#dishwasher detergent sheets

[ztraceliving]

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[zerotraceliving]

Zero Trace eco-friendly cleaning refers to a cleaning approach that minimizes environmental impact by using products and methods that leave little to no chemical residue and waste behind.

Our Biodegradable Fresh Scent Detergent Sheets offer a guilt-free wash, leaving your clothes with a light, refreshing fragrance.

Follow for more info: http://www.zerotraceliving.com

[wordsofelie]

🎮Walls

Kenma x gn!reader

Summary: Life is falling into place for you: a spacious apartment, a good job, a healthy routine. That is, until you meet your neighbour—and the man is an asshole.

Content warning: time skip setting, manga spoilers, angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, mention of vomit, avoided sexual assault, swearing

Words count: 7.9k

Life feels like it’s falling into place. You have a new apartment in central Tokyo, in a building you used to admire when you were younger—one that made your neck ache from staring up at it. You’ve also started your own company, opening an architect's office that has been rewarding and you’ve made yourself a name in the field.

“What about your love life?” Your grandma asks.

And there it is—perhaps the one area of your life you’ve been neglecting. Well, that and your social life in general. Your work takes all your time. On the weekends you’d rather work or go to the gym or meal prep. Anyway.

“I don’t have time.” You answer casually. You always answer that.

Despite hearing this response hundreds of times, your grandmother still doesn’t seem satisfied. She hands you a box of miso soup and a bag filled with fruits and vegetables.

You chuckle, “thank you obaa-chan.”

“Are you sure you don’t need ojii-san to help you move?”

She points to your grandfather, asleep on the couch. That one couch that looks older than you and that you’ve seen your whole life. You often complain about the several holes and stains on it, but deep down, you know you would cry if they ever decided to get rid of it.

You put on a polite smile, “I think he needs to rest.”

The bag of food is well settled in your bike's front tray and when you start riding, you take a last glance at your grandmother waving from her window. You smile.

It’s only an hour by train, one and a half by bike, from your grandparents’ to your new apartment. Now that you have enough money and don’t have to live in a cramped studio that oddly looks like a garbage room, and with the university loans finally paid off, you chose to stay nearby—to be close to the family who raised you.

Your parents moved abroad when you were in junior high and they gave you a choice, which was probably the only time in your life that they listened to your opinion. And you wanted to stay in Japan, stay close to the two people you loved the most in the world. Your obaa-san and ojii-san, in their eternal kindness, sold their house in the countryside and moved to Tokyo so you didn’t have to change schools. You never told them, you guess because you were too grateful for what they did, but you wished you had left this obnoxious city, you wished you had grown up in their old wooden house instead of that tiny two-room apartment they brought—probably worth a lifetime of their work.

And the funny thing is, no matter how much you dislike the city, you stayed—for university, and now for work. The gods have a strange sense of humour.

You reach your apartment faster than expected. Outside, a few cardboard boxes are waiting for you alongside a team of sturdy men to help you lift them. You want to believe you could handle everything yourself, but after the first three trips between the sixth floor and the moving truck, you are overwhelmed with humility.

And remember, now you have the money to pay for this type of service.

You’ve struggled enough when you were younger—isn’t it finally your time to enjoy life?

The movers are surprised when you hand them generous tips with both hands. They bow a few times in gratitude. You want to tell them that you know what it’s like to have physical and tiring jobs like theirs, your grandfather has been there too—carpenter, brick mason, plumber, gardener, selling fish on markets from early morning.

Once they’re gone, you start to unpack everything. You keep a notebook with you to note down what you need to buy—extra sheets, dishwashing detergent, another glass of wine (if you ever invite someone over, the idea makes you cringe a little because gods know when that will happen, you don’t cross out the word anyway).

The first evening in your new place is… special. It’s quiet, spacious, clean in your living room, everything that you’ve ever dreamed of. You decide to open a bottle of beer and turn on your computer.

You still can’t believe you have a proper room where you can work, an office at home. It’s beyond what you imagined when you graduated from university.

It’s 8 p.m on a Sunday but you think that preparing for the week ahead won’t kill anyone. So, you sit down at your desk and check your emails.

The calm only lasts half an hour.

The first scream rings out, startling you so much that you almost choke on your drink. It takes a few seconds for your heart to return to a normal rhythm.

It is unusual. Absolutely, not like the screams in films. It doesn't sound like a woman’s scream, nor like someone needs help. Still, you ponder whether you should take a look outside or not.

 You’re about to finish writing an email when you hear the second scream, followed by thud of a fist hitting a table. This time you’re convinced of two things: first that it comes from the neighbour next door and second, that neighbour is raging over something.

A million scenarios play out in your mind. The worst-case scenario is that someone is being hurt—perhaps a child or a partner. If that’s the case, you can’t stand by and do nothing.

Barely a minute passes before you find yourself standing outside the neighbour’s door.

You don’t know where the courage to stand here comes from because when it’s time to knock on the door, all this courage disappears. What if they are drunk? What if they beat you up in return? What is your company going to become if you go to the hospital? What if you never see your grandparents again?

“D’ya need something?”

A low voice coming from behind you asks and when you turn around, you’re faced with a tall man with dark hair.

“I-”

He smirks as he crossed his arms over his chest and waits for your answer.

“Are you a fan?” He finally questions when the silence stretches for too long.

You blink, confused. “I heard screams,” is all you manage to say.

The man's reaction is anything but predictable.

He bursts into laughter—a loud and weird laugh, that you decide not to comment on.

“Ah, Kenma is probably playing LoL again. I told him to quit. It’s bad for his heart.”

Every word is said too fast, too casually. “Kenma? LoL?”

“You’re the new neighbour?” The stranger ignores your questions. Maybe you’ve whispered them.

“I am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to keep it down,” he says, already turning toward the door.

“Thanks… I guess.”

“I’m Kuroo Testurou by the way.” He calls over his shoulder as he steps inside the apartment. You simply say your name in return before he adds, “have a lovely evening.”

And just like that he's gone and you're left here, confused.

At least the screams have stopped, and you know the name of the person next door. It’s better than nothing and you won't end in a crime documentary about a murderous neighbour.

You go to bed early that night, hoping that this was the last time you would get interrupted working.

It turns out, you get interrupted every evening. The wall separating your office from the neighbour room is paper-thin. It makes you crazy.

Some nights it’s screams of anger, other it’s just uninterrupted chatting. You can ever hear the incessant clicks of keyboard keys.

You want to convince yourself that you can handle the situation, but when you start having dark circles under your eyes, when you pour orange juice instead of milk in your coffee, when you don’t turn to the right street to go to your grandparents house and arrive an hour later to their lunch, your obaa-san starts worrying about your heath (both physical and mental health).

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve moved,” she informs you as if you didn’t know when you started being woken up every hour of every night. “And you’ve been acting weird, my love.”

“My neighbour isn’t the quiet type.” It’s the first time you explain the situation to her. You don't want them to burden them with your problems, but fatigue brings out some honesty in you and the words leave your mouth before you can register them.

Logically, she advises you to go and talk to them. “Be kind and explain calmly that you work from home and need to rest because your job is very demanding,” she says. She can’t help but speak with pride when she mentions your work, and you want to smile. But you don’t because all you can do with your mouth is yawn.

“I’ll go if they don’t stop.” She thinks she looks terrifying with her pink apron and her pointed finger. You get up and kiss her cheek.

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

You’ve depended on them your whole life, you won’t bother them again.

It’s strangely silent that evening and with a heart full of naivety, you believe you will finally have a good night of sleep. But before that, you need to work on a very important project, one in collaboration with the city hall, probably the most important of your career so far and that you won against renowned architects’ companies. The first sketch is done, and you can start doing the 3D model now.

That is until you hear the neighbour talk and talk and talk.

Enough.

You don’t even check your reflection in the mirror or bother changing into a decent outfit. You simply grab a jacket, put your shoes, and this time, you dare to knock on the door.

You must have been very insistent or perhaps the knocks were loud enough to drown out whatever music or phone call he was listening to—because after three or four sharp taps, he finally emerges from his cave.

The man is nothing like you imagined. Long hair with remnants of blond colouring, yellow eyes narrowed as if annoyed. He is not small but not as tall as who you assumed was his friend. His attitude reminds you of one of those nerd boys you avoided in high school, though you would bet he is around your age.

“Huh?” Comes out of his throat.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides when he doesn’t even greet you.

“Good evening.” You try not to bark. You need to be the mature one here otherwise he won’t be receptive. You’ve learned that from dealing with arrogant old men in your job. “I am your new neighbour; I live next door. It’s a pleasure to meet you but I was wondering if you could talk a little bit less...loudly.” You remember the points your grandmother has given you and it’s all you can think about (apart from insults and words you might regret), “I am working from home so it can be hard to focus with your chatting.”

His face turns into furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose. You're pretty sure you hear a sigh escaping his nose. He avoids your gaze and when he meets your eyes again, the annoyed stare has disappeared, and he looks blank again. He's unreadable.

“Sorry. I will be careful from now on.”

His words sound as scripted as yours. A knot in your stomach forms and the palms of your hands start to sweat.

Why in the world does this asshole seem annoyed when you’re the one who hasn’t been able to sleep and work for freaking days?

“Is that all?” He dares to ask.

“I hope it will be.” You threaten with pursed lips and your chin lifts a little.

“Fine.” He mutters and closes the door behind you.

Great. Your neighbour is a shithead.

The gods are unfair sometimes. Life is falling into place for you but they seem to have one last obstacle for you: him. Kenma.

A storm of questions keeps you wake that night, the main one being: what is this guy doing with his life?

Doesn’t he have a job? What is he doing of his days since he doesn’t seem to be sleeping at nights? And how can he afford an apartment like yours when he looks like he just graduated from high school?

Maybe he was born rich—unlike you. Maybe his parents are paying for everything and he just spends the days doing nothing and doing LoL?

What’s a LoL, anyway?

You search the term online and discover it’s a stupid video game. That doesn’t surprise you. Kenma seems like exactly the type to waste time playing video games all day.

You don’t want to play it stupid, but you can’t stop thinking about how detached he looked when you complained (nicely and respectfully). A part of you wants to make him pay, just a little. Your grandma would probably disapprove, but that's fair play, isn't it?

And so, during the day you start putting on music. Musical music, it’s the only genre that helps you focus when you work. You make your phone calls while standing right next to the wall separating you from Kenma. You even move your coffee machine into your office. The closer, the better, right?

Your little revenge lasts a week. You don’t want to be cruel—not that it would matter much, since you assume he’s jobless.

At first, he doesn’t seem to react, but the second you turn off the music and return the coffee machine in the kitchen, the sound of gunfire and monstrous roars make your walls tremble.

You invest in earplugs.

You don’t see him much—which is a good thing. Occasionally, you pass by him in the corridors or the lift. Neither of you speaks. A lazy look from him and a quick movement of your head to avoid his gaze are the only interactions you have. He always wears his hair in a half-ponytail and oversized jumpers, from a brand you don't know and has them in every shade of colour. You almost look up “Bouncing Ball Co.” online but decide you don’t care. You don’t care about anything related to this man. Really, anything.

The other neighbours, however, seem to like him. They smile at him, greet him warmly as if he wasn’t a pain in the ass who plays stupid video games at full volume. You conclude they’ve never had to share a wall with his gaming room.

When you complain about it to your grandparents over tea and sweet potato cakes, your grandfather suggests moving back to their house. Your room, after all, hasn’t changed a bit, with your old drawings and posters still hanging on the walls.

“They should fix the problem, coming back here won’t change anything to the situation.” She says while pouring you another cup of green tea, the hot drink feels good and warms you up, if only a little. “I’ll go talk to that Kenma boy.”

Your grandfather only shrugs, he never wins an argument with her.

“Please don’t,” you beg. Your grandmother does that thing she does when she’s lying—she smiles and closes her eyes.

“Whatever you want, darling.”

You try to stop the chaos by yourself. By trying you mean that you leave notes at his front door (some rather fiery when you’re not in the best mood, others more docile when you have been praised for your work by your peers.)

But the letters pile up, eventually covering the straw mat outside his door. One evening, you hear a child on your floor asking their mother why there are so many envelopes by Kenma’s door. The mother replies, “Oh, those must be letters from fans.”

Fans. This word again. Coming from Kuroo you thought it was sarcasm; the guy looks like he often uses sarcasm even though you don’t really know him, but now it really starts to make you wonder: who really is this man?

When your initial plan doesn’t work, you resort to a more direct approach. Every time you hear noise from the other side of the wall, you pound on it with your fist.

If that rude bastard can’t read a polite note (you fucking said “please”!), he’ll surely understand this.

The only thing keeping you sane is that you’re going away for work for a full week. The train ticket, the hotel, the food, everything is paid by your client and when you finally leave Tokyo you feel a wave of relief. The knot in your stomach that you’ve been carrying for days disappears.

You call your grandma to inform her you’re in the train now.

“Have a safe trip and don’t overwork yourself. Your worth is greater than any project.”

You smile softly, “I know. don’t worry.”

She’s about to hang up, but you interrupt by saying, “And please don’t go to Kenma’s in my absence.”

“Kenma this, Kenma that. It’s always his name on your lips these days.”

You’re glad the train starts moving, you blame the surprise of the movement for the slight skip in your heart, “Bye bye, I’ll call you when I arrive.”

The business trip goes well. You manage to make your voice heard and your opinion valuable. You meet a lot of other architects, some congratulate you for your work, other only glower at you. They envy your position. You’re young, you’re not the child of a well-known person and you still success in everything you undertake.

You meet a man of a year or two your senpai; he’s very polite, smiles a lot and seems genuinely interested in your ideas.

The absolute opposite of your neighbour.

By coincidence, he lives in Tokyo too, and you end up on the same train back. The discussion is easy, mostly about architecture, and you enjoy conversing with someone who truly understands the nuances of your job.

He offers to drive you home since his car is parked near the train station and even if you refuse at first, you finally agree. It’s better than calling a taxi, right? You’re still confused at the fact that you’re the person who sits in a taxi rather than watching them from afar.

You don’t see it coming, the approaches, the undertones. He suggests stopping at a bar, but you decline, you tell him you’re tired, and the more he talks, the more it’s obvious he didn’t offer that ride out of sympathy.

Your throat feels tight, and you start cursing yourself for trusting a complete stranger just because he does the job as you. How stupid.

You finally catch a sight of your apartment complex and even though you liked the hotel room and the calm of it, you’re suddenly desperate for the four walls of your place—no matter how noisy they can be.

“You can stop here,” you tell, perhaps a bit too loudly. You try to make the shakings in your voice away. “Thank you.”

He does as you tell, you’re about to open the door when a cold hand lands on your thigh. A shiver runs through you, and your legs seem paralysed.

“Don’t you want to stay a little longer.”

You can't meet his eyes. “I appreciate the invitation,” you absolutely don’t. “But I really have to go home.”

“Your boyfriend is waiting or something?”

You open your mouth to lie, but the tension in your neck and throat is too strong. In a sudden move, you open the door and babble a “thank you.”

The engine stops and you know he is looming closer to you.

“Wait,” you want to go faster but he whirls you around by taking your arm. “C’mon, don’t be shy. You were all talk on the train, let’s continue the conversation somewhere else. Or maybe you want to invite me over?”

The snicker that tugs at the corner of his lips makes you want to vomit. Just like with your neighbour, you’re done being compliant and if being polite doesn’t work then you might use violence.

“Ah, you’re home.”

You both turn to the voice. The lazy and unbothered voice. Kenma’s voice.

“I brought to make curry, is it fine for you?” He lifts a plastic bag while saying this.

His eyes flick to the man for just a second—brief, almost out of time—but the intensity in his gaze is enough to make him pause, and then, instinctively, take a step back.

“Let’s go,” Kenma tells you simply and you follow him.

He walks behind you, from the moment you step into the lift to when you finally reach your front door. Somehow, you feel safe.

Apologise, thank him. Your mind orders. But your hands can’t stop shaking and your throat is still dry.

“If you need something…” he starts but stops, his gaze shifts awkwardly to the side, as if seeking the right words. “Just knock. On the door or the wall. You seem good at that anyway.”

You’re left speechless when he closes the door.

It takes you a whole minute to find your keys and get inside.

It’s cold. Silent. Dark.

It’s strange how you suddenly feel lonely.

You’ve always dreamed of living in a spacious place like this; but the white walls, the too-cleaned surfaces, the too-tidy shelves are oppressive.

“Ah, you’re home.” Kenma said.

But are you really?

These four walls and you; they’re not warm, not lively.

You curl up in your genkan, your shoes still on, the light still off and you start crying.

You haven’t in months, or maybe in years.

Did you even cry when your parents left? When you’ve been mocked for wearing soiled shoes in school? When your so-called friends called you boring?

You find the strength to shower and crawl into bed. Kenma lets you sleep that night. You close your eyes wondering if he is thinking about you for you are thinking about him.

Kenma is away for the next week, and you wonder what he is doing. You don’t complain about the peace his absence gives you, but you also want to say thank you.

Thank you for two things; of course, for helping you with the man but also for leaving a bento of curry at your doorstep.

I made too much–Kozume Kenma

It is written.

Now you know both his name and family name.

Somehow, the thought makes you smile.

The curry isn’t really good–it’s too salty and the potatoes are too hard. It’s nothing like your obaa-san’s food. Still, you think it deserves an apology for being an asshole with him, not matter how fair you thought it was.

The clean plastic box is waiting for him in your kitchen, wrapped in a pretty furoshiki and when you hear keys and footsteps coming from outside a few days later, you rush out.

“Kozume-san,” you call for him.

“Hello there,” Kuroo answers in its place.

You only notice the tall guy at his side when he speaks.

“Good morning Kuroo-san,” you bow.  

“Heh?” Kenma raises an eyebrow.

“What? You’re surprised because I’m friends with your annoying neighbour.”

“Annoying?” You mumble and a “oops” escapes the dark-haired man.

“His words, not mine.” Kuroo clarifies, pointing a thumb at Kenma, who only sighs in response.

You clear your throat and hand Kenma the box, “thank you for the food. It was...convenient.”

Before you can finish the acknowledgement, Kuroo starts laughing, “convenient. Kenma, man, for gods’ sake, stop cooking.”

Your neighbour takes the box from you and clicks his tongue.

You don’t linger on the goosebumps his fingers leave on your skin.

“My manager said I should eat healthy food.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been telling you that for years, but you never listen to me. Anyway, we’re going out tonight, wanna come?”

You don’t realise he’s talking to you but the silence stretches for too long and his tilted head suggests he is waiting for an answer,

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Kuro…” Kenma mumbles and his shoulders slump.

You can't tell if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. He’s so hard to read, it almost upset you.

“Kenma won’t be there,” Kuroo informs as if he isn't standing next to him. “It’s gonna be fun. Apparently, you work a lot, it could be good for you, you know. It’s not just me, by the way, some old friends will come.”

“Okay.”

Kenma widens his eyes and Kuroo smirks. Both seem surprised, though you’re probably the most surprised here.

“Okay.” You repeat, maybe to convince them—or yourself.

“Great, I’ll see you at seven then.”

He grabs Kenma by the shoulder and leads him inside.

Your eyes meet yellow eyes one last time, and your heart skips a beat—or a thousand. Either way, it feels good.

It’s hard to focus on work that day. You keep thinking about what you’re gonna wear, what you’re gonna talk about. What if you make a fool of yourself? What if you’re boring?

Your forehead hits your desk, and a long sigh escapes your lips.

You get ready when it’s time, going for something comfortable and simple, and when seven rings, you find Kuroo standing in front of your door.

“There you are, shall we go?” He offers and though your eyes scan around you, you find no trace of Kenma.

Kuroo said it; your neighbour won’t come.

You knew that, and in lieu of relief, you’re disappointed. You ignore the reason behind it—it doesn’t make sense, but you feel it anyway.

“Sure, let’s go.” You say with a last glance at Kenma’s door, hoping it will open. When it doesn’t, you decide to follow Kuroo.

Kuroo’s friends are fun to be with. There’s Yamamoto, a bit too loud for your taste but nice, then there’s Kai, who’s interesting and makes you comfortable and finally Fukunaga, who is quiet and—something else. The four of them went to the same high school, one from the opposite district where you grew up. They tell you there are usually more of them but one of them is in Russia, another is doing a campaign abroad. Kuroo mentions the other ones, but you don’t remember all the names.

“We’ve got some pretty famous guys in the team,” Kuroo says with pride.

“Kenma the richest though,” Yamamoto complains, and you raise an eyebrow. So, he does come from a wealthy family, you conclude.

Two more join the group, Bokuto and Akaashi, and you can’t help but relate a bit to the latter, with his serious attitude and reserved nature, especially when Kuroo jokes that you’re both workaholics. You don’t deny the assumption.

The evening goes pretty well, faster than expected. You’re not too awkward and find yourself laughing at Fukunaga’s lines to Yamamoto and discuss literature with Akaashi.

You drink a little too much compared to what you’re used to and it’s almost 2 a.m when Kuroo offers to drive you home. The room is blurring, and you can’t refuse.

You sleep the whole way home, vaguely aware of the man helping you into the lift, and only realise you're almost in your flat when you catch the sound of Kenma's voice.

“I’ll take care of them,” you hear him say.

The next second you're pressed against him. His skin his colder than Kuroo’s but his scent is a mix between hazelnut and white musk. Your nose is drawn to his neck.

You don’t know how he manages to take your keys and remove your shoes, but when you open your eyes again, you’re on the couch and he is standing in your kitchen, pouring water into a glass.

“You’re being nice… again…” The last part is above a whisper.

He takes his time to answer, he always does that. “I’m not a brute.”

“I thought you were.”

“Sorry.” He apologises and despite the alcohol making your mind dizzy, your eyes widen and you sit up straight.

“I should be the one apologising.” You reply.

“Don’t be so loud.” He groans and hands you the glass.

“Oh, wanna talk about loud? Weren’t you the loud one when you played shooting games and LoL?”

“I don’t play LoL anymore,” he avoids your gaze.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I tried asking nicely, but you wouldn’t listen or even look at me.” You let out an annoyed grunt, “just like now. You’re not looking at me right now.”

Your body moves on instinct, and inch forward, your nose almost touches his. His ears turn red, but you don’t flinch back. “Do I disgust you or something?”

When he finally turns, when his breath brushes your face, and the pupil of his yellow eyes dilate, you feel every single one of your muscles stiffen. You break the eye contact when your cheeks are burning up.

“You don’t disgust me,” he says but you've already forgotten the initial question.

“Thanks for helping me last time.”

He says nothing back and gets up.

“Drink water and go to bed.”

What happens next must have been a nightmare (you wish it was). But he’s one foot outside your apartment when your stomach twists violently, and you barely make it to the sink before letting your guts out.

It’s the first thing you remember when you get up the next day, Kenma helping you walk to the bathroom, helping you brush your teeth, putting you to bed.

You vomited. In front of your asshole neighbour. He helped you, cooked you food, showed you his kind side, and you vomited.

You’re nothing but shameful.

You want to hide in your bed and never get out of it. Maybe you should move out, sell your apartment and go abroad.

That would make your grandparents sad, though.

You sigh loudly, your head hurts but you still go to your kitchen to make yourself a coffee.

Being in this place reminds you of the night before and if you don’t want to drive yourself crazy pacing the floor, you decide to take your bike to go to your safe place.

Obaa-san notices it right away; the dark circles under your eyes, your bad mood, your incessant fawning—everything gives away your lack of sleep.

“Is your neighbour annoying again?”

Your heart races faster at the mention of Kenma, “what? No, no. It’s over, we found a… solution.” You lie through your teeth.

“What’s wrong? You’re not even eating your food.” She wants to serve you more soup, but you stop her.

You sigh, again, but tell her everything. When you’re done with the story, you see her brows furrow deeper and deeper.

“We didn’t raise you to vomit on people’s feet.”

Your stomach twists, “please don’t talk about vom—I’m embarrassed enough.”

“As you should be. Isao, let’s go.”

She calls for your grandfather and starts packing a bag of fruits.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to apologise.”

You curse yourself and every single decision that led you to this exact situation. You’d rather quit your job than face Kenma and be forced to write excuses in front of your family.

It’s cruel, cruel, cruel.

You follow them anyway.

“Huh?”

“Kenma-kun,” your grandmother says. “Pardon the intrusion but we came as soon as we found out what they did to you.”

You look down at the floor, not caring if you seem like a child instead of a twenty-something-year-old. You just want this to be over—soon, soon. But then, Kenma chuckles, and your head lifts.

“It’s fine,” he says. His laugh is soft, so nice to your ears. You’ve never heard him laugh before, but now, you don’t want to hear anything else.

“Please enter,” he offers the three of you, and you finally step inside his apartment.

The curtains are closed but lights cover the walls. Purple, red, blue. The couch is huge, and the kitchen looks too clean to be used. It makes sense when you see boxes of takeout and instant ramen on the counter. At the back, you see the door to his gaming room—the one next to your office—open. You can’t count how many screens there are, and cables are scattered across the floor.

And it smells like hazelnut and white musk. You’ve never smelled something so nice before.

Why does it feel so warm inside? Why do you feel safe here?  

“I brought fruits, it’s nothing, but please accept it.”

You end up staying there for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing at all. You learn he played volleyball back in high school, and that he is two years younger than you. Your grandmother is peeling fruits, your grandfather is drinking the lemonade Kenma offered and he explains that he owns a sports company.

“What a smart boy,” your grandmother exclaims.

You don’t really know what “sports company” means. It could be a million things, and it’s certainly more complex than that. He probably simplified it for your grandparents’ sake.

“Our grandchild is also very smart. They have an architecture office and are the youngest-ever architect to work with Tokyo City Hall. Do you know the new hospital they’re building in the suburbs? They designed the plans and-”

“Alright, it’s almost time for dinner.”

You get up suddenly.

The sun starts to get down, and you only take notice of the time by watching the hour on your phone.

The corner of Kenma’s lips lifts a little and you immediately turn to your grandfather for his smile is too sweet for your heart to handle.

“He is a kind man,” your grandmother whispers to you when they’re about to leave.

“I know, I know.” You groan.

She pinches Kenma’s cheeks, “call us if you need anything.”

You would’ve guessed he’d hate physical contact, but he doesn’t complain. His features are soft as she says goodbye.

“Good luck with them, they seem tough, but they can be very sweet!”

“Oi!” You shout but they close the door behind them, chuckling.

You don’t want to face Kenma, don’t want to show him the embarrassment on your face.

“So… dinner?”

“What?” you turn a little in his direction.

“You said it’s time for dinner. Do you want to order something?”

The question makes you happy even if it leaves you puzzled for a few seconds. It seems like Kenma Kozume is full of surprises. And maybe that’s what you need, so you shrug.

“Why not.”

When he takes his phone from his pocket and starts ordering food, you smile widely and bite your lips.

A dinner leads to another, and another, until it becomes a routine. You come to his place, usually on Mondays because it’s his only free night. He shows you some of his games, you never beat him, and he laughs when you blame it on the controller.

You’re impressed by his skills and think that maybe he should become a professional.

You pretend to be upset when you lose, but deep down, you just want to hear him laugh.

Sometimes you cook something together, though you’re the one in control of the quantity of salt and the temperature of the oven.

And he listens to you ramble or complain about your work.

When he’s out of town, which happens more often that you thought, you start to go out more. You decide that it’s time to put more colour in your apartment, so you buy cacti, and carpets and frames. You long to draw again, like you used to, so you bring back your old pencils and sketchbooks from your grandparents’ house. You missed the smell of that cheap paper and ceder. Sometimes, you have a drink with Kuroo after work (alcohol-free; you won’t repeat the same mistake twice) and a coffee with Akaashi on the weekends. It's often quiet with him; he reads a book and you draw him reading.

When Kenma comes home from his trips, you welcome him with drawings of beautiful places you saw while he was away and good homemade food.

“Better than what I ate at the hotel,” he says, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t really know where this friendship is going, maybe it isn’t meant to go anywhere, but it’s comfortable and deeper than any relationship you've had in years.

You had no idea what you needed before, but since he showed up in your life, it all became clear.

You still know little about him; he remains a mystery to you, and you can never decipher what he's thinking. But you enjoy being with him—that is.

There are some glances exchanged that last a bit too long, hands brushing against each other, words left hanging in the air as if they’re too fragile to be spoken aloud. It’s not enough to call it something more, but it’s also too much to ignore. Sometimes, it keeps you awake at night.

It's Christmas and you hate this time of year. It's cold outside, crowded in the streets and on top of that, it's the time when your parents return to Japan. Apparently it's important for them to spend time with the family, which you find hilarious, given that they've never been here for any of your birthdays.

You complain and groan about it to your grandmother; she’s used to it. It’s the same song every Christmas. She always stays quiet, and when she does, you know she agrees with you.

It would have been more fun to be with Kenma, you can’t help but think when you’re sitting at the table, half-listening to your father talking about his new project in Singapore. Instead of being here, you could be eating KFC on Kenma’s couch, playing Mario Kart (you’re almost as good as him now) until the sun rises.

Your brother is watching YouTube on his phone (isn’t 12 years old a bit too young to have a phone? Why did you have to wait until you were sixteen and get a part-time job to buy one that lasted until uni?).

You don’t realise you’re glowering over him before your mother calls for him, “Kengo. Turn off that video, please, we’re eating.”

“But it’s Kodzuken’s last live of the year, and he’s breaking his record.”

You roll your eyes and get up to help your grandmother in the kitchen.

“Who’s that Kodzuken?” You hear your grandfather asks from afar.

“He’s the best YouTuber and streamer. You know he has over 10 million subscribers on YouTube, and he sponsors volleyball players too. He’s like the best.”

“Let me see that fabulous man,” Isao chuckles. “But that’s Kenma-kun.”

The plate you’re holding almost drops to the floor.

“Yes. His real name is Kozume Kenma.”

You feel the gaze of your grandmother on you, and she’s about to say something, but your voice chimes in, and you take the phone from your brother’s hands.

“What the fuck…” You curse.

“What’s wrong?” Someone asks; you don’t even know who. You’re too stunned to answer.

“I-I’ll go wash my hands.” You excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub and tap his name into the internet.

There are articles about him, a YouTube and Twitch channel, and your brother was right, with million and millions of views; he even has a Wikipedia page.

Why didn’t you know that? Why did you assume he was a rich kid too lazy to work.

You don’t know why but you’re feeling betrayed. It feels like you’ve been lied to—which technically isn’t the case, but it feels the same.

Everything makes sense now: the fans, Yamamoto’s comment about him being rich, the mention of his manager and above everything the sleepless nights spent on his games talking, chatting, screaming. He was just working.

You feel extremely stupid for not connecting the dots before, but you also wish he had told you. Not that it would have changed anything in your friendship, but at least you wouldn’t feel like you’ve spent the last few weeks sharing most of your time with a stranger.

The anger you experienced when your first met him is quick to come back, even if it’s not for the same reason now. It’s not because he is too loud, but because he is too quiet.

Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe you don’t matter to him as much as he does to you. Maybe he’s not the stranger, but you are, and he just pitied you.

It’s a good thing your grandmother opens the door to come and get you, otherwise, you could have spent the whole evening making up scenarios and speculating on why Kenma never told you what he was really doing in his life.

You act like nothing happened when you sit back down at the table. Your brother has turned off his phone, and your grandfather keeps glancing at you. You stay silent until your parents leave.

"Don’t be mad at him,” your grandmother says when it’s time for you to head home.

You don’t promise you won’t be.

You do go home, but instead of your door, you stand in front of his. He’s probably still doing his live, but you knock on the door anyway.

When he opens, you can see the red in his eyes, probably from staring at the screen too long.

“What’s that?” You show him your phone.

“My… YouTube channel.”

He’s so unbothered, so unimpressed, it makes you want to cup his face with your hands and scream at him.

“I didn’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were doing this. You said you had a sports company.”

“I have a sports company. Why are you so upset?”

Kenma never asks questions, he usually just answers them and then listens to you talking, asking more questions. It leaves you confused.

“I know nothing about you.”

You feel your eyes getting wet and your throat tightens. Why are you so emotional when it comes to him? You hate how weak it makes you.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything. Everything, is the answer.

Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What makes you laugh (apart from seeing me lose at Mario Kart). What films do you like? When did you start being friends with Kuroo? What's your happiest memory? Your saddest one?

“What do you think about me?”

Among the infinite questions rushing through your mind, this is the one you chose. Perhaps it’s the one you’ve wanted to know the most, the one that’s been eating you alive for weeks.

“I-”  He begins but stops immediately.

“Of course,” you turn around. Two steps, is all it takes to reach your door, but Kenma stops you.

When you face him again, you feel your blood rushing through your whole body, warming you up.

He’s avoiding your gaze, but his hand clings to yours and his face his red, from his chin to his ears.

“You’re interesting and it’s nice to talk with you… Your food is good. You’re passionate about your work and it makes me want to be more invested in what I do. You’re funny when you’re upset and you’re a terrible, terrible player.”

His grip loosens a little, and he straightens up.

“I think you’re great, a good person. Someone I like spending time with, someone I think of when I go to bed, and someone I miss when I’m away. I didn’t tell you about my job. Maybe because I assumed everybody knew me, well, at least everyone who uses social media. Maybe also because… you’re way cooler than me, and what I’ve done with my life is nowhere near what you’ve accomplished.”

You’re shocked, to say the least. It’s the longest you’ve ever heard him talk—he who never uses extra words, who makes minimal effort in everything he does—just bared his soul to you. He must be exhausted at this point.

You gulp loudly, and the only thing your mind can picture is you kissing him. So you do. One step toward him, a hand against his cheek, and your lips on his.

You fear he might push you, run away, and slam the door in your face. But instead, he kisses you deeper and his hands find your hair and the back of your shoulders and your waist.

You don’t know how long it lasts—one minute, forever. Your brain doesn’t seem to work properly, only your heart responds, and it screams his name.

Kozume Kenma.

One of you breaks the contact only to rest your foreheads together.

It’s awkward, but it feels right.

Someone passes by, one of your neighbours, and you both step back.

They greet you with a wide smile, excusing themselves for interrupting.

You clear your throat, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He says, not meeting your eyes.

That night when you go to bed, even though the sheets are cold against your skin, you think the walls feel warm.

“And so, if you want to marry someone, you just need to be annoying and insult them for being an asshole.” Kuroo explains matter-of-factly to Bokuto.

“I never said Ken was an asshole.” You justify.

You hear Kenma sigh.

“Well… at least not directly to him. But I thought it really hard. Maybe I wrote it in the letters I left at his door-”

“Love… they got it I think.”

“Right, sorry…”

“Arrrrgh, I’m so jealous… I want to have a relationship like you guys.” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck and groans loudly.

“Bokuto-san, if you love someone just tell them.”

“But Akaaashi, I’m not a poet like you. I can’t just write love letters and stuff.”

“C’mon, bro,” Kuroo interrupts. “Isn’t it great to be single? You don’t have to worry about making the other mad or sad or-"

“Kuro says this because he doesn’t want to be the only single guy here.”

“Oi! Kenma, if I hadn’t helped you conquer their heart, you wouldn’t have been able to get someone like them.”

“You helped him?” You rest your chin in the palm of your hand and look at Kuroo.

“He never told you? The night when you were completely wasted, two years ago, I was the one who suggested he take care of you. And the day when-”

“Okay, time to go. Your grandparents are waiting for us.” Kenma gets up and you can see Kuroo smirk from the corner of your eyes.

You’re about to tell him to wait, you want to know more about his friend’s story. But Kenma takes your hand and leads you outside, not caring about Kuroo’s comments about him being a coward and Bokuto’s complaints about nobody caring about his love life problems.

Once you step outside, you call for him.

“Huh?” He speaks. He never says more than that.  

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your nose and whispers, “I love you too.”

a/n: the story comes from a dream i had, i woke up and knew i had to write it haha. hope you enjoyed it

elie

[pupkashi]

clean linen

satoru’s second favorite scent is your washing detergent

a/n: hi hi ! another piece of reader pampering gojo ?? who would’ve guessed :o can u tell the hidden inventory arc is making me wish i could jump thru the screen give him a big hug ,, anyway inspired from this prompt list, hope u guys enjoy :3

wordcount: 745

masterlist

satoru never has the time to do things for himself, always busy running around. he finds himself surviving off catnaps around campus, usually awoken by an angry yaga or an annoyed megumi. both of which ask him the same question, ‘aren’t you supposed to be teaching?’

it’s not until after the two of you start dating that he finds the joy in having a home. the feeling of peace after you finish sweeping and mopping, the fresh scent of the wall plug in filling his nose that makes him melt into the newly fluffed pillows on the couch.

he finds cleaning days with you cathartic, with each sweep he feels his problems also leaving alongside the dirt and debris. there’s a smile on his face as he unloads the dishwasher, a mix of the loud music on the speakers echoing in his ears alongside your singing. he feels like just satoru, and for a moment as you both sigh happily at the clean state of your home, he feels like it’s only you and him in the world.

so when he comes from a particularly exhausting mission, and hears your singing coming from inside, there’s a small smile on his face.

“honey I’m hooome!” he sing songs, grinning widely when your eyes land on him with sparkling eyes.

“toru!” you call out, wasting no time in wrapping your arms around him, kissing his face and then finally his lips, “how was the mission?” you ask, offering him some of the dinner you’d made a while ago.

“exhausting” he mumbles, flopping onto the couch as you heat up his food. he’s about to drift to sleep when he hears you saying his foods ready, getting up reluctantly before he scarfs his food down.

by the time he’s showered and changed into some shorts he’s ready to sleep, already slipping under the covers. you’re fixing a couple things around the bedroom, things you’d moved when you dusted earlier.

satoru’s nose is flooded by the scent of your laundry detergent, a scent he’s grown to love and feel comforted by.

“d’you just wash these sheets?” he mumbles, face half smushed into the pillow he was laying on. you nod with a smile, speaking up in case his eyes were closed, “i did.”

“they smell nice, and they’re still warm” you could hear the smile in his words, watching as he curled into himself, getting cozier by the second as he nuzzled into the pillow. “you comin’ to bed yet?” his tired words aren’t very loud, but you manage to hear him.

“gonna shower first,” satoru pouts at your response, telling you to hurry so he can finally hold his favorite person in the world.

in your defense you did try to hurry, managing to take the fastest shower in your life and tiptoe back into your bedroom. but satoru was already asleep when you returned.

his chest was falling and rising, the softest snores leaving his lips and hair already sticking every which way. he was hugging a stuffed animal close to his chest, one that he’d won you at an arcade almost a year back.

as quietly as you could, you slipped into bed next to your exhausted lover, gently whispering a ‘goodnight.’ you can’t help but stare at him, a smile on your face as you take in his features.

“you gonna keep staring at me or are you gonna kiss me?” he mumbles, one of his eyes opening slightly, a lopsided smile on his sleepy face.

“shut up and c’mere” you giggle, opening your arms. satoru is quick to ditch the plushy, already wrapping his arms around you, nuzzling his face into your neck and breathing in deeply.

“missed you,” his voice is soft and you find yourself melting at the two words. your hand is running through his hair and you kiss his forehead softly.

“missed you too, angel boy” you reply, voice just as filled with affection as his. "now go to sleep, you look exhausted" you smile, brushing his hair away from his face once more before you kiss his nose.

satoru tries to fight back, but all he can muster is a small "nu uh" before his eyelids are too heavy to keep open, and your touch is too relaxing to resist.

the comfort of your warmth and the smell of the freshly washed sheets is enough to make his heart tighten in the best way possible.

he feels at home.

taglist (send an ask to be added!) : @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @4sat0ruu @luna0713hunter @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags

[dollsahoy]

In case no-one told you since that post was made 9 years ago

in which I express a series of disagreements with a very old post that still circulates largely unchallenged

Bras last longer when they're air-dried, yes, and they last even longer when they're hand-washed. Chuck 'em into a sink of warm water and detergent, swish them around a little, then leave them for a few hours; drain the sink, refill a little, and swish the bras--repeat this a few times until the water is clear, then hang them to dry

If you have a 'problem' with frizzy hair, you may actually have curly or wavy hair. The internet is full of advice for how to treat it (be aware of the "no chemicals!!!!!" approaches and their overzealous adherents)

White laundry stays whiter when you wash only whites in a load, even with cold water

You can kill a lot of the bacteria in a kitchen sponge with microwaving or a dishwasher cycle, but there aren't that many dangerous pathogens in there to begin with. If the idea of dirty sponges still icks you out, consider using knit or crocheted dishcloth scrubbies, which you can wash in the regular laundry after every use

All the top search results I looked at that talk about he benefits of airing out your home seem to be websites that are directly trying to sell you windows/screens or HVAC service, and they don't include sources, often repeat the false idea that houseplants filter air, and don't at all mention the idea that airing out your house will keep insects from coming in. (This isn't saying not to air out your space--my window is open right now--just that it may not have the miraculous benefits promised. Open your window if you want to, but not doing so won't lead to infestation and doom.)

Hair does not need to be "sleek and beautiful" (see the second point above)

Dryer sheets, and fabric softener in general, only give the sensation of soft clothes because they coat the fibers with a substance, which eventually forms a build-up that can't be easily removed (both on the clothes and in the machines, and, no, vinegar is not a good substitute.) I'm actually not clear on how the act of removing lint from the lint trap takes so long that you need a dryer sheet hack to make it go faster, which was the advice given in the post...unless lint from fabric softened laundry is...stickier?...than otherwise? I haven't used fabric softener for a very long time, so I genuinely don't know. I can quickly roll the lint off of our dryer lint trap screen with my fingers.

Washing your face every day may not be the best approach for everyone, as skin varies wildly among people, especially when aging is considered. (Removing make up is important, though)

(not a rebuttal to the post, but the above applies to hair, too. Washing every day may not be optimum for everyone.)

Take your laundry out of the dryer when it's still warm whenever possible to avoid wrinkles, yes, but don't fold it when it's still warm or the folds will be set in as they cool. I drape/stack the clothes on the dryer door as I take them out, then lay them on top of the basket until I put them away, folding then as needed.

Again: there are always multiple approaches to a lot of everyday activities, and none of them are going to work for everyone, not even the things I presented here. If you've never thought of something before, the first way it's presented to you isn't necessarily the best way.

[tl-os]

I was in the living room reading “Bellefleur” (again), and when I looked up the light had changed. The room was now dark and spot-lit in curious places where lamps had never stood.

Something, someone, somewhere. Was it me?

I got up and walked into the hallway, and instead of my bedroom, I entered the large office where the landlord (he measured everything) kept all of his paperwork strewn around the room in messy piles. And then I walked into the hallway that communicates with the apartment next door. (I like them well enough, but living without a locked door—or any door at all— between us is unnerving. So far, there has never been an issue. Nobody has wandered into our apartment. I would never dare intrude on their privacy.) Any other night I might wind up in what I like to call The Yard Sale Room - full of tables displaying costume jewelry, trinkets, textiles, china and flatware, long rambling letters full of apologies for heinous acts committed lifetimes ago, funereal urns, musical instruments long silent, coffee cans full of buttons, two verdigris deer, champagne flutes, three perfect gold spheres, empty journals, tarnished swords, One Enamel Eye, tin ice cube trays, heaps of dried flowers, lots of small jars filled with a viscous dark liquid, a collection of ceramic redwoods and sycamores, wooden spoons, a diploma, empty decorative boxes, one large stone horse, a disintegrating shopping bag full of sponges, dishwashing liquid, a can of powder cleanser, laundry detergent, fabric softener, dryer sheets, window cleaner, steel wool pads, and scrub brushes (c. 1978?), two pallets of 5 & ½ inch white candles, an entire collection of hagiographies in fine-tooled leather binding, magnifying glasses and mirrors (all broken), one pair child’s (size 3) ballet shoes, never worn, four distinctly different samovars, a pair of arms, envelopes full of receipts, hotel keys, lazy susans holding little jars of bleached herbs and spices long inert, brown paper grocery bags overflowing with prescription pill bottles (not empty), maps, a tiny little spinning wheel constructed from unpainted wood, and shards of glass crusted with some dark, rusty substance.

But no clocks. Not a single clock to tick. Just silence. Alone in the room with the weight of it all.

[brehaaorgana]

The worst part about moving AND needing to replace a lot of things bc you no longer will have shared roommate items is like frantically mental list making about all the shit you probably need and trying to prioritize what is most immediate bc you can't buy it allll at once. Home good triage.

Also??? Wondering if you forgot something.

Chef's knife

Paring knife

Shower drain hair catcher

Wet/dry mop (like Swiffer wet jet or similar)

Shower curtain / liner

Shower curtain rings

Kitchen trashcan

Electric screwdriver/drill

Hammer

Cutting board

Paper towels

Dishwashing sponge

Stud finder

Sponges

Dishwashing soap

Plunger

Cholula

Basically all pantry staples

Ugggghhhh

Stuff I already have/had extras of, already bought Baruch hashem:

Coffee table

Dining room table and 2 chairs

Laundry detergent

Toilet brush

Cleaning spray

Cleaning wipes

Magic erasers

Measuring tape

All kinds of screws, wall anchors, hanging tools, etc

Dremel tool

Sanders

Cleaning and chemical grade gloves

More plates

Wok

2 frying pans

Glass containers for kitchen stuff

Trash bags

Toilet paper

First aid kit

Oscillating multi-tool

Assorted pots

Glass cleaner

Wood oil / soap

Hand soap

Toilet bowl cleaner

Pet stain cleaner

Handheld vaccuum

Iron

Towels (bathing / face)

Dishtowels

Probably more i just need to look again.

Tool box

colander

Jar opener thing

Dutch oven

Baking sheets

[imaginependergast]

Been thinking of domestic-ish Pendergast lately. Figured I’d entertain the thought. I think he cooks? If so, is it as intricate as, say, Hannibal’s? (Save for the cannibalism) What is his workout plan/routine?Is he more of a cat or dog person? His favorite movie/book?

Any other little things you can think of?

I, too, love the domestic Pendergast.

I think he primarily leaves the cooking to Mrs. Trask, at least when he's at the mansion. I'd say he can cook, but not to the extent that Diogenes can or to the extent Diogenes likes to. We know cooking is definitely a Diogenes thing from Obsidian Chamber. He can be a solid cook but much prefers eating to cooking. I think it's also worth considering if he does cook it's at least relatively higher end meals so his floor is higher than most people's ceiling.

He meditates for sure so I think that counts. I think he's focus primary on flexibility and cardio, so mainly something like yoga and running. I'm sure he goes to the shooting range to keep his gun skills good and probably does some light strength training, but less than Proctor who has to partially to fit the role of Pendergast's enforcer when need be. We know they were in some military service together so they probably have worked out together in the past but I doubt they'd do so as employer/employee.

Cats or dogs is a good question. I might be biased as a cat person but I'd say cat. I think as much as he would value the loyalty and utility of dogs, he also values the hunting instinct, independence, and curiosity of cats. Plus as much as many cats are incredibly affectionate (like mine!) I think he'd prefer to have a pet that's a bit lower maintenance. I like the idea of Pendergast reading at the fireplace, absinthe in hand, and a cat snuggling on the arm of his chair, in his lap, or across the room being able to be a comfortable companion in silence.

He slagged TV as being loud and vulgar like opera way back in Cabinet of Curiosities so I doubt he'd watch movies or TV, at least not on his own accord. I think most, if not all, of his pop culture knowledge, at least about media, comes from cultural osmosis or spending time with Vinnie, Corrie, or Coldmoon. As for books I honestly don't know where to start because fine literature isn't my forte. I'd assume it's something classic in nature, either literally from the ancient Greeks or Romans or something a bit more modern.

I make my husbando Pendergast watch the Law and Orders with me plus old episodes of The FBI Files.

Some others...hm.

I think he'd be one of those people that, since he has nearly all the banalities of daily life taken care for him, he sometimes has issues doing super basic things. Like he has no idea to check if dishes and cups are dishwasher safe or might do laundry without all the right things (detergent, dryer sheets, etc.) or be slightly confounded by different cable or streaming service packages, having no idea what, if any, is better regarding content.

I also think domestic!Pendergast would stay in bed a bit longer on weekends, or at least Sundays, if he had a partner. I could see breakfast in bed being something he would indulge in. Maybe not every weekend, but enough where it's not uncommon. If he and his partner are at the Dakota I think he'd be the one who puts the coffee/tea on in the morning.

[robustcornhusk]

30's meme: 4, 8, 19, 32?

4 - Favorite chore?

maybe running the vacuum, because it's a robot vacuum and i just have to clean off the floors to do it, and i love the results (less shit stuck to my feet)

i don't mind emptying the dishwasher, and my partner hates doing it; i do mind refilling the dishwasher, and my partner is very good at tetris

8 - What cleaning product do you swear by?

nonconsumable: robot vacuum. donut is my friend.

consumable: no particular preferences, but i generally prefer unscented detergents to scented. it's the only thing i've argued with my inlaws about. they think i'm bonkers for opening all the windows and doors when they're here; i think they're noseblind.

19 - What's your go-to tape?

different situations need different tape!!!

in our last 2 moves, we went through an absurd amount of duck ez-start tape (quieter than other packing tapes, and didn't fall off the boxes like the shitty brown tape the movers themselves used), and we still have a couple of rolls floating around that we use for packages.

delicate painter's tape is nice. i had temporary blinds in my bedroom for uhhhhhhh 9 months held up by it. it came off the wall and the paper blinds themselves (!) without damage, but never fell off on its own, either. it being purple was nice, too.

i used to use masking tape for labeling food containers, but now i use sheets of blank labels.

partner and their associates will sing the praises of gaff tape endlessly, so i don't need to do it, but i will say i find it very funny how possessive people are about it. i mean, the rolls are expensive, i get it, but it's still funny.

apparently the trick, when you need to write on gaff tape, is to apply it to a sheet of baking parchment paper, write, and then peel it back off. probably true of other tapes, too.

32 - How do you take your morning coffee/tea?

alternate answer: i don't like mixing coffee and food, so i make my coffee, eat breakfast, and then sit down to drink coffee while looking at The Online.

[tolerateit]

Adulthood is also enjoying sorting the knives in the dishwasher because the way they slide down in the basket feels like I'm a magician slicing her assistant on the stage but harming no one in the process

It's also figuring out the best products to get rid of different kind of stains and feeling like a wizard with a tolley full of stain-disappearing potions

It's getting to do all your laundry, then strip the bed and put on new sheets, fresh pjs, and snuggle in while everything smells nice because you also just had a shower. And YOU got to pick the laundry detergent and fabric softener that you wanna use and have your stuff smell the way you want it

(I really like cleaning but never had a real opportunity to do it growing up for weird reasons okay?)

It's getting to learn that it's not wise to live off of cake and chips for a week because your body will scream it needs better nutrients. But then you also find delicious things that are healthy

It's learning new fun recipes you get to share with someone you care about

And hosting dinners

And gaming with the sound on as loud as you want because you're not bothering anyone

I haven't gotten a pet yet (will do next year probably- a cat) but will update on that I'm sure it's gonna be just as good as everything else

ESPECIALLY hosting dinners and getting a pet, I hope you (and I) get to experience that quite frequently bestie!

[thegiantsquids]

feelkng wacky today… deep cleaned my dishwasher with vinegar and baking soda and scrubbed all the kitchen appliances and cleaned the washing machine with bleach and deep clean stripped my sheets and blankets with borax washing soda and detergent and did a regular load of laundry and cleaned out the fridge… still feel like i didn’t do enough but we’re getting there… maybe once i’ve finally cleaned the house every inch and tidied and organized everything just how it should be then i’ll be able to live my life to the fullest and enjoy my time on this earth…

[trckstergods]

a list of things I do to keep my home clean that my parents never taught me because they're neurotypical neat freaks

I keep the laundry basket just. out. its at the foot of my bed so all my dirty clothes get into it

same with the trash can. things have to be as easy as possible for me. I had to get rid of my bathroom trash that had a lid on it because I wouldn't take the step to open it

have two sets of sheets. when you go to wash one immediately replace with the second set. I promise this is the way.

I have an over the door shoe organizer for all the miscellaneous shit you need sometimes but not often. hammer and nails/screws, flashlight, extra charging cables, batteries, electrical tape, you know the stuff.

I fill up a liter bottle ever week and set it behind my cats primary drinking container. when I notice it's low I just refill it right there. easy peasy

I also use that low water cue to check her automatic food dispenser. every time. yes multiple times a week. otherwise I'll never check it and then suddenly it's out and I have to go to the store when I really don't have the time.

I focus on one room every week to keep clean. I know this isn't feasible for everyone for a variety of reasons but last week I cleaned the bathroom. this week I'm going to focus on the living room. next week I'll do my bedroom. this does not really include general daily tidying up it's just the actual cleaning with soap and water and a vacuum/dust

I have kitchen cleaning supplies in the kitchen and bathroom cleaning supplies in the bathroom under both sinks. tbh it's the same stuff except the bathroom has toilet cleaner and the kitchen has dishwasher detergent. if you have multiple bathrooms consider keeping cleaning supplies in all of them! maybe it seems like a waste or excessive but I think it will help you actually clean if you struggle to get started with the task

I really want to buy new fun skincare stuff all the time. to curb this I have a little tray on my dresser that everything needs to fit into. if it's full I can't buy anything new or I need to get rid of something. this really helps me keep the stuff I actually use and love vs the stuff that isn't working for me. the only exceptions from the tray are the large bottles of micellar water, sunscreen, and body lotion.

[atplblog]

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[mollydsails]

December 19 - The crew of Molly D is back home for the holidays. Molly D is still in Vero, and she has a trustworthy (ahem!) person watching over her while we are away. Thank you Dennis!

I really hate flying in the cattle cars that are called planes. Ugh!!! Our flight home originated in West Palm Beach (thank you to Susie Smith for volunteering to chauffeur us!). The flight to Philadelphia was uneventful, but the cabin was air conditioned to the max!! I assume that because the plane was a cattle car that it had to be kept refrigerated. 🥶 On our return flight I will make sure to wear my coat for the duration of the flight. Not going to suffer from being cold again!

After landing in PVD, David and I drove to Sarah and Chris’ home, which is about 10 minutes from the airport. We got to visit with them and the two dogs. Marco is doing well after having a leg amputated due to cancer. We pray that he continues to do well. After giving the dogs much love, we all went to Iron Works for a late lunch. Great food!

We arrived home to a cold house, as in 57 degrees cold. David did turn on the heat remotely, but not in time to be welcomed into a warm house. Lucky for us, we had plenty of warm clothes in our closets.

The worst part about coming home was finding mouse poop and pee in many places. Gross!! I first noticed evidence of mice in a kitchen drawer that held pot holders. I opened the drawer and immediately noticed chewed acorns and mouse droppings on a pot holder. Great! Further inspection found droppings in the silverware drawer, the utensil drawer, the cabinet underneath the silverware drawer, on top of my flour container, on paper towels on the turntable cabinet, and on the cabinet floor between the turntable and the recycling bin drawer. All washable items were washed and sanitized in a sink of hot water and dishwasher detergent. Paper goods were thrown out. Potholders went into the washer. Cabinets and drawers were cleaned with a bleach cleaner. A ton of work that took up nearly most of my time on Monday.

Darn mice!!

The worst, however, was finding acorn remnants and droppings on our sheets and David’s pillow case. Ewwwwww! I also found mouse droppings on a bedroom window sill. Oh and there were acorn remnants and mouse droppings under the hood of my car. We did not find any chewed wires. Whew!

Lesson learned. We thought we had plugged up all possible entry points into the house. Evidently we did not. We have placed mouse traps and mouse bait stations in several locations in the house and in the basement. When we head back to Molly D next month, I am placing all kitchen drawer and lower cabinet items in sealed bins. I do NOT want to wash everything in the spring!!

On a brighter note, we got our first real Christmas tree since 2017. It is small but it does make the house smell nice.

David and I did the fall cleanup of hosta beds yesterday. I also trimmed the hydrangeas in the front of the house. Our efforts resulted in 6 bags of plant matter and two barrels of sticks/dead branches and hosta “reeds”. A pain in the neck day, but the job is done and the yard looks much better.

In the next day or so David and I will visit the Stonington Lobster Trap tree. Stay tuned for some beautiful photos!