoodie to inspect the sore cuticles he could feel beginning to sting with every touch. Spots of blood had spread to the plate of his nails, skin frayed and irritated at all the picking. 

Harry expected to hear his name called when his bag was placed on the pick-up counter just as it had been for every other patron, only to have (Y/N) bounce around the entire case when she had finished puttering behind. The tendrils of her bow flowed behind her, skimming the length of her hair before she stopped in front of him.

For someone who didn't like mornings that much, she smiled a lot. 

"Here you go," she beamed at him, offering him the small paper bag with the business's logo inked on the front. Beside the picture was his own name written in looping script, a smiling heart printed beside it. "You have to tell me what you think the next time I see you, okay? These really are my favorites, so if you don't like them I don't know if we'll be able to be friends anymore." 

A breath of air caught in Harry's throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow it down. Anymore, she had said.

"Got it," he forced out, taking the bag from her hand with their fingers barely brushing as he slipped his own under the handles, "Thank you, (Y/N)." 

At the sound of his voice wrapped around her name, her smile only widened. "Of course. I'll see you around, Harry." 

Before he could get too far ahead of himself, the indulgent butterflies in his stomach urging him to linger longer than he knew would be good for him, Harry spun on his heel and moved to the exit. He swore he could feel (Y/N)'s eyes on him up until he disappeared through the doors. 

There wasn't a thought in his head other than getting back to the safety of his car as he rushed over the pavement, loose rocks in the old concrete kicking up in his wake. The slam of his car door behind him left the cab going still. The air was silent finally, leaving him sealed away with the ticking of his heart evening out. 

Instinctively he locked his doors before reaching for his seatbelt. In that split second he seemed to forget the bag in his hand until he felt the warmth of the pastry in his lap. 

He hesitated. 

It would probably be best to eat it now while it was still warm, he decided. 

In his parked car across from the rush of The Flour Pot, Harry carefully extracted his treat. His fingers brushed a slip of paper clinging to the side of the bag, the end trapped under the cup containing the lemon cream she boasted to him about. Laying the boxed treat on the center console, Harry plucked out the slip of paper. 

It was a length of blank receipt paper, only to turn the page around and find that same looping writing that printed his name on the bag. 

Come by next Sunday and I'll have a souffle for you :) 

(Y/N)'s name was signed at the bottom, another smiling heart drawn beside the final letter. Another invitation.

Harry didn't need to take a bite of the scone to know that it was going to be his favorite too.

—————

Maybe he had been too giddy to see her again after those moments at the bakery, but Harry couldn't help but notice her the second (Y/N) walked through the glass doors. 

It was as if he had it all planned the way he had been stationed in the herb and spices section of the store tonight, an aisle that was conveniently situated by the entrance. He had a bundle of basil in his grip when he saw her walk in, a clip dripping with crystal flowers holding her hair back with a The Flour Pot crewneck on. Fatigue coated her movements as she reached for one of the maroon baskets stacked by the door, the handles tucked into her elbow before she started towards whatever aisle she was shooting for. 

There was a moment of her slowing on the front mat, eyes scanning through the shelves until she saw him, cart and all, and her expression changed. Her features softened and rounded, creases appearing by her eyes while her lips stretched into a smile. Her lips were soft and chapped, hair a bit messy, and sleeves dulled by a dusting of what had to be flour, but Harry still felt that knot in his stomach he did the first time he saw her all those months ago. Even more so, when his heart got carried away thinking that she may have been looking for him, too. 

Harry dropped his gaze when he saw her begin her way over to him. He didn't want to look too eager to speak to her again, especially not when he couldn't even admit to himself that he was looking forward to see her. 

"Hi, stranger," she greeted, voice lilting as the toes of her white shoes came into view of his downturned gaze. 

Swallowing around his dry throat, he slowed his work and looked up at her again, features schooled into something stoic. "Hi." 

Ever-pleasant and unperturbed by his attitude, she only looked to him with raised brows and expectant eyes. "So?" 

A pinch drew Harry's brows together as he looked at her. So what? 

When the beat of silence lasted too long for her liking, a teasing huff fell from (Y/N)'s lips. "What did you think of the scone?! You promised you'd tell me about it, remember?" 

For the first time in a long time, Harry could feel one corner of his lips twitch, the beginning of a titled smile. He thought of the length of receipt paper he still had folded away in his wallet. 

"It was really good," he started, shifting his weight on his feet, "The—uh—the lemon cream was really nice. Thank you." 

The look on her face at his compliments could rival that of the waning sunshine outside the windows. She was bright and shining, warm like the sunset colored sky. 

"I'm so happy you liked it!" she beamed, her shopping put to the back of her mind as she gave every bit of attention to him, "There's this recipe for a lavender version of the scone I've been wanting to try, but every time I tell the other girls they don't look as excited. They said it sounds like I'm trying to make soap." 

Harry didn't even realize what he was saying before the words were falling from his lips: "I'd try it." 

As much as he wouldn't—couldn't—say it out loud, he's sure he'd try anything she made. He wasn't lying about the raspberry scone.

Something sheepish touched at the corners of her smile as she dipped her gaze down to where he was now fumbling with a shaker of dried oregano on his cart. "Okay," she started, nodding her head, "I'll make some, and next time I see you, you can try them." 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed around the dryness coating his tongue. "Thank you." 

Under her attention, gaze peering through the fan of her lashes, those butterflies in his stomach and the beating of his heart traveled down to his palms, making them restless and the skin go clammy. 

All of this over another invitation.

—————

rosemary represents remembrance; looking back on the past with the future right in front of you

ahhhhh!!! hes finally here!!! im so excited to be sharing this story w you guys and letting you meet one of my kings thats sooooo in my heart!! def a little different of a story for me so I really hope you enjoy it!!!! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please lmk if you have any ideas or requests or just thoughts about this story !

[russo-woso]

Could you do a fic with lessi where the reader is pregnant and they find out during the delivery that they having twins. Maybe some angst during the delivery like r blaming Alessia. And them not being able to tell the twins apart and lessi keeps getting them confused. You could include like team interactions with the twins and them making fun of alessia for not being able to tell them apart. 🙏

Twins || Alessia Russo

Warning pregnancy, giving birth, ‘I’m such a bad mum’, fluff (lots of it)

Summary You and Alessia navigate the first few days with twins

It had been a long nine months to say the least.

The last nine months were the hardest nine months of your life.

Being pregnant came with its highs and its lows.

One of the biggest highs, was that you and lessi were finally starting a family. Something that you had both dreamed of since you were seventeen.

However, after going through the long process of IVF and it working, you entered the first trimester and the morning sickness kicked in, the constant tiredness started, the hot flushes occurred.

But the thought of your baby on the way, and Alessia being there every step of the way, made it so much easier for you.

Although, as soon as you entered the later months of your pregnancy, and the kicking started, you had immediately told your wife that you were never going to be pregnant again.

Every minute of every night and day, it was non stop kicking.

You blamed it on Alessia. After all, the baby had her genes, and she was the footballer.

And so when your water broke on a cold December night, you couldn’t have been happier.

You were going to meet your baby, and you weren’t going to be pregnant anymore.

After Alessia running round making sure you had packed everything, you finally made it to the hospital.

As you laid in the hospital bed, Less sat to your right, your breath hitching every time a contraction hit.

Alessia was so good though, constantly whispering how well you were doing and how she was so thankful that you were going through this so you could extend your family.

The midwife came in to check how dilated you were but when she noticed the sudden increase of the baby’s heart rate, she brought the scan machine in to check the little one via a scan.

Alessia took a hold of your hand, treasuring this last scan before you saw your baby face to face.

“I can’t wait to meet our baby.” You told less as the picture appeared on the small screen.

You turned back to face it and noticed the midwife’s eye widen in shock and confusion.

“What? Is everything okay?” Alessia asked, also noticing her change in emotion.

“You do realise there’s two?” She asked back, waiting for an answer.

You just stared at Alessia, not knowing what to do.

“Two what?” Alessia questioned, the realisation not settling in.

“Two babies. You’re having twins.” The midwife explained and you swear you could’ve fainted in that moment.

“No, that can’t be right. We’ve been told throughout the whole pregnancy that it’s only one baby.” Alessia said to the midwife but the midwife pointed to the screen, two babies clearly visible.

“Twin B has been hiding at the back all along.” She pointed out, and you freaked out, worry and dread filling your body, tears spilling out of your eyes.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay. We’re gonna have two babies. Double the amount of love. It’s gonna be hectic but it’s another baby that we get to love.” Alessia said, claiming you down as she enveloped you into a gentle hug. “You’re gonna be such a good mama, you know that, right? You already are.”

“Now due to us only founding out it’s twin now, you will still have to go ahead with a natural birth, however, we’ll give you extra drugs and pain medication to lower the pain.” She explained and you nodded your head, dread filling your mind once again at the thought of pushing two babies out of you.

The midwife left the room, leaving you and less to have to some privacy as you discussed the unexpected twist.

She returned again to actually check how dilated you were, and it turned out that you were eight centimetres dilated so it was only about an hour left.

“Baby, do you think you could get some sleep for me?” Alessia asked, purely thinking of you and how tired you must be feeling.

“Cuddle.” You murmured, your eyes already drooping as Alessia laid down in the bed next to you, her hands instinctively landing on your bump.

As soon as your head landed on her shoulder, you were gone.

Once you had awoken, you felt a build up of pressure in your lower abdomen, which could only mean one thing. It was time.

You told Alessia and she went and grabbed the midwife.

“You ready?” She asked once she had gotten you into position. You nodded back in response, sending a weary nod.

————————

“This is all your fault, Alessia.” You told her through gritted teeth.

Alessia didn’t even deny it. She couldn’t.

You had carried her two babies, and were now delivering them into the world, the least she could do was let your anger out on her.

“Keep going. Keep going. Good job. The heads out now.” The midwife told you, and you let out a sigh of relief, knowing that your first baby was nearly here.

“You’re doing so well, baby. One more push and one of our babies will be here.” Alessia encouraged you, stroking the loose hairs out of your face.

Your face scrunched up, the pain taking over your body, but left as soon as newborn cries filled the room.

“Mum, would you like to come and cut the cord?” The midwife asked Alessia, who nodded straight away.

“A girl, Y/N. We’ve got a baby girl.” Alessia’s voice cracked as she set eyes on your baby girl. “She’s perfect, baby.”

The doctors and nurses took her to be checked over, and Alessia found her spot next to you.

“I have to do it all again because of you.” You told Alessia, rolling your eyes at her.

“I know, love, but it’ll all be over soon and we’ll have two babies.” Alessia pressed a kiss to your sweaty forehead as you began pushing once again.

“Fuck, less, I hate you right now.” You managed to get out.

All Alessia could do was smile at you.

She couldn’t have been more in love with you than in that moment.

She was so amazed that you had not only carried two babies but had also gone through the agonising process of delivering them.

With one final push, an identical cry filled the room.

“They’re here, love. Both of them are here.” Alessia cried, kissing your temple, before walking over to cut the cord of Twin B. “Another girl, twin girls.”

“Girls?” You asked, exhausted from giving birth.

“Two baby girls.” Alessia confirmed as the nurses wrapped them in blankets.

“Both of them are perfect. Two sets of ten fingers and ten toes.” The midwife smiled at you as both girls were placed on your chest.

“They’re perfect, lessi.” You sobbed, as you looked down at your baby girls.

Tears ran down yours and Alessia’s faces as you stared in awe at the tiny humans you had both created.

————————

“I can’t wait for the team to meet them. They’re gonna be so shocked when they see both Ava and Mila.” Alessia said as she put both girls in their car seats, pressing light kisses to their noses which scrunched up in reaction.

“They still have no idea?” You asked, resting a hand on Alessia’s back as she crouched down buckling Mila’s car seat.

“No idea at all. I haven’t even told Ella.” Alessia told you, leaning back up picking up a car seat. “I’ve got Mila, no Ava, wait, no I’ve got Mila.”

“Lessi, you’ve got Ava.” You corrected her as less’ face was covered in confusion.

“I’m such a bad mummy. I can’t even get their names right.” Less buried her head in your neck as you brought her in for a hug.

“Love, you’re not. Don’t ever think you are. It’s confusing. I get it wrong too sometimes. They’re identical twins and they’re babies. You know, your mum suggested we write their initials on their hands. We’ll do that when we get to camp.” You told her and she nodded, agreeing with the idea. “Come on then, baby. Let’s get you to England camp.”

————————

After stopping at three services to breastfeed, you eventually made it to St George’s Park.

At first, Alessia had turned down the offer to be at camp for the week purely to be with you and your girls, especially since they weren’t even a week old yet.

But when you found out, you weren’t having it.

She loved her time at England camp and so you compromised and offered to go with.

Alessia spoke to Sarina and Sarina said it was a pleasure for you and the baby, babies, to be there.

On the way there, you and Less had planned it that you would wait outside with one of the twins whilst Alessia walked in with the other.

Hopefully, the team would see Alessia, gathering round to see the newest member of your family.

Then, you would walk in and the plot twist would be revealed.

And that’s exactly how it went.

Alessia walked in, Tooney spotting her first, immediately gathering round to meet her newest niece.

Less set the car seat down and the girls gathered round, staring in awe at the newborn baby fast asleep in a milk coma.

Alessia couldn’t help but shed a tear at the sight of all her best friends connecting with her baby girl.

“What’s her name?” Lucy asked, looking down at the baby.

“So we had two names in mind that we loved throughout the whole pregnancy. We loved them so much that we couldn’t decide between them.” Alessia began as you quietly entered the room with Mila.

“Which turned out really well because we actually got to use both names.” You continued, the team still looking at Ava, unaware of Mila who was in the other car seat.

“It turned out well because unaware to us, we weren’t just having one baby girl.” Alessia said and the team sent her a weird look.

“Instead, we had two.” You spoke up again. This time, the girls looked up at you and gasped once they saw the second car seat.

“Oh my god. Twins?” One of the girls questioned as they all ran towards you, turning silent, scared to speak or make a sound.

You looked up at Alessia who had a massive smile on her face.

“You knew you were having twins and didn’t tell me?” Ella asked you and Alessia and you laughed, knowing the answer was going to sound crazy.

“We didn’t know we were having twins. We only found out an hour before I gave birth.” You told her and Alessia explained the rest of the story.

The team gathered round in the relaxation room, taking it in turns holding the girls.

“So, what are their names?” Lucy piped up again, realising that you never told them in the end.

“The one Kiera’s got is Mila and Niamh’s got Ava. Wait, no, other way round. Actually, what?” Alessia questioned herself, embarrassed that she cousins even name her own babies. “Yes, Kiera’s got Mila and Niamh’s got Ava.”

“Baby, other way round.” You told her and Alessia face palmed herself, sighing in annoyance.

“Awe, can your mummy not tell you apart?” Niamh cooed at Mila, winding Less up.

“Niamh.” You warned, seeing Alessia get worked up. “Baby? Can I talk to you outside?” You asked her, taking her hands in yours as you led her outside.

As soon as you shut the door, Alessia started sobbing.

“That’s like the eighth time I’ve done it. I feel so bad that I can’t even get their names right. I’m such a bad mum.” Alessia shared with you, in between sobs.

“Hey, hey, calm down, baby. It’s okay. They’re only five days old, we haven’t had time to get to know them yet. That’s the hard bit about having twins. As they get older, they’ll have their differences. It’s just because they’re still young.” You told her as you continued to hug her.

You broke apart from the hug and pressed your lips on hers.

As you did, a small cry was heard from within the relaxation room.

“That’s Ava, you go sit down and I’ll grab her.” Alessia told you and you smiled at her.

“How do you know it’s Ava?” You asked her, confused as you weren’t in the room to know.

“Her cry is higher pitched compared to Mila’s.” Alessia explained to you and you simple smiled at her, knowing she had proved herself wrong.

“See, you knew that was Ava. I didn’t know that was Ava. At a guess, I would have said it was Mila.” You said, rubbing your hand up and down Alessia’s arm.

“Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for always being there for me, thank you for giving me our two girls, thank you for everything.” Alessia stated, kissing your lips.

“Thank you, lessi.”

“Guys, stop kissing and come and get your daughter!” You heard Mary shout and you laughed before going back into the room.

“Come on, Ava.” Alessia cooed, picking her up and resting her in her arms. The baby girl immediately calming down by her mummy’s touch.

“Babe, that’s Mila.” You said and Alessia face dropped. She was so confident and 99% sure that it was Ava. “I’m joking, love. Sorry, I just had to do it.”

“I hate you right now.” Alessia mumbled, not wanting to wake up Ava.

“Hmm, that sounds familiar but at least we’re even now.”