a-c-e-subs

[itsmesheep]

so besides the strep (it IS strep) there have been huge numbers of flies in my apartment. i mean absolute clouds of them. cant leave a glass of water uncovered for 10 seconds or there's 3 floating in it. so i've been dealing with that this entire time with the fever and coughing and pain and hr being cunts and the hostile american medical system. despite being sick i cleaned everything i could think to clean and i have to conclude they are coming from the neighbor's apartment. i'm pretty sure they finally evicted her because i haven't heard her screaming in about a week but nobody has been over to clean it and it still smells awful when i walk past. i stuffed all my usually displayed dishes and kitchen ware in whatever cabinet it would fit in so i can freely bug spray the whole area 3x a day. i'm doing the same to the bathroom. i'm eating only protein shakes and single serve microwave mac and cheese and mashed potatoes because i can't cook anything with so many flies around and i still can't eat solid food. i wash out every container before putting it in the trash. i took out the litter and trash, again, and i am pouring sweat from just the effort that took. i return to work tomorrow.

[dragpinkman]

online clothes shopping for shorts for 2 hours straight and only bookmarking 1 thing. this is society

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 16

Curly (Mouthwashing) + food play

Guess whos got Mouthwashing brainrot. This guy. I love me a psychological horror game that im too scared to play myself, so I watch manlybadasshero play it. I love curly, and I love angst and horror, so here we go.

tw for vague mentions of what happens in the game, and Curly losing his mind.

2024 kinktober masterlist

Sunlight passed in through the slim windows in your shared apartment, the radio playing some tune you didn’t know the name off. Most music nowadays was made by AI, generating what seemed to be popular at that very moment, so it was never worth learning the names, not when most were just a line of numbers and letters.

Your socked feet carry you silently across the carpet, a serving tray in your hands as you carefully push the door open. The apartment was ancient by todays standards, but it had windows that let you see the actual sun, and not just the artificial one they used so people wouldn’t go crazy. It did result in having doors you actually had to open, instead of sliding doors.

Seeing your husband laid out on the bed made it all worth it though, the sliver of sunlight brushing against his skin and making his blonde hair look like gold. Curly was going on another delivery in a weeks time and would be gone for about eight months to a year. It might have sounded extreme, but in this day and age it was normal, especially for you two, who were working class.

 Luckily you had a job that paid okay, but not enough to support you both, and your lover had such a draw to the stars. This also meant you two had been going at it like rabbits, to be able to sate yourselves until you met again.

The tray was placed on the bedside table, a sleepy smile pulling at Curly’s lips as you crawl up the bed, pressing soft kissing all the way up his spine. “Morning captain” you murmur against his neck, where you bury your face and inhale deeply, simply taking in the smell that was him.

His hand lazily reaches back and runs through your hair, a sleepy hum leaving his lips as Curly seems to melt further into the sheets, a long relaxed exhale leaving him. “mornin…” he mumbles, not even opening his eyes as he felt your chest press against his back.

Mornings like this with you were Curly’s favourite, where he just got to indulge himself in all that he loved. A small yelp did jump out of him as he felt something run down his back, your chuckle making him grumble and finally glance back at you, his blue eyes parted just enough to see you.

Curly huffed a little as he watched and felt you lick syrup up from the crevice of his spine, your tongue flicking out and lapping against every knob of his spine that you could feel. He sighed and arched his back a little as you got further down, flattening your tongue against the dimple of his back and giving a wet suck, slurping up the syrup that had collected there.

“Sweet, like you” you mumble against his skin, shooting him a cheesy wink as he grunts at your stupid joke. He was more than willing to lift his hips though, as you started working his boxers down, Curly twitching again as you tilted more of the syrup against his skin.

Had he not been so sleepy and hot inside already, he might have complained as he felt the thick syrup run down between his cheeks, against his fluttering hole, which still felt sensitive from the multiple rounds you’d had the day before.

Your tongue licking against it was like a Band-Aid, but also kindling upon the fire in his gut. Curly shuddered and hummed softly into the pillow, hips lazily rocking back against your tongue as you licking and tasted all he had to offer.

Curly could feel you pouring more of the syrup on him, and part of his brain wondered if you had bought it, just to use it for this. Sugary items weren’t the cheapest, so it did fluster him a little more, knowing you most likely had saved up just to lick it off him. It made the familiar pulsing hardness between his legs dribble against the sheets, his hips rocking more intently against the bed.

“My pretty captain” you coo against his hole, only to follow it up with another wet suckle and slurp. One of your hands rubbed at his thigh, as the other pulled one of his cheeks, opening him up more for your hungry tongue and mouth.

You both knew you could have just pressed inside him, seeing as he was most definitely still loose from the day before. But the act of getting to lick him out and taste him like this was part of the fun, to feel Curly rut against the bed, but also back against your face, the taste of your spend from the day before, of Curly, and of the sweet syrup, flooded your senses.

It wasn’t the real syrup, the stuff they got from trees. Someone on your salary could never dream of even tasting the stuff, but it was a replacement version. It tasted a bit fake, but it was better than the cheap stuff. Add that to the taste of your lovers hole and his desperate panting, then it became a five star meal.

Curly let out a shaky keened noise as you finally pulled back, the blonde glancing over his shoulder again to watch as you slowly crawled back up again, pressing your chest against his back once more. “I love you” you mumble against his neck, grabbing yourself at the base to push inside him, Curly opening up with ease from all your prep.

“I love… you too” he gasped out, having to catch his breath as he felt your tip press expertly against his prostate. You had learned how to play him like a fiddle a while ago, back when you two were younger, and he was still studying to become a captain of a ship, and you had just started your career. You had both been so clumsy at the time, laughing and embarrassed, trying to figure it all out.

He let out a breathless giggle as you poured more lines of syrup against his back, licking it up from between his shoulders and up to his neck. “you’ll get it in my hair” he snickered, burying his face into the pillow once more as your hips worked together, his more desperate than yours.

“We can just take a bath” you reply, your voice rougher than before as you hold yourself up with your hands, moving your hips in rougher strokes, knowing that Curly liked it that way, to have his prostate struck over and over until he was wailing.

Neither of you really wanted to go far enough for Curly to start clawing at the bed, lost in tears of pleasure and fucked so good he couldn’t form a thought. At least, not now, not when he had just woken up, instead you stuck to suckling the sweet substance off his skin, the flavour mixing with the salty tang of his sweat.

Curly was the first to spill, his noises growing higher in pitch as his hips rocked in short quick strokes, downright humping the bed but also trying to jump back against you. Your captain got too desperate sometimes, no matter how many times you guys did this. He was normally too nice and too selfless, and times like this were the only time he allowed himself to be selfish.

His noises melted in a drawn out keen, which turned into a deeper guttural groan, his hips grinding hard against the sheets as he spurted all over it, your hips grinding against his from the back to push him further against it. “Good, so good. So good for me Curly” you pant, rutting against him a few more times before spilling inside him, adding to the mess that had mostly been licked up by yourself.

You both laid there, pressed against each other and panting, trying to catch your breaths and basking in the glow of being together. When he caught his breath, Curly lifted himself from the pillow, which now had some spit and tear stains as a result of his pleasure. His lips slotted against yourself, Curly smirking lazily at the sweet taste on your tongue. It tasted so good, even if he didn’t normally like the stuff, but on your tongue anything tasted divine.

…

A rattly exhale left his teeth, as there weren’t really any lips left to breathe through. Curly’s one eye was blurry as he stared up at the same ceiling he had been staring at for who knows how long. His mind had been slipping more and more lately. Every waking moment was pain, and whenever he slept, he dreamed of you.

Every now and then he swore he could taste syrup, even amongst the horrible taste of bile, blood, and the pain medication Jimmy force-fed him. Maybe the pain and isolation were finally catching up, his pained limbs thrashing weakly against the bed. Not because of pain, even if it was ever present. But because he longed for you. he longed for your eyes, your lips, your hands, your love. Anything to carry him through this… this guilt and pain.

Would you still want him, like this? You had always loved his hair, his eyes, you had always loved his handsome features. And what was he now, other than the sad pathetic remains of a man who deserved to die. But he couldn’t die, not yet, not when he had promised to return to you.

He could almost hear you. your loving voice which filled him with longing. Calling out for him, loving him, comforting him through the worst of his pains. Curly… my captain… Curly, Curly, Curly, C- “Curly?” a soft voice broke through the visions and illusions, at least most of them.

He couldn’t turn his head well, but Anyas face was familiar as it leant over him. She looked exhausted and like she had aged ten years from the stress of it all. She seemed relieved but also saddened to see him still alive, like part of her had hoped he would die peacefully in his sleep. “I don’t… I don’t think I can do this anymore, Curly. Its not your fault, but I can’t-“ she stuttered, voice shuddering and eyes glossy.

Hearing the rattle of the pill bottle in her hand made it all make sense. Poor Anya, another victim of Curly and his inability to do anything right. He wasn’t made at her, he hoped the few gurgles he could let out before the pain got too extreme expressed that. Her smile was so tired, one of her hands resting on his bandage covered bicep, before she slowly sank to the floor.

Curly could hear her breathing slowing down, even above his own raspy pained wheezing. If he blurred his vision enough, and let himself slide deeper into his mind, away from most of the pain, then he could hear your breathing too. He could feel it puffing against the back of his neck, your mouth pressing against his shoulder, up his neck to his chin, and against his lips.

The door opened with a whoosh, Curly only truly registering that time had passed from the look on Jimmys face, and how the room had started to smell more of death than before. Even as Jimmy lifted him, Curly still tasted sugar. He tasted you. he could almost see you leaning over the table, your loving smile on your face, even as more pain burned through his leg. Even as it all blurred more and more. Even as everything grew cold, and he heard Jimmy finally take responsibility, as you looked back at him through the glass.

He tasted syrup.

[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 !

[3liza]

sociopathic capitalist urban developers as a class have managed to fool an entire generation of self-identified leftist "YIMBYs" into bulldozing currently-occupied low income housing and functioning green space including the mature, carbon-sequestering, heat-protectant trees everyone is always crying about to build cardboard "luxury" slums for the Seattle ruling class to use as barbie houses and everyone gets mad at me when i suggest disrupting steady occupancy, neighborhood social support networks, and more intangible established occupancy benefits like not having to deal with packing and unpacking etc which takes at least a year for anyone with any level of dysfunction to recover from, might be bad, and that developers are lying to us about specifically the "need" for destructive new building construction, and that planting their shitty non native decorative trees will replace the mature native growth they had to rip up to build it. like what is it specifically about housing barons that makes leftists so happy to abandon the principles of "believe the capitalists when they tell you their goal is to make a profit above all else". you can literally go on reddit, type in 5-over-1, and find developers and people who work with developers going "yeah we use the cheapest possible materials and cut as many corners as we can make appear 'legal' to build these things, because it makes money". look up "low income housing closing", no one ever shows me numbers on how much low income housing is being lost because those aren't the cool numbers of grim, forward-thinking internet leftist stoicism but actual project housing is constantly being shut down and everyone kicked out because it turns out people who have a lot of problems sometimes have those problems visibly in public and this offends the Bainbridge Island parasites.

sorry folks we had to evict 20 poors who had been living in the Sundew Arms garbage apartment block from 1960 with below-market rent in order to build the new and improved condo, which will actually house fewer people per square foot regardless of the number of units because the rent will be higher and high income people don't have roommates or live with family and well all these shiny new amenities and the Peloton in the communal gym and the mini dog piss park and so on....we have to charge at least $2500. you understand. it's the market stupid. we're Building Housing you can't criticize us for Building Housing. there's a Housing Shortage.

well the government says we have to earmark 10% of the new building to Low Income Housing which means we will probably just pay the nominal fine instead or possibly a single unit will maybe at some point be gingerly allotted to someone who has been on the Section 8 waiting list for hang on let me look it up..."randomly via lottery or several years during which you will be continually means tested and/or kicked off the waiting list without notification or explanation". great. i love urban density. this is so walkable. this cheap carpet offgassing is so identity. are we really that stupid

[pityroad]

— Forfeiting My Mystique, Kaveh Akbar, in '100 Queer Poems, an anthology' (2022)

[text ID: Hafez said

fear is the cheapest room / in a house, that we ought / to live in better / conditions. I would / happily trade all my / knowing for plusher / carpet, higher ceilings.]

[softomegaposting]

in honor of my backache from sleeping in my nest on the floor last night (a hardwood floor covered with a sheepskin and a throw blanket) i wanna talk about nest mattresses! in real life and worldbuilding. disclaimer that my knowledge comes from mostly online so it’s probably not completely accurate.

so! cool floor beds i found that would make good nest bases.

the type of bed i could find the most on online is the Japanese futon. it’s what the western futon/sofa bed was originally modeled after but it’s very different. it’s basically a very thin mattress (shikifuton) over tatami mats (rush grass outer layer with a foam or rice straw core). both parts are much more moveable than a western style mattress. another important consideration i think is relevant is that futon covers go all the way around the mattress and can be washed (unlike western sheets which leave the bottom of the mattress uncovered which if it’s on the floor can get gross). futons are also meant to be aired out in the sun, which helps the whole dust thing.

another cool bed type i found are montessori-style house beds. they’re typically used for young children (toddlers and preschoolers) but do come in larger sizes (the biggest i’ve seen is a full). the bed frame sits directly on the floor with a thin mattress and a wooden house-shape on top that can support a canopy/curtains (which would be super cool for a nest lets be real). some also come with bed rails and bumpers so little kids don’t fall out, which i think would also be good for a nest because it’s more cozy.

of course i must mention the “human dog beds” which gained popularity in 2022 from going on shark tank but i remember first hearing about them around 2015-ish (and of course going that would make a great nest!). it is what it sounds like.

another, probably the cheapest option here, is camping mattresses. you know what these are. super thin air mattresses with foam tops. some come in double width (better for a nest imo) but most of them are made of that terrible slippery fabric (good for camping, bad for everything else). this might not be a problem for most people but i’m autistic and i gag touching them. you could cover it with a rug or blanket but those might slip off of it due to the gross slipperiness of the fabric. idk.

the last thing i can think of are traditional mattresses that are just. thin. you could use a mattress topper but a real mattress would definitely feel better even if they’re the same height because real mattresses have a comfort layer and a base layer and a topper only has the comfort layer (=more back pain for you). consider: dorm mattresses (at least my dorm had them, and it made an amazing nest), rv mattresses, and trundle mattresses. they’re all basically the same thing just different keywords (and slightly different sizes for the rvs). my sister has slept on a 4 inch mattress for six years or so and she only occasionally complains of back pain but for occasional use it would be fine (she also has scoliosis so. could be that).

now for some quick worldbuilding notes:

i definitely think that in an omegaverse society nest mattresses would be common. i think they would mimic traditional mattresses but shorter, like rv mattresses, but have an all-around washable cover/sheets to protect from floor grossness, sort of like dorm mattresses but able to be washed more easily. i also think they would come in more square or round shapes instead of the typical rectangle twin shape. i can see them having folding capabilities like some rv mattresses do, so that people could sun them like futons to get rid of dust mites.

i can also see nest frames being a thing, sort of like the montessori bedframes, with pillow bumpers to make a more enclosed vibe. i can also see a huge market for both frame-mounted or ceiling-mounted canopies, because who doesn’t want that.

maybe houses would be built with specific nest areas in mind, maybe with softer floors like tatami vibes or carpet. i’ve heard talk about conversation pits which are absolutely so cool but i can also see the advantage in an elevated nest space. my favorite nest of all time was in a ceiling cabinet because i could see the whole room but was harder to see myself, which made me feel really safe. so maybe houses might be built with raised nest platforms, or even small ceiling lofts overlooking a larger room (i couldn’t find an exact picture of what i’m thinking but this is close:)

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

RTA-- I think Meghan gatecrashed the Children's Hospital charity fundraiser as if you look at the charity event's website for list of paid tickets to this charity event, top dollar tickets were $1 million per person. The cheapest ticket was $2,000 per person and was already sold out. Same as the next tier of tickets for $15,000, also sold out. To me, it looks like Meghan wanted her "red carpet LOOK AT ME!!!" fix and didn't mind being escorted out once she got her fame junkie addiction needs met.

A lot of people are thinking that. Meghan will tell on herself sooner or later; we’ll have to see how she spins it.

[winchesterszvonecek]

Can we get an Only 1 Bed fic- for whoever you first think of

The Motel - [ Sonny Carisi ]

Summary: You and Sonny arrive at your motel only to find out that your room…only has one bed

Word Count: 2435

Warnings: female!reader, fluff

Masterlist | Sonny Masterlist

It was late by the time you and Sonny arrived in Pennsylvania. Too late to do anything other than check into the nearest, cheapest motel and hopefully get a few hours of sleep before you had to head off again to track down your suspect. Normally in cases like this, you’d have both gotten your own rooms to venture off to sleep in, despite having been partners for years and experienced a hell of a lot more together than a simple slumber party.

However this time, things were a little bit different in that particular department. For starters, the motel you’d come across was small. Like a mere handful of rooms, kind of small, meaning that by the time you had arrived and checked in, there was only a single room left on the entirety of the property.

It wasn’t that surprising honestly, given that it was the time of year when everyone was venturing off on their road-trip vacations and stopping to sleep in every single town they passed through. It didn’t bother you either. You were that exhausted you could have happily slept on a log on the side of the road if it meant getting to close your eyes for even just a brief minute.

Luckily, that wasn’t the case here as you’d managed to secure that last room for yourselves. There was only one slight problem, though. One you didn’t see coming and one the check-in clerk had seemingly forgotten to mention. Or he had simply assumed you and Sonny were a couple therefore neglected to, and that was…

There was only one bed.

“The check-in guy didn’t think to mention that?” Sonny muttered with a minor grievance the second he followed you inside the rather stagnant motel room, closing the door behind him and sliding the safety chain securely into place.

By the time he turned around, you had already set your bag on the large double bed and taken your coat and shoes off, your toes wiggling against the worn-out old carpet as you stretched them out from being stuck in your boots for almost a full twenty-four hours. He glanced around him as you did, his lips falling minutely as he reluctantly set his bag atop the small, barely even a couch, loveseat that he gazed questionably at.

Now there’s something that would be less comfortable than a roadside log, that much he was certain of.

“I guess I’ll take the couch,” Sonny exhaled, slipping his arms from within the soft warmth of his coat as you spun around to face him, your brow furrowing deeply as your eyes landed on the ‘couch’ in question.

You let out a laugh, “Sonny, are you crazy? You’re like seven feet tall, there’s no way that will be comfortable… You take the bed, let me sleep there.”

Lifting your bag from the bed, you moved towards him and picked his up from the arm of the chair, holding it out for him to take. He refused, causing you to sigh exasperatedly as you shook it, widening your eyes to try and encourage his stubborn ass to take it from you.

“Absolutely not,” Sonny protested, raising his hands up as though he were surrendering — when in reality it was simply to stop you from shoving the bag into them. “My mother would smack me upside the head if she found out that I made you sleep there.”

“Who’s gonna tell her?” You tilted your head questionably, finding amusement when Sonny simply frowned in response. He hadn’t thought about that. You set the bag down, its weight from whatever the hell was in it causing your arm to grow numb, and you chuckled, “That’s what I thought. Now move your skinny ass, okay, I’m perfectly capable of sleeping on a couch for a couple of hours.”

Like a child, Sonny shook his head and refused to move so much as an inch away from the couch. He even shoved you away and instead directed you back over to the bed, the back of your legs hitting against it frame and causing you to lose your balance. You fell onto it softly, the springs squeaking beneath you as you straightened and did nothing but watch Sonny lift a blanket from the back of the couch and begin unfold it.

Even the blanket didn’t look big enough to fully cover him, and you knew he wouldn’t sleep so much as a wink tonight if he stayed there. But you also knew it would be pointless to keep arguing with him. He was stubborn, and proud, and you were far, far too tired to keep going relentlessly back and forth with him. So instead you gave in, unzipping your bag with a quiet sigh and grabbing what you needed before heading for the bathroom.

When you ventured back out after doing your nightly routine as best you could, Sonny was already lying rigid on the couch, like he was afraid to move so much as an inch incase the blanket slipped off the small part of him it actually covered. You deposited your stuff into your bag in silence then sat down on the edge of the bed, folding your arms as you drew your eyes along the entire length of his body.

“Sonny, seriously…” You began, gaining his attention and noticing the way he seemed surprised to see you. As though he’d been hoping to be ‘asleep’ by the time you got back in order to avoid the very conversation you were about to begin. “The entire lower half of your legs are hanging over the arm of that couch, will you please let me sleep there?”

“No way, alright? I’m fine,” Sonny replied, almost sternly as he shuffled a little more then sighed contently — which was obviously forced as boy was he uncomfortable. “See, I’ve already got myself settled.”

You scoffed, “Yeah, it really looks like it.”

“Will you just forget about me and get some sleep, please?” Sonny gestured to the bed, “You’re running on fumes and besides, we’ll only be here for a couple hours anyway.”

“Fine,” You sighed, standing up from the bed and rounding it to the side furthest from the door.

You pulled back the covers, giving the bottom sheet a quick once over for any stains or creepy crawlies that may be lurking beneath it. You were honestly tempted to pull out a black light and check it properly, but then again you’d rather not think about what that would reveal and instead, decided to just bite the bullet and get into it. Only, before you could slip in between the cold, crisp sheets, you caught sight of Sonny stretching. He let out a rather rough sounding groan as he did…then nearly wrecked the coffee table by almost falling off the couch.

“If this is how it’s going to be with you all night, then I’m going to go out and sleep in the car,” You said, folding your arms as you peered over at him, watching as he fixed himself back into the cushions and glanced towards you apologetically. He then grew stiff as a board — as though he were afraid to move should you shout at him again. You let out a soft sigh, your shoulders sinking as you dropped your arms back down to your sides. “Sorry, I get cranky when I’m tired.”

“I know,” Sonny said, shifting a little and trying his hardest not to showcase it. But you saw him. He wasn’t at all subtle and you could easily notice the slight grimace to his features when he moved the wrong way and his calf began to tense up.

“Sonny, you’re clearly uncomfortable,” You said, fiddling with the sleeves of the hoodie you always wore to bed at the thought of speaking your next words out loud. But you knew you had to. You wouldn’t sleep at all if you knew he would be spending the entire night like this. “If you’re not gonna let me take the couch, then… Why don’t you join me?”

Sonny nearly choked on his own saliva, “I’m sorry?”

“Sleep in the bed with me. It’s big enough,” You said, gesturing to the large bed that would be far more comfortable for a man of his height. And Sonny knew it. He’d been eyeing it up from the moment he entered the room, yet he still almost looked like he was about to throw up. At that you raised your eyebrow, your tone turning playful so quickly, it almost gave you whiplash. “What? Are you scared your mother might find out you’re sleeping with a girl?”

“My mother? Nah, but my grandma…” Sonny widened his eyes a little as he shook his head, not even wanting to imagine his grandmothers reaction. “She’s a lot more traditional than I am and sleeping in the same bed as a woman I’m not seeing is…

“Against her Catholic beliefs?”

Sonny scoffed, “You have no idea.”

“Well I’m not gonna tell her,” You said, climbing into the bed and resting on your knees. “And I know you’re definitely not gonna tell her, so why not? We’re both adults. We’re perfectly capable of sleeping in the same bed together if it means we both actually get a few decent hours of sleep.”

“I mean… I guess,” Sonny said hesitantly, scratching at the back of his head as he sat up, ignoring the way his stomach fluttered terribly at the thought of finally getting to sleep beside you. He stood up, his heart warming at the unintentionally sweet smile you gave him as he crossed the room towards you in a few long strides. He pulled back the other side of the covers, waiting until you’d settled yourself before he made his move to climb in beside you, where he immediately joked, “You better keep your hands to yourself otherwise I’m arresting you.”

You chucked softly, “I think I can manage that.”

Sonny couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face as he fell deeper into the sheets that covered you both. He already felt about a hundred times comfier than he had been on the couch, exactly like you’d guessed he would be now that he could stretch out fully. Even despite the poor quality of mattress the two of you lay side-by-side atop, the middle of which was completely free of space with the way you both hugged the edge of it, as though you were afraid to so much as brush fingers given the unspoken feelings you both had for one another.

It wasn’t that you were purposely keeping them to yourselves for the sake of misery, it was more of a… Neither of you fully realised that the other one felt the same. Everyone else did, though, it wasn’t hard to. You were both practically a couple already despite your hesitance to share a motel room, yet the two of you were simply too blind to see it. But that didn’t mean you both couldn’t feel it. It was so thick in the air around you that it would be impossible not to, but whether or not you both truly picked up on it whilst conscious was the the sixty-four million dollar question.

Subconsciously, however, well… That was a completely different story and not at all a surprising one.

You didn’t realise it until you woke up about four hours later, but you had drifted dangerously close to Sonny in your sleep. Or he’d drifted closer to you. Maybe even both. You weren’t overly sure who was at fault here. All you knew was that you were both now smack bang in the middle of the bed, your legs somehow tangled together and Sonny’s long arm draped loosely over your body. Even your head was resting on his chest, feeling as it gently rose and fell beneath you with each quiet, slumber-ridden breath he took.

You felt your cheeks heat up the split second you realised what — who — your pillow was. You had no idea how you’d even managed to grow so close to him. You were normally a pretty still sleeper so to find yourself so far from where you’d started was honestly somewhat of a shock to you. All you really knew was that you needed to move before Sonny woke up and found you like this, otherwise you’d never live down the embarrassment you’d get over him realising that you’d all but used him as a teddy bear.

“What’s going on?” Sonny mumbled, his sudden, sleepy voice making you freeze in your attempts at untangling yourself from his long and lanky limbs. He cracked open one eye, glancing down at you with such a softness that you almost melted against him, a wave of…God, literally everything you could feel at once washing over you at being caught in this position. “You tryna escape me, darlin’?”

Darlin’. Fuck, if you hadn’t been melting already, you certainly would be now.

“I don’t know how I ended up so close to you, I’m sorry,” You mumbled almost frantically, attempting to pull yourself away from him only for Sonny to tighten his arms around you.

“Don’t go anywhere,” He whispered, seemingly wide awake now as he raised his hand, drawing his knuckles lightly down the side of your face. “Stay with me.”

“Sonny, I don’t…”

“Stay,” His thumb landed on your lips and you fell silent, his eyes gazing into yours in a way that gave you such intense butterflies. “Please.”

All you could in response was nod your head and smile as you didn’t trust your own voice not to give you away, especially with the thick lump that was currently trying to force itself up your throat and escape out into the air. Sonny’s own lips curled up softly as he easily tugged you closer to him, feeling as your arm tightened across his chest and you positioned your head beneath his chin. He tilted his own down to glance at you, nothing but the top of your head visible to his tired eyes and even in that moment…

Even with him being half asleep and out of his mind, just having you this close to him without him even having to try hard to get you there, was like his entire heart had exploded in his chest. He smiled again, leaning down and without taking so much as a single second to think about it, he placed a soft kiss to the top of your head and whispered,

“Perhaps one bed isn’t so bad, after all.”

Like Sonny? Apply to his tag list so you don’t miss out on his works!

tagging: @yousigned-upforthis @polkadotpenguin16 @AllAboutFluff @notthatbibble @bvd13

Like my work? Consider buying me a coffee!

[acapelladitty]

Around The Water Cooler

Summary: Working at Arkham Asylum, Dr. Jonathan Crane crosses paths with a certain Dr. Harleen Quinzel as they begin to see the other as they truly are.

(My half of an exchange with the absolutely delightful @cooldreamyfox who requested some Scarecrow & Harley having some back and forth in Arkham Asylum.)

Fic Masterlist /// Link To AO3

Taking a hearty gulp of the freshly poured coffee which sloshed its way into his mug, Jonathan fought a grimace at the thoroughly bitter taste which stained his tongue. It was the cheapest coffee the arkham staff were willing to collectively chip in for and it had definitely long overstayed its welcome within the cheap pot which housed it.

It had been a long day and the shitty coffee really did nothing to improve his even shittier mood.

"If it's that bad, why not just bring your own in from home?" A soft voice chimed in from his side and Jonathan turned just in time to see Harleen Quinzel pouring herself a healthy cup of coffee from the same pot.

Well, healthy to a point as she essentially only half-filled the mug before topping it with a frankly ludicrous amount of creamer and sugar, the final result looking more like a milkshake than anything resembling coffee.

Unble to hide his distaste for her concoction, Jonathan sniffed at the simple suggestion as he forced another acrid sip down his throat.

"I put twenty dollars into the coffee committee at the last collection. I will see that I get my moneys worth out of it before I admit defeat."

"Okay, tightwad." Harleen laughed, but unlike many of the others her laugh was one which encouraged him to join in with her rather than appearing more directed towards him. "So how's your day going, doc?"

"Three appointments with paranoid schizophrenics and one with a borderline catatonic patient who, despite my repeated warnings as to the possibility, chose to relieve themselves on the carpet rather than engage with any attempted therapies."

"Yowch. That's a hard day." Harleen grimaced, rolling her palm across her blonde hair to ensure it was kept tight to her scalp until it flared up into a sensible ponytail. "My day has been a little better than that. I've finally spoken to Dr. Mair about being assigned to the new Joker case."

"Is that so?" Not quite recalling asking how her day was, Jonathan didn't mind the information as Harleen was one of the few of his colleagues to have some personality to her that amused him when it came out to play. "And why would a junior doctor be so determined to be assigned to such a high-profile case? Lots of room for failure."

"And lots more for potential gains. This case could make me."

Leaning on the counter of the staff room worktop, Harleen held Jonathan's eye with a fearlessness which made his lips quirk into a smirk. Having never worked directly with her, he had heard rumours from the others of her ambitions and her ability to get ahead where others seemed to fail.

"Make you academically or make you millions? The rumour mill is ablaze with the potential of a tell-all book from one Miss Harleen Quinzel showcasing her work on such a notorious case and ones like it."

Harley to her credit, didn't flinch, but a blush crept high onto her cheeks and refused to shift as she narrowed her painfully blue eyes at him.

"And who's been saying that?"

"I don't indulge in workplace gossip."

"Hmm," Harley smiled and the curve of her lips held danger within them, "then you won't be too upset if the rumour mill starts to whisper of strange and spooky goings on in the solidarity wing? Lots of patients there seem to be experiencing similar difficulties."

Heart skipping a beat even as his face betrayed nothing, Jonathan tightened his grip on his coffee as he met her angry expression with his own cold gaze.

She couldn't know about the experiments.

He had covered every track and only selected patients who were unreliable narrators at the best of times. He had even limited his use of his developing toxin to ensure that it would not appear in any drug screenings.

"The solitary wing?" Jonathan asked, his expression stony and unyielding. "Not my department. If you have concerns then you should take them to your team leader."

"I would rather discuss them with you." Placing her cup down on the unit, Harleen stood to her full, if unimpressive height, as she made her point. "I don't see a good reason to bring anyone else into this. Do you?"

"Very professional of you, Miss Quinzel." A trickle of relief touched at the suspicion which stiffened his spine and Jonathan made the split decision to drop all pretence. "And what do you want? I'm not much of a dancer and this back and forth boxstep is tedious. You clearly possess a similar ethical code to my own so speak your mind and let's be done with it."

Her eyes flashing, Harleen took the sudden coldness in her stride - appearing unsurprised by the change.

"I want your support in being assigned to the Joker case. You have the respect and power which I don't have yet and if you give the say then the others won't have shit to stop me on."

Her ambition radiated from her like an aura, her blue eyes narrowing into something almost predatory as her plump, reddened lips widened into an inviting smile. Suddenly more interested in her than ever, Jonathan took in her angelic appearance - only now seeing the devil which lurked just below the surface.

Very interesting.

"If I give you the endorsement you're seeking, then I will expect something in return. My experimental work within the solitary wing would be easier facilitated with a second body able to sign off and manage certain documentation."

It was an offer, the only one she was going to get if they were to come to an understanding and Jonathan watched her expression smooth out as her mask slipped back into place.

"Of course, Doctor Crane!" Grinning widely, Harleen snatched up her coffee cup once more and inclined it to him with a coquettish wink. "I would be honoured to help out with your work. Get me in that room and you can count on me."

Without anything else to say, Crane peered down at her with his hawk-like gaze and attempted to ignore the nagging voice in the recess of his mind that told him she was too much of a loose cannon to be counted on.

[starsxblazing]

Iridescence

I was listening to Iridescent by Linkin Park and all of the ideas for this AU were impossible to get out of my brain so this is what I pumped out within thirty minutes

Summary: Living in the slums of San Antonio, your train wreck of a life with your abusive boyfriend seems to be never ending. A new neighbor slowly pulls your attention towards him.

Warnings: descriptions of domestic violence, drugs, abuse, violence, description of blood and gore, death, personality disorders, depression, angst. So much angst.

Azriel x Reader

You sat in front of your full-length mirror propped on the floor, flinching when the front door to your trailer slammed shut, before examining the bruises covering your face. It had been a miracle that you had learned how to use makeup enough to cover up the evidence so that no one asked any questions. There were no longer any voiced concerns from anyone that you worked with or the only person that you had left in your life that you could consider a friend and it was a small relief.

Memories and thoughts turned over in your mind as you started the task of covering up the bruises adorning different parts of your face, searching to figure out where things went so wrong. Your relationship with James had been going on since you were sixteen and it had been tumultuous at the very least. He had always been on a downward spiral but you always kept the hope that he would be the person that you knew he had the potential to be.

His attitude had gotten even worse since the move. The small town that you both grew up in had a high crime rate that always made you afraid to do anything and there was a terrible problem with the lack of jobs. The latter was the biggest reason that you had moved to San Antonio once you had been accepted into one of the colleges here. You had been in the top five of your class, more than earning your bachelor’s degree in business. Despite your majors of finance and human resources, you struggled to find a good job in a good company.

Your two minimum wage jobs were barely enough to keep you afloat which resulted in the tiny, rundown trailer park that you now resided in. James refused to find work of his own and when he did, his employment never lasted long. It didn’t take a genius to know that he was purposely sabotaging his opportunities and making a bad name for himself but there wasn’t anything that you could do about it. 

The fight that started as soon as you got off of work had lasted throughout the entire night all of the way up until he finally just left to do whatever it was that he did. You were exhausted and didn’t know how you were going to make it through your eight hours in the factory and then the retail job that you had immediately after. 

Your car was just as bad as your home, nothing but a simple rust bucket that decided on its own some days to not start. Every wrong noise came from it during your commute to work and you couldn’t help but wonder just how long that it would last. The thought spiraled your depression further because you didn’t have the money to make any payments on even the cheapest of cars, unable to even afford to get any repairs that needed to be taken care of. 

You forced the thoughts away while throwing on the simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans before slipping on your steel toed shoes and looking around your room, unable to linger on the many holes in the walls. The entirety of the small area constantly smelled of mildew, the leak in the roof from rain that followed the dense dry heat only making it worse by the day. What you could tell was once white carpet was now brown and littered with black spots that caused the putrid odor. 

The bed, if you could even call it that, wasn’t in much better condition. The mattress, which was second hand, sat on the floor since you weren’t able to afford any form of a bedframe. You had gone without eating for almost a week simply by buying your also second hand couch that was barely usable. The small journal that was now on the floor from James’s violent outburst had been knocked from the tiny dresser and caught your eye just as you were about to leave. 

As you flipped through it, your heart dropped at the list of bills and the ones that were due in just a few days. Your bank account had been drained yet again by your boyfriend and there was no way that you weren’t going to be past due. The thought brought tears to your eyes because it would only cost you even more money that you didn’t have. You cursed the horrible economy and the overpriced hell hole that you lived in.

Making your way into the small living room/kitchen combo area of your trailer, you stopped to look at the thermostat. A snort left you at the irony because it didn’t belong there. It wasn’t like it had worked since you had moved in five years ago. The common sight of a scurrying mouse from the corner of your eye pulled your attention to it just before it ran across your feet and through a hole at the bottom of the wall. A variety of roaches scattered across the walls from your presence but that was also nothing new. 

Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, causing you to sigh because that had been another point of your argument from the night before. James didn’t work or contribute anything to the house. Not even cleaning. You were hardly ever there so it wasn’t like any of it was your mess to begin with. It was a never ending futile battle but it never failed to bug you at the end of the day in your exhaustion.

Your next task was searching for your phone and car keys, which had been thrown somewhere in the process. It had been hard at the time to know what he did with them since your vision had blurred at the time from where James had elbowed you in the nose. To the best of your knowledge, your keys were in the front yard somewhere but your phone was a different story. The broken window that overlooked the backyard told you enough. It was probably somewhere amidst the tall grass that was past due for a cut but your lack of a lawn mower made that impossible to do. It would die soon enough anyway since the cooler air of winter was slowly moving in.

Just as you suspected, your phone was in the damp backyard with the battery completely drained. There was also a new crack on the screen but you couldn’t be bothered to worry about it because it was too close to time for you to leave. Your keys took a bit longer to track down since there were no obvious signs of where they landed.

The sight of a moving truck at the front of the trailer next door pulled your attention away from your task, the new emotion of curiosity a welcome one. Your neighboring trailer was the nicest one in the park but it was far from being considered homey. It was a one bedroom just as all of them were and extremely overpriced for the condition that it was in. You had looked at it before moving into the one that you now lived in and it was in complete working condition, a far cry from being similar to your own.

Your gaze on the sight next door was enough to have you stumbling over the very item that you had forgotten about, nearly causing you to tumble to the ground right as someone was exiting the home. Heat rose to your cheeks when your eyes connected with the man’s across the small yards that you both had. You weren’t sure if it was because of the fact that he almost saw you fall or because he was the most beautiful man that you had ever seen. 

Shaking your head to clear it, you snatched up your keys and hoped that you would make it to work without any problems.

@amara-moonlight @allygrace74 @sidthedollface2 @historygeekqueen @hnyclover @kalulakunundrum @historygeekqueen @bubybubsters @thisblogisaboutabook @mybestfriendmademe @caroline-books @justvibbinghere @wisdomofthebrain @nighttimemoonlover

[your-neighbor-in-the-northblue]

Accidental Marriage: Gild Tesoro x Reader

➼ Word Count » 0.6k ➼ Warnings » None ➼ Genre » Accidental Marriage AU, Romantic

The morning light filtered in through the windows, hitting your eyes as they gently grazed over your skin, beckoning you to wake up. You groaned as you tossed over, not wanting to get up just yet. Your head was killing you and you found yourself annoyed that you had drank so much at the bar. God, you hoped you hadn't embarrassed yourself in front of all the other tourists and guests. You didn't think you could leave your hotel room if that was the case. Speaking of your hotel room, the bed you were laying in was so warm and ridiculously soft, that you found it amazing you were granted such luxuries in one of the cheapest rooms.

"Morning." A deep voice rumbled as someone entered the room.

You jolted up quickly, staring at the mysterious man who had entered when it finally hit you—this wasn't your room. In fact, you'd never seen this room in your life. Your eyes bolted around to take in everything—from the gold-colored sheets to the spotless tan rug that covered the room.

He chuckled, "It's different, isn't it? The rooms up here are so much nicer than the one you had rented."

"Wh-where..?" You began to ask, slightly nervous as you observed the way he stalked toward you slowly, his dress shoes hardly making a sound as he walked across the carpet.

"This is my room," He responded, "Figured it was only right to take you here after last night."

"What happened last night?" You questioned, praying that you hadn't gotten yourself into anything you wouldn't be able to climb out of. I mean, you were already in debt, how much more could you really take?

Your confusion only grew when he pointed to the beautiful and expensive golden ring that adorned his finger. Looking down, you noticed a matching one encasing your own hand.

You felt light-headed. You were all the way out here at the Gran Tesoro, and you'd managed to get yourself married to the man in charge. Was it a trap? Some kind of ploy? You didn't have very many resources to turn to to be able to get yourself out of whatever he planned to do.

He moved his larger hand on top of yours, "It's a bit more spontaneous than I usually like, but I'm sure we could make this work."

"What? Are we seriously staying married?"

"Don't sound so disappointed, baby," He cooed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, "we could be perfect together. I was looking for a new business partner anyway."

Your eyes lit up at the sound of a job opportunity, clasping your hand over his own in excitement. This was it. This would be your big break. Then you wouldn't have to scrounge around for cash anymore.

"Ok!" You responded, smiling widely at the flamboyant man, "Give me a second to get ready and I'll meet you outside!"

He patted your head affectionately before standing and making his way out. You threw on the most lavish white dress you could find in your closet, once you were sure he was gone. You were determined to make a good first impression as Tesoro's new spouse. The public needed to see you at your best if you planned on making this work. So, with a few sprits from the perfume that sat on the nightstand, you started to make your way out, thrilled at the thought of starting a new life.

[sibyl-of-space]

Troubleshooting & repair of an old camcorder as a distraction from some life stuff: installment 1

So a close friend gifted me some broken old camcorder that doesn't work anymore because their mom was like "do you know anyone who would want this garbage" and they rightfully said "yes" and shipped it to me.

Don't yell at me about testing electronics on carpet, the actual electronic things are on a rubber mat, and also nothing is plugged in right now, I am grounded when I work on it, and also yeah ok I have terrible habits too bad.

Camcorder in question: Canon ES8400V 8mm VIDEO CAMCORDER

Symptoms: doesn't turn on at all. However, this could just be because the AC adapter that's supposed to charge it is dead. I'm hoping that's the case because that's a way easier fix than the camcorder itself.

Steps to troubleshoot:

Well in an ideal world I would have a different AC adapter to try and hook it up to. The manufacturer one has an output of 8.4V 1.5A and I don't seem to have anything remotely close to that lying around. Like the connector looks proprietary but I could pretty easily just solder the connector to a different one just to prove that it works, but I didn't have anything like that.

Next up was of course to open it up because I like opening things up. I wanted to look for any obvious signs of like blown capacitors or broken solder joints or whatever. Really obvious physical issues.

Nothing like that showed up, it looks very normal on the inside and there weren't any obvious symptoms of which parts may have failed over the years. That very obviously does not mean it still works but sometimes you can open something and immediately spot the problem, not the case here though.

But here's a picture just because it's always fun to see what the insides of things look like.

So I finally bought a multimeter which is something that I probably should have done a million years ago. I bought the cheapest crappiest one from home depot. Any electrician on Reddit would probably go off for five paragraphs about how terrible this multimeter is. For my janky DIY purposes, I can't really be fucked to spend more when this one probably works fine for what I'm doing.

Anyway I plugged the adapter back in and hooked up my multimeter and it read... 5V.

Decidedly not 8.4V or remotely close. My hunch is that this is the problem, it's literally impossible to charge this thing on the adapter I was given so for all we know the camcorder itself works fine.

The #safe and recommended thing to do at this point would be to buy another AC adapter at the given rating, but that's boring and I want to learn more about circuit boards so I want to see if I can at least learn to figure out what failed components may be the problem here. Which means my next step is actually going to be a lot of research and learning.

Some very quick duckduckgo searching brought me to the following resource, so I'm going to dive into this and see if it helps: https://www.repairfaq.org/sam/aapsfaq.htm

Will update again after I've either learned something, found something, or given up.

(If it turns out that the camcorder works fine and all I have to fix here is the AC adapter don't worry I still get to try and fix a camcorder later because I have a different old camcorder that has an audio issue I'd like to troubleshoot. But that's for another day)

[skippyv20]

check out LA Children’s Hospital Charity Gala site, Meghan ( or Archewell) is not even listed in the top $1Mil to $25k sponsors 😆 she must have paid the cheapest $2k. 🤣

Rumour has it she was only on the red carpet….I wonder…😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

[quirkymarshmallows93]

Gas Station Stream of Consciousness Post

Gas Stations as Liminal Spaces

I've had quite a few hyperfixations in my day - ATMs, laundry detergents, credit cards - so my current one pertaining to gas stations is fitting considering my affinity for liminal spaces and the dedication of this blog to them. Liminal spaces are transitory in nature, hence their portrayal in online circles through photos of carpeted hallways, illuminated stairwells, dark roads, and backrooms, among other transitional points.

Gas stations are posted online as well; images of their fuel pumps or neon signage photographed through a rainy car window communicate their liminality and the universal experiences they provide to all of society. Perhaps they are the ultimate specimen of a liminal space. The machines they are created for, automobiles and tractor trailers alike, themselves are tools for motion, vestibules that enable travel and shipment across long distances at high speeds. Cars and roads are liminal spaces, albeit in different formats, and gas stations serve as their lighthouses. Vehicles at filling stations, therefore, are in a sense liminal spaces within liminal spaces within liminal spaces.

The uniqueness of a gas station as a liminal space, however, is its intersection with the economics and aesthetics of capitalism. Gasoline (and diesel fuel) is a commodity, downstream from crude oil, merely differentiated by octane ratings. Some argue that minute distinctions between agents, detergents, and additives make some brands better than others. Indeed, fuels that are approved by the Top Tier program, sponsored by automakers, have been shown to improve engine cleanliness and performance, but this classification does not prefer specific refiners over others; it is simply a standard. To a consumer, Top Tier fuels are themselves still interchangeable commodities within the wider gasoline commodity market.

The Economics of Gas Stations

The market that gas stations serve is characterized by inelastic demand, with customers who reckon with prices that fluctuate day in and day out. This is not to say that consumer behavior does not change with fuel prices. It has been observed that as prices rise, consumers are more eager to find the cheapest gas, but when prices fall, drivers are less selective with where they pump and are just happy to fill up at a lower price than last week. In response, gas stations lower their prices at a slower rate than when increasing prices, allowing for higher profit margins when wholesale prices fall. This has been dubbed the "rockets and feathers" phenomenon.

When portrayed as liminal spaces, gas stations are most often depicted at night, places of solitude where one may also enter the adjacent convenience store and encounter a fellow individual who isn't asleep, the modern day lightkeeper. The mart that resides at the backcourt of a gas station is known to sell goods at higher prices than a supermarket, simultaneously taking advantage of a captive customer, convenient location, and making up for the inefficiencies of a smaller operation. It may come as no surprise, then, that gas stations barely make any money from fuel sales and earn their bulk through C-store sales. This is a gripe I have with our economic system. Business is gamified, and in many cases the trade of certain goods and services, called loss leaders, is not an independent operation and is subsidized by the success of another division of a business, a strategy inherently more feasible for larger companies that have greater scale to execute it.

Nevertheless, most gas station owners, whether they have just one or hundreds of sites, find this method fruitful. Even though most gas stations in the US sell one of a handful of national brands, they operate on a branded reseller, or dealer, model, with oil companies themselves generally not taking part in the operations of stations that sell their fuels. The giants do still often have the most leverage and margin in the business, with the ability to set the wholesale price for the distributor, which sells at a markup to the station owner, which in turn will normally make the least profit in the chain when selling to the end customer at the pump. This kind of horizontal integration that involves many parties lacks the synergies and efficiencies of vertical integration that are so applauded by capitalists, but ends up being the most profitable for firms like ExxonMobil, who only extract and refine oil, and on the other end of the chain merely license their recognizable brands to the resellers through purchasing agreements. Furthermore, in recent years, independent dealers have sold their businesses to larger branded resellers, in many cases the ones from whom they had been buying their fuel.

A Word on ExxonMobil's Branding Potential

The largest publicly traded oil company in the world is Exxon Mobil Corporation. It is a direct descendent of the Rockefeller monopoly, Standard Oil, which was broken up in 1911 into 34 companies, the largest of which was Jersey Standard, which became Exxon in 1973. This title was generated by a computer as the most appealing replacement name to be used nationwide to unify the Humble, Enco, and Esso brands, decades before AI was spoken of. The latter brand is still used outside of the United States for marketing, arising from the phonetic pronunciation of the initials of Standard Oil. In 1999, Exxon and Mobil merged, and the combined company to this day markets under separate brands. Exxon is more narrowly used, to brand fuel in the United States, while Mobil has remained a motor oil and industrial lubricant brand, as well as a fuel brand in multiple countries.

Mobil originated in 1866 as the Vacuum Oil Company, which first used the current brand name for Mobiloil, and later Mobilgas and Mobilubricant products, with the prefix simply short for "automobile". Over time, Mobil became the corporation's primary identity, with its official name change to Mobil Oil Corporation taking place in 1966. Its updated wordmark with a signature red O was designed by the agency Chermayeff & Geismar, and the company's image for service stations was conceived by architect Eliot Noyes. New gas stations featured distinctive circular canopies over the pumps, and the company's recognizable pegasus logo was prominently on display for motorists.

I take issue with the deyassification of the brand's image over time. As costs were cut and uniformity took over, rectangular canopies were constructed in place of the special ones designed by Noyes that resembled large mushrooms. The pegasus remained a prominent brand icon, but the Mobil wordmark took precedence, which I personally believe to be an error in judgement. This disregard for the pegasus paved the way for its complete erasure in 2016 with the introduction of ExxonMobil's "Synergy" brand for its fuel. The mythical creature is now much smaller and appears only at the top right corner of pumps at Mobil gas stations, if at all.

Even into the 90s and the 21st century the Pegasus had its place in Mobil's marketing. In 1997, the company introduced its Speedpass keytag, which was revolutionary for its time and used RFID technology, akin to mobile payments today, to allow drivers to get gas without entering the store or swiping a card. When a Speedpass would be successfully processed, the pegasus on the gas pump would light up red.

When Exxon and Mobil merged in 1999, the former adopted the payment method too, with Exxon's less iconic tiger in place of the pegasus.

The program was discontinued in 2019 in favor of ExxonMobil's app, which is more secure since it processes payments through the internet rather than at the pump.

What Shell has done with its brand identity is what Mobil should've done for itself. The European company's logo was designed in 1969 by Raymond Loewy, and is a worth contender for the "And Yet a Trace of the True Self Exists in the False Self" meme. In recent years, Shell went all in on its graphic, while Mobil's pegasus flew away. I choose to believe that the company chose to rebrand its stations in order to prevent the malfunction in the above image from happening.

ExxonMobil should have also discontinued the use of the less storied Exxon brand altogether, and simplifying its consumer-facing identity to just the global Mobil mark. Whatever, neither of the names are actual words. As a bonus, here is a Google map I put together of all 62 gas stations in Springfield, MA. This is my idea of fun. Thanks for reading to the end!

[dandthegods]

Working Class Gods

So I am fully aware that this will be so soaked through with bias and based on personal anecdotal “evidence” that it will start dripping down and staining the carpet. If you choose to engage with this, please remember that these are opinions, UPG, and completely pulled from my ass. 

This isn’t meant to be a “hot take”, merely an observation. I think the Gods (of any pagan belief but I’m talking about the Hellenic deities here) are more connected to and more present in the lives of working class and “middle class” people and have always been that way. Let me explain. 

This may just be my bias as someone who has only ever known a working class life, who doesn’t get caught up in the intensity of ritual and research, and has read American Gods about twenty times at this point, but I think the Gods as I know and see them are and always have been of the working classes of society. However you want to define that. I believe the Gods have a deeper and more organic relationship with pagans who identify and live lives at those sort of levels. I am not saying that those who would be considered “upper class” or those who could be categorized as “the 1%” in any given society can’t experience and connect with the Gods. I cant and won’t ever say that. Just the more it turns in my head and stews, the more I believe what I’ve said. 

The Gods are everywhere. They can be found literally anywhere if you look for them. They aren’t limited to the things humans create or the ways we’ve categorized ourselves and them. Aphrodite can just as easily be worshipped by a millionaire Instagram influencer as a teenager who works at Sephora as a job to help her parents pay the rent. Athena can be found walking the aisles of Harvard or Oxford just as much as being among the shelves of a small town bookmobile that is the closest that town has to a library for 100 miles. Dionysus can be found at the biggest and more glamorous galas and events just as well as being able to sit on the couch with a gay teen in Alabama who isn’t out to anyone but their best friend. Apollo can be on the stages of a sold out stadium show just as much as being in the furthest, cheapest back row seat. I could give examples for every Olympian and Titan with a name, but I’ll just leave it there. 

The stories we have are known to have originated as oral traditions. Oral stories told to people until someone wrote them down, and even then they still were told as bedtime stories or around a campfire. It was the populous, the working class, that told those stories most of the time. Sure, an emperor or a queen might tell their children stories sometimes, but a majority of what we have came from the continuous belief and propagation of stories by the farmers, smiths, fishermen and artists. And I think that’s the same as now. Anyone can become enthralled with the stories and mythologies retold, some across a book of retelling in any library. But I think it’s the kids who aren’t in the upper echelons of private school and trust funds are more prone to that discovery and for that to stick with them in a meaningful way. 

I’m lucky that my gods aren’t used by people in positions of power to control society. I’m lucky that my religion isn’t the dominant one and my gods names are being taken in vain to control others. I can’t speak for how the world was in the past when that WAS more likely the case, but for today I can say that I’m glad it isn’t. 

One thing that has always stuck with me about my favorite book, American Gods by Neil Gaiman is how the old gods are on the level of working class people. It has stuck with me into my own fiction writing as well as my beliefs. I do believe that if the Gods were to take physical form and function in today’s society (maybe they do, who knows. I’ve met people I could easily believe were Hephaestus or Hermes), they would take on a working class life and working blue collar jobs. I wouldn’t expect to see any of them taking high positions of power, being politicians or royalty. I would expect to run into them at the DMV, in line at the grocery store, or behind a cash register. I’d expect to see Apollo running a small Etsy shop, Hephaestus to work at a factory, Hermes to run a gas station or auto repair shop, Zeus to be a pilot, Poseidon to be a lifeguard or work at a community pool. 

I see the gods in the everyday. I see them in all the things of my life and connect with them in everything I do, not just when I’m at my altar. Seeing the spectacular in the mundane or the ordinary was how I was raised and how I still work today. The Gods are there in chipped nail polish, calm Sunday mornings, road trips in a cheap car, and in the lyrics of my favorite songs. I started thinking about this more as I was curating a small playlist on Spotify for what I call “My Hymns”. They are regular songs that I associate with the Gods. Some have some spiritual meaning intended for a different deity, and some are just match the ✨vibes✨of the Gods. I listen to that playlist as a devotional act, letting each song remind me of its own god or goddess, letting my singing along or quiet listening be like a hymn being belted out to the rafters of my own private temple. It just gets me thinking about my Gods and it makes me happy. 

I hope this all makes sense and I didn’t mince my words too much. 

Cheers

-D