#vinyl pressing cost

[geddyqueer]

i am holding in my hands a record, an original pressing from 1985. REM's Fables of the Reconstruction, if you're curious. it has its original price tag on it: $3.95. if you worked minimum wage in 1985 and wanted to buy this album it would cost you about an hour and twenty minutes of work.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 8)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 7, Part 9

summary: You visit your ex. Miguel tags along.

warnings: mentions and description of depression. heavy angst, depictions of a toxic relationship. some suggestive language.

a/n: me when idk shit abt the american school system:

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 5.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you had forgotten; they were good.

Blank walls. Quiet corridors. The buzz of monitors and dull chatter sandwiched between blue vinyl and exit signs. You're not usually one to wander during your breaks; but you're going crazy looking at the same four walls. 

That hair net itches and the strap of a blue mask digs into skin as you make your way to a little courtyard. You sit out on a paltry bench overlooking concrete. The spindly remnants of a tree provides little cover from harsh elements. Wind whips through its branches, whistling and cool, as you rip off the mask and crumple it up in your pocket. A heavy sigh, and you feel some semblance of peace. Some quiet, before the morning comes. Before a rush of orders and shunting plastic trays up and down the wards. 

You screw your eyes shut to still the pounding at your temples. God. You're grateful for the job, really. And all things considered, it's not particularly taxing: coffee orders until the little cafe closes, meal prep for the morning rush, and sometimes you'd volunteer to take orders to bed bound patients. A whole lot of reheating and chopping and pressing buttons on the little machines. You don't quite get it, of course, but your lone coworker picks up the slack well enough. 

The older woman doesn't do much for company, anyways. Riveting conversation comes in the form of grunts and sharp elbows when you get in the way or round the corner of the kitchen. It has you counting down the seconds until your shift ends. 

And so you are grateful, well and truly. Jamie's not so sappy, anymore; doesn't partake in 'I love you's or grand gestures; but he is dependable. Safe. Willing to stick his neck out for you, at least. He'd gotten you a job at the hospital he has his placement at; with decent pay, and it slots in well with your other ones. He's taking you seriously – taking the news better than your parents. After telling him you wanted to go back to school, you're not met with thinly veiled disbelief, or lips pressed together with pity. He'd nodded, rather simply. Didn't make a fuss. No deep sighs, or heavy frowns. Okay , he had said. How can I help? 

It was the simplicity of his reaction that had bowled you over, almost bringing you to tears. To have someone believe in you, for once – wholeheartedly and without an onslaught of questions – felt like a deep breath of air after almost drowning. It felt like love ; and after desperate breaths, gasping and gulping and clawing at something to hold on to, you think you've found dry land. Something solid, something stable; a rough palm to pull you out of swirling depths. Because, unlike your family, and unlike half-hearted friends: Jamie was there. 

After heading back in to catch the morning rush, you're wiping down surfaces and sorting plastic trays onto a cart. Rote, repetitive, boring; you've settled into a routine that feels familiar. A couple more months, you reckon, and you'll be able to cover the costs for a second go at undergrad. You can shed the skin that seems to follow you at every family gathering, and the job interviews in between. Dropout – and when your Mom says it, it feels like a vile curse. Jamie calls it spiteful, and you opt for the democratic alternative; she's being dramatic - rather than cruel, rather than hurtful, rather than crass. You've heard enough, from all sorts: ‘too much pressure’, and ‘didn't think she had it in her, anyways’, are common phrases whispered in the background of phone calls home. 

Your chest aches with the weight of it – the kind of ache that seeps into skin, and lines a casket. Grief; mourning a person you could've been, and a person you never would be. For a while, it left you paralysed by the what ifs and the maybes; rotting in a quiet corner. Sinking into sofa cushions or caked onto the bed sheets like the mystery mould bloomed onto the plates in your room. But Jamie was there, more than anyone else. 

You'll wait for him in the corridor near the back of the service elevator, like you always do after a shift. You finish when he starts, early in the morning and rubbing away sleep from his eyes for ward rounds. You'll give him a kiss, and he'll give you a soft little smile to send you on your way. It almost makes the whole thing worth it. Almost. 

You give and you give and you give. Your boyfriend isn't quite the same; doesn't pour into you the way you'd like him to. But it works. It works because it has to; a thousand miles away from anything resembling home. You can't ask for more – the right words die in your throat. 

~~~

You've spent the past couple of hours in the library. Procrastinating for at least half of it, but you've managed to draft out a couple of essays and more or less reorganise your life. It's something you've been dreading for the past week or so; letting yourself get swept up in the monsoon that is your roommate. Miguel – sarcastic, saccharine-sweet Miguel – and his stupidly pretty lips, his pretty hands, and the pretty way he scrunches up his face like he's smelt something rotten. 

You're staring at a computer with a slew of books spread out on the adjacent desk. Your half-finished report seems to jumble together on the screen; a tangle of citations and filler words and shitty diagrams. It's not quite clicking , and it's making you want to tear out chunks of your hair in search of relief. A tale as old as time, one you can merely wallow in and fold yourself between its pages. Struggling at school; and this time it's a stats module you thought would be an easy couple of credits, that you definitely can’t afford to fail if you want to graduate early. 

You’ve picked a quiet spot on the third floor; a computer bay tucked into the corner. It overlooks a little window, cramped and claustrophobic and mystery mould in the corners of its grout. You've resorted to scanning the cracks with sharp eyes, light fingers on your neck to trace the leftovers of the morning. You can see it in the slightly mirrored surface of cloudy glass; you look like shit, you feel like shit, but you can still feel him. Lips on your neck, sucking soft hickies into the skin; and you can't help but like the way it looks on you. It's the same under your jeans, blooming like mauve and purple heather on a sprawling field.

You cross your legs, wincing at the dull ache that spreads. Sore, in that way that feels good; sending flashes of a morning with Miguel. Fingers knuckle deep in your cunt and the heat of him – cut and lean-lined – on top of you; it's impossible to ignore. Condensation drips from the panes, pooling in its corner and you swipe a finger in it, lazily. Again, you're reminded of him, for the thousandth time in the past hour: shaking legs, fisting his cock, spraying fat globs of his cum onto your face and chest. 

With another glimpse of your reflection, you sigh. Deep and heavy, with the weight of half a decade of frustration, sexual or otherwise. You've never felt this good or had your needs satiated so wholly, so exorbitantly. It feels odd. You don't know where to put your hands, how to place your feet on the floor. Do you shout, do you scream? How do you tell all the poor bystanders that scatter the third floor: I'm sleeping with Miguel O'Hara! A walking red flag with cheekbones that could cut glass! He wants me, and I want–

Your phone rings. The noise catches you off guard, and has you stumbling to press accept. 

"Hey," Miguel's voice sounds tinny in the speakers, and so you press it to your ears. 

"Y-Yeah?" You steel yourself, batting away daydreams of your legs wrapped around his middle – too horny for your own good, clearly. 

"I'm outside, chula. " He stops talking. The quiet ticking of an indicator becomes the only sign of life, before he says, "In that parking bay by the–" 

"I know, I know. Give me 5 minutes." You rush to pack up, clicking off the monitor and haphazardly shoving your notes into your bag. Not everything fits, and you give up trying to cram that textbook in. 

A beat passes before you realise he's still on the phone. Quiet, but still there. 

"…I brought food, by the way." 

You only just manage to catch it, slotting the phone between your ear and shoulder. That makes you perk up. 

" Seriously? " You give him a small laugh. You think you can hear him smile through the phone. "Thank fucking God, I'm starving. But you weren't rushing, or anything, right? I mean, it's so soon after your session with… Sally, or–" 

You're bounding down two steps at a time, so eager to see him – to get food , actually – that you're careless going down the stairs.

"Sarah . " He breathes, and you make your way downstairs. 

It stops you in your tracks, for some reason. 

"Okay. Sarah ." You say it with finality, voice tight. "What did you end up doing anyways? At her place, you said?" 

"Pressure differentials. Modelling viscosity. It's not very interesting." He hums, shifting in his seat. "What about you? Did you get something done?" 

You take a beat too long to respond, and it comes out half-baked. 

"Loads, Mig."

He snorts. " Sure. "

" Fuck you. " You say it under your breath, ducking past the entrance, and into a side road.

And there Miguel is, car heaped onto part of the sidewalk. He's leaning back, lazy arm sticking out the car window, showing off muscle and pretty tan skin. It's getting cold, but he's cracked the car door ajar; donned in a well-fitting t-shirt and slack trousers. 

You're trying not to drool; and he makes it a little easier by flashing a shit-eating grin. 

Childishly, you stick your tongue out; wrenching the door open and slumping into the passenger side. You tuck your things by your feet, and it lands on the floor with a thump. 

"You can put your stuff in the back.. . " Miguel frowns.

" Can't. We need the space, remember?" 

To pick up the rest of your things left in your ex's apartment. You hope he can parse out the rest of that from a raised eyebrow. 

He sighs, tossing a brown bag of takeout onto your lap. He starts the car. "...I didn't think we were still doing that, to be honest."

He seems disappointed, eyes flitting this way and that as he reverses and pulls out. You must've hit your head at some point, because you're in heat – pressing sore legs together at the way he does it. One arm on the back of your headrest, sharp jaw jutting out as he looks back, and bottom lip hooked under his teeth; he's just concentrating, trying not to hit one of the cat-sized rodents that roam the streets this late at night, and he's still hot . 

"You promised ."

"I had my face between your thighs. Would've said anything if it meant I could have more."

You draw your lips in faux disgust – your heart's not in it, but it's enough to make him chuckle. 

"Fuck you."

He doesn't miss a beat, deadpanning, "...you'd like that."

Lips pursed, you ignore the way it twists your stomach into knots. Steadfast, you stare out at the window, watching the yellow lights of a bustling city pass you by. 

Miguel takes a different turning, one that'll take you across the city and away from your place. To Jamie's, most likely. You soften, taking a moment to look across at him. 

His eyes flit over, intense and almost a deep red in the neon and lights. It's barely a couple of seconds, but he knows, just like that. 

"Are you nervous?" He tests the waters, voice steady and non-committal. It's not an accusation; even though everything feels like one, lately. Not from him, though. Never from him. 

" No ." Your tone is betraying, and you both know it. He seems to pretend not to hear that tremor in your voice. 

"You'll be okay, sweetheart." He says it soft and low, not quite looking at you. 

"It's just… it's the first time I'm going to see him after–" Your voice crackles. "After everything."

"You'll be okay," He starts. It doesn't feel like an empty platitude when he says it: it feels genuine and full-bodied and sonorous, clanging around your head like the chime of church bells. "Probably not right away – it's going to hit you like a semi, first. And you'll feel like shit afterwards. But it won't last. You'll move on, and you'll be okay; because you have to be."

He drifts off somewhere far away when he says that last bit; and you're not too sure what he's talking about anymore. Regardless, you wrap his words around you, holding it to your chest like a little songbird in the cradle of a tree. 

You'll be okay. You have to be. 

It feels less solid when it's not Miguel saying it, you think. You don't tell him that, though, sinking into the seat instead. 

He doesn't let that silence sit for too long. Traffic creates a natural lull, and he reaches over to tap at the book in your lap – one of many different textbooks, the rest of which is lodged in your bag.

"You're taking a stats module, I assume."

You nod. 

"With Dr. Karev?" 

You sit up slightly. "...yeah, actually."

He hums. "You thought it would be an easy A, then." 

He's right, but it doesn't make it sting any less. You were hoping for simple math and data processing, and here you were: drowning in matrices and linear algorithms.

 "I thought it would be."

"Let me help you, then. I took one of his classes and he barely changes the syllabus. I could dig up my old notes, and–" 

"You want to tutor me ?" You splutter – but you don't mean to sound as shocked as you do. " Why? " 

"Why not?" He shrugs. 

"I… I don't have any money, or anything."

"M'not offering because I want money." He's nonchalant, inching towards the car up front. 

You squint. It's not adding up. "What's the catch?" 

"No catch, I swear. Is it so hard to believe I'm being nice?" 

Now, you feel guilty. "Sorry, Mig. I appreciate it, I really do–" 

"Sit on my face and we'll call it even."

He turns to you now, face flat but with a twinkle in his eye. The corners of his mouth are slightly upturned - amused. He thinks this is funny? 

You give him a light shove as the traffic starts to break up. He's riled you up, now, and you're much too annoyed to be nervous. 

"Eyes on the road, asshole." 

It's more bark than bite, and you settle into the seat, finally cracking open the paper bag. You munch on fries and it makes him laugh. Miguel swears he can see it: the hint of a gentle smile on your face. 

~~~

He pulls up to the apartment complex. Modest, close to the hospital; and you probably couldn't have afforded to live there without your ex. Jamie was lucky; his parents could foot the bill of moving out, and he had family that lived in the city. 

It feels odd to be on the outside looking in. The building's windows become snapshots into other people's lives. For some, it meant an early night, blinds drawn and lights off. From the parking lot, you can see the dim yellow of lights streaming through other apartments. Silhouettes flit past every now and then; the only sign of life. 

Jamie's apartment is on the top floor, the two windows on the far right. You crane your head out of the car window, to get a better look. The lights are on, with one window left slightly ajar. 

Miguel moves to get out, with shuffling that breaks the silence. You stop him with a hand on his arm. 

"No, no. I'm going up by myself."

He cocks his head to the side, ever so slightly. 

"...you sure? If you need help shifting boxes, I can–" 

"I'm good, Mig. I just needed the car."

It comes out snappier than you meant it to, already irritable. With that, you pop the door open with a thunk . You can't see it, but he frowns, watching you swish and sway towards the entrance. 

You trace familiar steps to Jamie's apartment. The door code hasn't changed, and so you buzz yourself in. This is something you can do quickly and efficiently, you've decided. In and out, and you don't have the energy for much else. Bracing at the door, you get ready to knock, hand curled into a fist. 

The door swings open before you get the chance. He's there; still in light blue scrubs and a name badge pinned to his chest. It's the first thing you see, trying not to look at his face. But it's like pulling teeth, you decide: less painful when it's quick and sharp. 

" Where's my –" 

" Your stuff's in the –" 

In a great clash of words, you finally look up at him. Where you're expecting some form of emotion – a flash of something, even for just a moment – Jamie is steadfast. Blank; blinking back sleep, if anything. You clamp down what feels like bile rising in your throat and push past him into the front room. 

"Is this how it's going to be?"

Head down, you grit a quiet, "Don't . "

It's just as you left it, to the point it's almost comical. The same pillows you'd bury yourself in after work, the patterned tea towel you'd bought on a whim. The bar stools in lieu of a proper dining table, and that great big desk he had insisted on carting to the living room for years . Bits and pieces of you, of your relationship, and he barely bats an eye. He'll use your mugs and sleep on your patterned sheets. 

It makes you sick .

You head to the second room. There's a stack of boxes, hastily stashed in the corner. There's still permanent marker on them from when you first moved in. Now, it houses the things you couldn't take with you the first time – everything you left behind. 

Sick, sick, sick . 

You take a moment to dig through the top box, that's clearly been moved. Knick-knacks, books, clothes and all the clutter you've acquired; and it reminds you of family, it reminds you of friends. 

Jamie leans by the doorway, looking on in silence. 

When you pick up a box, straining to lift it, he doesn't offer to help. He watches as you flounder, dragging it towards the door. 

You're huffing when he finally says something; something that's clearly been on his mind for a while, with the way he says it. 

"Are you seeing someone?" He's looking out of the window, gaze fixed on the car parked outside. Miguel's car. 

Your eyes widen. You don't quite trust yourself to speak.

You leave the box by the door. "Are you?“

He shrugs. "Don't have the time."

It's noncommittal and frustratingly blasé. He's not giving you much, and it's fucking with your head. This whole thing feels like a big joke – he wants to talk, and all he's doing is asking bullshit questions. Once upon a time, you would've stewed in it; sat with that question on your tongue and let it rot. 

"I don't understand." You croak. It hurts to say out loud, but you say it. That's the important part. "I don't know why you're doing this… why are you still doing this?"

"I don't like how we left things." He says it slow, like he's choosing his words carefully. 

You want to scream.

" So? " 

" So , I need some kind of closure. We've got unfinished business."

" Unfinished business? " You roll it around on your tongue, reeling at its bitter taste. It feels clinical and lifeless, yet again. 

And then… oh. It clicks. Looking at him, arms folded and leaning on a wall, he looks antsy and uncomfortable. Now, when forced to face you. 

" Closure. " Another word that tastes like shit. You give a watery laugh. "You feel guilty."

He doesn't say anything but his body language says enough. He shifts his weight side to side, unable to make eye contact. 

You don't bother to stick around for an answer, snatching up the box as best you can. Through the doors, and down the corridor. You stagger down the flight of stairs, gritting your teeth. It's heavy – you've packed as much as you can inside, trying to get this over quickly – and you make it to the first floor before it clatters onto the steps. 

You fold ; knees drawn to your chest and hands tight in your hair. Heart racing, chest pumping: you're trying not to get swept away by heavy emotions. The tide rises. You pump your legs around the swirling mass - barely staying afloat in deep, deep water. 

You'll be okay. 

You remember Miguel's words, gentle and sweet and kind. You remember the way he said it; firmly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of grace that you don't have to work for and doesn't need a performance. He believes in you, at least; thinks you're stronger than you have any right to be. And you think of him in the car: eager to help and reassure. You brushed him off. You were mean. 

Deep breath. 

Miguel's waiting for you, just outside those doors. Diligent and patient, saccharine-sweet Miguel. Getting up, you make your way down the stairs with that box. 

When he spots you, a pretty little thing in a hoodie and jeans, he leaps out of the car. 

"Hey, hey, easy… " 

"I'm good, Mig – " 

You're struggling with the box, and he eases it out of your hands without breaking a sweat. One hand on the boot of the car, the other holding up the heavy box effortlessly, and he gives you a quick once over. 

"...he didn't offer to help?" His face is scrunched up - disgusted by the looks of it - and all you can manage is a limp shrug. 

It doesn't take him long to figure it out. You're dejected; nervous, down-trodden, blue in every meaning of the word; losing a little bit of that shine you had started the day with. If he had to guess, and he knows you well enough he'd bet money on it, it was that ex of yours – stealing away that light in a burlap sack, a thief in the brilliance of bright sun. 

It makes him grind his teeth, eyes flicking up at the fourth floor window. 

"I could help." He offers, a hand on your shoulder. It's your favourite hoodie, he thinks, as he circles the soft fabric with his thumb. 

You purse your lips, thinking it over. 

"It'll be quicker, chula. "

That pushes you over the edge, and you finally nod. 

It must be a sight, knocking at the door with Miguel hot on your heels. After living with him for so long, you've forgotten how intimidating he can be when you first meet him; taller than Jamie, and mean-mugging the blonde with a deadly look. If you weren't so on edge it would make you laugh: you know your roommate is mostly harmless. 

Jamie doesn't, of course. He visibly bristles, looking you both up and down. 

"I just need some help with the boxes. This is my roommate, Miguel."

You turn to the man beside you.

" Miguel ," You say it softer. "This is Jamie."

Wordlessly, he stretches out a palm,

rough and broad and tan. Hesitant, the man in front of you takes it. 

"Hey, man." Jamie flashes you a strange look when he says it. 

Miguel doesn't answer. 

You lead him to the second room, divvying up the boxes as Jamie hovers at the doorway. It's surprisingly efficient: Miguel insists on taking the heaviest boxes, hauling them up onto his shoulders, before stacking them up at the door. You'll take the smaller stuff, and it seems everything will be done in far fewer trips than before. It's hard to say out loud, but you're grateful for his help – Miguel was right , for once. 

After the first trip, he's bounding back up the stairs for more. You've both made it into a game, with neither one of you having to explain the rules. He pinches your arm whilst you sift through boxes, and you stick your tongue out in response. Elbow deep in crap, and he manages to make it feel a little better. 

Jamie stews. Jamie festers. In a corner of what used to be your shared apartment, he pretends to tap at his phone, uninterested. You know him too well for that facade to stick. 

Miguel takes the last of the boxes down, and you're straggling behind, picking up the last few bits and pieces. You're left alone with your ex, for a brief moment. 

"You're fucking him." He says it quiet, in a whisper that sounds oh-so loud in that little room. Fucking. He spits it out, and makes the word feel cheap and dirty. 

You look up from across the room. Slowly, he traverses its width, gaze pinning you down like a bug under a microscope. 

He brings a hand to your chin, cupping the flesh tenderly. It's intimate and familiar, reminding you of better days. Something bubbles up in your stomach, sweet and innocent. That feeling doesn't last long. 

"You're fucking him." 

It's accusatory, spat out with a rueful smile pulling at his lips. His fingers brush over your throat and you squirm, pulling up the mouth of your hoodie. 

Those hickies, blossoming like flowers in the spring. They crackle across your skin like fallen leaves in autumn. 

"It's none of your fucking business."

"Of course you are. I can't believe you." He rolls his eyes, half-laughing. "I was going to apologise! I was planning to say sorry for the way I handled things and you had to rub it in my face."

" What ?" You croak. 

"You brought the guy you're fucking to our apartment!" He explodes. 

His lips flatten into a tight line.

" ...now it's our apartment? You kicked me out. You dumped me ." 

"Don't…. fuck , don't do that. Don't make me the bad guy, here. I gave you plenty of time to find a new place."

"Two. Weeks." You grit. "You gave me two weeks, asshole. You left me alone, and told me to fend for myself whilst you fucked off to your sister's." 

That fire dies down as he hesitates. "I… I would've let you stay longer. You know that, baby."

" No. No I don't know, 'cuz you don't tell me shit , anymore." You blink back hot tears. "I don't make as much money as you do, and my family can't support me like yours can."

"I would've–" 

"You didn't. " You swallow roughly. "You didn't. I don't even know what I did wrong ."

"No, no." He cradles your face with his hands, swiping at stray tears. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Now, you look up at him. With glistening eyes, and a heavily furrowed brown, it barely comes out as a whisper; red-raw and strained. 

"Then why don't you love me?"

He doesn't deny it. There isn't a scramble to reassure you; to pat your head and kiss away tears to show you how much he cares. Instead, he steps away guiltily. 

"I care about you, of course I do. Remember when you changed your major?" 

You nod. 

"I was there, wasn't I? I stayed up for hours talking you through it. And when you dropped out, I came over on the weekends and brought you groceries."

"I was there. I helped you through that funk , and helped you get that job for school. Every stupid little question, every depressive episode, all those moments where no-one else would help: I did. Even though I had other things going on in my life, I showed up. For you. It was enough, for a while."

Until it wasn't. He sighs. 

"I'm starting my residency next year… and you're still in school, right?”

“Yes, I am.” You say it simply, not able to say much more without breaking down.

“I'm happy for you, really - proud that you actually got that far. But we're going in different directions, and at different paces. It's easier now that we're not together.”

You bristle at his tone: still in school, actually got that far . It oozes pomp and a quiet kind of superiority. Easier now, like it was difficult before. 

“I didn't make that decision because I hate you, or because I don't care about you. I know you're angry.” He places his hands on your shoulders, and doesn't break eye contact. For the first time since you got here, you think he's finally showing emotion; quiet melancholy just below the surface. Up this close, you can see it: deepening bags under his eyes, sallow skin, and fine lines. Jaime looks tired. In fact, he seems exhausted .  

“I'm sorry that I made you feel that way. But that doesn't excuse the fact that you brought your fuck buddy here, when I just wanted to talk.”

It feels cruel. The way he looks at you, and the way his demeanour switches from the Jamie you knew before, to this .  

"I wanted to talk." You strain. " Months ago. After you broke up with me, and disappeared off the face of the planet. Every time I called, crying and panicking, it went straight to voicemail." 

You shake his hands off of you, stepping back. 

"Miguel's a friend… did you ever think of that? Maybe I just needed some help moving my things, Jamie. Maybe I don't have that many friends since they stopped talking to me because of you, Jamie. Maybe, there's not some devious plot to spite you."

You pick up the rest of your stuff, a little basket of trinkets and books. The very same books that he had told you to pack up; to make some space for his textbooks. 

"Get your head out of your ass. Don't call me. Don't text me. I'm done. "

You're already halfway out of the door. With that, you start to storm off; clattering into Miguel by the stairs. When your things spill out of your hands, you both drop to your knees in a scramble to pick them up. You're chewing the inside of your cheek so hard it draws blood, fumbling around. Miguel is more efficient, scooping up your belongings back into its box. 

You're drooping, only able to mutter a quiet thanks. On the way to his car, you're dejected. Miguel watches carefully, trailing behind. 

~~~

He doesn't know what to say. 

You've left him speechless before. Many times, in the span of your couple months together. Miguel recalls it in exasperated messages to Lyla; you're something else entirely. Frustrating, sometimes. Quick-witted. Perceptive. Thoughtful. A million and one words to describe you, and yet, it still doesn't paint the full picture. You are multi-faceted and brilliant in a way he's not sure he completely understands. 

[Sent: 22:33]

Can't explain it, Ly. 

[Sent: 22:33]

I'm going fucking crazy. 

[Received: 22:34]

ur being dramatic :p

[Received: 22:34]

think u just need to get laid 

[Sent: 22:34]

Fuck off. 

[Sent: 22:35]

I said I'm taking a break. Meant it. 

[Received: 22:37]

(image attached) 

[Received: 22:37]

got this at the party

[Received: 22:37]

ur staring, mig

[Sent: 22:38]

… 

[Received: 22:38]

that's my dress! told u I have great taste :)) 

[Received: 23:06]

miggyyy

[Received: 23:06]

stop ignoring me! its not fun anymore >:(

That was a while ago. Before anything serious happened between you both. And he's had the privilege of seeing you in many different ways; stressed, angry, beaming with joy. Bouncing off the walls after too much coffee, or crawling out of bed following a late night. He's seen your lips curve to form a delicious O as you writhe underneath him; he's seen you smile. He'd tattoo it onto his skin, if he could. 

Fuck . He's overthinking it. 

You've retired to your spot on the couch, and yes, he's staring. Tracing the slope of your jaw and the tilt of nose outlined by the glow of the TV. After getting back home late, he brushed off limp protests and took most of the boxes up himself. It sits in a pile by the dining table. You'll deal with it tomorrow, he supposes. 

Retreating behind your ratty blanket, you stare blankly at the screen. Glassy eyes, you've curled up to watch reruns late into the night. Can't sleep, you told him, as he hovered by the doorway. 

He should go to bed. It's nothing to do with him, really, and he shouldn't have overheard as much as he did. Miguel is curious but not nosy, and well-versed on the art of minding your business . So he shouldn't feel his heart splintering; creaking like the trunk of a felled tree; hacked into two by the way he sees you drowning. 

He sits by your side. Not too close, of course, he's wary of all the shit you've been through today; not wanting to make you feel more uncomfortable. 

He's reminded of a childhood holiday. Half a summer spent at a campsite, bounding through woodland and creeks somewhere up north. Gabi and him would disappear, forgoing the beaten paths for their own adventure. Miguel couldn't make friends the way his brother could, so he'd straggle behind; watching from afar as the other kids would climb trees or swim in quiet lakes. Reading by the banks, and he remembers a time someone had slipped under the water. Drowning, and it wasn't anything like the movies. It was quick, silent and deadly. Thrashing under choppy water, and then…

…nothing. Just quiet. 

He feels that panic rising now, watching you stay so eerily still. You've slipped under the waves, and he doesn't know what to say to pull you back out. 

Miguel isn't too good with words. He's not known for his warmth, or comforting presence. Sometimes, he thinks he wasn't built with that switch turned on in his head – and he certainly didn't learn the right words from his parents. And so, he gives you comfort the only way he knows how. He shows you. He takes care of you. 

You come to him. Like two parts of a whole, you slot together perfectly: your head on his shoulder, at first. You end up on his chest, curled up like a housecat; matching shaky breaths to his steady ones. He brings a hand to your shoulder, drawing lazy circles in the fabric to soothe you. 

With the dull chatter and gloom of the TV, you fall asleep. It takes Miguel a little longer, but he wraps his arms around you. He listens out for it: the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Steady, like a metronome, and it grounds him – drowning out the creak of gears. 

_

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[brokehorrorfan]

Vincent Price's spoken world album Witchcraft-Magic: An Adventure in Demonology will be reissued on vinyl for the first time in 50 years via Real Gone Music. Due out on September 6, it costs $39.

Originally released by Capitol Records in 1969, the 2xLP album features the horror legend giving a tutorial on the history and practice of the black arts.

it's pressed on clear vinyl with "Pumpkin" orange pigment swirl (pictured below). An indie record store variant, limited to 666, will be pressed in "Gates of Hell" black vinyl. It's housed in a gatefold jacket with a reproduction of the original eight-page booklet.

[talesofadragon]

𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬

Synopsis: The world was not created in colors to be lived seldom in white, black, or even gray. This is what Y/N believed, and she resolutely refuses to be told otherwise. But when a night at the city’s most prestigious nightclub triggers a series of misfortunate events, Y/N’s world of hues is thrown off balance, colliding with a stranger whose eyes may be blue but his world is a handful of shades too dark.  

Pairing: Mob Boss!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Mature scenes. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 4.2K

Chapter 3 - Star Command Blue | Varicolored Schemes Masterlist

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑 gifted half of the human race, Y/N was not the best judge of character. 

She didn’t believe the proverbs that insisted on the eyes being the windows of the soul. And she was not convinced that a circle of friends could reveal everything about someone's personality. Y/N just liked to observe—refraining from cementing any assumptions she had gathered during first encounters and preferring to see if her opinions could withstand the sands of time. 

But in times like this, she wished she had Yelena’s immaculate ability to read someone from the get-go. Because while Steve Rogers seemed kind, charming, and endearingly enigmatic, he might be more intimidating than Y/N thought. And he certainly seemed to be a lot richer and more important than she had imagined. 

“I feel like I’m sticking out like a sore thumb,” Y/N thought out loud. And while Sam had assured her that she was doing just fine, it was hard to take his words to heart when she was standing in the lobby of the immaculate, high-rise Stark Tower in her seafoam green pajamas. 

Sure, they were a classy pair that cost her forty bucks—and if she were a celebrity or some sort of influencer, she could possibly pass them as a stylistic choice—but she doubted that even her feigned confidence and the two bulky men on her side could make her pass for anyone but her ordinary self. 

“Believe me when I tell you that the concierge has seen worse than someone in their pajamas,” Bucky mumbled while reaching for the overnight bag in Y/N’s hand. He tucked it to his side, confidently striding toward the elevators. 

Y/N, on the other hand, cast a quick glance back at her car. Her poor Toyota Corolla was conspicuous in the sea of Porsches, Cadillacs, and Teslas. Even it looked dejected. She diverted her attention back to Sam when she heard him clear his throat. Maybe the eyes really are the windows of the soul, she pondered. Because while this man was a good six feet-something with a large frame and a set of hands that could strangle someone to death in an instant, his eyes were warm and earthly, grounding her to the present and making sure she didn’t lose herself to her thoughts. 

He motioned for Y/N to walk before him, and she promptly followed after Bucky. Like the building itself, the elevators were sublime and grand—maybe even larger than her own bedroom. As soon as the gilded doors opened, she was greeted with a spacious interior with intricate filigree patterns that went beyond the natural. Her eyes wandered, taking in the vinyl flooring and the framing mirrors, studying the implicit accents embellishing the corner of the elevator walls and the subtle details that sometimes go unnoticed. 

A serene yet evanescent sound infiltrated her senses, attributed to either Bucky or Sam pressing the button to Steve’s apartment. It was on the 40th floor, the last floor displayed on the panel. With great anticipation, Y/N stood between both boys, eagerly waiting for the elevator doors to glide open. And when they did, she expected to walk out into a mesmerizing hallway that mirrored the luxury and opulence of the multi-billion dollar building.

To her surprise, she was met with a door with an imperturbable aura—she doubted that even a grenade could make a dent in it. What was even more perplexing was the lack of a handle or a lock that left her wondering, how the hell does one open a door like this? Bucky seemed privy to the door’s secret, extending his hand toward the digital pad adjacent to the door. With a single thumb swipe, he unsealed the door, ushering everyone inside.

“Welcome home, Miss Y/L/N,” Sam announced, but it was hard to hear him when Y/N’s attention was drawn entirely to the apartment—scratch that. The penthouse—Bucky and Sam led her into. 

While Stark Tower was a vision of opulence with its crystal chandelier and gilded hallways, Steve’s abode was a vision. A luminous dream brought to life by the color palette the designer had chosen. 

Y/N was drawn into a dance of gradient blues that swayed with grace, an intricate choreography of light and dark that played across every surface. Star Command Blue blended perfectly with the white walls and silver furniture, which reflected a bridge between antiquity and modernity. 

Each canvas on the wall seemed to possess a voice of its own, tugging at her curiosity and unveiling a constellation of majesty and allure. And while the tower in which the penthouse was nestled was prolific and intimidating, Steve’s house radiated the warmth of a home. 

“This is,” Y/N started, too lost in this world of perfection to notice that Bucky had already settled her bag somewhere and was walking leisurely into the living room. “Beautiful.” 

“I’m glad you think that.” 

When this familiar yet unsuspected voice filtered through the air, Y/N whipped her head. Through the arch that separated the living room from the kitchen, she caught sight of someone fiddling with two mugs. 

“Steve?” 

“Evening, Y/N,” Steve smiled. “I’m glad you made it here safely.” 

“What are you doing here? Sam said you live upstate.” 

Steve sent Y/N a small smile, gesturing to one of the bar stools beneath the kitchen counter. She pulled it back and sat on it, watching as Steve reached for a jar of hot chocolate. “Marshmallows or whipped cream?” he asked so casually as if he was having a friend over, and they were getting ready to watch a movie. When he received no answer, he spoke again, “I’m not ignoring your question, doll. So, don’t ignore mine.” 

Yes, there was a command in his tone. One that was hard to miss. But the playfulness in his eyes and his casual demeanor made Y/N disregard it and answer. “Both. If it’s not too much trouble.” 

Steve nodded, sending a playful salute. The corner of Y/N’s lips curled, placidity overcoming her being. Her forearms rested on the marble surface, eyes focused on Steve’s effortless movements. 

Though dressed in pajamas of his own, cobalt blue to be precise, with the most delicate white stripes, his motion was no less graceful. He poured a couple of spoons of hot chocolate into a metal pot and placed it on the stove, giving Y/N an unobstructed view of his broad shoulders and handsome frame.

“I thought you didn’t use this apartment,” Y/N remarked. 

“That’s the second question. You haven’t even heard the answer to the first,” Steve quipped. 

“It’s a sentence. Laced with the words you’ve previously used.” 

“No. It’s a sentence laced with an underlying question,” Steve pointed out. He raised his index finger at Y/N, stopping her next words from tumbling out of her mouth. “Hold that thought,” he said. “Bucky. Sam. Where are the marshmallows?” 

“You mean Natasha’s marshmallows?” Sam walked into the room. He held Steve’s gaze as he plucked out a kiwi from the fruit ball, unaware of the curiosity that crossed over Y/N’s features. 

Steve hummed. Both he and Sam turned to Bucky, who stood by the wall with his hands in his pockets. “No.” 

“Don’t waste time, Bucky,” Steve huffed. “Y/N wants marshmallows with her hot chocolate.” 

“Alright, then. Sam, go buy some marshmallows.” 

Bucky's casual tone made it seem like he was unaware that it was past midnight and there were no 24/7 stores nearby, which is probably why Sam scoffed at his retort. “I don’t take orders from you, Buckaroo. But you take orders from him,” he stated matter-of-factly, pointing at Steve. “Give up Red’s marshmallows. Gentlemen don’t keep pretty dames like Miss Y/L/N waiting.” 

“Watch it,” came Steve’s sharp remark before Y/N could tell them that she didn’t mind having her hot chocolate without any marshmallows. And although Steve’s authoritative voice left a trail of goosebumps on Y/N’s skin, it did nothing to deter Sam. 

“What? I’m not being inappropriate. It’s not like I call her doll or something.” 

Steve leveled Sam with a glare, but this time, Y/N was the least bit fazed. If anything, she mirrored Bucky’s amused expression, watching the two men playfully bicker. 

“Are you trying to tell me something, Sam?” Steve’s eyebrow arched.

Sam smirked, “You’re smart, Rogers. You can figure it out.” 

Steve grumbled in response. Thankfully, the water started to boil, seeking the man’s attention. 

Y/N glanced at Sam, giving him a small smile. “You can call me by my first name, you know?” He lit up brighter than a Christmas tree, and from the way he straightened up and turned to his boss, Y/N knew he was gearing up to fire another playful remark. 

“Heard that, Stevie? Y/N’s okay with using her first name.” 

“Will you shut up, Sam?” Steve pointed out over the dulcet sound of Y/N’s laugh. “As for you, Bucky. Get me those damned marshmallows before I reassign Nat to Singapore.” 

That seemed to kick Bucky into action. He stepped away from the wall and strode into the center of the kitchen. There was no indication as to where he was heading to get those marshmallows, and something seemed to poke his brain because he swiftly turned around. “Close your eyes.” 

Sam and Steve’s voices overlapped, with the former arguing that they weren’t five and the latter insisting he wanted to sip his chocolate guilt-free without having to worry about pelting Bucky with the decorative pillows of his living room. 

Bucky didn’t have any of it. “If Nat finds out I showed you her secret stash, she’ll turn me into those feathery pillows of yours.”

“James, seriously!” 

Y/N turned to Steve with knitted brows. “James?” 

“That’s question three, doll,” Steve said. 

“It’s Y/N, Steve. Not doll,” Sam teased. “Should we teach you how to spell again?” 

“Bucky, get me those fucking—”

“Language.” 

“Goddamn it, Wilson,” Steve grumbled. Y/N was holding a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. For three intimidating men, they sure acted like children. “Bucky, get me those damned marshmallows before I turn Sam into one and roast him.” 

Needless to say, Bucky was like a tree. Unmoving, unyielding, rooted in place. Steve groaned again, turning off the stove. “This is stupid,” he voiced out. And yet, he closed his eyes afterward. Sam did the same. 

Amused, Y/N closed her eyes when Bucky’s voice echoed, “It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to.” 

“That’s favoritism,” Sam protested at the same time Steve remarked, “You’re a punk.” 

“Sorry, lads. But I don’t trust either of you with this.” 

When Bucky was sure both men were not peeking, which was utterly surprising, if Y/N might say. He set a course toward one of the lower kitchen cabinets. 

Surprisingly, despite his bulky frame and substantial muscle mass, he moved lightly on his feet—his shoes scarcely making a sound, even after taking three steps. His fingers eased the cabinet open, once again without a single noise.

It was filled with bowls and other objects like blenders and hand mixers, and Y/N was almost certain Bucky was going to magically pull the marshmallow bag out of one of them until he glanced at her with a wicked glint in his eyes and gently pressed the top of the cabinet. 

It opened, revealing a hidden compartment that made Y/N edge closer in her seat. Once Bucky got the marshmallow bag, he reached for a dessert bowl and placed a couple of them in it. 

Within a few seconds, he stashed the bag, closed the compartment and cabinet, and shoved the bowl in Steve’s hands. “You owe me.”

“Get out of here,” Steve grumbled. Bucky obeyed, not before waving at Y/N. Sam, on the other hand, was still in his seat. “You too.” 

“What? Am I not getting any hot chocolate? I drove her here.”  

“I pay you. Quite well, might I add.” 

With a hand on his heart and a sorrowful expression etched on his face, Sam expressed, “Money doesn't buy happiness. Hot chocolate on the—”

Steve pelted him with marshmallows, mumbling something about how late it was to be dealing with his shenanigans. Sam had managed to catch a white marshmallow in his hands and a blue one in his mouth. He dashed back into the living room, calling out for Bucky. 

“I’m sorry about them. They can be quite bothersome,” Steve said. He poured the hot chocolate into two mugs, adding the whipped cream and marshmallows to Y/N’s. 

“I think you’ve used the wrong word,” Y/N retaliated. The two had quenched her uneasiness, making her feel as if she had known the trio for a long time. 

“Careful, doll. Or I might start thinking you like them more than you like me.” 

“I never said I liked you.”

“Damn.” Steve feigned hurt, glancing down at the hot drinks. “Kinda makes me wish I was having whiskey instead. I thought we were closer than that, Y/N.” 

A hearty laugh escaped her lips, making all her earlier tension and queasiness dissipate. Gladly, Y/N accepted the drink. Her fingers were careful not to brush against Steve’s, knowing she didn’t want to contradict her earlier statement so easily. 

“Thank you.” 

“You're welcome.” Steve sat across from her on the marble countertop. He sipped his plain and mundane hot chocolate, watching her indulge in the whipped cream. “I hope you’re feeling more comfortable now.” 

The spoonful of whipped cream paused just before reaching her lips. Y/N nodded, a sheepish smile forming as she parted her lips to take a bite. “I really am sorry for bothering you.” 

“You’re not a bother, doll. I’m more than happy to accommodate you for as long as you need.” 

“Why, though? It’s not like you’re obligated to.” 

Steve surprisingly nicked one of the marshmallows in Y/N’s drink and dipped it in his own. Playfully, he caught her eyes and plucked the treat in his lips, licking them clean afterward. She wondered if this was her answer. 

“It’s… complicated. In a sense that it’s hard to articulate it without needing to filter my thoughts.” 

“Then, don’t filter them,” Y/N stated. “Undisguise your thoughts.” 

Steve’s eyes twinkled with mirth. He chuckled, letting his blue eyes fall to the counter. As his eyes rose again, the subtle hints of green within his blue irises became unmistakably apparent. Somehow, the clash of colors was too endearing for Y/N to ignore. 

"My father passed away while serving in the military, leaving my mother and me on our own. Being a single parent in Brooklyn, especially a single mother, was far from easy. Despite the challenges, I always admired my mother's strength. I looked up to women like her and people who faced adversity head-on. Life kept throwing obstacles our way, but she never gave up the fight. 

“I suppose what I'm getting at is that I feel a deep calling to help those in need, especially those who've been marginalized. Some, like Sam, joke about it as a 'savior complex.' Others tease me for trying to be 'Captain Righteous.' Call it what you will. For me, it's about having a strong sense of morality and wanting to aid those who've been treated unfairly by the world, however way I can.”

Steve’s answer caused Y/N to grapple with her own thoughts. How ironic, she had asked him to undisguise his when hers were meandering in her head, elusive and unbridled. After a moment of prolonged silence, Y/N tapped her nails against the mug, looking at Steve from beneath her lashes. 

“So, I gather it wasn’t so that you can sleep with me? Or is this a speech you give to all the girls you invite over after their electricity goes haywire?” 

She anxiously chewed on her lower lip, trying to gauge Steve’s reaction. He narrowed his eyes, and Y/N was scared that she messed up, but the hearty laugh that reverberated through the kitchen told her otherwise. 

“I’m sorry, doll. But you made it pretty clear that you don’t like me.” 

“Maybe not,” Y/N chortled. “But, I do admire your kindness. That’s twice you’ve helped me now without asking for anything in return. And you’ve made me feel safe on both occasions. So, thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, Y/N,” Steve smiled appreciatively. 

After a minute of silence, Y/N turned back to Steve, catching his attention. “You never answered my question.” 

“Which one?” 

“All of them.” 

“All three?” Steve teased, raising an eyebrow. 

Y/N rolled her eyes. “They were two, but I’ll bite since it’s disrespectful of the guest to contradict the host.” 

Steve snorted, shaking his head. “What was the first one?” 

“What are you doing here if you live upstate?” 

“I do live upstate, but I had this conference call tonight that needed my team to be there, so I ended up at the office. It's pretty close to Stark Tower.” 

“A meeting at midnight?” Y/N asked skeptically. 

“Ten in the evening,” Steve corrected. “With Singapore. It ran for two hours, and you calling me actually put an end to it. So, thank you for that.” 

You’re welcome, I guess? Y/N thought. But instead, what came out of her mouth was, “I thought you didn’t use this apartment, but Natasha has a hidden marshmallow stash?”

"She's not just good at hiding marshmallows. She's got this stealthy talent for hiding whatever we might need. The apartment serves its purpose during times like this—late meetings or emergencies. We don't use it a lot, maybe once or twice a month. Natasha's always on me to keep it stocked, but I usually ignore her advice and pay the price when she refuses to share her stash."

“Fair enough. And why did you call Bucky ‘James’?” 

“It’s his first name. Any more questions, doll?” 

“Just one,” Y/N said. “Who’s Natasha?” 

“My wife,” Steve replied without missing a beat. Y/N’s eyes widened dramatically, the color in them dissolving as her pupils dilated. She shifted in her seat, torn between leaving and staying. Steve’s unadulterated laughter fixed her in her place. “I didn’t peg you for someone who’s easily gullible. Natasha’s my assistant. The one you spoke to over the phone.” 

“You freaking asshole!”Y/N chastised. Her voice was barely audible, overwhelmed by Steve’s boisterous laugh. “It was bad enough I actually thought that woman was your wife when she answered the phone. Do you know how unnerving it was thinking I was going to be yelled at by a woman who’d think of me as a mistress?” 

Steve reclined, and if anything, laughed even heartier than before. His posture arched, revealing his neck and providing an unobstructed view of the prominent veins coursing across his skin.

“It would be anticlimactic if, after that earnest speech, I would turn out to be a liar.” 

Y/N shook her head. “You know? We’re here in your apartment, joking and sipping cold chocolate, and I realized we don’t know much about each other.” 

“Well then, Y/N. Let’s change that,” Steve smirked, placing both his forearms on the table. 

Y/N gnawed at the inside of her cheeks, looking down to hide her flushed face. Steve was now inches away from her face, not enough for their noses to touch, but enough for her to see the green sparkles in his eyes and catch the hint of amber in his perfume. 

“What’s your favorite color?” she voiced out. 

Steve did a double take as if he was shot in the chest. “Favorite color?” He sounded dejected. “Doll, that is a very anticlimactic question. I expected more from you.” 

“Hey! I think it’s important to have the answer to that question in one’s arsenal.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those lunatics that think they can have you all figured out from your favorite color, birthday, and shit.” 

“No,” Y/N chuckled. “It’s just… I think we spend years getting to know people, and yet, we can’t recall the smallest details about them. We’re just left with a general impression. But I happen to care about the details. Without them, everything would be lacking, and there would only be incomplete pictures.” 

It felt somewhat ridiculous to voice this aloud, especially in front of Steve. But even though Y/N braced herself for a bemused look or a sarcastic grin, she was taken aback to see Steve lost in contemplation, as if he were mulling over her words.

Tapping his fingers rhythmically on the countertop, he finally confessed, "Honestly, I've never given it much thought."

“Never?” 

“No. Guys don’t typically get asked what their favorite color is.” 

“Well, I’m asking you now.” Y/N mirrored his prior actions, leaning across the countertop. She grinned, looking expectantly at the man before her. “What’s your favorite color?” 

His response wasn't immediate. Instead, he took a moment, his gaze wandering as he considered. "It's blue."

Y/N pushed herself away from him, her face contorting into a grimace. “Really?” 

“What?” Steve shifted in his seat. “Is it that bad?” 

“No. It’s anticlimactic, though.”

This time, Steve almost fell out of his chair from the force of his own laughter. “You are so mean, doll. So mean! What’s your favorite color? Slytherin green?” 

"No!" Y/N shook her head. Even with the clock ticking closer to one in the morning, the genuine warmth in Steve's laughter radiated like the midday sun. "I don't really have a favorite color."

"Now, that’s anticlimactic."

"No, it's me embracing life's different shades instead of limiting myself to just one."

“So, if someone were to psychoanalyze you based on your favorite color—or lack thereof—would they diagnose you as a non-monogamous person, who prefers to indulge in all the shades of people life has to offer?

“Steve!” 

“Y/N.” 

“Now, who’s the mean one?” Y/N pouted playfully. Steve responded with a wide smile as he took charge, placing the empty cups in the dishwasher and exchanging them for water. "Thanks."

“You’re welcome. Now, it’s my turn to ask.” Steve paused, waiting for Y/N to nod. "Tell me, what's your profession?" Steve's question hung in the air.

Y/N's lips curved into a mischievous smirk as she lightly tapped her index finger against the exquisite crystal water cup. "Go on, take a guess."

With a nonchalant smile, Steve replied, "Well, I've narrowed it down to the top three options."

"Top three?" Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"You strike me as someone effortlessly elegant and beautiful. My best bets are fashion designer, model, or a sugar baby," he replied, his tone light.

"Steve, seriously?" Y/N exclaimed, her face hidden behind her hands as she fought to contain her bubbling laughter. Despite her efforts, Steve's infectious mirth resonated through the kitchen, tinting his cheeks a vibrant shade of red. "I'm not a sugar baby!"

“Damn, baby. I could’ve used some sugar,” Steve teased. Y/N was torn between the urge to nudge him playfully and the temptation to burst into laughter right in his face.

“I’m an interior designer,” Y/N answered earnestly. 

Steve’s blue-green eyes raked over her soft features, assessing her. His penetrative gaze made her squirm, though it was more welcoming than uncomfortable. “I think it suits you. Where do you work?”

“Potts Designs.” 

“The most elite design studio in North America. So, you’re beautiful, graceful, and intelligent.” 

“Stop.” A blush crept over Y/N’s cheeks, tinting them pink. Her lashes fluttered rapidly as if trying to hasten time before her eyes returned to meet Steve’s gaze at eye level. “What about you? What do you do for work?” 

The cheeky bastard wiggled his brows and adjusted his position. From that act alone, Y/N knew he was going to tease her before giving an answer. 

“Guess.” 

“Well.” She had leisurely stressed on the “l”, giving away that she had already suspected such an answer and was immensely entertaining it. “You strike me as someone annoyingly determined and sophisticated. My best bets are financial officer, real estate agent, or a member of the Illuminati," she lightheartedly responded. 

“Illuminati,” Steve barked, vehemently shaking his head. “I’m afraid that they’ve rejected my application a long time ago. I’m just not cool enough for them.”

“Well, it’s their loss,” Y/N joked. “What is it that you do then?” 

“I’m a businessman,” he answered. “I own a threat security company and a couple of other firms. I’m also an angel investor.” 

“Damn, angel.” Y/N fluttered her lashes, resting her hands near Steve’s, enough to touch the rings on his fingers. “Does that mean you’ll invest your time in me?” 

Steve almost choked on air, clutching his stomach as tears formed on the edge of his lashes. He wiped them away with his fingers. "Tell you what, help me plead my case to the Illuminati, and I'll gladly take you as my sugar baby."

“Lucky for you, angel face, women love a man with power. You got yourself a deal.”

She extended her hand, shaking Steve’s. They only looked serious for a minute before their expressions faltered, and they laughed as if they had known each other for years.

Series Taglist: @crazyunsexycool @patzammit @wintasssoldier @themrsroger @theroyalmanatee @panandinpain0 @spectre-posts @googie-jeon

One Decade Later... Sab has finally updated this series! We're finally kicking it up a notch with this chapter. I'm excited about what's coming next!! What do we think of Steve and the reader? I also want him to give her a new nickname based on the information he now has, what do you suggest?

[scribble-dribble-writes]

Plastic hearts - (16)

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Sometimes saving the world costs you your happiness

---

“It is odd if I say she was my mother?”, you asked him to which he shook his head.

“No.”, he pushed away another box towards the donations pile before opening the next one.

“People spend a lot of time fixated on the wrong people to own up to their roles that had been designated to them.”, he elaborated his observation as he ruffled through the contents, to pull out old vinyls.

“Do you ever miss it?”, you proded, curious to know what he thought.

“What?”, he questioned as he pulled out a disc to then walk towards an old record player.

“Having a normal upbringing or have a family.”, you replied.

“How can miss something I’ve never known.”, he responded as he clicked the disc in place to then align the needle.

“But I have wondered how it would have been like, to have a father. Would he have taken me horse riding?”, he questioned with a hint of fun in his voice as he held out his hand to you.

“He could have.”, you smiled as you took his hand.

“Although, now having known what a family is. I would like to have one with you.”, he said it quietly as though his desire was embarrassing.

You looped your arm around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“Please elaborate.”, you chuckled to which he clicked the play button and an old song began to play.

His hands came to rest on your waist as you slowly swayed, he leaned forward to place his forehead on yours.

“Moments like these, but in our own house.”, he spoke and you could feel his smile against your skin.

“I want to wake up next to you.”, he pulled away to catch your gaze.

“I want to come home from a day of work to the warmth of your arms.”, he furrowed his brows in wonder at the simplicity of life that was afforded here.

“I want to make you laugh and hold you close and –

There was a passionate conviction in his words but you placed a finger on his lips to then say,

“I would like that very much.”, you slowly reeled him in by the edges of his collar to place a quick kiss on his lips. He held you close as he breathed you in, this was a promise for the life that was to come.

But the needle scratched through the vinyl and the soft music turned into a screech. You broke away from his embrace in a sudden state of fear before you saw the cause but it didn’t do you much good.

The life Ken talked about sounded beautiful but also too good to be true.

Were you allowed to have those things?

To enjoy pleasanter evenings?

You stepped away from him to fix the record player when you knocked the picture frame that was set next to it. In an attempt to prevent it from breaking, you had caught it by reflex. But your fingers pressed down hard on the glass and it in turn cut your hand.

You dropped the picture, one of Melissa in the kitchen and heard it shatter. Ken was immediately by your side inspecting the wound but all you could feel was the tension, that something was going to go wrong. Your hands began to shake and he left the room to fish for the first aid kit based on your instructions.

You couldn’t bear to look at the cut, and before you could shift to find a cloth, Ken was back with a bandage and an antiseptic. He held up your hand confidently, as he used a fresh cloth to apply the antiseptic onto the wound. You winced and he moved quickly to tie a bandage around your hurt finger. But he didn’t step away, he could tell something was wrong.

He held your shaking hands within his as he waited for your eyes to meet his, once they did he rocked his head back in a gesture to ask what was wrong.

It was all you needed, for you to lean forward and bury your face in his chest. He was soft with you, rubbing your back as he asked what was wrong. To which you told him that you were scared.

“It's ok to be scared.”, he spoke near your ear.

“I know but it’s just… all too real.”, you held onto his shirt. His familiar scent washing away the anxiety.

“What if we can't save the world?”, you asked to which he clicked his tongue as though it was impossible but his face sobered when he noticed you were being sincere.

"What if it all goes wrong?", you looked up at him.

“It won’t.”, he reassured you as he hugged you and your silence meant you were easing into his arms. But the honest answer was, he was just as scared.

So instead of getting you to worry on his behalf too, he put on this display of cool confidence, that if he appeared strong, it could wipe away your nervousness.

“Do you want to take a break?”, he asked holding you gently by your shoulders.

You took a second to look at the mess around you, but the light shined through brightly into this room without having the curtains block it. Already it was as though you had made progress in the journey of putting to rest old memories. So you couldn’t quit now. There was only a final set of items to shift through.

But the other fear that began to settle in along with everything else was that the skates weren’t found yet. And you were afraid that in the worst case of events, you had lost it along the way.

“No, we’ll power through the rest.”, you said and he walked beside you to crouch down next to an unopened box.

He used the scissors to cut through the tape and within this box was yet another set of clothes.

You opened another one, when you caught a glimpse of him wearing an old top hat he had found amongst these things and began to speak to you as though he was a detective. He got down on his knees so he could meet your gaze and continued to interview you for the missing skates. Halfway through, you began to laugh and so did he as he broke character.

You pulled out the final box and he sat down next to you but your fit of laughter echoed between each other that when one contained it the other broke out into fits.

But as you toppled the contents of the last box without paying attention to what it held, a loud thud grabbed both your attention.

A black object laid before you and silence filled the room. He slowly took your hand because the only thing both of you could do was stare at it. The skates that began all this, the time to reconnect with him but also the one that was causing the world to end.

The levity of the moment was lost because now there was only one thing to do. The direction was clear but it was the unwillingness to take it that was common between you and him.

If you wore it, the life you knew here would come to an end. You peeled your eyes away from the faint glitter that sparkled on the now dead skates to catch the blue of his eyes that still held the crinkle of the laughter from a few seconds ago.

You didn’t want this to end and you were sure he was thinking the same.

---

Tags:

@imogen-skye @ateliefloresdaprimavera @meowkid1000 @jokersgrf @linacool13 @oh-kurva @dreamsarenicer @memospacexx @haleysucks00 @babyimjustken @tempobaekh @fallingwallsh @whatafreakingloser @lcversrockk @imonmyvigilanteshh @constellationscharts @eddiemunson4ever @freyafriggafrey @neptunelixir @iamruiningmylife @floralsightings @ynbutbetter @lazyboikat @mrharringtonsbae @spookyscellar @harleyquinn03041998 @haydensith @thatgirljas13 @weasleytwinscumslut @kensthetic @itstylersblog @papichulo120627 @lee-lee-23 @dazeglitter-blog @urmom24sworld @chaos-in-person @aremos @theoriginalwife000 @undercover-being-whack @puredreamagination @h-l-vlovesvintage @krazyk99 @agustdeeyaa @bluebear19 @wvndamaximilf @berlinswifey @suzirumas @faustlyaccused @rennydenny @paintmekala @leafyturtle @lafy-taffy @blossomingrose

[ghastigiggles]

Hi again! :3 I hope you're still open for drawing Pressure prompts cuz I think I got a few in mind now~

https://www.tumblr.com/ghastigiggles/758820297344417792/i-imagine-if-you-tickle-sebastian-by-the-tail-his?source=share

I really wanna see a part 2 to the above. There's about two different scenarios I thought up for this (you can pick either one). Either A) Audie quickly gauges from Fish Boy's reaction that his tail fin is a lot more sensitive than he might've admitted to it being, and they take full risk opportunity to tease him for it, tickling it more purposely. Or B) Do a reverse version where Seb is curiously examining Audie's features (mainly the thick blubbery skin & flesh around their abdomen) which ends up tickling them a lot~ Accidentally at first but then... ;-)

[ conceeeept ]

I ran out of drawing energy tonight but I genuinely did wanna build on this. Like I warned y'all earlier, this ended up just kind of being an exploratory piece than tickles, but they're still there if you squint.

Never ask me for anything again /nsrs /j

ouroboros

“You’re really pushing your luck.”

“2000 data and,” They pressed, “You can check mine out, too.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Liar.”

“... 3000.”

“2500.”

“Fine. But –”

“You call the shots. Wouldn’t have it any other way!”

So that, long and short, was how Audie ended up seated against the wall behind Sebastian’s tail, practically being crushed by the weight but not seeming to mind too much. Anyone else, and he might’ve actually finished the job – but the Assets were different from the Expendables, and he’d been patient enough until now to know they’d respect a firm no when he’d truly had enough.

Too sweet for their own good – but in this case, he couldn’t truly complain. He’d take their hand gently running across the length of his scales over scalpels and vinyl gloves any day. 

Not that it stopped him, of course. But still.

There was a mutual curiosity he was interested in exploring, at least passively. They’d both been subject to very similar experiments and changes, though the result was certainly wildly different between them. At least they had their legs, he mused somewhat bitterly, though he knew it still came at a cost.

“Your tail must be crazy strong,” They commented, applying a little pressure with the heel of their palm and just missing a knot in the muscle he hadn’t realized was there. He fought to swallow a groan at that, his fins twitching; “You’re built like a brick house under there.”

“It has its uses. Carries all the stock, after all.”

Sebastian turned his gaze upon the scattered straps and belts and supplies on the ground, silently bemoaning the process of re-attaching them all he’d have to go through once Audie’d had their fill. The asset themself giggled softly, giving his tail a gentle pat as they moved downwards.

“It’s cool! Yours is smoother than I thought it would be, too.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah! The way the light hits your scales, I thought it’d be more bumpy.”

He decided to withhold the fact that his scales would stiffen up underwater for now – had to keep some things a mystery, after all – and simply rolled his eyes, leaning a shoulder against the wall nearest to him and watching them with his arms crossed. Admittedly, it was a little endearing how fascinated they seemed to be. 

It was almost enough to distract him from how much he despised his new form.

Almost.

“Are you done yet, or…?”

“Do you want me to be done?”

They met his gaze evenly, and he could only huff in reply, the tip of his tail twitching in their hands. Yes, but no, was the honest answer – and fuck that. Regardless, Audie took his silence as ongoing permission, and continued onwards with their investigation.

More than once, their claws dragged in just such a way to prompt his tail to jerk – more than once, he’d choked on a snort and cast them a withering look that they either ignored or missed. The sensation was more annoying than anything, yet still sent nervous butterflies through his system.

And then their hands were on his fins, and his breath hitched – barely-perceptible, thank God, but still embarrassing. Their thumbs gently pressed down where the flesh of his fins met the scales of his tail, tapering into either texture, and that almost felt nice.

Their claws trailing over the delicate skin, however, was not something he could tolerate for long – and with a stifled snort, his tail jerked. Audie squeaked with annoyance as he smacked them in the face. An unintended attack, granted, but still…

Deserved.

“T-Time’s up, knock it off,” He chimed quickly, pulling his tail off of them entirely and willing his gills to relax where they’d flared up from the nerves. God, that would’ve sucked immensely. Audie pouted, but allowed him the opportunity to call it, standing up and stretching with a groan of their own. 

“Alright. My turn, then – how d’you wanna do this?”

It took a little thought and finagling, but the two of them settled for letting them sit on his tail and lean against his body, their back to his front. Their tail curled up between their legs like a pool toy, and they playfully drooped the fins over their own head before allowing him to take the limb in his hands.

Just like his, Sebastian could feel the muscle underneath – powerful and developed, though the joints themselves felt stiff as he manipulated the limb. Audie seemed to wince when he pressed down, and he grunted – concerned, against his better judgement.

“Doesn’t hurt,” They assured without further prompting; “I mean – it does, when the meds wear off, but it’s good for now. It’s just – the bone problem… My tail was grafted on.”

“Mm. That’s right… You mentioned.”

They hadn’t. But they overshared so much that they didn’t remember that. He, meanwhile, remembered reading their file. 

“Is it numb right now?”

“No… Soft touches don’t feel like much, with the painkillers n’ all.”

A bitter twinge of mild jealousy sprouted in Sebastian’s chest – at least they wouldn’t be having an embarrassing, dumb reaction – though he was quickly proven wrong when a bit of pressure applied on either side of their tail made it twitch and prompted a strangled noise from them.

“Uh?”

“Uh.”

A beat, and he snorted, tilting his head down at them as he let up on the squeeze.

“... You good?”

“Kinda? It felt like – you know when someone pinches that point at the back between your shoulders and neck?”

Well. It’d been literal decades, but – “Sure.”

“That - hhHAAH, hey!”

Sebastian chuckled to himself as he pressed down again, and Audie whined, pressing back against him as their tail jerked in his hand – woefully helpless, what with their size difference. With a second hand, he experimentally ran a claw of his own over their fin, pressing down just enough to prompt a soft squeal.

Audie’s back arched, and they kicked lightly at the new addition to their torment, shaking their head.

“Nonononono that’s so bad that’ssobadstop!”

“Geeze, you’re gonna break the sound barrier at this rate…”

He longed to push his own luck a little – but courtesy given was courtesy returned, at least, and Audie hadn’t done him wrong. So, begrudgingly, he relented, and Audie slid off him to plop on the ground, curling their tail around their body and holding it close. Sebastian craned his neck to grin down at them, amused.

“So much for not being sensitive, huh?”

“Shut it. As if I didn’t catch your reaction earlier.”

“... Touche. I won’t take advantage if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

That deal would, inevitably, break – but not before they helped him get all the belts and supplies back on. Hopefully. 

[philaet0s]

Celebrity/Social Media AU - Part 12

Previous Part: Part 11

Next Part: Part 13

So, what happened on August 4th? ;)

Simon

I’m not surprised when Baz approaches me and says he has something he wants to show me. He’s been eyeing me weirdly all day. I knew he was hiding something…

I follow him to his study. It’s one of the nicest rooms in our flat, and definitely the one I spend the least time in. He never truly forbade me from coming here, even when he’s away on tour, but everything about that room is so… Baz. It’s his place. It’d feel wrong intruding on it. 

Still, I always love having a chance to come inside it. One of the walls is completely covered by bookshelves, that are so full I’m surprised they still hold up. There are books piled on tops of other books everywhere, and yet, somehow, he still always has room for new ones, without ever getting rid of any of them. The wall that is opposite the door has a large window that lets in tons of natural light and that. On a summer evening such as this, the setting sun paints the room in golden hues.

Against the last wall, there is a vinyl shelf, as full as Baz’s bookshelf, and topped with a record player that cost a fortune. There’s also a desk, with a monitor, tower, and very good speakers. And Baz’s macbook. Because in spite of the other equipment, he remains faithful to the laptop that got him through uni. It’s his longest relationship, I might get jealous one day.

Obviously, all of Baz’s stuff is wonderful, and some people would probably delight in the selection of books and vinyls, but my favourite element in this room is absolutely none of that. It’s the couch in the middle of it. A gorgeous piece of furniture, in dark green velvet, and the most comfortable sofa ever. Baz knows how much I love it so he bought the same one for our living room, but somehow, it’s different.

Naturally, the first thing I do when coming inside the room is sprawl on the couch. It makes Baz smile.

“So,” I say. “What did you want to show me?”

“It’s on my computer,” he explains, as he bends over his desk chair to type something on the keyboard. “I’ve reworked the song I played for you on your birthday.”

I perk up.

“Oh? And we’re listening to it here, not at the studio?”

“I don’t feel like going all the way to the studio, if I’m honest. Don’t want to change out of my inside clothes,” he says with a chuckle.

I give him a long, appreciative look. His inside clothes are a simple t-shirt, too large for him, and an old pair of football shorts. I love when he wears his football shorts. They make his legs look even longer. They make his arse look phenomenal too but sadly the shirt hides that.

I get up from the couch and walk behind him until I can put my arms around his waist. I lean down to kiss his shoulder. 

“Fair. I don’t really want to leave the house either, to be honest.”

“We’re so boring. And lazy.”

“You’re on a world tour and I wake up at 3 every morning to go to work, we’re allowed to be a bit lazy.”

“Hm, you’re right. Ah, there it is.”

He clicks on a file named ‘Point of View (After Midnight Version)’. I hadn’t even asked the title of the song last time… 

He straightens his back, so I line my body up with his and press my cheek between his shoulder blades to hold him close. 

The beginning of the song is the same, I think. I’ve only heard it once over a month ago so I don’t remember it very well, but I’m not hearing anything particularly striking.

Until…

One of my hands flies up to my mouth. I gasp.

“Baz.”

His index finger is tapping on the desk. Not for the rhythm, this time. He’s nervous.

“I can’t believe… Fuck. That’s… so hot,” I whisper, as obscene sounds continue to play as background vocals for the chorus. It’s subtle, an echo, but it can definitely be heard. 

That has to be something he got from what he… recorded when we were at the studio. Jesus.

He pauses the song. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d like it or if you’d think it was… too much.”

I shake my head vigorously. He can’t see me but he must feel it.

“It’s not too much. I mean. It is. But in a good way. A really good way, darling. I… I love it,” I say, tightening my arms around him to let him know I’m truly not mad. 

My cheeks are burning. He used a recording of us fucking as background vocals for one of his songs. A song he wrote just for me. 

“We sound so… Do you still have the recording?”

He shifts in my arms to look at me. He’s cocking his damn eyebrow. He has no business looking hot like that.

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I want to listen to it.”

“You want to listen to…”

“Us fucking? Yes, Basilton, of course I do. You can’t be having all the fun.”

He laughs, softly, and oh God, that sound is just as good as those he put on his song.

“I still have it, yes.”

“Good.”

I let go of him and step back. I need a moment to cool down before he plays the recording. I’m not going to cool down with him in my arms. I rub my hands along the side of my thighs and take a breath. I can’t fucking believe him. How can he still surprise me?

“I found it. If you still want to…”

“Yes.”

When I look at him, I notice that he’s flushing. Embarrassment or arousal, I couldn’t say.

He presses play. I will myself to stay away from him, as tempting as it is to hold him again. 

I close my eyes and listen.

He forwards the recording. How many times did he listen to it to know when to forward it? When it starts playing again, I hear him. Familiar sounds that bring a smile to my lips. They sound different, though. The pitch of his voice is always a little different in recordings, and the sounds are at the same time more distant and more clear than when he’s making them live.

It’s also strange hearing Baz moaning when I’m standing in a middle of a room, fully clothed, and not in bed with him. Strange but not unpleasant. I can focus on it more. 

The strangest part, however, is hearing myself. That’s not something I usually focus on at all. It’s slightly embarrassing. I prefer the sounds Baz makes. They’re hotter. I wonder if he thinks the opposite. Hearing myself really does make me experience it from his ‘point of view’...

It’s a surprisingly long recording. If you’d asked me, then I probably would have told you I didn’t last more than 5 minutes –I hadn’t seen him in a while. After a bit, as enjoyable as it is, I get a little bored, so I open my eyes and look at Baz. That should keep me entertained for a minute.

His butt is on the edge of his desk but he’s not properly sitting down on it, his feet still firmly planted on the floor. His hands are holding the desk on either side of his body. His eyes are closed and his head low. It bobs as he listens to the recording. To us.

He’s hard.

Watching him is not nearly enough.

I close the distance between us. I know he’s heard me, but he doesn’t open his eyes. I slide my hands up his thighs until I can close my hands around his hips. I slot my body between his legs and pull him closer.

He opens his eyes. His pupils are wide.

“Simon,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry, so different from the loud, uncontrolled sounds he’s making on the recording.

“I want to hear you for real.”

[genericpuff]

Can’t wait for someone to make a copy of RS’s coveted “signature” stamp and just buy a few dozen books, stamp them, and sell them as “autographed” at a huge markup, and goofballs will buy them all.

I mean seriously, that stamp will be incredibly easy to copy if it’s not already been copied, it’s the polar opposite of exclusive or personal. Why anyone would pay $20 for that is beyond me but it proves that RS is a shrewd business person by any means necessary and will be richer than I ever will be. No wonder Hades is her idol.

No joke, there are pictures of Rachel using the stamp at SDCC and-

That stamp is literally just a standard one that you could order through any custom manufacturer. It's not a roller in any way, there's no unique cut they're working off of, it's just a round press stamp.

And it shows because this is the quality of the actual ink when it's on the paper-

Basically low grade printer ink on glossy paper. It's not gonna last at all, and it turned out exactly how I was expecting - there's too much solid color with too thin empty areas so the ink is bleeding into what's supposed to be 'white' (we deal with the same concepts in tattooing so I knew this was gonna happen as soon as I saw the stamp design).

Anyways so that's my long-winded way of saying that I took the stamp that was on Rachel's IG from her promotional posts, desaturated it, added a tone curve layer to adjust the sharpness/clarity, and threw it into VistaPrint. Just for science, and because I'm an asshole trying to prove a point.

Would literally only cost me $20-$30 for the stamp after shipping.

Now for obvious reasons I'm not saying anyone SHOULD do this, like... I'm showing you this for science but really, don't go making counterfeits because of this LOL This is really just to demonstrate how easy it would be for anyone to make a convincing replica, which is the unfortunate drawback to using stamps as your "signature" - and with a very low quality printer shop stamp to boot - because it makes it pretty easy to copy. Not to mention showing off the stamp design beforehand through social media means that people (like me, oop-) can rip it out of your image posts and reverse engineer it into something that can be uploaded and purchased. I get she wanted to make sure that people knew what they were getting, it would have been a HUGE piss off to go see her for a signature just to find out she was doing a stamp, but like... these are the risks that come with stamps.

Don't get me wrong, you can just as easily forge a signature, but it's a little harder to nail someone's personal signature vs. a stamp and you can usually find ways to make it more unique (like what Junji Ito did by giving out little doodles on each signature). It also doesn't help that that stamp is made so cheaply that a poorly done replica would probably be on the same level of quality as the authentic one. And of course she added insult to injury by deciding to sell ACTUAL HAND-SIGNED BOOKS WITH ONLY ONE BOOK THAT HAS ONE CRAPPY DOODLE INSIDE AT ONLY ONE SPECIFIC BOOKSTORE A WEEK AFTER SDCC WAS OVER THAT YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR EVEN IF IT MEANS YOU'RE GONNA HAVE AN EXTRA COPY OF A BOOK YOU ALREADY OWN-

sigh This isn't an uncommon thing to do, it's not unique to Rachel, but it gives me grifting gacha vibes and it feels like such a fuck you to the people who travelled all the way out to SDCC and paid for the ticket prices just to get a shitty printer ink stamp and then find out a week later after they've undoubtedly gone home that one bookstore in San Diego actually has hand-signed copies. I've seen Youtubers pull this kind of shit with vinyl printings and Youtooz figures and it's equally tacky.

If she had done it either with handwritten signatures or at the VERY least a better quality stamp design and higher quality ink, then yeah, it would be harder to make it seem legit for anyone who's not privy to creating things like lino cuts or using roller ink and thus make it a much more valuable collector's item. But the books at SDCC were literally made with a stamp that anyone can replicate for $20 and then the hand-signed ones were offered at only one bookstore after Rachel had already flown home. It feels so impersonal and cold to the audience that has supported her through all the bullshit she's pulled in the last year.

[copperbadge]

sam i'm not one for plugging commerce but the single thing about king arthur flour which makes me scoff are their so-called sale prices - until today. i'm looking at a tortilla press that is more than half off. you have any insight ? we're a bit in shock. an actual massive markdown

I'm guessing tortilla presses are bulky to store and heavy to ship and they're just trying to shift an overstock at this point :D I've noticed that King Arthur sales are almost always either like, "$10 off a purchase of $200" or free shipping on purchases over $75.

They do actually mark down their bakeware with relative frequency -- pans, tortilla presses, that kind of thing -- but they never advertise it, you just have to be looking for the thing and discover it's on sale.

Now, being fair to them, they're one of those companies that makes a quality product and doesn't visibly exploit their labor to do it; the company is employee-owned so they have an interest in employees being treated well. And I suspect they also want to deal plainly with their customers, so I think the fact they rarely have truly good sales is down to them also offering their products at a reasonable price the rest of the time -- unlike say, Old Navy, which is one of those places that always marks the clothes up and then always has them on sale. KA doesn't have sales because, like Trader Joe's, they also don't do extra markups.

I buy King Arthur because I do think they make a superior product for baking and I now have the disposable income to do so, and I just accept that buying a product that isn't the result of exploited labor costs more.

I do wish they sold 10-lb bags of their bread flour, though, or put the 5-lb packages in those cool vinyl pouches the other flours come in. My flour bin only holds about 6lbs of flour at a time so I've always got a random paper package in a ziplock bag floating around the kitchen. Might need to buy a bigger bin.

[goodlookingforagirl]

Speaking of vinyl records, I’ve downsized my vinyl collection by almost 50% these past few months, because I realized that I was buying stuff I didn’t even like that much in an attempt to seem “cool”. I started hanging out at local record stores last year and even worked at one for a couple of months earlier this year. I quit for a lot of reasons, but one factor was just how…performative I became? My coworkers knew so much about so many cool bands, and I started to feel embarrassed about the artists I liked. I bought records I didn’t even like that much to gain their approval. For example, I like The Velvet Underground enough to have some of their songs on my playlists, but not enough to spend $30 on a new pressing of theirs. But I did just that — twice — to look “hip” or whatever.

It didn’t help that my own taste wasn’t considered highbrow enough. I mentioned that I like Donovan and one of my coworkers called him a “sleepy hippie” and then told me about underground jazz instead. I occasionally mentioned Mike Nesmith to coworkers and customers but mostly got blank stares until I clarified, “He was in the Monkees,” and that was met with lukewarm approval (with the exception of one coworker who knew what was up, who I still consider a friend). I eventually stopped mentioning my favorite artists when I realized they weren’t impressive enough.

Music shouldn’t be about who’s cool and who’s not. You’re not better than someone because you like Frank Zappa and they like The Mamas and the Papas. But in my experience, vinyl culture is often all about bragging. It’s about who has the biggest collection, who has the original pressings, who likes the most obscure thing possible. And once I saw how I was falling into the trap, I took a huge step back. I still visit some record stores, but I don’t buy things “just because” anymore, and I don’t hang out at them much, either.

I don’t know why I wrote all this out…I guess it’s because most of my mutuals are into music, mostly classic rock like I am, and I just wanted to assure anyone who might’ve felt like I did. This isn’t a contest like many music bros make it out to be. You’re not lame for preferring CDs to vinyl records. You’re not lame if your favorite record cost $5 and isn’t a rare pressing. It’s okay if you only own 5 vinyls and don’t care about expanding your collection. You can love music and only be passionate about a handful of artists. You don’t have to perform a hobby for anyone.

Art shouldn’t be reduced to a collection of objects. It’s supposed to be loved for what it is. Spending $50 on a vinyl doesn’t mean you love that album more than the person who listens to it for free on YouTube.

That’s all. I just needed to get that out.

[stingandsnoutbindery]

Advent Anthology by @pacific-rimbaud

A Compilation of PR's one-shot entries for DHr Advent, years 2020-2022.

Fandom: Harry Potter

Relationship: Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger

Art by the wonderful @chestercompany

My binderary baby and second fanbinding project.

read below the cut for the process and other binding deets.

Quick Specs

20,015 words | 179 pages | Quarto (1/4 of Letter)

Technique: Flatback bradel Title & Body Font: Libre Baskerville (in various style emphasis)

Fics included:

Les Pelerins (10k; 2020 entry)

I'm Never Lonely When I'm With You (5k; 2021 entry)

On The Virtues of Inexhaustible Burning (5k; 2022 entry)

Pac is the type I could trust to write anything and I know I'll absolutely love. Her advent fics, in particular, I especially adore. The writing is very visceral and I will not admit how many times I've reread these.

On The Book

I had not intended to bind any book/s for @renegadepublishing's binderary because of my hectic schedule, however FOMO won over and this book was born. It was a relatively quick design and typeset (I really do better under pressure lol). I wish I could say the same for when I started the actual binding though. This is the 8th book I’ve bound and I had expected it to go relatively smoothly, but this book fought me every step of the way and I'll indulge in expressing my distress on this post.

First, the print place I go to messed up my typeset, thus me having to travel back home to use our old crappy inkjet (that took 3 hours to print). And because said printer is crappy, I had to use 100gsm short grain to minimize show-through, and well, you can imagine how stick straight the pages are. Second, I made the case too small (I worked on the book after a toxic 12 hour lab day and was not in the right state) and instead of redoing the covers, I re-trimmed and repainted the fore edge (at cost of my lovely margins ..wails). Third & last, the vinyl refused! to stick to the cover and I proper burnt the HTV as well as my finger on my iron. In the book's defense, it was my first time using leather paper and I forgot to test their chemistry.

On The Bind

Everything else went swimmingly, aforementioned shit aside. I tried not to make this book scream Christmas and leaned into a more subtle theme through color choices. I finally got to use this lovely red leather paper from Itoya, which my parents bought me during their trip in Japan. Many thanks to @celestial-sphere-press for helping me out with the shops to visit!

The design cover was made on Illustrator. The words are actually the fic prompts which I arranged in concentric circles, inspired by the arrangement of the advent candles in our local church from years back. I have no idea what paper my print place used, but it has some nice pulp to it.

As I said, I melted the HTV and certain parts refused to stick, so I peeled all of it off, except for the spine title (which miraculously stuck) and used my foil quill pen instead. I used an off-brand one and it's really good!

I also did this sort of strip across the edge which I learned is called a "river" as Nic @bindsbymunchkin called it. The side near the spine though, looked asymmetrically empty, so I added the foiling. And as this is an anthology, the punctuations was a design choice to convey the start and end and pauses in-between stories (and mostly because they just look fancy lol).

Like my last bind, the edges are gold which is comprised of an undercoat of diluted dark gray Sakura acrylic paint and many layers of Liquitex iridescent gold acrylic ink.

Endbands are made with alternating colors of cream, gray, and gold DMC cotton threads, however I'm learning I don't very much like how sewn endbands look on small flatbacks.

The endpapers are my fave. I had already tipped in plain cream cardstock but then I was like: this book needs MARBLED PAPER! so I ripped off the one I had stuck and replaced it. It's actually not real marbled paper HAHA. I sourced it from this site, printed it on some heavy paper, and oh my god I believe the universe really meant for me to find this pattern because it coincidentally matched the colors of the endbands!!

On The Typeset

I wanted to keep things cohesive but also give each story its own character. Libre Baskerville was a lovely typeface to do that on.

From left to right: Les Pelerins, I'm Never Lonely When I'm With You, On The Virtues of Inexhaustible Burning

For Les Pelerins, I wanted to mimic the silhouette of the establishments in Montmartre, hence the varying heights of the letters. If I wasn’t on a time crunch, I would’ve spent more time editing the headers but alas this is what we get. INLWIWY is more straightforward– a pinecone, which was a recurring theme in the story. And I think OTVOIB is my favorite. I drew tiny gold cracks onto the coal rock which is a significant element in the story. It still gives me that stomach flip whenever I reread it (iykyk).

[queensqueercourt]

not me whos been trying to ignore my desire of getting into mixtapes and physical media due to cost of entry getring tempted again

Ok, here's what you're gunna do. I want you to find whateva kind of clearance or thrift- whatever the hell store, go to the electronics section. you're gonna look and loot for some tape decks. they come in all sorta sizes and shapes, some are bigger than stacks a' bricks and some will fit right in yer hand. choose whatever fits your budget and space, just make sure it seems to work by plugging it into the wall and seeing if it rewinds and fast forwards but most importantly, has a mic or "input" port, that's the key. make sure it also comes with RCA connectors, aux cord adapters for said connectors, and speakers so you can listen to what you're putting on the mixtape. if you can't find it, go online, check wherever you want and there's even a site online that is selling em for less than 100 USD. Now once you get that in order, get yourself some cassettes, some blank ones. if you're looking for nothin fancy, Maxell UR has some pretty decent ones, they're 45 minutes on each side, and have all clear cases so customization is standard. however, if you want somethin on the fancier and more decorative side, duplication.ca is a great place for getting pre-loaded colorful cassettes, boxes, j cards, you get it. once you have everything needed, plug all the corresponding cords into the left and right, output is where the sound goes out, so plug that cord into the speakers, and input is how the sound goes in, so plug that into wherever, phone, computer, vinyl you get it. If it's a small, hand-sized cassette recorder, usually you don't need the RCA connectors, they already have an aux cord mic and a speaker. now insert the cassette, press pause on the deck, press record, and until you have your music ready, unpause and play the music so it's recorded on. Remember: physical media is key to the preservation of all media, whether it be songs unavailable online or that show you used to watch as a kid that you can't find nowadays. nothing should be tossed out and forgotten because of its inconvenience compared to current technologies.

[bloodybreakupscene]

-> 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒. 𝐏𝐓.𝟐

robin arellano x reader

-> you and robin are best friends (pt.2) (no finney)

-> struggled a little coming up w/ new scenarios 😒 but yas here's sum more moments with robin!!

you sat outside of the boy’s restroom waiting for robin to come out, something was off about him. you noticed that when, instead of rambling about what movie he saw recently, he didn’t speak, not one word left his lips. as he exited the bathroom you stared at the small cuts on his face, the bruises on his arms, the bandages on his hand, and the somber look on his face. silence enveloped the both of you as you walked towards your home.

robin threw himself on your couch and almost passed out until you walked out with a record player, you set it down gently on the table and inserted the vinyl disc onto the turntable. with the music drowning out his negative thoughts, robin finally drifted off to sleep. you watched as his eyes closed and the small breaths escaped his lips.

a few hours passed and robin finally woke up, a familiar scent filled his nose and he walked towards your kitchen as saw that you were cooking. (fav. dish) was something you always made when you actually felt like cooking. he sat down at the table that was supposed to be for you and your family, and put his head down. he almost fell back asleep but you setting a plate down in front of him kept him awake.

"here ya' go." you said, sending him a sympathetic glance towards the bruises on his face.

"thanks. love you." he mumbled before quickly eating the meal brought to him.

—

the two of you sat on the curb outside of your neighborhood, watching old cars speed past. probably one of those older teenagers; you thought, leaning your head on the hand that was resting on your knee. you saw a couple walking down the sidewalk and remembered something; a card you made robin.

"oh, i forgot but happy valentine's day." you said, handing him a poorly (but hand crafted) made valentine's day card with one dollar on the inside.

“thanks, wow, i feel kinda bad because i didn’t make anything for you. dude, give me like a day and i’ll make you something.” he promised, putting the card in his back pocket.

“it’s fine, i didn’t expect anything from you anyway.” you laughed.

“don’t even, next time i’ll get you something for sure.”

“sure.” you rolled your eyes.

—

"ROBIN! look it!" you shouted at him, running towards him as he was walking into school. he paused and looked at you, now walking, towards him.

"i finally got the walkman everyone's talking about!!" you cheered, now accompanying robin while moving throughout the school property.

“those cost like 200 bucks right? you did not pay for that yourself.”

“well duh, i paid half, and my parents paid half, it was a gift for my birthday.”

“how much cassettes you got?”

"i only have like four, so far."

after a bit of walking, the two of you find a nice secluded area to sit near. it was close to your first class but not his, his was on the other side of the school, but he didn't mind being late, it's not like the class was that far; he always told you.

you pulled out the cassette tapes you liked and put on of them into the walkman, you pressed the play button and gave robin one of the ear buds. ten minutes went by and you and him spent the whole morning time listening to music together. the bell rung notifying the start of first period.

"alright, robin let's go—." you paused, robin's head lied on your shoulder, clearly sleeping. light snores left his lips and you decided to not move, not leave him.

you both were in a secluded spot behind the school so the only staff that would see you would be nosy janitors or other people skipping. you leaned your head on robin's and switched out another one of your mixtapes. god this was such a hassel, i hope in the future i can just play songs instead of constantly having to switch; you thought.

[brokehorrorfan]

The soundtrack for Zombi - the international version of George A. Romero Dawn of the Dead - is available on vinyl from Mutant. The remastered score is composed by Goblin (Suspiria, Deep Red).

The album is pressed on 140-gram red vinyl. It's housed in a jacket featuring artwork by Greg Ruth and an insert with character cut-outs. Scheduled for release on June 14, it costs $40.

[lovestory]

i saw this yesterday and it really messed me up. i used to live near a JB HiFi (which is a huge appliance chain store that doesn't just sell vinyl, but is also probably the biggest vinyl retailer in australia btw) and remember when they first got speak now, red, debut, fearless and 1989 in store on vinyl in 2016. i went and bought speak now and red for $50 AUD each. that exact same pressing now costs double. reputation is $125 because it's more popular. how is it that we live in a world where once people enjoy things, we jack up the prices so much that no one can enjoy them in the same way? a bunch of people started collecting vinyl, so we literally doubled the price because we think people will still pay that much? you only get a few week window to buy vinyl or merchandise at an inflated, demand-based price before you have to pay resale prices. even with a t shirt on taylor's store. at the concert, i couldn't even get a fucking crewneck in my size without lining up all day. god, i just feel like my hobbies have been shit on by a bunch of hype. i've been priced out of the things that made my life joyful. i miss buying records, i miss not having to put aside hours in a day to probably miss out on concert tickets. but how can i justify paying $100 for something that would have cost $50 in 2021, and only costs that much because people like it a lot?

[shittypunkblog]

The haters theorizing that All Time Low are breaking up is sending me into giggles every time I see it. They're not breaking up. This is a slightly genius (and I use that term LIGHTLY) marketing ploy. It does look like a breakup post to those unknown. It's going to get not just fans talking but people who want to see their downfall. I have theories that I'll get to, but when they do announce something they're going to get a lot of views and conversations from other people than just fans. In this way, all press is good press. Logically thinking it's definitely NOT a breakup. Their latest reels saying how much they miss tour, plus announcing a Columbian show following the Brazilian shows. Not to mention Alex saying in the spotify wrapped shoutout "see you next year." You also don't tease a breakup and All Time Low Forever has been a thing since Ryman in May. This band doesn't have the brainpower to allude to something seven months in advance.

For what I think they're announcing, I've seen a lot of theories. Mainly a tour which I think is probably the most likely and branding it as All Time Low Forever Tour. Maybe their own eras tour but with each member hating an album I'm not sure that's happening. Would be happy to eat my words tho! I'm personally hoping it's a tour paired with something along the lines of Don't Panic: It's longer now but Tell Me I'm Alive edition. Alex has stated multiple times that there are more songs to TMIA. I would love if it's just a deluxe or part two album featuring the unreleased songs and variations like Calm Down. Didn't they have a poll about what songs we'd like to hear the acoustic versions of? They also played a few acoustic versions on tour so that theory holds a lot of water. I've also seen theories of it being a Greatest Hits album. With the value of All Time Low Forever this could have some weight but I think they should've done that this year for the band's 20th anniversary, but maybe it's delayed idk. Maybe they saw the success of Taylor Swift's re-recordings and thought to give it a go? Another theory is STD 3 but I don't think when Wembley livestream is still available and now the vinyl that that's what this is about. They've already kinda done that. From what I do know about this band I can safely assume it's going to cost me a lot of money and it's lucky I just started a new job.