#dressing well and secondhand stores

[thatcurlychic]

The benefits of dressing well

The benefits of dressing well

Why Dressing Well is Important Dressing well has many benefits that go beyond looking good. It can boost your confidence, help you land a job, and make you feel more powerful. First Impressions Matter When you dress well, people take notice. It’s human nature to judge others based on their appearance, and first impressions are important in personal and professional settings. While you can’t…

[sanstropfremir]

✨🎥! Forgot to say, I have a wedding in April but no dress/suit/clothes. I’m desperately looking but every single day I’m more disappointed in the quality of the fashion industry. Even the most basic thing is shit quality and cost 5 times what it should. So yeah, if anyone has recommendations on clothes (not necessarily for weddings or events, but in general) that are good quality, let me know

i know how you feel, affordable decent clothing is fucking impossible right now. honestly my best advice is thrifting/secondhand. idk what the situation for that is like in spain so maybe it's not possible, but it's always worth a shot, especially if you've already been looking for a while. it does obvs take more time than shopping new bc you have to sift through racks, but you're more likely to get a good find of better quality for a more reasonable price. my general thrifting advice (honestly this applies to any clothes shopping also) is first look for the colour and shape that you like, and then look at the material content. this is very important. do not look at brand that means nothing. always always always check the material content on the tags. ideally you want to be looking for garments that have 100% natural fibres; wool, cotton, silk, linen, rayon/viscose (yes it is natural despite the name). if you can't find 100% than something with an 80/20 ratio or more (to the natural side) can also be a safer bet, but my rule of thumb is the more polyester is in a garment, the worse it is in every way.

my general advice for wedding attire is unless you need black tie, don't worry about trying to find a full suit or a really fancy dress you're only gonna wear once. get a good pair of dark formal trousers (black/grey/navy), wear a dress shirt or a formal blouse, and throw on a nice tailored jacket that's in the same colour family. is it technically only semi-formal? yes, but who does true formal weddings and actually cares about sartorial rules. in this economy? psh. some visual aids:

it's a great combo for any 'events you have to look nice at' because you only have to buy individual pieces, you don't have to buy them all at the same time, and they can be reused for other events. just find out what the colour theme of the event is and get yourself a shirt or tie/pocket square/scarf/other accessory in that colour and you're good to go. also do not forget a good pair of shoes. this is also very important; always have a good pair of shoes.

hopefully this helps! i'm sorry i don't have better recommendations on where to actually go to buy stuff/what to buy, but i haven't shopped new in......quite a long time. but at least having some tips to go by should help. and tbh sometimes you do gotta cough up the money.....BUT only ever cough up the money for something that is 100% natural fibre and is a piece that will get use outside of a single event. otherwise you just gotta be patient and keep looking; if you are patient things have a way of coming to you.

[brehaaorgana]

I'm never going to stop thinking about how people order shit from shein and temu not even knowing whether or not it's made by slave labor and imprisoned uyghurs. It does get talked about but...so often people still couch criticisms with excuses for people who "can't afford" anything else.

This is such a a weak weak caveat. The majority of people who shop temu or shein can afford somewhere else to dress themselves. Their target demographic is not "people who can only afford a $3 shirt." They have no interest in marketing to poor people, especially because they're already actively losing money.

Secondly, thrift and second hand stores exist, as well as buy nothing groups and swaps. Clothing closets also exist. There is an overabundance of clothing globally — there's no actual shortage of wearable clothes, and secondhand shops have more clothing than they can ever sell and that stuff gets thrown away. Fashion & clothing waste is massive. Shein and Temu do not fulfill roles in society for people in poverty that simply don't exist anywhere else.

They don't aim to do that, they don't intend to do that, and they're certainly not the only places who can provide that.

[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 !

[nyc-looks]

Emily, 26

“I’m wearing a 60s slip and sweater, both secondhand from my hometown Fresno, CA. The slip is from a very special vintage store called Yoshi NOW!. The purse is old Sears... not sure how old. When I dress up, I like to think about well-loved dolls or what I would look like if I were a disheveled woman in the 40s/50s/60s. I always have stains and rips in my clothes so I try to go with it.“

May 5, 2023 ∙ Lower East Side

[pedgito]

Request idea for Eddie and reader where one day she gets him a few new things like band tees a new pair of jeans a pair of sweat pants and maybe a pack of socks, and Eddie is so confused like why did you do this? I can’t really give you anything in return and she’s just like I was just thinking of you, I love you. And he’s never really had a thoughtful gesture like that.

author’s note: crying at the thought of this, i hope this does your request justice, i was too invested in the storyline of this lol.

cw: 18+ (to be safe) mentions of sex/roleplaying, sad eddie headcanons, reader being the best partner, eddie doesn’t know how to accept gifts, established relationship, if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 1.7k

Eddie wasn’t used to new things. Everything he owned was either hand-me downs or well-loved from a secondhand store—or stolen, because yeah, he’d never had the easiest life. He lived in a mess, compiling almost too much stuff at a certain point, too afraid to part with anything because every piece had some type of meaning to him and he was scared to lose things. Everything always left him, people included, and it was a constant fear that he lived with.

When he meets you, he latches on immediately. But, you start to recognize the patterns early, his obsessive nature with collecting and always taking what was offered to him without question, even if he didn’t really need it, even if didn’t really want it. Eddie had always been raised to appreciate everything, even the most mundane.

Wayne bought him his first guitar, used and always slightly out tune, but it was his first love. So, when he wanted more and couldn’t scrounge up the money, he improvised. He’s never been proud of his habits, even if he didn’t steal anymore—it was a reminder of where he came from, the obvious missing piece in his life that reminded him how unwanted he was. His father left him alone, his mother having been taken much too soon. Wayne was there to mend the broken state of that boy, but he was never well and truly fixed.

His jacket is the one thing he has that’s semi-new. He’d collected the pieces over time, a true creation of his own. There wasn’t a single thing like it in the world, that’s why it was considered new—even if it was falling apart at the seams and constantly having to be sewn back up.

He hates when you clean up his room, afraid he might lose something important—but the whole idea was that you wanted to make sure everything was organized, to relieve the panic he always felt when he couldn’t find something.

When he finally relents, it’s a mountain of discoveries that lead you to the final decision. Eddie needed something new, something untouched and untainted, all his own.

Holes in his socks, his boxers—rips in old shirts that clearly didn’t fit him anymore, jeans marked up in sharpie and shoes that were barely hanging on, worn down to the sole. Despite the obsessive amount of graphic shirts he owned, he always cycled through the same eight or nine, one for each of his favorite bands and a couple Hellfire shirts. His jeans were all black, accompanied with the same rips, though in unique places for each pair. He didn’t own a suit, nothing of the sort—not even a fancy jacket or nice dress shirt.

He always complained about wanting to dress up for you but feeling like it wasn’t worth it, knowing he’d ultimately look like a fool. It wasn’t true, Eddie just didn’t have the money to manage treating himself to something nice. Wayne worked long hours but the pay was horrible, only managing enough to pay bills and put food on the table—and Eddie’s dealing business wasn’t exactly booming, especially when half of his profits went back to Rick.

Luckily you were slightly better off, having never fallen on hardships as hard as Eddie. You didn’t have to work, didn’t have to worry, and Eddie envied you greatly. But, he always noted how you were different from the others at school—the ones who had money, showed it off. You were humble, you kept to yourself, and you never tried to shove it in Eddie’s face.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that you wanted so desperately to treat Eddie, even if he ended up hating you for it. Because if there was anyone he’d refuse to receive gifts from, it was you.

Unfortunately, you weren’t putting up with it this time.

Eddie comes home late on a Friday night, fresh off the adrenaline of his performance at The Hideout, practically bouncing with the lingering energy. He pounces onto you immediately, hands slipping up under your thighs to lift you up, a surprised squeal leaving your mouth.

“Eddie, put me down,” You beg through a weak laugh, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, feet hitting the floor soon after, “thank you.”

He smiles slightly, eyes darkening with excitement—you knew what he wanted, what he needed, but you needed to get out your surprise first and let him decide then. He doesn’t even notice how spotless the trailer is until he’s peeking into the fridge, the normal, mucky smell now gone.

“Don’t tell me Wayne started sleeping with that one lady again,” Eddie says offhandedly, because you knew just as much about that situation as he did, having lived through the chaos, “last thing we need is her stealing from my stash again, even if she does clean the place spotless.”

“Wayne would never,” You assure him, “not after that shit we gave him for it.”

Wayne was lonely—but it wasn’t lost on him that he had Eddie, and you by association. He’d retired from the dating life soon after a few bad run-ins, settling for nights in with both of you and home-cooked meals when Eddie was busy with his own stuff and you couldn’t keep your hands and feet out of the kitchen.

“It was me,” You shrug, “I got bored and this place reeked.”

“Yeah—and now it smells like a fuckin’ lemon cake.” Eddie grimaces slightly, nose scrunching up in minor disgust.

Your eyes narrow a little, threateningly as you approach him.

“I mean, not that I don’t appreciate it.” Eddie recovers, “fuckin’ love lemons, you know?”

“Uh huh,” You answer mockingly, draping your arms over his neck and forcing him to look at you, eyes gliding over your expression curiously, “—I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Eddie perks up at that, “Please tell me it involves sex.”

His fingers are crossed from where they rest at your waist, wishing and hoping.

“Not quite,” You tell him with a short laugh, “it’s not off the table, though.”

And Eddie doesn’t have any idea what it could be if not that, letting you drag him by his hand to his room, forcing his eyes closed as you cross the threshold.

You reach for the stack of clothes and new pair of shoes and place them into his waiting hands, his face turning up in confusion as he feels it out with his thumbs.

“Role playing, babe—“ Eddie smiles widely, “you really shouldn’t have.”

“No, it’s—“

But, Eddie continues on.

“I know I mentioned something about an elf princess and a knight but we need to, like, plan that out—I had a script planned and everything—“

“Eddie, it’s not clothes for role playing.” You tell him monotone, patting his cheek lightly until his eyes flutter open, glancing down at the clothes briefly before it clicks with him, eyes turning up to you wide and bereft.

“Hey, no—“ Eddie says immediately, voice soft, “I told you no gifts, I don't need them.”

“Shut it, Munson.” You warn lovingly, pushing the clothes back toward his chest that he extends to you, “You don’t get to treat me to things without at least getting something in return.”

“Eating in the parking lot of Benny’s is pretty lame, you know.”

You smile fondly, thinking of all the small, practical dinners you’d have after a long day at school—finding it best to unwind over a burger, feet propped up over Eddie’s lap, the wrapper of his burger resting over the top of your shins and sometimes he’d drop a topping on purpose just to find a reason to touch you. It never failed to make you laugh, watching his tongue swipe against your skin to wipe it clean.

“It’s not,” You tell him honestly, “it’s what I love about you.”

Eddie huffs slightly at that, looking down at the clothes with a tinge of sadness.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Eddie insists, “I have plenty of clothes.”

“But nothing new,” You point out, “fresh off the rack, tags attached—I even got you a new pair of Reebok’s.”

Eddie can’t deny how crisp they look, so drastically different from the shoes on his own feet—a half size to small now and ripping at the seams.

“They are nice,” He smirks slightly, “I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say thank you,” You tell him, “I know it’s implied.”

Eddie drops the clothes abruptly on the bed, opting to grab your face with his hands, touching as gently as ever.

“I love you.” The words hit just as strong each time, his eyes watering slightly but not quite reaching the point of tears.

“I know,” You smile, bottom lip pulled between your teeth briefly, “they can be your dress up clothes, yeah?”

Eddie snorts, pressing his mouth against your forehead—not kissing, only touching, pulling you into a warm hug.

“It’s just some socks and underwear—a couple shirts and a pair of jeans, too. I can’t stand the holes, Eddie. I can’t.” Eddie nods knowingly, though the laugh he gives you is full of amusement at your obvious annoyance with the matter.

“I hope you weren’t trying to turn this into an opportunity for really sappy sex,” Eddie says, arms squeezing around your waist to lift you again, “I can’t do slow tonight, sweetheart.”

You nod slowly, “I hate slow,” You didn’t—it was actually nice, the tenderness Eddie showed when he took his time; soft touches, longing looks that made your face heat in embarrassment, knowing how badly he affected you, but the dirty sex was just as good, if not better, “you know that.”

Eddie kisses you quickly, fully, his hands squeezing at your thighs as he bounces you slightly, adjusting his hold on you.

“I meant what I said about the roleplay, by the way.” Eddie interjects, “I’ve got this vision and—“

If you didn’t stop him now, it would never end—so you kiss him quick, deeply, tongue dipping into his mouth and igniting a fire in the low pit of your belly that has Eddie moaning into your mouth.

“Shutting up, got it.” Eddie nods, finally taking the hint.

He doesn’t complain when you buy him new clothes anymore, accepting them with a soft smile and shy acknowledgement of appreciation—because he deserves it and he deserves you.

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

[syntheticavenger]

Hi Synth,

What drew Lloyd to the reader in Thanks for the Invite universe?

Was it because his ex-wife hid her (the reader) and this sparked a curiosity in Lloyd?

Was it because he already knew about the reader before he got married for the first time?

Was it an ego boost for Lloyd proving himself and others that he can do whatever he want, consequences be damned?

Did the reader's shy and timid nature play a part? Does Lloyd strictly feel an ownership over her or is he fascinated by her?

Sorry for the barrage of questions.

I'll answer it this way.

Cordially Invited

Lloyd Hansen x Female Reader

Word Count: 780

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, language, mentions of divorce, stalking, cheating (not on the Reader).

Summary | You've always had a standing invitation.

He loathes her friends.

Friends is a word Lloyd uses loosely, seeing them flock to Alexis like birds, their voices that raise an octave to ensure they make her feel like she is gracing them with her divine presence. A quick headcount tells him that one of her usual devotees is missing.

It isn’t a coincidence. Anytime there is an event at the house or wherever he is, there is always one missing.

Not that he doesn’t know your name of course. He’s intercepted the birthday gifts at the door, your name carefully signed with a heartfelt message. None of her other cronies have the thoughtfulness to give her a gift, to show their actions are as legitimate as the price tags they hide under their designer dresses they return after Alexis’ events.

She doesn’t deserve your sweetness, your compassion and your money. You, who nearly maxes out her credit card to fit in with the same women who make even less than you do. 

Curiosity of why Alexis would hide you got the better of him, a little research sending him right to your places of employment, juggling two jobs to stay afloat. You aren’t flashy, most of your clothes from secondhand stores and low budget retailers.  It’s refreshing to see you focus on your work instead of a luxury handbag, like Alexis, who has so many that she has her own space in their massive walk-in closet. 

It's easy to walk into your place of employment, ask some questions about you under the guise of giving you a compliment. It materializes on your HR file, under a name that isn’t his own, your co-workers more than happy to divulge little intimate details about you, like how you never forget a birthday, your favorite color is black because it pairs well with so many things and that you have a penchant for classical music. Little things he stores away in his brain for later, especially as Alexis begins to craft her annual party.

Her purposeful oversight is why Lloyd had mailed you an invitation to their wedding himself. There was no secret that she harbored some sort of jealousy over you, the way she would say your name with resentment, opting to change the subject when one of her friends would bring you up. You don’t come from money, therefore you know the value of a dollar and what it means to have a little extra left over at the end of the month.

Gratitude is what he likes about you most of all.

Not to mention how good you had smelled when you walked right past him in the bookstore, unaware that he had been watching you. When he had said his vows, he thought of you, how you’d look in your own wedding dress. In his mind, you wouldn’t have a beach wedding. Something much more formal, something traditional that complimented his own sensibilities.

In his thoughts, you would be married to him.

-

Alexis’ mascara is ruined, her dramatic sniffling making him slam his hand on the table.

“Can someone please shut her up?” he asks to the group of lawyers, one of which whisks her away despite her shouts of anger. “For fuck’s sake.”

Pictures of her affairs still litter the table, Alexis in the throes of an orgasm from the twenty-two year old swim instructor, another with the personal chef.

He doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t care because he didn’t love her and marriage, especially to him, was something that was fleeting. People have second, third – sixth – marriages. What is one to a woman who hid a diamond from him so she could continue her façade?

One that get nothing from him, the embarrassment of knowing she had been unfaithful first, the pictures sent to her so-called friends that also hid the sordid details from him.

Like he didn’t already know, like he didn’t purposefully leave the house and bribe them to see if she would cave to their advances.

There was always going to be an exit strategy. 

It just so happened to be between Alexis’ thighs.

Not that it would matter. There was a light at the end of this waste of time of a marriage, one that he saw in the flesh when you’d come into the house in that dress that you would soon be out of within hours.

He’d already picked out the ring you’d liked that you would stare at when you’d walk past the jewelry store.

He always gets the best of the best.

In time, you’ll understand why you didn’t have a choice.

After all, you’ve been cordially invited to be his for the rest of your life.

[todorokies]

megumi reminds me so much of autumn . . . the leaves turning frail and crunchy, the outdoor air carrying a cold breeze that shakes wind chimes, the days fall short whereas the nights stills longer, warm maroon coloured sweaters, vanilla and apple scents follows in bakeries and candle shops . . .

this time of year cast a lovely veil over megumi’s life which temporarily reliefs him of his duties as a sorcerer. he chooses his spare time wisely and doesn’t take it for granted, since you occupy most of his thoughts its only warranted he spends his lazy saturdays with you by his side.

the first saturday of october, you both visit a secondhand book store after grabbing tea at a cozy cafe. megumi buys a agatha christie novel, the murder at the vicarage, you on the other hand buy a r.l stine goosebumps book. he sighs with a soft smile of his face, “typical…” he mutters to himself.

the second saturday of october, you, yuji, and nobara somehow grouped megumi into playing with an ouija board. after countless attempts of asking questions to the actual thin air, the planchette moves to the ‘yes’ side of the board after you and nobara jokingly asked: ‘does someone haunt the dorm room in the male east wing?’ the room was soon filled with screams of terror . . . needless to say you spent the night in your boyfriend’s dorm cuddled up in his arms.

the third saturday of october consists of going into tokyo for a street festival. traditional snacks, candy apples, cinnamon rolls and the smell of caramel wafts throughout the street. going hand in hand manoeuvring through the large crowd while looking at the cool vendors and displays and occasionally saying, “look 'gumi let's check this one out!”

with the fourth and final saturday of october, you currently reside in the commoner kitchen sitting on top of the counter watching megumi use halloween-themed cookie cutters on pre-made dough. the plan for tonight was to stay in and watch hocus pocus, after some time you break the comfortable silence, "so... since when do you like halloween?" a small smirk plays on his lips "who said i didn't?"

“you don’t seem like the type, you know?” you take a neatly rolled up piece of cookie dough off the baking sheet to prop it in your mouth, “if i didn’t know you well enough i’d probably think your favourite holiday was something boring like new year’s.” he snickers at your claim but covers it up with a fake dry cough not wanting to give you that full satisfaction.

he ends up choosing to ignore your comment, “there’s a lot of things to do around the fall time that entertains me. that’s all.” you teasingly wiggle your eyebrows clearly fascinated by this new discovery. “did you ever dress up for halloween?”

“gojo used to dress me and tsumiki up all the time when we were little. one year we went as oompa loompas and he dressed as willy wonka.” his eyebrow slightly twitches in annoyance by the faint memory.

you hold in your laughter mainly to protect megumi’s ego and make a mental note to ask gojo for proof with pictures later. “i’m glad you wanna spend this month with me it seems like it means a lot to you.” you blurt out suddenly while fondly smiling at him as you softly trace over his chuckles with your finger.

his breath gets stuck in his throat and he can practically feel the blush climbing from his neck up to his face. you always seem to do this to him; make him awestruck and flustered like an idiot with a freshly new crush. but in hindsight, he doesn’t think the puppy love phase will ever end, at least not for him, you still make his stomach flip and tumble after many months together.

contrary to popular belief, megumi believes that the month of love doesn’t take place in february, but in the month of october. where the orange, yellow, and red is a far more appealing set of colours than pink and white.

reblogs & feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3 a/n: in honor of it being september

[homosexualmorelikehomiesexual]

gansey in my mind looks like a teenage mulder from xfiles if he was perpetually dressed up as the had to do it to em dude. fuck your dark academia bullshit, myp guy wears neon polo shirts and boat shoes. he looks like shit and thats the best part. so does blue for that matter she would NOT touch your aesthetic little shein tiktok alt outfits with a 12foot pole. she canonically wore a lime green tshirt dress covered in black lace she haphazardly sewed on at the last moment for a funeral because she does not own black clothing. stop putting her in fucking overalls and cute little crop tops she should look like a micheals craft store scrap pile if it could threaten to shank you with a pink pocketknife. and adam is a fucking redneck who wears secondhand clothes in virginia and cuts his own hair, you think hes not walking around in john deer hunting camo and a haircut thats one step away from a mullet??? fuck offffff. also since he canonically has hair the color of dust and dirt well Virginia soil is ORANGE bc of the high iron content. my boy is a ginger, at the very least strawberry blonde. suck my cock about it. fanart of ronan is usually fine i guess just stop anime twinkifiying noah he is not your socially acceptable draco malfoy fanart replacement hes a skater kid with perpetually dated fashion, he should look like a genderbent avril lavigne. you people are all cowards

[weixuldo]

Enigma// ch 27

anakin x reader

A/N: Heyyyy- this one is pretttty long lol (a range of emotions for your reading pleasure) Hopefully u guys enjoy!! Also I am not an ordained minister and have never been to a courthouse wedding- so just keep that in mind if I totally butchered the process lollll!! as always, thanks for reading :)

NSFW

Courthouse weddings were not on your bucket list this year, but if its with Ani- you'll be alright.

warnings: cursing, mentions of pregnancy, afab! reader, marriage?, ani is a disabled veteran, topics of death, Vaginal sex, oral (f!recieving), cumplay (kind of?), liver failure?, depictions of pain

____________________________

You lightly squeezed Anakin’s upper arm with excitement as the officiant entered the small room. He was an older man, but he wasn’t the stereotypical short, bumbling bureaucrat; instead he was rather tall, in shape, and filled out his pressed suit nicely. He seemed to have himself all together.

He eyed the two of you suspiciously (he probably thought the two of you were a joke). After all, the two of you were nowhere near as dressy as him.

You wore a simple white dress you found at a thrift store you frequented. It has a lacy trim and a beautiful silk trail; honestly it was crazy that you found this in a size that would fit your pregnant belly in such a pinch. 

Anakin told you he would have bought you a new dress from a boutique if you wanted, but you respectfully declined; you really liked the appeal of a secondhand dress- nothing wrong with clothing that told a story and now you got to add some new memories to the dress. 

Anakin wore the only suit he owned, a plain dark blue coat and trousers with a white button up. Though, it was definitely too big for him now since he had lost so much weight. He never bought a new one because he always hated wearing suits (too many ceremonies in his full dress for the army), plus most suits made it hard for him to maneuver his limbs due to the cut and the tightness. 

Whenever you were a little girl, you never expected the wedding of your dreams would be in a courthouse- but being here with Anakin was all your heart could ask for. 

The officiator walked around to the bench and set his leather briefcase down lightly, before taking a few papers out. Anakin placed a stiff hand on your forearm and gave you a small smile. 

“How are you doing, beautiful?” he whispered, his words tickling your ear. 

WIth a shy giggle, you responded “I can’t wait to be your wife, Ani”. 

“Alright- do we have everyone who should be present in attendance?” the tall man in front of you asked. 

You turned behind you to check if Ben, Satine, and Ahsoka were still back there (where else would they have gone?). Once you gave them a quick smile, you turned back to the man and nodded. 

“Perfect. My name is Mace Windu, and I will be officiating this marriage- I am to inform you that I am an ordained minister by law and every document you sign here will be officially binding. If you have any objections before we proceed, speak now or forever hold your peace. Shall we begin?” the man spoke before taking a moment to scan the room. 

“No objections? Very well. We will begin the ceremony.”

Mace spoke so formally and so precisely that it felt more like you were being read your rights rather than being wed- but either way, you couldn't be happier. 

Sadly your city’s courthouse didn’t allow for personalized vows (you had no idea why), so the ceremony was rather short. Once Windu had gone through the formalities and such it was your turn to answer. 

“Anakin Skywalker, do you take this woman to be your lawfully-wedded wife”.

Anakin turned towards you and held his gloved hands out for you to hold. A soft, yet all consuming look of adoration consumed his features as he gazed upon your beauty. You were the most radiant woman he had ever set his sights on- how were you about to be his wife? 

Anakin’s “I do” came out more as a heartfelt sigh than a statement, but that made it even more special. 

His smile lines were evident around on his face as his blue eyes admired you; he was a little self conscious about the “wrinkles” but you always reminded him they told so much more than age- they told the story of his life; his joy, his despair, his pain, his laughter- they made him who he was. 

“And do you, f/n l/n, take this man to be your lawfully-wedded husband?” Mace asked with a small smile. 

“I do” you delivered with your whole heart. 

“With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride” 

Without hesitation, Anakin slipped his hand against your cheek and brought your lips to his. Never had a kiss been so dizzying- passion, lust, love, excitement, longing, and sadness all combined into one.

You reveled in the feeling of your plush lips against his. 

You nearly forgot you were in public when your friends started to clap and make their way towards the front of the room. Mace set out the official document and handed you an expensive fountain pen for you to sign with. 

You forgot all thoughts of his judgment once he handed you the pen with a smile, “congratulations, Mrs. Skywalker”.

You felt the butterflies in your stomach- Mrs. Skywalker…. Wow. 

Anakin wrapped a loving arm around your back and pressed another kiss to your temple. 

“I love you so much sweetheart, more than anything” 

“You are my everything, Ani” you responded with another kiss. 

___________________________________

“Are you sure you want to do this, princess?” Anakin asked shakily as you led him to your shared bedroom. 

“I’m completely sure, Ani” 

Ever since that first kiss as a married couple, you and Anakin had both been pining after each other the whole day; of course you had each other now, but you wanted that intimacy that was expected on a wedding night. 

You didn’t ache for him purely from lust, rather it was an all consuming desire to be one with your lover, you wanted to be able to physically channel the love you so desperately felt. 

“Please, Ani… I want you inside of me- I want you” 

Your sweet and sensual tone made him shiver; how could he deny his beautiful little wife? Anakin bit his bottom lip hesitantly and nodded as he began to remove his slacks. 

You relaxed back onto the mattress and released a sigh, “thank you my love”.

His sandy locks fell in front of his eyes as he gazed back at you, “Anything for you”.

Once he removed his pants, you helped him with his shirt; he laid on his stomach and placed his face between your plush thighs. 

You were dizzy with anticipation as his bright blue eyes gazed upon your aching core- the two of you hadn’t been intimate in this way since the baby and all that time was taking a toll on you.

Obviously the two of you agreed to be gentle for the sake of the baby, but deep down all you wanted was for your newly-wed husband to fuck you untill you couldn’t speak right. 

His stiff, cold hands held your in-place by your hips and he pushed his face right into you. Anakin’s skillful tongue swirled around your sensitive bud as he made his way up and down your delicate folds. 

Unintentionally, you arched your back which caused your pelvic bone to bump his nose into your clit; an odd sensation that made you jolt. The strong cartilage pressed nicely against your swollen clit. Maker, was there any part of this man that you didn’t love?

“O-oh Ani” you moaned.

He started slowly but as your breathing began to quicken, so did his motions. He wasn’t really able to maneuver his mechanical digits in the way he would have liked to, so his mouth was very skilled. 

He lapped up your sweet juices as he rutted his painfully hard erection into the plush mattress. He could get off by your reactions to his tongue alone. You were gorgeous.

He eyed your round stomach and for some reason that only charged his lust. You were carrying his child- his. 

Anakin never really saw the appeal of children when he was younger (probably also because they were such a big factor for him and Padme), but now- now he saw the appeal. He saw all of it. 

Though the child was an accident, it was born from the love and passion you and Anakin had for each other, this child would be there to love you when he’d be gone- this child you carried held his future.

His head spun with all consuming love for you- his wife. 

Maker, he never thought he would get another chance at love after his accident all those years ago… 

“A-Ani! I’m close” you whimpered, as your thighs trembled on either side of his face. 

Your shaky voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he paused to kiss your sensitive bud before he helped you reach your anticipated release. 

“Let go for me baby” he instructed softly.

And you did just that; stars flooded your vision and your brain went fuzzy. You couldn’t remember the last time you came (probably before the baby).

You allowed yourself a moment to gather yourself; Your chest heaved as you sat upright to draw him into a sloppy kiss. His sandy locks were all disheveled and his cheeks were rosy- he was perfect. 

“Ani- that was… amazing” you huffed, still riding out your high. 

His lips quirked upwards and he placed a hand on your cheek, “Anything for you, my love”. 

He never hesitated to make you blush. You looked down to see his large bulge straining against his boxers. 

“Oh, Anakin…” you cooed as you ghosted your fingers across his rock hard shaft.

He shut his eyes and quivered at your touch. You leaned forward and pulled back the elastic waistband to get a peek at his blushing member.

His velvety tip was bright red and weeping with precum; you gave it a soft kiss and collected a bead of his salty cum.

“F-fuck” he shuddered. 

You began to tug his boxers off; as you did you kissed down his hip bone, v-line, and pelvis. You pulled the thin fabric over the threshold of his human and prosthetic legs until they were finally off. 

His heavy dick slapped against his lower stomach; his one vein prominently pulsing on display for your pleasure. You gently dragged your fingers along the ridged scars that peppered his cock (they added a different level of sensation when they brushed against your walls).

You were about to take him into your mouth when he stopped you. 

“Wait- I want to be in you” he said breathlessly. 

You knew what he meant, but you felt like teasing him- “Well, technically you would be” you smirked. 

He exhaled and playfully shook his head, “I didn’t know I married a comedian”. 

You giggled and sat back up, “alright Ani, where do you want me?”.

The routine question was not because he liked to order you around the bedroom (well, sometimes he did), it was more of a courtesy question you habitually asked. Anakin was limited in the amount of positions he could pull off and some days certain ones were easier than others. 

“Lie on your back” he said and you complied. 

He grabbed a few pillows and stacked them under the small of your back so that you were more arched (a personal favorite of yours). He kneeled his prosthetics on the bed right against the backs of your thighs. 

Anakin felt light headed with lust as he caressed your breasts and then down your swollen belly. His weeping cock was pulsing in anticipation as it stood proudly, eager to enter your plush pussy. 

“Alright sweetheart” he breathed before slowly pushing himself into your. 

You gasped as his bulbous head made its way into your cunt.

“Are you alright?” he asked quickly (and worriedly). 

You nodded and asked him to continue. 

Slowly, inch-by-inch, he made his way into you. You gripped the bedsheets and tossed your head back in pleasure. 

Anakin was already feeling indescribably good, but when he finally bottomed out, he couldn’t suppress the guttural moan that escaped him. 

“Feel good?” you asked him with a lazy smile. 

He nodded vigorously “f-feels so good baby- s-so good” he babbled as he gently rutted his hips into you. 

You patted his thigh to get his attention, “You can move more Ani- you won’t hurt the baby” you coached. 

He clenched his jaw and nodded once more before he slowly dragged his length across your plush walls. The slow cadence of his hips made you shudder- the contrast from his fast and precise tongue to the slow but filling feeling of his cock only added to your overstimulation. 

“Fuck…. you look so beautiful baby- my beautiful- ahh- m-my beautiful wife” he said. 

“All yours Ani” 

He groaned at your sentiment and began to quicken his pace- you felt so damn good; he was already feeling his release coming?

He watched your swollen breasts bounce as he thrusted in and out of you- he couldn’t take it anymore. Anakin shut his eyes and tossed his head back, 

“I’m so- I’m so close baby” he almost cried (he too, had not cum in a while). 

He snapped his hips into yours, making you yelp in pleasure, “F-fuck, ‘m sorry princess” he apologized before he moaned once more. 

“I’m gonna cum! I’m- I- ‘m cumming. I’m cumming!” he stuttered as his body shook violently with the orgasm that ripped through him. 

You gasped at the warm thrust of cum that shot into your already sensitive pussy. His thick ropes painted your insides as he continued to empty himself into you. 

Both of you panted heavily and he began to unsheathe himself from your pussy. His dick was coated in a marvelous mixture of both of your highs… a heavenly sight. 

You sat up and helped rest Anakin against the headboard before you retrieved his inhaler. You administered a few puffs before his breathing had calmed down. 

“I don’t think you understand how indescribably in love I am with you” he huffed as his beautiful blue eyes looked deeply into yours. 

You smiled and blushed a stray curl behind his ear, “I understand completely”.

________________________________________

You snuggled close to Anakin under the warm covers after the two of you had gotten cleaned up and took a shower.

You couldn’t believe you were actually married to the man you loved more than anyone else. Sure the two of you had got off on the wrong foot and had your rough patches, but look how far you've come. 

Sleep was finally washing over you when you felt Anakin tense beside you. He was probably dreaming- he was plagued by constant nightmares from his past.

You began to brush your fingers through his hair (something you did to calm him when he would dream), but when his body jolted and he curled onto his side, you knew it wasn’t a nightmare. 

“Anakin?!” you exclaimed when he started thrashing and groaning.

You sat up and reached for the light. He was clutching his right side with the arm he kept on at night- it was his liver. 

His eyes were screwed shut as he braced himself against the bed. He wailed when you helped him upright, you could see his veins pulsing; every inch of him was screaming out for relief. 

“Ani, I’m going to go get your pills, ok? Are you alright here?” you said hurriedly, your own heart rate was through the roof. 

He just cried and shook his head, “Please- do-don’t leave me” he managed through gritted teeth. 

Your eyes softened, “Ani, the pills will help, just let me get them for you- please?” you pleaded. 

He stayed silent and finally nodded.

“Ok, I’ll be right back” you said before kissing him on the forehead. 

You raced to the kitchen counter where his pile of pills sat, you rummaged through the bottles looking for the pain pills the doctor prescribed. Once you finally had it you dashed back to the bedroom. 

Anakin had laid back down on his side and his face was scrunched in pain. You rushed to his side and pulled him up so that he was lying against your chest. His grimace was painful to look at and he drool had begun to pool on the area he had lied down on. 

“Oh, Ani” you whispered as he trembled in your hold. 

You helped him take his meds and comforted him as the feeling began to pass. He finally drifted off after about an hour or so of in-and-out pain. 

Once you laid him back down, you walked out to the living room and sat on the couch. You debated switching on the TV to mindlessly view some stupid show to attempt to occupy your racing mind, but you ended up just staring at the black screen. 

Before you knew it, salty tears were streaming down your face. Why did Anakin have to endure this? Hadn’t he gone through enough? 

You thought about how happy you were all day and how much you wanted a life with him-but now this? Nothing but a bitter reminder of the limited time you actually had with your husband. 

What hurt the most was there was nothing you could do...

nothing you could do, but wait.

***

a/n: so sorry this ended on such a somber note but I told ya- it was a rollercoaster in here hahah- also ik courthouse weddings take more planning, but for the sake of the story- we’re gonna pretend Anakin had been planning this and compiling the documents so that if you said yes (which you did) the two of you would be able to be wed as soon as you signed ur name on the respective dotted line :)

taglist : @dnamht @sxoulohvn @angeelcoree @wtf-andys @httpeachesblog @katsukiswrld @jetiikote @poisonedsultana @imarimone12 @fallinlovewithevil @sythe-skywalker

[shiorimakibawrites]

Image Credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Greta Punch (Unsplash) / Stephanie Harvey (Unsplash)

A Tale of Two Men (Part 1 of Cozy Corners)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6,595 Summary: One week after you open your cafe, you meet two handsome men - defense attorney Matt Murdock and the vigilante Daredevil. Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, description of anxiety and panic attacks, referenced oral sex (f receiving), referenced p in v sex, referenced masturbation, dirty thoughts, female gaze Cozy Corners Masterlist Shiori's Masterlist A03 link Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @danzer8705 Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. Divider Credit: @firefly-graphics

A Tale of Two Men

You couldn’t stop smiling. Owning your own cafe had been the dream of you and your best friend Dora Morales since high school. And now, after years of hard work, it had finally happened. One week ago, you had opened your doors for the first time. You looked around. You and Dora had done everything you could, within the limitations of your lease and budget, to make Cozy Corners to live up to its name. Warm, comfortable, and inviting.

You were especially pleased with the little nook, tucked away from the main bustle of the cafe where people could read and study in relative quiet. You had found some nice chairs in a secondhand store, their brown leather the color of chocolate and butter soft. The little library of reference books and fiction was small but you hoped that over time it would grow. Yes, people were more likely to use the internet to look things up these days but you liked having analog back-ups. Just in case something got broken. Or the city was invaded by aliens. Again.

You found having back-up plans helped calm your nerves, made the anxiety gremlin in your head less loud. You were a big fan of keeping that gremlin quiet. You didn’t like it when the gremlin got loud. It was mean.

Hearing the bell on the front door chime, you looked up to greet your new customer. And immediately felt your stomach fill with butterflies. Because one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on had just walked into your cafe. Dark brown – no, dark auburn, you could see the glint of red in the sunlight – hair that looked like it would be very enjoyable to run your fingers through, excellent bone structure, and a mouth practically begging to be kissed. Round sunglasses with dark red lenses hide his eyes from view. Which was unfortunate. Especially if they were just as pretty as the rest of him.

The brown suit he worn, by contrast, did very little to disguise how well-built he was. Which was very, if the strain on buttons of his dress shirt was any indication. He moved an enviable grace as he walked toward the counter, his long white cane sweeping in front of him.

“Good morning, sir,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was pretty too, nice and deep. The kind you could easily imagine whispering everything from sweet nothings to dirty promises in your ear. The thought made your cheeks warm and your heart beat at little faster.

His lips twitched into something like a smirk before he asked, “Do you have a menu in braille?”

You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side.

“I have something in braille. The printing service claims that it’s my menu.”

“I take it that you disagree?”

“I don’t sell a cinematic rainbow muffler.”

“What?”

The sheer disbelief and confusion put into that single ‘what’ had you biting your lip to not laugh. You didn’t want him to think you were joking or making fun of him.

“Cinematic rainbow muffler,” you repeated. “Not something we sell here at Cozy Corners.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t think anyone does. What was it supposed to be?”

“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”

His brow furrowed. “That . . . doesn’t even have the same amount of letters. How did they manage get that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” you said, shaking your head. “The whole thing is like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, pulling out the copy you had left under the counter in case you needed a laugh. Which was about the only thing it was good for. You sat it down in front of him. “It’s at your twelve o’clock if you want to see for yourself.”

Mr. Handsome took you up on that offer. While he read – or rather attempted to read since you knew sections were completely unintelligible – you idly wondered if the dark facial hair dusting his face was the start of a beard or if he just didn’t feel like shaving this morning . . . you had the feeling he would look good either way . . .

Case in point, all that look of utter befuddlement like he didn’t whether to laugh or to be irritated by what he was reading did was make him look adorable. You needed to be careful. This guy was dangerously pretty.

“What is 78554.051?” He asked, looking like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What?”

“It’s listed as one of the drinks. I think. I assume you don’t serve dribbles.”

“No, sir,” you said, thinking. “My best guess is that someone put the number sign where it didn’t belong.”

Mr. Handsome hummed thoughtfully, re-running his fingers over one section of the menu of nonsense. “Green tea.”

“Now that I do have,” you said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order a drink?”

“I don’t know . . . ,” he said with a teasing grin. “Drinking a coffin sounds dangerous.”

“It does,” you agreed, ignoring the continued presence of the butterflies to go along with the banter. “Does coffee sound better?”

“Infinitely.”

You gave him a quick rundown of the coffee options. He ordered a red eye for himself, which always sounded like a lot of caffeine to you but you didn’t know this man’s life. While he didn’t look tired, maybe he had been working a lot of hours lately and needed the extra oomph. Apparently he didn’t think his coworkers needed extra caffeine as they got a cappuccino and a dirty chai.

“What’s the name?” you asked. Mr. Handsome might be the only customer right now but that could change any minute. It was only a little after nine. Plenty of people might still be heading toward school or work, people who might decide to grab a coffee (and maybe some food) on their way.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” you repeated, both to make sure that you had heard him correctly and because you wanted to say it. If for no other reason so you wouldn’t accidentally call him Mr. Handsome outloud. He nodded in confirmation. “Just coffee this morning?”

He made another thoughtful hum. “I probably shouldn’t have just coffee for breakfast. What’s on offer?”

“We have bagels, muffins, croissants, turnovers, doughnuts, frittatas, and breakfast sandwiches.”

“Hmmm, those all sound great,” he said.

“Take your time,” you said, “Think about it while I make your drinks?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You turned to start making the coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch a little when the machine started grinding the beans. Which you couldn’t really blame him for. It wasn’t a nice sound. Easily one of your least favorite. But Dora, who was a coffee aficionado, might actually kill you if you even thought about using anything other than freshly ground coffee for espresso.

She had explained why it mattered. And demonstrated how changing how fine the grind was effected the drink. But that didn’t make the noise any less unpleasant. Which was probably why she hadn’t been able to talk you into freshly grinding your coffee at home. Not yet anyway. You were getting worn down on the issue. Agreeing would at least mean she would stop giving you that look of actual pain everytime she saw your can of already-ground coffee.

Pulling the shot part of the espresso was a lot more pleasant on the ears. With the added bonus of putting out that nice fresh coffee smell. You poured the shot into the waiting to-go cup of the house brew. You knew some places poured the hot coffee into the espresso but Dora thought that method disturbed the crèma too much.

You were pouring in the frothed milk with the chai concentrate into the double-shot of espresso for his coworkers’ dirty chai when Matt spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did but you can ask another one,” you said, feeling a little bold from his earlier friendliness, as you put the finished drink into the carrier alongside it’s companions.

He chuckled. “Left myself wide open for that one . . . Are you the owner?”

“Co-owner with my best friend, Dora,” you answered, tapping the used grounds into the knock box.

“Dora and who?” Matt asked with a charming smile. You felt your heart sped up. Something about smiling transformed his already handsome face into something breathtakingly beautiful. You had no resistant to something like that. You told him your name.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“And that was a line,” you said. One that you had heard numerous times. Through never from someone this good looking.

“It can be,” he acknowledged before subtly shifting his posture. He hadn’t been slouching before but there had been a relaxed air to the way he carried himself. Now he was standing there, straight-backed and shoulders square, his hands resting on the white cane held upright between his feet like it was some medieval courtiers’ staff of office. He had a presence. One that you suddenly realized had been there all along. It was just front and center now.

When he spoke again, there had also been a subtle shift to his voice. Easy self-assurance had been replaced with rock-solid confidence and conviction. Not thundering like an angry priest, just the calm, even voice of someone who knows they are correct, that the facts were on their side.

“Does that phrase being used as a pick-up line mean that a name cannot be pretty?”

“No,” you said. “A name can still be pretty.”

“Generally speaking, is your name one of the pretty ones?”

“Yes?” you said slowly. Why did you feel like you had just walked into a trap? Maybe it was that little edge of sharpness to his smile? . . . .

“Well, if names can be pretty and your name is one of those pretty names, then you have a pretty name.”

“I suppose,” you conceded. It was hard to argue with that logic. Especially when you didn’t actually want to argue that your name was ugly. You liked your name. And it was nice to hear something about you called pretty. Even if it was just your name.

“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks. That smile should be illegal. As for the words . . . he probably didn’t mean them. He was obviously something of a flirt. Regardless . . . it was still nice to hear. Still made your heart flutter.

“And that was absolutely a line,” you said, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Flattery is not going get you a free muffin.”

“It’s not flattery if it is true,” he said. Which did nothing to lessen the warmth in your face. “And since muffins are off the table, what about the doughnuts? Or the turnovers?”

You laughed. “Sorry. As much as I would like to give out free coffee and food, unfortunately there are all these places that expect me to pay them with money.”

“Instead of an excellent pie, like a sensible person?”

“Exactly,” you said, once again finding yourself drawn into the banter in spite of your nerves. You knew one thing for certain about Matt – he was definitely charming.

He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious conversation. “I’ve encountered the same problem with my small business.”

“You did?” you said. Then, feeling genuinely curious, you asked him, “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer who wants to get paid in pie?” you said, feeling a little skeptical. Didn’t lawyers usually work in big offices that paid them big money? Granted your experience with lawyers was largely limited to baby-faced ones who were grabbing coffee for the office or law students who looked like they had forgotten what sleep was . . .

“I like pie,” he said mildly. “But, as you said, since so many people want money instead of pie, my partner insists that’s what we charge for our services.”

“That’s a shame,” you said.

“It is,” Matt agreed solemnly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “What to know a secret? If you ever need to bribe Foggy, try bagels. He can resist pie but never a good bagel.”

“Duly noted,” you said. “I assume Foggy is your partner?”

“Yep,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.”

“Nelson?” you repeated. “Any relation to Nelson’s Meats?”

You expected the answer to be no. This was New York City, after all, not a small town. But, to your surprise, Matt nodded and said, “Yes, it’s his family’s butcher shop. How do you know Nelson’s?”

“We buy the meat for the cafe from them,” you explained as you placed the to-go carrier by the cash register. “Did you ever reach a verdict on breakfast?”

He chuckled. “Jury is still out, I’m afraid. It all smells so good. Can you give me a recommendation?”

Your heart gave another excited flutter at the compliment as you thought about it. Then, with a little hesitation, said, “Maybe bagels? That way, if I need to bribe your partner, he knows what he’s getting out of the deal?”

“Good idea,” Matt said with a smile. “What favors do you have?”

After being given his options, he opted for a plain for himself and an everything for Foggy. After some further consideration an apple turnover for Karen, the third person at his office. He thought the sweetness of the turnover would compliment the spices of her dirty chai better than a bagel.

Soon the rest of his order was bagged up and paid for. Before he left, he tapped the menu of nonsense with his finger. “Can I have a copy of this? Otherwise I’m pretty sure Foggy will think I’m making it up.”

“Go ahead,” you said. “I’ve got other copies.”

He smiled, then tucked the menu into the bag with the food. He feed his arm through the handles of the bag, then picked up the drinks carrier. Considering his left hand was occupied with his cane . . .

“Would you like me to open the door for you?”

“Please.”

On the downside, Cozy Corners wasn’t very big so that particular journey didn’t take very long. But on the upside, you got to watch him walk down the street, discovering that he had a perfect ass. Because of course he did. You sighed. Why was everything about this man so attractive . . .

“I saw that.”

You jumped with a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Dora. How long had she been standing there?

“Saw what?” you demanded, walking back over to the counter.

“So many things,” she said with a knowing grin. “You flirting with Mr. Matthew Murdock, Esquire? Undressing him with your eyes? Checking out his ass? I saw it all.”

Warmth flooded your face. “I wasn’t undressing him with my eyes!”

“Yes, you were,” Dora said with the utter confidence of someone who had known you since you were ten and therefore knew all of your tells.

“Maybe I was,” you muttered as you tidied up the work station. It needed to be done but also gave you an excuse not to see that knowing grin. Which you knew, without even looking, had just gotten bigger.

“And now you are thinking about how loudly he could make you scream.”

“Dora!” You exclaimed, your head whipping around to make sure the cafe was still as empty as it was the last time you looked. It was. “Is this really the time for that? We’re at work!”

“That wasn’t a denial,” she pointed out in a sing-song voice. “I’m betting on very loud.”

“What makes you say that?” you asked, suspicion in your voice. “Did you sleep with him?”

The very thought sparked a little flame of jealousy inside you. Which you hated. You didn’t want feel jealous of your best friend . . .

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know someone who did. She said Murdock loves eating pussy. That he fucked her better with his tongue than any man ever had with their dick.”

“Dora!” You whined. Because now you were thinking about it. Now you were trying to imagine that handsome face buried between your thighs. It was an appealing image. Very appealing. But one you would rather not have when you could do nothing to quench the heat growing between your legs. “Why are you telling me this?!”

“You’ve been under way too much stress lately. Orgasms are wonderful stress relief.”

“Matt Murdock isn’t a requirement for me to have an orgasm,” you said mulishly. You had hands. And a vibrator. Both had served you well in that department. Often better than men had.

“Perhaps not,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before flashing you a wicked smile. “But that’s who you are going to imagine fucking you senseless while you flick the bean, isn’t it?”

You were spared from having to answer that question by the arrival of new customers.

You managed to avoid any further conversation about Matt Murdock and what he could do with his tongue. Or other body parts. You put that down to two things. First, there had been a steady stream of customers to keep you both busy. Most had been simply curious about the new business in the neighborhood or tourists needing a quick break. The latter made you a little nostalgic, remembering your first days in the city and how overwhelmed you had felt. But some of the customers were repeats from earlier visits. Something that you hoped would continue.

Second, while you were still working on hiring, you did have some staff. Staff that had come in around lunch time and were there until final clean-up. It was one thing for Dora to speak so frankly about your sex life (or the lack thereof) when it was just the two of you but in front of others? Others who were your employees? Who likely would be very uncomfortable with that conversation? That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not one that Dora or you had any desire to partake in.

By the time you were locking up the cafe and setting the alarm, Dora had seemingly forgotten all about Matt Murdock and how you had – allegedly – been undressing him with your eyes. It might only be temporary reprieve. Assuming he didn’t hate the coffee and food, Matt would be back. Despite the certainty of teasing from your best friend, you hoped that he came back.

Not because you thought had any chance with him. You weren’t delusional. Men that good-looking didn’t go for people like you . . . but if he was a regular, you could at least look at him. You’d get to talk to him. Though seeing him with girlfriends was going to suck . . .

“Are you sure that you don’t want me and Steve to walk you home?” Dora asked, looking worried.

“Yes,” you said, looking over at your best friend and her steady boyfriend. He had come to pick her up as usual. “I’m in the opposite direction of you guys.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. You knew that he didn’t. He made similar offers since he and Dora had started dating. And never complained or acted annoyed when you accepted the offer. But your apartment was much closer to Cozy Corners than their place, which weren’t even in the Kitchen. The only time you had accepted the offer since the cafe opened was the day before and only because you were dropping off the deposit at the bank. Then, carrying your opening week’s worth of cash, you felt like you had needed some extra security. Steve was a very sweet guy but he was also a tall man with large muscles. Not exactly the easy target that most criminals are looking for.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s not that late and my place isn’t far.”

“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”

“I am.”

Mollified by your conviction, Steve and Dora left. You watched them go around the corner before heading off yourself. You walked swiftly. Because rain had been predicted tonight and it was starting to get chilly at night. It wasn’t quite cold yet but brisk enough that you needed a jacket and didn’t fancy getting soaked. You couldn’t afford to get sick right now. Your business was too new . . . and Lady Who Sneezes A Lot wasn’t exactly the second impression you wanted to give Matt.

You might have very few hopes of attracting his interest but that didn’t mean you wanted to completely tank what little chance you had . . . You shook your head. You needed to stop the daydreaming. This wasn’t the time for it. Daredevil was back from wherever he had disappeared to but the vigilante only made things safer, not safe . . .

There was no warning. You were walking, almost home. Then you were grabbed from behind. You screamed as you were dragged toward the gap between two buildings. You dropped the sack holding your dinner and tried to struggle, to resist, but your attacker was too strong for you. You were pulled into the shadows and slammed into the side of a building. It knocked the wind of you.

Heart pounding, you desperately tried to suck in air. To get your breath back. You needed to scream again. Scream in the Kitchen and the Devil came. That was the story. That was the hope. But was one scream enough? You didn’t know. So you had to scream. Scream and pray all those stories were true . . .

You started to scream . . . then agony exploded on the left side of your face, transforming that scream into a cry of pain. Everything from your cheek down to your jaw immediately began to throb. It hurt. Worse than the time your sister Alex had accidentally given you a black eye with a softball. The bruising grip on your shoulder that kept you pinned against the wall barely even registered.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man ordered in a low hiss. “Make another sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Tears were blurring your vision but you could see the knife he was brandishing. It wasn’t a small pocket knife. It was a chef’s knife. Like the one you had at home and at the cafe. And it was stained with something. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop a terrified whimper. It was too dark for you to tell with what but you feared that it was blood.

Apparently satisfied that you were too frightened to be anything but compliant, the man released your shoulder.

“Purse,” the man demanded. “Watch. Jewelry.”

Trembling, you removed your crossbody bag and held it out. It was taken and slung onto his shoulder. You ignore the watch directive since you weren’t wearing one. It was when you tried to remove your jewelry that things went wrong. The only piece of jewelry that you were wearing, a necklace, had a very delicate chain with a tiny clasp. Your hands were shaking too much for you to get a good grip on the lobster clasp, let alone open it and slip out the ring. The chain wasn’t big enough to pull the whole necklace over your head. Every time, the clasp slipped out of your fingers, your panic grew. Which only made the trembling worse.

It didn’t take long for the mugger to lose patience. His hand darted out and grabbed the necklace. He yanked hard, snapping the chain. More tears filled your eyes. It was bad enough that he was stealing your favorite necklace. Did he have to break it too? Then, to your horror, he raised the knife. You screamed, instinctively throwing up your arms to try to protect yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut, bracing yourself for the pain that you knew was coming.

Except it never came.

What came was a growl, low and furious. It was accompanied by the sound of something flying through the air. You heard a pained yelp and something metal clattering to the ground. You cautiously opened your eyes just in time to see someone put himself between you and the mugger.

Someone dressed entirely in black, save for the thick white ropes tied around his forearms and hands. Someone wearing a mask. Daredevil, you realized with a dizzying sense of relief. It might not be the more distinctive red outfit and its horned helmet but you were sure it was him . . . the stories were true. Scream in Hell’s Kitchen and the Devil will come to save you.

“You made a big mistake,” Daredevil snarled at the mugger, each word dripping with fury and utter contempt. “By not fleeing when you had the chance.”

Then he threw himself at the man.

Your legs turned to liquid. You fell back against the wall and slide down. You didn’t care the street was getting your pants dirty. You had to sit. While your legs were uninterested in supporting your weight, you could pull them up and wrap your arms around them. So you did. It was almost like a hug and you could use one right now.

You couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of breaking bones, meaty thwacks, and a man’s screams were oddly distant. Like you were listening to something through a well instead something happening just a few feet away. Scent, however, was viscerally and intensely present. Acrid car exhaust, rotting garbage, coopery blood, sweet peaches, and sour sweat filled your nose. You gagged, then tried to breathe through your mouth to lessen the nauseating combination. But you couldn’t get your throat to work . . . you couldn’t get enough air . . . your vision darkened . . . . you couldn’t breathe . . .

You weren’t sure which penetrated past the panic first – the hands massaging your shoulders or the deep voice speaking. But once it did, you were suddenly aware of both. You almost couldn’t believe your own eyes and ears. Was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really kneeling in front of your huddled body? Were those gloved hands gently gripped your shoulders, really the same ones that had just literally beaten a man bloody?

“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”

The soft, quiet voice was completely at odds with his grim reputation. It also sounded a little familiar but you were too exhausted to try remembering where you had heard it. It had been a long day and panic attacks always took a lot out of you.

You weren’t so tired that you missed that the Devil was a good-looking man. And not just in the face. Those grainy surveillance photos in the newspaper hadn’t conveyed just how tight his clothing was. Which was very tight. His shirt, for example, was practically painted on. You could see his muscles. His many, many muscles. He had clearly hit the muscle store during a clearance sale . . .

The thought made you giggle. It sounded more like a wheeze and more than a little hysterical but still a giggle. But you needed a laugh. You were alive. You had been sure that you were about to die. That you were going to be stabbed to death in a robbery gone bad . . . you started to tremble again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather . . . you could have died . . . your bottom lip quivered . . .

Hands squeezed your shoulders, “Hey, hey, look at me.”

That didn’t sound too hard. Only half of his face was visible but what you could see was mighty fine.

A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”

‘Note to self – abject terror followed by panic attack completely dissolves your brain-to-mouth filter. Shut up before you ask if it is actually possible to bounce a quarter off of his abs.’

Another deep chuckle alerted you that you might have also said that outloud. A theory confirmed by his statement, “I’ve never tried. Can you do something for me?”

Warmth filled your cheeks as you nodded. He smiled at you. It was a nice smile. “Follow my lead? Deep breathe in . . .”

You mimicked the inhale, the short hold, then slow release out.

“Good! Now again . . .”

It seemed like forever but eventually you felt calm. Or at least not like you were about to have another panic attack. That was good. Panicking was exhausting. Daredevil seemed to agree with your self-assessment as he had stopped instructing you to take deep breathes. After one more reassuring squeeze, his hands slid off of your shoulders. He sat back on his heels.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, his voice returning to what you assumed was his Daredevil speaking voice – low, deep, with a growling rasp. It was possible he sounded like this all the time. It wasn’t like you had ever meet him outside the mask. Well, as far you knew. You supposed that you could have but how would you know . . .

“Yes,” you said, when you remembered that you had been asked a question. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not from a certain point of view. You were feeling better now that you were no longer teetering on the edge of a second panic attack in a short space of time. You knew this calm, almost numb, feeling was fragile. It would shatter instantly if pressed too hard. But that was the best you could hope for right now. Feeling any better than this would require things that weren’t here – like your most comfortable clothes and your pets – along with time.

Daredevil frowned, tilting his head slightly to one side. It was hard to interpret the expression on his face since you couldn’t see most of it. But it seemed like he was staring at you (through how he saw anything through that mask was a mystery) as if you were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Or maybe he was simply skeptical. That was possible. You had seen how you looked after panic attacks. In his shoes, you wouldn’t believe you about being fine either.

“I’m as fine as I’m going to get tonight,” you amended.

That answer, at least, was deemed plausible to him. He nodded, then pulled something about the little pouch attached to his belt. A cellphone. Who was he calling? Since you had no energy for guessing games, you simply asked.

“The police,” he said.

Well that was your cue to get out of here. You couldn’t think of something you would rather deal with less right now. Your usual post-panic attack headache was already growing – no need to kick it into migraine territory with sirens and flashing lights. You shifted onto your knees so you could get to your feet.

“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.

“Going home.”

“Home? Shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”

Amazing, he had found something worse than the police. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”

“What are you, a parrot?” you demanded, feeling your temper flare. If you had been less tired or not in pain, that question would have playful. But you were tired and hurting so that question was grouchy. So was the rest of your statement. “Yes, I don’t wanna. No, I don’t care that is whinny. I’ve had a shitty night! I’ll whine if I want to!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, spitfire. No hospital.”

As the anger drained, you felt a swell of guilt for yelling at him after he just saved your life. This was why you did your best to avoid people when your social batteries were running too low to manage basic human interaction. It seemed like you always ended up biting someone’s head off for no good reason.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting back onto your bottom. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your knees. You didn’t care that your pants were dirty. You needed to hide. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just too tired to be peopling right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

You cracked up an eye and turned your face to peer at him with that one eye. Again, it was almost impossible to get a read on his expression but he didn’t seem bothered. And vigilante like him probably did know a thing or too about having a temper. Suddenly feeling curious, you asked, “How good does it feel to punch crime in the face?”

A wolfish smirk spread across his face before he answered, “Sometimes very good. Why?”

You shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a career change. Punching bad guys sounds more fun than getting punched by bad guys.”

You got the impression he was giving you a very stern look from behind that mask. That mouth pressed together in a thin line was all disapproval. “How about you leave the punching bad guys to me and I’ll leave the baking to you?”

“How did you know I’m a baker?” you asked. Then felt a little stupid for asking. You were still wearing your chef’s jacket and an apron. It was pretty obvious that you worked with food . . .

“You smell like flour, yeast, butter, sugar, and spices which all says baker to me,” he said. “Through you also smell like peaches. The fruit, not the flowers.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You also hadn’t realized that the scent of your peach beauty products were that strong. They smelled pretty light to you. But before you could think of a response to that, Daredevil rose to his feet. Which gave you a nice look at his legs which like his torso and arms was muscles for days barely contained by tight clothes. The black trousers weren’t quite as painted on as the shirt but they were snug enough. The naughtier parts of your mind wondered what it would be like to ride him, feeling those powerful thighs under you as he thrust up . . .

“Spitfire?”

Embarrassed warmth flood your face. While you were distracted, Daredevil had held out his hands and obviously asked if you wanted help standing. More than once if that amused smirk was any indication. You put your hands into his before you could embarrass yourself any further. A goal immediately challenged by watching the muscles in his arms flex as he helped pull you up onto your feet without a hint of strain. Because damn if that wasn’t hot . . .

Thankfully this time you managed not to become so distracted by the sexy vigilante that you just stood like there drooling like an idiot. You slide your hands out of his and then, to prevent yourself from staring at all those muscles (again), started looking for your crossbody bag. You hoped that the mugger had dropped it during the fight with Daredevil. Because as much as you wanted and needed your things back, you also would rather not get any closer to that man than you had to.

It didn’t matter that mugger was (probably) unconscious and (very probably) too beaten up to be a threat anymore. Not to anxiety brain. Anxiety brain was seldom appeased by such frivolities as fact and logic. So when you spied the large, still shape on the ground, your heart started racing again.

“Don’t worry about him.”

You looked over at Daredevil. He wasn’t even looking in the same direction that you were but still seemed to know what you were looking at. Almost like he read your mind . . . could he read your minds? God, you hoped not . . .

“I promise he’s not going anywhere soon,” Daredevil continued, his earlier rage coloring his voice a little. Part of you wanted to know what the mugger had done to make him so angry but most of you decided that you were better off not knowing. Your brain did not need help coming up with nightmares.

Feeling reassured by Daredevil’s confidence (and the knowledge that he was still between you and the mugger), you looked for your bag again . . . there it was. It was closer than you expected. You started to move closer but your foot encountered something. Something metal judging by the sound against the concrete. You looked, hoping it wasn’t the knife.

It wasn’t . . . too small . . . you knelt down and discovered your necklace. You picked it up, glad that you wouldn’t have to try to find something so small in such poor lighting or run the risk of it being gone by morning. Which it probably would have been. Aside from the broken chain, you hoped the rest of it was undamaged. You ran your thumb across the surface . . . it didn’t feel like any of stones had gotten chipped or cracked . . . the engraving could still be read . . .

“What are you doing?”

You jumped a little at the voice before remembering Daredevil. You were surprised he was still here. Weren’t there other damsels in distress he needed to be rescuing?

“Not at the moment.”

Either you were still saying things outloud without realizing it or Daredevil could absolutely read minds. You decided to believe the former because the latter was too mortifying to contemplate.

“Checking my favorite necklace,” you said as you darted forward and grabbed your bag. “Doesn’t feel like anything but the chain got broken.”

He nodded. “Ice those bruises when you get home – ten minutes on, twenty off. And try to keep your head elevated. After two days, you can use a heat compress.”

“Ice and prop up tonight, heat in a couple days,” you repeated. At his confirming nod, you asked, “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Just familiar with bruises” he said. “Trust me, spitfire, the bad guys often hit back when you’re punching them.”

You nodded, then realized that any further delay was just stalling. But as much as part of you wanted to keep talking – how often did you get a chance to talk to one of the city’s heroes? – the rest of you was still tired, still feeling jittery-numb from the panic attacks, and still hurting. And you had work tomorrow. It was time to call it a night.

“I guess this is good night,” you said, taking one last look at the vigilante. Odds were, the only time you’d see him again was in the newspaper.

“Good night, spitfire,” Daredevil said. Maybe it was projection but his smile looked a little sad. Like he also knew this was probably the first and only time you would ever see each other.

You paused when you reached the street to pick up your bag of food. It was probably a mess but you were definitely weren’t going to cook when you got home. As you walked away, you faintly heard the low rumble of Daredevil’s voice, presumably talking to the police on that phone.

Notes:

A Tale of Two Men is a reference to A Tale of Two Cities, an 1859 novel by Charles Dickens. I’m thinking about making all of the titles for this series reference book titles.

It occurred to me recently that my Reader characters in the series all are some level of anxious. Probably because I have anxiety and that colors how I perceive the world. Hence the Reader with anxiety.

The alien invasion is a reference to the events of Avengers I. Fair warning that some of the larger events of the MCU will not be depicted same as they were in canon. Accept that this is an alternate universe and move on.

I know Charlie Cox has brown hair but in some lighting for Matt Murdock, his hair does have reddish tint . . . and Matt in the comics is (generally speaking) a redhead so I’ve compromised by making Matt Murdock have dark auburn hair, the kind that looks brown unless the light hits it right and brings out the red.

Reader is sighted but knows how to read braille. The story behind this will be revealed later.

This knowledge is only reason Reader considers the misprinted menu of nonsense to be funny. She would have not find it funny if she found out about the misspellings and such after handing it to customers.

From my understanding, using the hands of a clock is the best way to tell a blind person where something is relative to their position. The menu of nonsense was right in front of Matt so at his 12 o’clock. Directly behind would have been his 6 o’clock, etc.

In braille, the symbols for numbers 1 – 9 and the letters A – I are the same along with J and 0. The number sign is written before tells you those symbols are meant to be read as numbers instead of letters. So 123 instead of ABC. If I have the information right, a second number sign is used to indict the end of the numbers and return to letters.

But all of my knowledge of braille is self-taught so don’t take my words as gospel here.

A red eye is a 12 oz (340 g) cup of drip coffee topped with a single or double shot of espresso.

A cappuccino is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso topped with a very frothy milk. It is slightly stronger than a latte because it has less milk.

A dirty chai latte is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso, then a chai concentrate is poured into the milk which is frothed. Finally the milk and espresso are combined.

Crèma is a dense layer of foam that forms the top of an espresso shot and is a unique characteristic to the brewing method (forcing very hot water under pressure through finely ground compacted coffee).

At least in this fic, Matt Murdock is a proud member of The Pie Appreciation Society. The Society ranks include its long serving president Dean Winchester.

How much a lawyer makes a year depends on where they work and what kind of law they practice. People who work in public sector offices like a public defender or a state prosecutor generally make a comfortable living but they are never going to get wealthy doing that job. There are some lawyers who charge six figures or more per billable hour but those seem to be litigators and they aren’t as common as the associates who charge something less crazy (through probably still an eye-watering amount of money to some).

It’s Nelson & Murdock because (1) this takes place not too longer after the 3rd Season so they are still working out of the back of Nelson’s Meats and (2) New York law prohibits the formation of the Law Firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page unless all three are attorneys. So if Karen wants her name on the sign, she has a law degree to earn and a bar exam to pass. Which she just might do in this universe.

The white cane is held in one’s dominant hand. I picked the left hand for Matt as another nod to his comic book counterpart who is (again usually) left-handed.

Esquire is an honorific title that is only used in the United States for lawyers for . . . reasons. No one seems to know why.

‘Flick the bean’ is a euphemism for female masturbation.

A chef's knife is a knife about 8 inches (20 cm) long used for chopping, slicing, and dicing meat and vegetables. Unless you have something like a meat cleaver, it is probably the biggest knife in your kitchen.

The favorite necklace is part of some story elements so this is not a generic favorite necklace but a specific favorite necklace. But if you want to mentally change the specific elements of its later description to better suit yourself, go right ahead.

A lobster clasp is the one that looks a like a lobster claw.

Matt is in the Black Suit since he has yet to replace the Red Suit – the old one being too damaged by the Midland Circle and only other one in existence was worn by the impostor who murdered people. A version of the Red Suit will eventually appear (since as hot as the black suit is, the guy without a healing factor needs body armor) but I’m still working out how.

The description of the panic attack (shortness of breath, sensory overload, etc) along with its aftereffects (exhaustion, mood swings, etc) are based on my experiences.

Spitfire is nickname for someone with a temper, possibly referencing the WW2 plane.

The treatment for bruises comes from internet so grains of salt are advised.

A chef's jacket is a double-breasted jacket with mandarin collar commonly worn by chefs and bakers, traditionally made from thick, white cotton cloth but can be made in different colors these days. The thickness of the jacket is meant to help protect the chef or baker from heat, steam, and splashing liquids in a busy kitchen. Frequently the jacket has long sleeves to help protect arms while reaching into the ovens.

[desdemonafictional]

The Woman Called...

Fujiko Mine was born into a family that did not consider itself poor, on account of they could afford to eat meat every week or so, unlike some families they knew who couldn’t afford it at all. Those were poor families, her mother would have said, not us.

Of course, they had been poor. They had been dirt poor. They had been secondhand shoes bought three sizes too big so you can grow into them, get slapped for breaking a dish at dinner, too-proud-to-beg poor. Whatever warm family feelings they might have had for each other were strained to the point of fraying by the time Fujiko entered middle school.

At age 12, Fujiko had looked around herself at the world—at the shining elegant faces in advertisements, at the delicate patisseries where it would have cost as much for one cake as her mother spent on dinner for all four of them, at the sneering faces of girls who had more than she ever had just for the stupid fortune of being born to a better class of family—and Fujiko Mine had come to a conclusion. Her conclusion was thus: the world was demonstrably not fair. And if the world was not fair, then what was the point in playing fair while the other side went on cheating?

Dumb luck might have given other girls family connections, money, and an easy life, but Fujiko had something most of them didn’t.

Fujiko was beautiful.

At age 14, she measured her bust religiously, noting the centimeters of growth and calculating her seams. She searched her face for imperfections and rationed out dollops of pale foundation as if the cream was gold. She walked tall, wore her hair short, and stood on tip-toe when she couldn’t wedge rags into her shoes. Men had already started to notice her years ago, but the extra help never went astray.

One day, on her way to school, there had been a man waiting for her a few blocks away. He explained that if she would come to dinner with him, he would buy her a beautiful new jacket for the winter, so she wouldn’t have to wear that old ratty one with the patches. Of course, she said yes.

He was a very nice man, as far as such men went. He took her shopping. He told her she was beautiful.

“You probably expect a story like that to end in tragedy,” Fujiko said, examining her cigarette with vague contempt. “Poor dumb little girl in the spider’s parlor. What was he hiding, what did he do, how did he hurt her? Well it was fine. Nothing happened. After a few weeks he went back to his sad little housewife in Kanto and lived a normal life, probably never thought about Fujiko Mine again. But I had the jacket.”  

There’s an impermeable barrier that separates the poor from the rich, and it’s all quantified in clothes. The better you dress, the more people believe you belong. A ragged slob off the street would be turned out of a high-end store before she even knew what was happening, for fear that she’d pocket something nice with her greedy nasty little hands. But the same girl, dressed in a nice coat that obviously cost a salaryman quite a lot of money? Oh, why would she steal? She’s obviously doing just fine. So come in, come in, if you have money to spend.

“I worked my way up,” she said, and took a drag. Her elegant red nails alighted only delicately on anything she touched. “Shirts first, then dresses. Just slightly above my class. Once you have slightly nicer down, you can shift another class up. But people notice if your shoes are wrong, it’s one of the first things to give you away when you don’t belong. Shoes are expensive. They’re hard to fit in your sleeve. So I worked at the hostess club for months to afford a pair of new leather shoes.”

At the hostess club, she met a lot of new types of men. She was too young to work at an above-board club, so she worked at a shadier one instead, the kind where touching was alright. At least up to a point. Some of the girls would call security on a handsy drunk, but Fujiko didn’t want their help—she’d deal with it herself, on her own terms. Anyway, a man who was busy grabbing a breast was probably not paying attention to his wallet. And he probably wouldn’t remember how much he spent, either.

She bought the shoes. She thought about quitting. And then she stayed anyway.

“I was good at getting men to buy drinks,” she said, “and I had a system for swapping out empty glasses with half drunk glasses. I used to hide them in the corner of the cushions. Or under my skirt. I was very good at getting other people to drink.”

She ashed her cigarette with a careless flick, her nails like quick shining beetles taking off.

“But it turned out one of those men I’d been getting to drink was a Yakuza mid-boss, the ambitious type, you know? And so one day this asshole pulls me aside as I’m leaving work—”

Sunglasses at night, that’s mostly what she remembered. Long jacket, with the sleeves pushed up to show the edges of tattoos. He’d smiled like a tiger on a diet, ever so polite, banked hunger and a rough rolling accent.

“I took the job, of course,” Fujiko said. “It wasn’t like I was attached to the guy, or anything. I let him take me home after a shift a few nights later, and when I had him alone and naked, I opened the front door for his rival. The trouble is,” and here, she contemplated the glowing cherry between her fingers, “once you’ve taken blood money, you can never really go back. You know how it is. There were always more men in sunglasses, always more jobs, always more money, and always more things to hide.”

She finished off the cigarette with a long, contemplative drag.

“One day you look up, and you realize that little by little, without noticing it, you’ve become someone who can’t go home.”

The silk of her dressing gown fluttered translucent and pink against her thigh as she stood. The wide high window glowed verdant with morning light over the garden that several men worked quietly and invisibly each week to maintain. She stood in front of the glass, staring out, still except for the restless flicking of her fingers at her side. Her shoulders tensed, like a cat watching a bird just out of reach.

Then, of course, there had been Poon. He hadn’t called her beautiful. He’d called her clever. Deadly. He’d admired that she was ruthless. He’d opened his hand, his portfolio, his heart, and offered her the chance to be more than set dressing. To take partnership in the business where for so long she’d been only pawn. Teacher, lover, friend—escape, ensnarement, she had wanted to be him, and yet she had wanted to be more than him. Everything she had was his, and the worst part was that he held nothing back. He gave and gave, and the more he gave the less she had.

They’d been unstoppable. They’d been a cataclysm. They’d been the golden pair. And when he died, he’d gutted her of everything he’d been.

“I liked killing less than the hostess work,” she remarked to the window. “But the hours were better.”

And then she turned, and smiled a wicked, insouciant smile.

“Of course, those days are long behind me,” she purred. “I’m a good girl now.” She dripped like water across the lounge, graceful legs and trailing silk, to climb into the lap of the man who meant to hire her.

 “Silly me, how I’m going on. I’m afraid I’ve quite lost my head around you, Mister…?”

“Lupin,” the man said, and his eyes reluctantly tore up from the place where her thigh was pressed to his side. “The Third.”

“How distinguished,” she said. She drew her fingers up along the length of his neck, grazing his ear. His pupils dilated. It didn’t matter what she’d said, really; he wasn’t listening. Men like him never did.

Easy money, she thought. I’ll have him chewed up in a week.

“So what was it you wanted done, exactly?” she asked.

[harkonnen-darkness]

• (𝐍𝐚-) 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐟𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬

Okay, a bit of a different post. Actually, these are ideas for a cosplay of mine. But then I thought that the stuff could also go well with Giedi Prime, since I had already used some of it for aesthetics.

(My moles are only removed so that people don't recognize me. 😉 I have a few).

Links:

- Dress

- Bra / Top

- Body-Chain

I got the skirt in a SecondHand-store. I don't know the brand, sorry.

[johannestevans]

apologies if you've addressed it already, but where *do* you buy your shirts from? the local charity/thrift stores seem to have a lot of fast fashion these days, but i might not be looking in the right places.

So, my ruffled front pirate blouse with the ruffled sleeves is from Violent Delights, and so are the black brocade trousers I wore out tonight and a few other things - Violent Delights is absolutely on the pricier side, but for me it's well worth it for the construction and design of their clothes, many of which emphasise the waist, have good layering and warmth to them (which many of this sort of "costume" clothes don't consider), and also have a huge range of sizes, going from XS and sometimes XXS right up to XXXL.

When not wearing that blouse, the most common pirate-adjacent shirts I wear are actually plain old Ghillie shirts, which are intended for formal highland dress - you want it to be of good, breathable 100% cotton, and then you can either lace it with string or ribbon or leather strings.

And other than that, I actually have quite a few Western shirts (collared shirts with pop-buttons and cuffs, with and without detailing on the shoulders and waists) that work really well in combination with my gothier and more vintage wardrobe.

In general, I recommend that if you want good quality piratical gear and similar and you're not in a good area for finding that sort of stuff by thrifting, your next best option is genuinely specialty costume shops - not the ones that sell you a packet with a basic sexy French maid's outfit, but the ones that cater to LARPers, specialty performers, sex workers, etc; and similarly, non-high street stores that cater to alternative lifestyles and fashions, especially ones that are likelier to favour a high level of architectural and constructive appreciation for their clothing and/or are subcultures more likely to involve themselves in the construction of their clothes, i.e. Steampunk, certain Goth strands, Lolita.

And as well as the above, this is much more of a niche, but we used to have a fella when I worked at a rare book shop who dressed exclusively in cast-off costume pieces from theatres in London - whenever the opera or ballet or I think some of the Shakespearean companies sold off or auctioned off excess from their wardrobes, he'd buy that stuff and have it tailored to fit him. So like, he would just be wandering on a casual Thursday in a velvet Phantom cape, and that fucked.

So if you do live near to a city and you're likely to see this sort of costume auction or sell-off of excess, especially toward the end of a show's run and/or the end of a season at the ballet or opera, that's certainly an idea as well.

It's so hard to avoid a lot of cheap fast fashion things, and especially like, what my dad always ends up sending me is extremely poorly made of poor materials pirate costume shirts that are literally for someone's like, last minute Jack Sparrow costume, and they're literally bought and sold with the assumption that they'll be bought and worn for one night only, at the very most once every one or two years. It sucks, especially when it even invades charity and secondhand shopping as well, or when vintage stores end up stocking loads of 90s and 00s stuff that's not actually much better constructed then shite today.

So yeah, when in doubt, look for the specialty people - bop your head into a local tailor or seamstress' shop and be like, hey, do you know anyone who does x or y?

Even looking in your area for certain subcultures, especially different LARPers, ren faire or medieval performers, metal band enthusiasts, leather dykes and daddies, steampunk and formal goth enthusiasts, costumers and especially historical costumers, lolita enthusiasts, et cetera - these are all communities that even if they don't have specifically what you're looking for when it's a specialty or specific garment, will almost always know the right person to ask or refer you to, or at least have a vague direction to point you to.

[steddieas-shegoes]

this place is such great motivation for anyone trying to move the fuck away from hibernation

chapter 9: after also on ao3 Rated E

🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰🧰

“It’s not broken at least,” Wayne said as he turned Steve’s finger under the bathroom light. “Eddie’s gonna be pissed.”

“It was an accident! You saw how careful I was,” Steve argued as he held the ice pack on his already-swelling index finger. “The hammer slipped.”

“And you know damn well he’s already stressed tryin’ to throw together Mia’s birthday party. This’ll be the thing to set him off.”

Wayne left the room to finish fixing the railing on the porch stairs, a project that Steve had been adamant he could help with for weeks. He’d been plenty of help with finding the right supplies and handing things to Wayne, but the moment he tried prepping a nail in one of the 2x4s, he misjudged his grip on the hammer. He missed the nail entirely.

Luckily, he didn’t have much force behind the hit, so he’d just have to deal with it swelling up and possibly bruising a bit.

But the timing wasn’t great.

Eddie had been working his ass off all week preparing for Mia’s first birthday. He invited everyone to their house, despite the fact they were still in the middle of some pretty major renovations. If Wayne hadn’t agreed to come a few days early to help finish up the porch and fence, Steve was pretty sure they would’ve had to cancel the party.

And Eddie would have lost it.

Steve had never seen him so strung out.

He snapped at the smallest things, including one instance where Mia had pulled her dinner plate off the table while trying to stand. He didn’t yell at Mia. He yelled at Steve. Mia had started crying all the same. Eddie started crying because he felt terrible. Steve started crying because he didn’t know how to help Eddie feel better about everything.

It was a hell of a week so far.

This injury would just be icing on the cake.

Shit, I hope he remembered to get the cupcakes with chocolate icing for Dustin, Steve thought to himself as he made his way back towards the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Mia was with Robin at the park while Eddie finished all of his shopping for food and decorations. Even though he’d insisted she could go with him, Robin insisted on her not seeing anything until the party.

“She won’t even remember it!” Eddie had exclaimed.

“But it’ll be more fun if she doesn’t see it!” Robin yelled.

Steve let them argue about it while he played with Mia on the carpet a few weeks ago. Robin won. Eddie pouted.

Eddie’s been nonstop ever since, making sure everything was absolutely perfect for their princess. He even ordered her a special dress with a matching plastic tiara. He had a checklist on the fridge that seemed neverending; One thing would be scratched off only for something else to be added. He insisted on doing it himself, making things even worse for all of them.

Wayne made a joke on Wednesday about this being worse than a pregnant woman nesting and the look Eddie shot him nearly killed him.

He’d barely slept; Steve would sometimes wake up in the early hours of the morning and see Eddie sitting at the table, head in his hands, dark circles under his eyes, staring at a notepad full of notes and numbers. He was very cautious of the budget, spent hours searching secondhand stores for decorations so he wouldn’t have to buy them new at the store for five times the price. Steve had offered a million times to use his tip money for it, but Eddie insisted on doing it himself.

They were still working on the whole teamwork thing when it came to finances.

“The princess is here!” Robin called from the front door, and Steve’s head turned to the clock on the wall.

“The princess is early!” He called back, quickly hiding the pack of balloons and streamers on the counter.

“The princess needs a nap!” Robin said from the doorway.

One look at her told Steve everything he needed to know about why they came back early.

Robin loved Mia, way more than any of them expected her to, and Mia loved her right back. Any time Robin got home from work, Mia waddled over to her or smacked at whoever was holding her until she could be in Robin’s arms instead.

But the current state of her hair, clothes, and face made Steve rush over to grab a very clearly grumpy Mia from her arms.

“Hi princess. What did you do to Auntie Robbie?” Steve watched as Robin went over to the fridge, grabbed a can of Coke, and chugged it. “You broke her.”

“Rara no,” Mia said as she nuzzled against Steve’s shoulder. “No no mama.”

Steve wasn’t quite sure what she was trying to say, but he could always play along. “Mama was busy helping Papa with something, honey. But you had fun with Rara, right?”

Mia didn’t answer, but Robin gave a thumbs up from where she was leaning against the counter.

“What happened?”

“She decided to be very adventurous and try to climb the jungle gym with the bigger kids. I tried to help and she was not having it. Tried to distract her and she looked at me like she was trying to kill me.” Robin stared off into space. “One kid laughed at me when she told me no.”

Steve resisted the urge to laugh.

Mia was in a “no” phase, one that was very normal for her age, but caused Eddie incredible amounts of stress. Steve liked to remind him that it could always be worse: she could be a biter.

Steve rubbed her back and felt her sigh. She’d probably fall asleep in his arms within the next 20 seconds.

“So you came home after that?” Steve asked quietly.

“No,” Robin shook her head. “I respected her need for independence. And then she realized how high she was and panicked and cried and yelled for me and I looked like a terrible parent and I had to explain to the other moms there that I am just her aunt and also that their judgment isn’t needed considering she’s a baby and their kids were all being assholes about letting her try to climb something.”

“So we can’t go back to that park?” Steve smirked.

“Give it a week.”

Steve snorted as he looked down at Mia, fast asleep on his shoulder, hand gripping his shirt loosely. He smiled fondly down at her before looking back up at the clock.

“I’m gonna go put her in her crib. Eds will be home soon if you wanna hide.”

“Gonna shower and take a nap. She wore me out.”

“I can see that. Thanks for taking her, Robs.”

“Anytime. You know I love riling up stuck up parents.” Robin winked at him before heading to her room to grab her clothes for a shower.

Steve was careful taking Mia to her bedroom, didn’t want to wake her up and ruin any chance of her having a nice nap.

Once she was settled in her crib, Steve went back out to check on Wayne.

Eddie was standing there, hands full of bags from various stores, evaluating the hard work they’d done. When he caught sight of Steve, his eyes immediately went down to his hand.

“Should we make sure it’s not broken at the hospital?” His voice shook with concern and Steve was quick to go to him, embrace him, not caring if any neighbors happened to be there to see.

“No, it’s fine, baby. How’d shopping go?”

“I went over budget.”

Steve nodded. “That’s okay. I kinda knew it would happen.”

“But I tried so hard!” Eddie groaned in frustration. “The lady at the bakery even gave me a discount when I explained everything. She said she remembered when she went crazy planning all five of her kids’ first birthdays. I haven’t even gotten the sandwich stuff!”

“Baby.” Steve kissed his cheek. “Charlie and Maryann agreed to bring sandwiches.”

“What? When? I didn’t ask them to.”

“When I asked them to because I knew you’d go over budget. It’s their gift for Mia. Well, we know they’ll probably also bring her a real gift, but that’s what they told me when I talked to them yesterday,” Steve shrugged. “Need help with anything?”

“The cupcakes are in the front seat.”

Wayne remained silent, but Steve shot him a look as Eddie made his way inside the house.

“Thought we weren’t telling him,” Steve huffed.

Wayne failed at trying to hide a laugh. “He saw me workin’ alone and asked if you hurt yourself. I said I wouldn’t tell him, I didn’t say I would lie if he asked.”

“Loopholes in the contract,” Steve sighed.

He opened the passenger side door of Eddie’s van to grab the cupcakes. The box was discreet, but he could see through the small window on the top that they were purple with sprinkles, just as he’d planned. The cake would be in the shape of a tiara that matched the one he bought for her to wear. It was extremely coordinated.

As he picked up the box, an envelope fell off the seat and to the ground.

Knowing Eddie’s organization system— mostly just keeping things in spots that don’t make sense until he needs them —Steve was quick to pick it up and put it back.

The front of the envelope said Steve.

His brows crinkled in confusion.

Why would there be an envelope with his name on it in Eddie’s van?

His birthday wasn’t for a month, so it couldn’t be that. Plus, they’d agreed on not doing gifts for either of their birthdays so they could make sure Mia’s first birthday was perfect.

He set the envelope back in the seat, even though it killed him. He could ask about it when Eddie’s stress level was no longer well above what was safe for his health.

Except he kept thinking about it constantly as he worked through his to-do list, as he made dinner, as he gave Mia a bath so Eddie could decorate the living room and kitchen for her party tomorrow, as he talked to Robin about her keeping Mia busy until everyone arrived for the party.

When Wayne went to bed on the cot in Mia’s room, and Robin went to bed so she could mentally prepare for the day tomorrow, Steve made his way to the kitchen to help Eddie.

Eddie was standing on a chair, hanging streamers from the cabinets, cursing when one fell as he managed to tape another one next to it.

“Need some help?” Steve asked as he leaned his hip against the counter.

“What I need is to never do this again. Next year, we’re going to a park and ordering pizza,” Eddie grunted as he tried to tape the fallen streamer back into place.

“We probably could’ve done that this year, baby,” Steve walked over, resting his hand on the back of Eddie’s thigh. “She isn’t gonna remember it.”

“I just don’t want her to look back and wonder why she doesn’t have pictures from birthday parties,” Eddie said without stopping what he was doing. “It sucks not knowing if your parents even bothered to care.”

It suddenly all made sense to Steve.

If anyone could understand parents who didn’t care, it was him. But it was also Eddie.

Sometimes, he forgot that Eddie didn’t always have Wayne around to make sure he was loved. He forgot that the first nine years of Eddie’s life were spent with parents who pretty much made sure they didn’t draw the attention of the law, making sure he got to school and looked fed and mostly clean. It would make sense that he didn’t really get birthday parties.

It broke Steve’s heart. Even his own shitty parents had spoiled him for the first decade of his life, before he became more of a hindrance than a gift.

“Eds, honey, take a break,” Steve tugged on his pants, ignoring Eddie’s groan. “C’mon. Haven’t hugged you all day.”

That seemed to win him over.

Eddie got off the chair and let out a sigh. “I’ve been overdoing it, haven’t I?”

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist, tugging him closer so their faces were only a couple inches apart. “No, you’ve been doing everything just right. But you could ask for more help so you don’t feel so stressed about it.”

“I just don’t want anyone else stressed. She’s my daughter, so it should be my stress.”

Steve tightened his grip. “She’s our daughter, and she’s Wayne’s granddaughter, and she’s Robin’s niece, and everyone loves her and you. This doesn’t have to fall on you.”

Eddie leaned his head forward, kissed Steve’s lips once. “Sorry for being a little crazy lately.”

“Eh, I kinda like you a little crazy.” Steve nudged Eddie’s nose with his own. “We should go to bed. We have time in the morning to finish this.”

“You just want me to fuck you.”

“No! I want you to get some rest. And maybe I thought about getting my mouth on you while you relax, but that’s just a passing thought.”

“I’ve barely even touched you all week and you wanna take care of me?” Eddie shook his head. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“It’s not so much luck as I know I can’t be quiet enough for Wayne not to hear so you get the special treatment until he’s gone.”

“Fair enough,” Eddie laughed. “Oh! When you got the cupcakes out of my van, you didn’t happen to see the envelope with your name on it, did you?”

Steve was busted. He turned bright red as Eddie’s grin widened.

“Uh, I mean I noticed an envelope. Did it have my name on it?”

Eddie reached in his pocket and pulled out the envelope, folded in half. “You think just because I’m stressed and busy I didn’t notice you completely spaced out all afternoon? Give me a little more credit than that, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t mean to see it! It fell on the floor when I grabbed the cupcakes and I saw my name when I put it back. I swear I wasn’t gonna look.”

“I know, Stevie,” Eddie kissed his forehead and unfolded the envelope. “But since you know it exists, I think you should go ahead and get to see what’s inside. It was supposed to be for your birthday, but now I’m feeling a little impatient.”

“You weren’t supposed to get me anything for my birthday,” Steve whined. “Everything was gonna be spent on Mia’s party and our family trip to Hawkins.”

“I know. But the reason I was so strict on budget for this was because I’ve been working on something for a while. And it wasn’t just me!” Eddie pulled out a sheet of paper. “Everyone contributed. This wouldn’t have happened without all the kids and their parents chipping in. Oh, and Robin and Wayne.”

Steve’s brows furrowed as he unfolded the sheet of paper Eddie handed him.

Stevie,

You put your own dreams on the backburner so that everyone else can reach theirs. That doesn’t sit right with all of us, but especially me.

You wanted to buy an RV, road trip all over the country with your family, see things you’ve never seen before with the people you love. I wanted you to have that.

So this is the paperwork for the RV that will belong to us in two months. It’s not brand new, so we’re getting new carpet put into it and having a few mechanical things worked on. It sleeps 8, and there’s probably room to add in a cot if we need to.

I love you. I wanna travel the country with our little nugget and any future ones we get to have. I wanna love you on a beach, the mountains, the desert, the city. Doesn’t matter where as long as we’re doing it together.

Love, Eddie and Mia (and everyone else)

Steve sniffed, looking up at Eddie with tears falling down his cheeks.

“You got me an RV? How was that in the budget at all?”

Eddie wiped away the first tears, kissing the top of his head. “It involved all of us, and we got lucky that the previous owners were really not looking to make any money, they just wanted to pay it off. Wayne knew a guy who could do the mechanical stuff for free as long as he could do it in his spare time, which is why we won’t have it for two months.”

“But still, that’s a lot of money. You didn’t have to-“

“It’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

“I can’t believe you bought me an RV.”

Eddie took the paper from his hand and set everything on the counter next to them. “I can’t wait to fuck you in it.”

Steve groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“I’m just giving you something to look forward to.”

“I love you so much,” Steve leaned his head on Eddie’s shoulder, kissed his neck. “I’m so fuckin’ glad my car needed an oil change in Hawkins.”

“To be fair, your car needed an oil change well before it was in Hawkins. Your lucky it made it to Hawkins,” Eddie teased.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Bedroom?”

They both laughed as Eddie dragged Steve by his hand to the bedroom, trying to stay quiet so they wouldn’t wake anyone up. Wayne had already offered taking care of Mia if she woke up since he was in her room, but they didn’t want her to be up before she was ready.

Eddie barely had the door closed before Steve was pushing him against it, dropping to his knees and mouthing at his clothed cock.

“Jesus, sweetheart. Not even gonna take my pants off first?” Eddie gasped out, watching as Steve’s eyes rolled back and he let out a muffled moan.

“Want you,” Steve begged softly.

“You can have me.” Eddie reached down to unbutton his own pants, tugging them down enough to release his leaking cock. “Won’t last long, sweet boy.”

Steve didn’t answer, just licked at the tip of Eddie’s cock and wrapped his lips around him.

True to his word, Eddie only lasted another minute, too worked up from lack of touch for the last week and the hunger in Steve’s eyes as he maintained eye contact while he bobbed his head up and down his length.

Steve moaned as Eddie came down his throat, eyes closing as he swallowed it all.

Eddie’s legs felt weak, exhaustion mixed with overwhelming pleasure finally catching up to him.

He pulled Steve to his feet and guided him to the bed, pushing him down and shoving Steve’s pants down his legs to return the favor.

Steve lasted even less time than him, always so quick to fly over the edge when he’d been on his knees with Eddie in his mouth.

They barely managed to wipe themselves off and remove their pants before they were asleep, curled up against each other for the first time all week.

******

Mia was spoiled.

Everyone brought more gifts that they really had the room for, but they wouldn’t complain.

Jonathan brought his camera to take pictures, promising to develop them and mail them as soon as he got home.

The kids had all chipped in and bought her a playset for the backyard, but conveniently had to head back to Hawkins before it could be assembled. Steve didn’t really mind, though.

Mia’s obsession with Hopper continued throughout the party as she insisted on being held by him anytime Eddie set her down, tugging on his mustache and calling him Pa. Hopper couldn’t quite hide the smile he gave her when she did.

Robin and Wayne handled most of the cleanup so that Eddie and Steve could take Mia for a walk around the neighborhood to help her settle for bed. She’d been given more sugar than she’d ever had in her life, and it was certainly showing.

While on their walk, while the sun was setting and the streetlights were turning on, Steve watched Eddie talking to Mia in her stroller.

Mia babbled back, mostly nonsense with the occasional recognizable word, her responses getting quieter and less excited every minute that passed.

Eventually, she was asleep.

Eddie smiled over at him. “Should we head back, love?”

Steve stopped walking. Eddie stopped, too, confusion on his face.

“Will you marry me?” Steve asked.

Eddie’s hands dropped from the stroller, his mouth opening in shock.

“We- you- I.” Eddie laughed. “You’re serious.”

“I am. I know we can’t technically, but, if I got you a ring, would you wear it? Could I say we’re engaged to our family?” Steve grabbed his hands, lacing their fingers together. “I mean this is everything I want: you, Mia, this life. Maybe in the future we could actually get married. But I wanna be able to say you’re mine, even if legally we’re just roommates.”

Steve gave him a hopeful look, one that Eddie had seen a handful of times before when they made big decisions together.

“I’ll marry the shit out of you, sweetheart,” Eddie grinned at him, squeezing his hands. “I’ll wear a ring from the grocery store if I have to. I’ll tattoo a ring on me. Whatever it takes to be yours.”

Steve knew it was risky to even stand like this on the sidewalk of their neighborhood. While no one was out, a car could pass at anytime, anyone could look out their window. They didn’t want to bring too much attention to themselves. They were pretty sure the next door neighbors thought Robin and Eddie were Mia’s parents and Steve was the third wheel they were being nice to.

But they were engaged. He loved this man so much. This man loved him so much. They would get married, even without legal paperwork.

They could share a kiss, just one quick one.

When they pulled apart, Steve took a step away.

Eddie turned back to the stroller and turned it around to walk back towards the house.

“Done with our walk?” Steve asked as he followed.

“You expect to propose to me and not get fucked into the mattress tonight? You know me better than that.”

It was a damn good thing Eddie shoved Steve’s face into the pillow. The last thing they needed was having to explain to Wayne or Robin why he was nearly screaming as Eddie worked him over three times before they both passed out.

Wayne still gave them a knowing look the next morning and Robin rolled her eyes on her way out the door.

It could’ve been the slight limp to Steve’s walk.

Or maybe it was the ring Eddie had moved to his ring finger this morning.

“Mama! Dada!” Mia squealed from her high chair as they both prepped breakfast for all of them.

“Yes, princess?” Eddie asked her.

“Luh!”

“Love you, too, honey,” Steve walked over to kiss the top of her head.

“Luh! Luh mama.”

“And what about me, huh?” Eddie asked as he brought her dry cereal and cut up bananas and strawberries to her.

“Luh dada!”

Eddie kissed the top of her head. “I love you most, princess.”

A house full of love was all Eddie had ever wanted for Mia, and for himself, and now he had it with Steve.

He didn’t need more than that.

[milfzatannaz]

Goth wardrobe advice

hiiiii baby bats!!!! I just wanted to write a lil post on how to start building a goth wardrobe! I started around 6 months ago and I’ve been very happy with the looks I’ve been able to create, and I thought to just write down how I was able to rlly curate my aesthetic! (though I will tack onto this post that goth is a music based subculture so you can be goth without fancy elaborate looks)

when it comes to shopping for clothes, my personal advice is buy individual pieces, not outfits. meaning you buy clothes with the intention of mixing and matching which will save money and help you from over-buying. plus flexibility in your wardrobe allows for more fun and creativity!

the look

The first step to creating your style is to envision what kind of look you want to go for. goth style pulls from so many different sources! Trad goths from the 80s evolved from punk, and subsequent iterations of the style have Victorian, glam, etc sentiments. you can lean more romantic or more edgy, it’s up to you! the first step is to create a vision board. I love Pinterest personally. from there I typed “trad goth” “casual goth” “90s goth” and streamlined what I want to emulate. Don’t forget to watch goth rock music videos for style inspo- siouxsie is my personal icon and wore such interesting things, as well as Patricia Morrison! there’s also a level of gender nonconformity in goth that you can lean into. for instance, I’m femme but with a shaved head that really compliments my style and makes me feel really confident. It’s all so variable and individual. one of the original tenets of goth was the DIY aspect, which I think is super important. don’t be afraid to rip, cut, add safety pins, or paint on clothes you buy.

shopping

shopping for goth clothes has a lot of misconceptions. you really don’t need to ever buy from a fast fashion site like killstar or dollskill to get the looks you want. In fact most goths would prefer that you look elsewhere at first, bc a lot of us aren’t comfortable with the way our subculture has been commodified and commercialized. thrift stores have given me tons of luck. I typically prefer red white and blue, but goodwill can have good stuff too! (now, thrifting is more environmentally friendly, but that doesn’t mean that the company is ethical, like Salvation Army and goodwill. it’s a matter of choosing what’s right for your personal values.)

you can buy black clothes at pretty much any store which makes creating outfits somewhat easy. shop where you can afford it and what has good options for your body type and comfort level. I buy most of my stuff secondhand but I own a few things from H&M and Pacsun. pacsun has amazing corset tops that are affordable during their sales, and H&M has foundational pieces for okay quality. Try Depop too because I LOVE vintage clothes and you can find amazing things on the app, like dresses from the 90s and 70s blouses!

General wardrobe items

here’s what I bought when building my wardrobe:

- black trousers

- black skirts (midi AND mini. I prefer long skirts but I like to have choices)

- band tees for my fav goth bands

- a white button down blouse

- bustiers/corsets. I have incredible luck thrifting them but some I’ve gotten new. They’re sexy and fun on their own but even cooler layered over something!

- tights! fishnets are a must as well as solid sheer black and other fun patterns

- dresses in plaid or solid colors. you don’t have to JUST wear black, in fact siouxsie wore tons of color back in the day. black is just what we’re known for but maroon, purple and white are great too.

- long sleeve sheer tops. I have one black mesh and one black lace top. These can be worn over bras for an edgier look or under band tees to add texture and complexity.

- SHOES! I don’t buy secondhand shoes only bc I have wonky feet. My two main pairs are my doc martens Jadon platforms and Mary janes. Shoes are an entirely personal decision so do your research! A lot of ppl like Demonias but I haven’t swung for those yet.

- accessories, accessories, accessories. Perhaps what makes someone recognizably goth is our funky accessories. I have multiple belts, ranging from the standard black with grommets to a triple belt and a corset waist cincher. I buy my jewelry off Etsy or I buy them from flea markets, and I lean towards ankhs bc I’m a sandman nerd lmfao. (I own 3 ankh necklaces, a bracelet, and two pairs of earrings oops). I also have a few silver crucifixes and a spiked collar.

- outerwear. I’m a leather jacket aficionado and I hand painted a trad goth jacket, but other options are black long coats and blazers. vests are pretty great too.

final notes

I’m a baby bat myself so I, too am learning the ropes and exploring my style. remember that it’s about self expression and making yourself stand out, not uniformity. there are so many unique alternative subcultures and no one is stopping you from pulling from all sorts of inspo! Remember to have fun when shopping or getting dressed above all else!!!!

other great resources can be found on r/gothfashion and from goth YouTubers!