#Corner Rack and Shelfs

[dropexusa]

LR437 Furinno (99557LC/BK) Turn-N-Tube 4-Tier Multipurpose Shelf Display Rack - Light Cherry/Black       

$29.00 (Price can be change)

 About this item

Simple stylish design comes in multiple color options, is functional and suitable for any room

Material: CARB compliant composite wood and PVC tubes

Sturdy on flat surface. Easy no hassle no tools 5-minutes assembly

Holds up to 15 lbs. per shelf. Product Dimension: 23.6(W) x 11.6(D) x 43.25(H) inches

There are no screws involved, thus it is totally safe to be a family project. Just turn the tube to connect the panels to form a storage shelf  

[lay-z]

sugar plum promises | 1

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x CURVY!FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; some physical descriptions of Reader; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers; hurt/comfort; eventual smut [Please mind the warnings for each part!]

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB × | [ SPP MASTERLIST ]

It’s Saturday, his first day off base since returning from a three month long deployment just the day before yesterday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly like no one ever has before while he’s minding his business and checking out the new flavours of instant Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you suddenly address him directly.

“Big lad like you needs a proper meal,” you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. “In my humble opinion.” You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, immediately checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a “Have a good day, love,” and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling in this moment as his body decides to act on autopilot, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, perhaps this time, Simon’s going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping that maybe, you’ll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

He follows you discreetly through the supermarket like a man on a never-ending mission, silently stalking like a cat in a mouse chase down the aisles. His eyes are locked on you like a heat-seeking missile, noting every move you make, watching how every step sways your curves in the right fashion, nearly causing him to run into a display rack at his momentary distraction.

He nearly growls when some random bloke blocks his path to you and to ask you a question on top of that. He doesn’t quite manage to pick up the words, but it’s enough for him to clench his jaw and tighten his grip on the abused instant noodles cup. A deep huff escapes from behind his balaclava, and he resumes his discreet surveillance as soon as the man saunters his merry way.

Simon watches as you throw a pack of biscuits into the cart, your body turned away from him, your back facing him while you lean over. His eyes land on your round, firm rear like a magnet drawn to the iron. He can almost see the way your muscles move under the jeans fabric—

His thoughts are rudely interrupted when an elderly woman approaches the same shelf, and he has to step into the next aisle and pretend to browse, stomach twisting as he loses visuals on you.

As the woman moves her squeaky cart on wheels down the lane, his eyes flicker nervously before he catches sight of you again, chest heaving with a sigh of relief as he sees you browsing the frozen goods section, and his fingers twitch around the plastic cup, itching to touch you, to grab your hips and grind himself against—he shakes his head with a low grunt, trying to rid himself of that thought. He's already painfully hard enough.

It’s wrong, Simon knows that. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t use his skills to basically stalk you for making a nice, yet throwaway remark in his direction, but he somehow can’t keep his eyes off your body, his gaze glued to your every move—until you obviously pick up on the surveillance.

You do notice him. He’s like a looming shadow sneaking after your own, and for a moment, you wonder if you should’ve just kept your mouth shut for once when you’d spotted him initially.

He’s built like a bloody tank, wearing a balaclava and matching gloves with a skeleton pattern. What the bloody hell were you thinking?

All bark, no bite. That’s what you were thinking, and Wonder if he’s as tough as he looks or if he crumbles like a fresh scone with a few buttery words—like many other “scary dog privilege” men before him.

Slowing your steps, you eventually come to a stop, heart thudding as you glance over your shoulder, only to see him a few feet away, staring right back at you in a way that’s as adorable as it is eerie.

Simon’s feet freeze on the spot, his gaze locking with yours across the freezer cabinets, eyes wide. He didn’t expect to be discovered so easily, and he stands there like a deer caught in the headlights of a Humvee with an RPG attached to it—that he hopes will shoot him on sight.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the fabric of the balaclava, his mind racing for an excuse, a reason, though he comes up with nothing. The seconds feel like hours as the two of you stare at each other, before he finally blurts out:

“I...” His voice is hoarse, a low grumble that betrays his own surprise.

Oh. You almost laugh out loud at the sight before you, though you manage to suppress it, lips pursing in amusement instead.

No bark, no bite, actually.

He looks like an awkward little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the secret candy drawer in the living room.

“Yes, you?” you ask teasingly, wanting him to continue, to stammer and try to come up with a proper yet easily punishable lie. Raising an eyebrow, you turn towards him fully, keeping one hand on the shopping cart while your other rests on the curve of your hip casually.

“Well?”

Simon’s brain short-circuits as he desperately tries to come up with a plausible excuse, but all his mind supplies is a loop of caught, caught, caught like a broken record while he merely stands there like a fish washed out on the shore. He clears his throat awkwardly and straightens up, attempting to look innocent.

“I... I was just... uh...” he stammers, his voice wavering as the words refuse to come out. He mentally curses his lack of social skills, the years of isolation making him stumble like some twonk.

“Just doing some shopping,” he eventually mutters gruffly, his eyes flitting away from your gaze for a moment before darting back, unable to resist another look. There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment.

You nod slowly. “Doing some shopping,” you repeat, amusement glinting in your eyes as you glance down at the single cup of instant Ramen he’s still clutching in his hands like a lifebuoy. “Right.”

You notice how utterly still he is; no shuffling, no fidgeting, broad chest barely moving as he breathes, dark eyes flickering the slightest bit whenever your gaze catches his.

He’s a different breed of man, that one, you muse.

Clicking your tongue, you shift on your feet. “You call that shopping?” You nod your chin at his hands. “Like I said, you need to be fed a proper meal, love. Is your wife out of town or something?”

Simon bristles at your comment, his shoulders tensing as your words hit a nerve, a bit too close to home. He glances down at the cup of Ramen in his hands, feeling a mixture of shame and stubbornness.

The truth is that he’s so bloody touch–and attention-starved that your simple words, your simple presence, make him feel flustered, his frayed nerves now on edge.

“I don't have a wife,” he mutters, words edged with a hint of bitterness. He knows he’s being judged, but there’s a baser, hidden part of him that simply revels in the attention, in the fact that someone as classy and obviously put-together as you, has noticed him at all.

“And I can feed myself just fine.” He adds dryly, raising the cup defiantly as if to prove a point.

You swallow another pleased smile as he confirms what you've expected while the word brat burns on the tip of your tongue at this display of attitude.

Glancing back at your full shopping cart, you lick your lips briefly in thought, pondering and weighing the risks before looking back at him. He hasn’t moved an inch, simply keeps observing like you’re the odd ball here.

Pulling on the shopping cart, you slowly start walking backwards towards him, approaching like someone would a strange street dog.

“Tell you what,” you say as soon as you’re an appropriate distance away from him, and it’s then that you notice how tall and broad he truly this is up close. “If you help me carry these groceries to my car, I’ll cook you a proper dinner tonight.”

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and bewildered by your audacity. He simply stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, grappling with the unexpected situation. You’re trying to coax him with a treat like one would do with an animal to gain its trust, and Simon is furious about the tiny part inside his brain that’s thrashing to jump on this opportunity.

“You... You’re serious,” he finally manages to sputter, his brain struggling to process that you, that a woman like you, a stranger, is actually proposing this to someone like him.

“Why would you do that?” His eyes narrow in suspicion, though beneath the hardness of his expression, there’s a hint of curiosity, a hint of longing for a chance at this offered piece of normalcy.

Sensing his—understandable—apprehension, you give a small shrug in return, finally offering him a tentative yet genuine smile.

“Because you look like you could use it, love.”

You let your eyes roam once more, looking him up and down from boot to mask, heart giving a curious flutter as your gaze locks with his; tawny eyes so dark, you know you could get lost in them if he lets you in.

Then you reach into your purse slung over your shoulder and you notice how his broad shoulders tense and how his fingers flex as if he’s bracing himself for an attack.

As your hand disappears into your purse, Simon’s defensive instincts kick in automatically, his muscles coiling tightly in anticipation. His sharp senses on high alert, he blinks, slightly taken aback but not surprised by his own reaction, though he can’t help it; years of experience and survival training already hard-wired into his responses.

But he relaxes incrementally, when he sees you withdrawing your hand—now holding a purple ball pen and small note pad, and the sudden burst of adrenaline fades to a steady thrum in his veins as fast as it came.

“I...” he begins, but the words feel caught in his throat, his mind suddenly blank.

Covering his little slip-up with your own feigned nonchalance, you start scribbling away on the first blank page of your notepad before ripping it out and holding it out for him to take, thus offering a different treat—secretly hoping he’ll like this one.

“My name,” you explain, deciding that it might not be as self-explanatory as it would be for any other man you’ve previously met, “and my phone number.”

When he eventually takes the slip of paper with due care, his eyes keep flickering between your hand and face as if still expecting you to pull a gun on him, until you take a polite step backwards.

“Call or text me for that meal if you change your mind,” you add confidently.

Simon’s gaze follows your hand warily, taking the note from you with a slow, measured movement, his gloved fingers feeling uncharacteristically clumsy and uncoordinated as he grabs it. He stares at the slip of paper in his hand for a moment, brows furrowing behind his balaclava as he takes in the sight of your phone number and name written in neat, cursive handwriting, reading the words slowly in an almost mechanical manner, committing them to memory as a precaution.

His fingers twitch involuntarily, and for a wild, fleeting moment, he wants to raise the paper to his nose and inhale the faint scent of your perfume that clings onto the paper. And then you take a step backward, giving him space, and he takes an unconscious step forward, like a puppet on a string, not wanting to put that space between you again while his eyes stay glued to yours with a touch of desperation.

You’re leaving the ball in his corner and he doesn’t know how what to think, how to act.

As you adjust the straps of your purse on your shoulder, you drink in his subtle reaction with a mixture of sympathy and glee.

“Alright then?”

Simon watches in awe as you readjust your purse like it’s the most interesting action he’s ever seen, and when he opens his mouth to respond, his thoughts tumble over each other like leaves in a breeze. A simple yeah or a sure would’ve been the logical answers, but none of this is logical to him right now.

“You’re not worried,” he observes, the words nearly sounding accusatory, “about having a stranger over for dinner?”

He almost wants to call you daft, reckless; giving a man like him your number and name, offering your kindness up so easily. Can’t you tell what kind of man he is? Don’t you know what he can do with the intel you’ve already provided him with so willingly?

Simon wants to reach out and shake you, but his fingers are trembling and his cock is still throbbing, still semi-hard in his pants—and he can’t quite tell which is worse.

There’s a long pause between you as you regard his question with a light crease between your eyebrows, and you catch yourself wondering again what this poor man could’ve possibly been through for him to be this bloody suspicious.

From your experience, almost every other man would’ve jumped on this opportunity already, presented on a silver plate. You’ve been flirting with him since you spotted him entering the supermarket. However, you can only admit to yourself that his cautious reactions are merely heightening your curiosity and the urge to unravel this beast of a man completely.

“Most people start out as strangers,” you answer eventually, gauging his next reaction carefully, “and usually one takes the initiative to get to know the other if they’re interested, you know?” You flash him a disarming smile. “This is me taking that initiative here, mister.”

He takes a step forward, invading your personal space, and the height difference between you two becomes more painfully (arousingly) clear. Simon towers over you, his body vibrating with suppressed tension while he looks down at you with a stare that usually has his rookies quiver in their boots—not you, though.

“And what if I’m not interested?” he responds too bluntly and not as playful as he intended to, his voice lowered, nearly growling at you. He’s picked up on how other men talk to women at pubs, has eavesdropped and heard how Soap and Gaz talk to the birds they end up taking back to the barracks, and yet he can’t quite get his own tone right.

He certainly doesn’t like the fact that you’re making his heart race, that you’ve piqued his curiosity without even trying. It feels unfamiliar, dangerous, and somehow, he finds himself craving more of it in the same heartbeat.

Tilting your head owlishly, you regard him with a half-puzzled, half-amused look.

“Then I'll go on my merry way, love,” you reply with a breathy chuckle that obviously leaves him feeling even more lost judging how his eyes widen. “And then we move on after having a basic human interaction at a supermarket. Life’s beautiful, innit?”

Something about the way you talk, with the casual pet name, ‘love’, thrown in every second sentence, or the way your laugh makes his skin prickle in some foreign, exciting way, drives him mad with primal want and the unfamiliar urge to keep you here with him, keep you talking.

But he also feels like a damn fool in this moment, and on top of that, his face feels so hot under his balaclava, too. You’re not reacting the way he expects you to, not at all, and it’s throwing him off-guard.

He clears his throat again. “You’ll just... move on,” he repeats incredulously, like it pains him to say the words. “Just like that.”

You shrug, flashing another smile. “I mean... yes. What else is there to do? I’m not running after a man who’s not interested in me. I’m too old for games like that.”

Simon’s eyes narrow again. The thought of you giving up so easily, leaving, not even giving him a second thought—it pisses him off, for some reason, because it’s making him desperate. How the bloody hell does Garrick make it sound so easy and suave every time?

“How old are you?” The words burst out without him meaning to, his tone still gruff and defensive.

You snort softly. He’s so bratty, so rude, it’s almost endearing for a man looking like him, and it pokes your curiosity, causing the urge to take care of him to blossom even more hotly behind your ribcage as you drink up the tension in his body and fatigue clinging behind his wary, bottomless gaze.

“Old enough to know what I want, love.” It’s a curt response that has the desired effect judging by the way his jaw ticks under his odd mask. You smile again as you put the pen and notepad back into your purse, turning halfway around to your shopping cart to signal your departure.

“Anyway... my ice cream is melting, so I’ll be heading to the cashier. Thanks for the chat. You have a good day now.”

Just like that.

Simon is reeling internally as you prepare to leave, and he can’t help but admire the subtle power you wield with the way you carry yourself and the nonchalance you display so bloody effortlessly. Suddenly, he is torn between letting you go and the fierce need for you to not walk away. His chest tightens and his fingers twitch, and he suddenly feels like a child lost in this bloody supermarket, scared of being abandoned again.

However, he swallows the plea festering on the tip of his tongue, the words asking you to wait, stay, and talk more. No, Simon falls back, clutching the bloody Ramen cup in one hand as he stares after you while you simply move on like you said you would, as if you didn’t just throw him off balance completely with this whole interaction.

When his other hand balls into a tight fist, he hears the crumpling of paper, and when he glances down at his open palm, his heart nearly drops with relief.

You’ve given him your number. He’s never gotten a girl’s number in his life.

It was real. It is real. Everything that just happened is real, and he wasn’t simply daydreaming it up this time.

His fingers close around that scrap of paper like a life line, his mind racing once more with possibilities, the scenarios, the what-ifs.

[eisho2024]

Kitchen Rack

2 Tiers Corner Plate Rack - Efficient Storage for Condiments and Cookware

Promotion:Special 30% Wholesale Discount

Material:Sturdy Metal Wire

Colour Options:Powder Spraying White or Black

Size:23 x 23 x 20.5CM

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Product Description:

Introducing our 2 Tiers Corner Plate Rack, a practical solution to enhance kitchen organisation and storage efficiency. With dimensions of 23 x 23 x 20.5CM, this rack is specially designed to fit into corner spaces, making the most of previously underutilised areas.

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Optimise the organisation of your kitchen with this versatile rack. You can declutter countertops and keep essential items within easy reach by utilising corner spaces. Its sturdy construction ensures long-lasting use while adding a modern touch to your kitchen decor.

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Stackable Kitchen Shelf - Foldable Cabinet Organizer for Tableware, Dishes, Cans, and Spices

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Wholesale Modern Space-Saving Design Kitchen Roll Holder Paper Towel Holder

Promotion:Special 30% Wholesale Discount

Material:Sturdy Metal Wire

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Size:14.5 x 14.5 x 36CM

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Elevate your kitchen organization with our Kitchen Roll Holder and Paper Towel Holder. Its sleek design, space-saving functionality, and compatibility with various paper towel sizes make it a practical and stylish addition to your kitchen essentials.

[thesweetestofdreams]

Homesick

poly!marauders roommate au! kinda shy reader and very caring boys

I said I would post and I did! what an absolutely crazy feat.

Your roommates were, well, interesting. They were nice, that you were sure of. They were nothing but helpful when you moved in, but there were just a few things you couldn't quite figure out. The biggest of them being where you fit in.

Sirius, Remus, and James seemed to be waiting for your next move. Would your routine match theirs? Would you keep your shoes by the front door? What day did you do laundry? They never got any clues to answer this question because frankly you were trying to make yourself as scarce as possible.

It felt like trying to wedge another book in a too full shelf. This was not for lack of trying on their end. They threw you a welcome party which consisted of James and Sirius getting a bit too tipsy while you sipped a drink in the corner of the couch. Their friends were nice too, of course they were. It was all just so, new and new often felt just like scary.

So now, as laughter drifted from the living room, it sharpened the solemn silence of your own room. Before you could second guess yourself you threw on your shoes and creaked the door open slowly.

"Sirius you can't do that, it's cheating," you heard Remus yell down the hall. The sound stood out in your right ear poking through the door. You'd never heard Remus yell before. Did he do that?

"What now?" James said with a shake of his head, he was walking down the hall past your room, that is he was walking until he saw you. "Hi," he said, smile wide, a warm invite already shining through his features. "Were we being too loud?" he asked brows quickly drawn together.

You felt frozen like a kid caught sneaking out past bedtime, which was an annoying feeling. "I was just heading out," you said, brave enough to open the door fully, joining him in the hall.

"Oh, well you're welcome to join if you'd like," James said, making his way towards the boisterous living room. You were slow to follow but upon seeing the full room a pit fell in your stomach.

It was an odd feeling to be a block of ice in a room with such warmth, an underlying buzz of happiness. You'd never felt so lonely surrounded by friends that were just out of arms reach. The odd one out, the grape that fell from the vine.

Before you could drown in your feelings the snap of a beer can brought you back. Sirius snapping his fingers in a matching sound urging James to share. That was another thing, your roommates didn't feel like any friends you'd had before. They were closer, more comfortable, sharing soft words in the kitchen and slow nights piling into the same room.

The red haired girl, Lily, if you remembered right, was the first to notice you. "Hi," she said face cracking into a smile with sharp corners and soft eyes.

Remus who was still arguing with Sirius quickly fizzled out and turned to you. "Was I being too loud?" he said with a slightly pained face. Why were they so worried about that. This was their home often times you felt like a mouse that hid in the walls only venturing out when it was quiet.

"No, just heading out." You shoved your hands in your pockets.

"You'll want a coat." Remus said looking out the window.

"Oh," you said, the sound hanging in the air. A coat. Had you unpacked that yet? Did you still have one?

"Borrow mine," James said pointing at the overflowing coat rack.

"Are you- you're sure?"

James was busy downing his drink. "He's sure," Sirius said for him. "If you must leave doll, I'd recommend now because I," he threw small colored bills onto the table, "am buying Park Place."

At this, Remus erupted again. "What? Alright, who said he could be banker because you are clearly cheating!"

Despite yourself, you laughed as you left the apartment. You were outside when it hit you that you had no reason to actually be out. You absolutely did not want your roommates to know you had no friends in the city, or that their ad online while it saved you financially left you stranded on a deserted island of your own making. It just always seemed easier that way to never really settle in.

To know people they had to know you back. That meant leaving pieces of yourself like glass in the ocean you never knew where it would end up, when it would come back to cut you.

You walked until James' coat felt made of mesh, until your hands were numb and your feet hurt. You weren't sure quite how long it had been but upon your return the apartment was much quieter, even the lights softer.

"There you are," Sirius said arms wide almost like a bow a garbage bag in one hand.

"Is she back?" you heard Remus call from one of the bedrooms.

"Yeah," Sirius called back.

"Did you have a nice time?" James said head peaking out from the kitchen. "Did you eat?" You noticed now he was wearing a kitchen apron.

"You all didn't have to stay up for me," you said rather confused. Were roommates supposed to be like this?

"We were cleaning," Sirius said emphasis on cleaning. He gave Remus a sharp eyed look as he came into the living room.

"We just wanted to make sure you got home safe," Remus said a hand on Sirius's shoulder soft and sliding down his arm. Sirius stuck his tongue out.

You got stuck on that word, home, it felt sticky in your mouth, somewhere between iimaginary and tangible.

"Did you eat?" James asked again. The three of them looked at you expectantly. It felt like you were see through, like they would see the lie floating up to your mouth, and for some inexplicable reason it wasn't the worst feeling.

"No," you confessed, met by a tsking sound from Sirius.

"What are you waiting for then?" James asked sounding ever like a mother.

As you hung up his coat you had the sneaking feeling that try as you might to be scarce, to not settle, the closeness the boys had, the comfortable taken care of feeling was inevitable in its spread. It seeped into your cold hands replacing them with a nice warmth that filled your chest and left you feeling more whole than you had in a long time.

[http-shield]

Bucky is high-key appalled by the lack of chivalry and politeness exhibited by the men of the twenty first century. Can't fathom that men ignore women on the train or bus who need seats, that doors aren't being opened for women, seats aren't being pulled out, space isn't made for women as they pass packs of men on the sidewalk. There are many things in this new age world that Bucky can't wrap his head around, but the disregard for women is something he'll never understand, so he opens doors for ladies if they are both going in the same building, vacates seats when there is a woman around in need of space. He can't help it, having grown up in a world entirely different to the one he is now. It is second nature and comes as quickly as breathing, but it stuns you a little the first time you get treated like that. You swoon at the fact Bucky holds the door for you, lets you pass before him, makes sure you walk on the safer side of the pavement, holds your hand when you cross the road, makes sure you get the food and drinks first, offers to drive and pay for date nights, the list is endless. Still, for once in your adult dating life, you don't question the sincerity of his words as they are backed up by actions.

"Did something happen to men while I was gone?" Bucky's confused voice floats down the hall of your apartment as he strides in, kicking his shoes off and placing them neatly on the rack by the bathroom door.

"What do you mean?" You look up from your spot on the couch, laptop sitting on your raised legs. "Like, did they go extinct and come back?"

Bucky reaches the living room and shucks off his jacket and gloves to hang over the chair before coming to the couch and plopping beside you. A soft kiss is pressed to your cheek, stubble grazing your skin as he mumbles a greeting before settling into the plush sofa.

"I mean, did they lose all manners?" he shakes his head in disbelief, hands splaying out in frustrated emphasis. "Do men not open doors for women? Or move out of the way for them on the side walk?"

You close the laptop and stow it away on the small shelf of the coffee table, no longer focusing on the information packets Tony had sent you early this morning.

"What happened?" You ask, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, enjoying how he melts into your touch.

"I just watched a bucnh'a men in suits practically push a woman out of the way to get through the door." he sighs, clearly exasperated at the lack of respect for other humans. "And then they didn't even hold the door for her! They just let it swing closed. How do they act on dates? I doubt they pay."

You hum, letting his rant continue.

"And I was on the line."

"Online." you correct gently, spiking his hair up with your fingers, the shorter strands finally obeying you.

"I was online," he rectifies. "and I saw this video of a woman talking about a man getting angry that she wasn't gonna go home with him after the first date."

"Please tell me that never happened to you." His attention shifts to you now, genuine distress simmering in his blue eyes, and when you don't answer, he becomes distraught.

"Doll, no," Bucky shakes his head as if you confessed to the murder of his beloved stuffed animal. "Come on, you gotta be joking."

"It was years ago! I was young and stupid and didn't know my worth." You shrug, obviously not as upset as your counterpart. “I've learnt my lesson. I know I am worth at least two dinners now." The joke falls flat as Bucky stares, not amused.

"It's a joke, Buck."

"I know, but I don't like it." He grumbles, folding his arms across his chest like a child. "Don't like that you were treated like that."

"Well, good thing I've got you now, huh?" you abandon his hair, stroking the back of your fingers over his stubbly cheek.

Bucky pouts. "Still don't like it. You deserved better."

You kiss his cheek, feeling his cheeks round as he smiles. "You're too good to me, Mr. Barnes." another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Even if we did sleep together on the first date."

"Hey! That wasn't the same. We knew each other before that." Bucky protests as you stand from the couch, walking to the kitchen to start on dinner. "At least I paid!"

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon doesn't remember the name of the woman who took his virginity. At this point, all these years later, he's not sure if he ever knew it. It was a chance encounter, quick and a little dirty but fun. Fine.

He'd been in the neighborhood pub, the one he escaped to when he didn't want to be at home, shooting pool. He wasn't that good at it, not then, but he practiced for something to do, and as he racked up the balls for a third round against himself, he apparently caught her eye.

A bit older than him, the woman was immediately forward and flirty, and it wasn't a secret, even as inexperienced as Simon was, as to what she wanted. His body must have felt some kind of desire with the way it reacted to her, blood rushing south as she slid her hands over him in the dim light of the nearly vacant bar, but when she invited him to her flat down the street, it wasn't lust that made him agree.

It was curiosity. He wondered what it would feel like to be wanted, even on a base level like this, and if it would fill up whatever hole that had been inside him for as long as he could remember.

And it did. A little.

He'd never even kissed a girl before, always too closed-off to get in any kind of position to do something like that, but that night, he kissed the woman from the pub, over and over again. He followed her movements, let her put her hands on him and place him where he needed to go, and it was something.

When their clothes came off, left in a haphazard heap around her cluttered living room, it was something more, and when she pushed him to the couch and sunk down onto him, the unfamiliar warmth almost overwhelming, for a second, it was everything.

He came too fast, and it was over too soon. That night, he slid back into his own bed, alone again. He couldn't tell if he felt better, knowing there was something he could do to soothe the ache in him, or if it was worse, having the relief for a moment then going back to nothing.

A few nights later, when the weekend hit and the pub was more crowded, he caught the eye of a pretty girl in the corner, shyly checking him out, and he got his answer.

For Simon, for years, it was better to have a little bit of comfort. Just a little bit, because he never saw a way that he could have more. A stranger from a bar, one from the grocery store that asks him to reach a high shelf and flirts a little too much ... he gets good at spotting whatever that first woman saw in him. The part of someone that's open to a quick, needy fuck.

He sees it in you. Clocks it straightaway, but he also sees something more.

It's in the way you pull back after he kisses you hard and deep, the only way he really knows how to kiss. He stops, thinking you've changed your mind, but you're still there, still close, with such a soft look in your eyes now. You initiate the kiss this time, your hands sliding up to cup his cheeks, keeping him in place as you slow things down.

It's disorienting almost, he tries to shake it off, to get back to how this is supposed to go. He yanks your shirt off, and you let him, but when he moves his hands to roughly palm at your chest, you patiently pull them back down to rest on your waist.

"Slow down," you murmur, smiling up at him. "We've got a little time."

It's muscle memory for him at this point, finding a woman and bringing her to a quiet, private place, pushing into her, feeling the brief reprieve it brings. But with you, the rhythm is all off. It's somehow very good and very bad, all at the same time.

"Thought you wanted something here," he mutters, his meaning clear -- he thought you wanted him.

"I do," you answer. "I just don't want it to be over in five minutes. That ok?"

He's not sure what else to do, so he nods. And he slows down.

It's different, sex when you're not rushing towards the end-goal. His hands, used to action in moments like this, pushing and pulling and gripping, instead find yours. Your fingers intertwine, and you kiss him, almost lazily, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like he’s worth it.

To Simon, it feels strange and new, but not really -- like it's all happening through the filmy haze of a dream, where somehow he knows every step of this dance and yet nothing at all, all at once. To you, from the soft sounds slipping from your lips, it feels right.

When it's over, and you're both breathless and sated, he feels like that boy again -- the one who'd never been kissed and who didn't know where to put his hands. But now, he notices, one hand is still grasping yours and he squeezes it, just barely.

"That ok?" he asks softly, and he's not sure if he's speaking to you or to himself.

"Perfect," you tell him, turning your head to give him a smile.

He doesn't know if he'll ever see you again. But he's memorizing the weight of your hand in his, the steady sound of your breathing as it returns to normal. And even if he never has this with you again, in the moment he knows that he's capable of it. And that's enough.

[seoups]

ghost of you- k. nanami

kento struggles to live with your death and the ghost of your memories that remain in your apartment. cw: angst, mentions of death, the best piece of fiction i've ever written before, and nanami grieving song: ghost of you by 5sos

"THERE'S YOUR COFFEE CUP- THE LIPSTICK STAIN FADES WITH TIME."

The words fell like stones. Nanami didn’t react at first. He only stood there; his gaze fixed somewhat over Yuji’s shoulder. The only sound to be heard was the faint clench of his jaw. The boy’s voice cracked, spilling apologies and fragments of how it happened but Nanami couldn’t hear any of it. The meaning of the words- she’s gone- had already carved themselves into silence. Nanami left the school without saying another word, heading back towards your shared apartment.

The apartment was exactly as you’d left it. His coat hung beside yours on the rack, the sleeves limp and lifeless. Your new shoes that you hadn’t had a chance to wear out yet sat neatly by the door, the laces slightly undone, just as you’d always left them. The book you were reading lay open on the coffee table, it’s spine soft with wear. It was your favorite. You’d spent years trying to get your husband to read it. Nanami had always told you that he would read it when he had more down time. He never did.

Nanami stopped in the hallway, his eyes falling on the scarf you always wore in colder weather. It lay draped over the arm of the couch, forgotten in your rush to leave.

He remembered the day you bought it. You had dragged him to a night market on a whim, despite him protesting, saying he needed to prepare for an upcoming mission.  You spotted the crimson scarf at a stall, wrapping it around your neck in a clumsy attempt to barter with the vendor, the deep red fabric standing out against your dark coat.

Now, it lay there, untouched and lifeless, the vibrant red dulled by the fading light from the window.

The scarf was the first thing he allowed himself to touch. It’s fabric was still soft but frayed at the edges, torn from the way you’d twist it between your fingers when you were nervous. He’s watched you do it hundreds of times- before battles, during arguments, and before you told him you wanted to live with him.

He ran his thumb over the worn threads, his breath unsteady. The scarf still smelled of your perfume. But he knew that would fade too, given time.

He avoided bed that night, sitting at the kitchen table until he was too exhausted to bear the thought of sitting up.

The faint smell of jasmine still lingered from the tea you’d made before you left the apartment that morning. The mug remained untouched, your reddish lipstick staining the rim.

Nanami remembered how you’d always insisted on using that specific mug, despite it’s chipped rim, cradling it in your hands like it was a prized possession. You refused to buy a different mug even when Nanami teased you for still using it.

He stared at it now, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. He had meant to replace it. He should have.

His hand hovered over the mug, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, he stepped back, his movements stiff and deliberate, as if afraid to disturb your daily routine.

Sometimes Nanami felt like he was seeing a ghost. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or his wish for you to come back but every now and then, he’d round the corner and see you sitting on the couch and he’d think it was the end of his bad dream.

He smelled you too. Walking down the city streets, he’d often smell the recognizable light jasmine scene of your perfume.

All he wished for was to see you once more.

Dust gathered in the apartment. Nanami noticed it one evening as the sunlight filtered through the curtains, highlighting the dust layer that had settled over the shelves. Your job was dusting. He was still used to letting you do that aspect of the housework.

Atop a shelf sat the photograph of you that Nanami had taken on your honeymoon in paris. He stood there for a long moment, admiring the candid shot of you laughing, your head tilted toward him, your eyes bright with something he couldn’t place. You’d never liked that photo, confused why Nanami insisted on framing it. It was Nanami’s favorite photo of you. He kept a copy of it in his wallet.

His hand twitched at his side, wanting to reach for the frame. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took his handkerchief, wiping the dust from the photo before turning away, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound as he moved through the apartment.

Nights were the hardest for him. The bed was too large for just him and much too empty now, offering no comfort. He slept in hours at a time, his dreams plagued with fragments of you- your smile, the sound of your voice, the way you’d call his  nickname.

“Ken,” you smiled.

He would wake up reaching for you, only to be met with the cold sheets and a hollow ache of reality as he didn’t feel your frame wrapped around his.

Nanami avoided your things, letting them gather dust like arifacts in a museum. Your notebook, filled with scribbles of journal entries remained untouched on your bedside table.

Once, he caught himself reaching for the notebook, his fingers hovering above the cover as though it were something sacred. He ached to hear your thoughts, the stupid and the good ones. But the thought of seeing your handwriting was too much. He left it where it was, retreating back to the kitchen to try to busy himself with boring everyday tasks.

Nanami reached for your notebook one night, unable to stop himself. Both the cover and pages were worn, littered with your handwriting- small, slanted letters that trailed off into half-finished thoughts.

He flipped through it carefully, his breath catching when he found a pressed flower tucked between the pages. He remembered the day you’d put it there. It was from the park, one you had plucked during a quiet moment during your picnic date with him.

You had smiled then, tucking the flower into your notebook without a word. Now, the fragile petals crumbled at his touch, their edges browning with time.

Food tasted different now. Nanami, who had once savored the art of cooking no longer felt the warmth he once felt when he cooked for you, letting you be the first to try his new dish. Being the first one to taste his food felt wrong. He’d always let the sink have the first spoon now.

More often than not, he would set out two plates by instinct, only to stop midway, staring at the empty space at the dining table. The second plate was always returned to the cupboard after he’d finished his mechanical and tasteless meal.

Nanami refused to speak of you, not even when prompted. Not even when Gojo made an offhanded comment about how quiet his apartment was. He simply nodded, deflecting the conversation with a remark about needing to get back to work.

But the silence stretched on, growing heavier each day. He’d become just as quiet as the apartment. His colleagues noticed how he presented himself differently. He had always been quiet and reserved at work but now it felt like he was missing his soul. There was no meaning to his work any longer. He did everything mundanely. Afterall, the only reason he rushed to finish his work before was wanting to come home to you. And now, the thought of coming home was daunting.

His new routine had swallowed him whole. Missions came and went, each one lacking more and more meaning as he continued. Nanami fought like a man with nothing to lose- precise, unflinching, yet with extreme recklessness. He’d already lost everything when he lost you, the fire he once felt for sorcery being extinguished when the very thing is what had led to your demise.

Nanami stood in the doorway of the apartment, looking at your methodical mess as he did every day when he got home. The air was still, undisturbed by your absence. Yet the apartment was full of everything you’d left behind. He hadn’t dared to move anything.

He closed his eyes, the scarf clutched in his hands, drawing in a shaky breath. The crimson scarf smelled like nothing now. The smell of your perfume had faded just like the last traces of you.

a/n: this was so depressing to write but i loved every second of it

© 2024 SEOUPS do not plagiarize, steal, translate or repost my works on any platforms!

[schluttforschlatt]

Plush obsessive gf x Schlatt who punches them when she’s not around

nonnie nonnie nonnie why of course :3 my ex used to do that to my build a bears bc he thought it wasn’t fair they got to see my tits everyday lmaoooo

wc: 1.1k

warnings: slightly gendered pet names, brief mention of sex (literally one sentence)

You knew it was “childish” and seen as “immature for your age”, but stuffed animals had become a big part of your adult life. Visit an amusement park? You pick out the cutest mascot plush available. Waiting an unusually long time for a prescription refill at the pharmacy? You spin the metal rack in the corner until your name is called, leaving with your meds and a new stuffed friend. Oh, and you can’t forget all the plushies won via claw machines, too. They made you feel safe and comfortable, but most of all, they made you happy.

Your boyfriend, Schlatt, on the other hand, wasn’t as fond of them as you were. Sure, he had a few of his own around, but it was very clear that your collection was substantially larger than a spoiled child. Schlatt would gently tease you over the fact that your bed wasn’t even a bed at this point and was more so a giant shelf of toys.

However, as much as he liked to pick on you for it, he was equally as guilty for the growth of the collection. In fact, you were almost certain that it wouldn’t have gotten to this point if not for him. Every special occasion, celebration, or holiday he’d gift you another. Hell, maybe even two.

Despite his compliance and enabling, he would find it creepy or off putting to have hundreds of little beady eyes stare at him for hours on end. Truth be told, he hated spending more than ten minutes in your room because of it.

He had taken up the hobby of punching your plushies whenever you were out of the room, careful to put them back in their original place before you could notice any disturbance. He would even fluff them up afterwards if he delivered a particularly hard blow. And for the past few years, you had been none the wiser. It was all peaches and cream.

Until last week.

It’d been busy for the both of you, Schlatt having a few in person meetings in the city and you with midterms. There were never any hard feelings towards each other about times like this, instead when you finally got to spend time with each other in person, it was just extra special. Typically, he’d take you out to a nice dinner, have a couple drinks, then Uber back to whomever’s place was closest and stay the night. Most of the time it would be Schlatt’s, but this rare occasion was yours.

Dinner was phenomenal, a chic new rooftop place you mentioned wanting to try. The food was delicious and the drinks were strong. The two of you were a giggling mess on the ride back to your apartment, and barely made it through the door before tomfoolery was at play. The mess of shoes and clothes would be cleaned up in the morning, you noted mentally, finally falling asleep in each other's arms as the night grew long.

You awake the following morning with large arms wrapped around your middle and a heavy, drooling head resting above yours. You smiled, reveling in the peace moments like this brought you. You could stay like this for hours, if it hadn’t been for your bladder screaming at you. Sighing, you untangle yourself from Schlatt and make your way into the bathroom just down the hall. You use the time to brush your hair and teeth, not wanting to torture the poor man with your morning breath, before stopping in the kitchen to get water boiling for some morning tea.

You’re happy to see that Schlatt had (presumably) gotten up, as the trail of clothes from the night before had been cleaned up and shoes lined up together by the front door. After setting the kettle to boil, you tiptoe back towards your room, an attempt at trying to startle him.

However, instead of leaping onto him like you had planned, you let out a loud gasp watching the scene unfolding in front of you.

“What are you doing to Mr. Bear?!?” You yell, having caught your boyfriend using one of your beloved stuffies as a makeshift punching bag. As soon as he hears your voice, he goes stiff, arm raised ready to strike again. You run over and yank Mr. Bear away from him, cradling the teddy in your arms like a baby. “Why were you hurting him?” You pout, now facing Schlatt. His shoulders drop and his cheeks grow red, clearly embarrassed that he had been caught. He raises an arm to scratch the back of his neck.

“I- I was- I just- Toots…” he stutters, shifting his guilty eyes to the floor. “I don’t like his eyes, they’re scary.” The confession comes out meek, reflecting his now sheepish demeanor. You stare him down, crossing your arms the best you can with Mr. Bear still being held to your chest.

“You don’t have to be mean to him! He doesn’t get to pick his eyes!” Your statement earns a small laugh from Schlatt, knowing he was still in the doghouse regardless if he found this situation funny or not.

“I’m sorry, doll. You’re right, I shouldn’t have been mean to Mr. Bear.” Skeptical of his apology, you stand your ground, not moving until you got a more genuine response. He looked you up and down, then at Mr. Bear, then you up and down again before he spoke once more, reaching out and placing a hand on your wrist. “I know that this is just a silly little stuffed animal, but I am genuinely sorry for hurting him and your feelings. You mean the world to me, princess.” You relax a bit under his touch, willing to be forgiving this once. You knew Mr. Bear was just a stuffie, and although it made you upset to see him being bludgeoned, it ultimately wasn’t that big of a deal. However, if you could…

“If you’re really sorry then you’ll take me to Build-a-Bear to make it up to me.” You cracked a smile up at your lover, seeing the adoration he had for you present o behind his eyes. He let out a chuckle before moving his hand to caress your cheek, taking a step closer to you.

“Anything you want, doll,” he speaks softly, now pinching your cheek. “How could I say no when you’ve got a face like that?”

True to his word, he took you to the mall and spent a painfully long time (and amount of money) in Build-a-Bear with you, even building his own bear and dressing it like himself. He was a good sport through the whole process, even making an authentic wish when it got to the heart ceremony. And although he would never voice it out loud, at least not loud enough for outside ears to hear, his wish was to have you by his side, for better or for worse, for as long as you’ll have him.

[chadobi]

Okay, I’ve recently been in the mood to write something about 2012 Leo, so I hope you enjoy it! I’d also like to apologize for the number of tags in my previous posts, etc. I’m still learning how Tumblr works, so thank you for pointing it out, and I hope it’s all good now! Either way, happy reading!

“Letters Never Sent”

TMNT 2012 Leonardo x Reader

You never meant to find the box.

Really, you didn’t. You had just come by the lair to return Donnie’s tablet and maybe hang around long enough to catch Leo before patrol. It wasn’t like you planned to snoop. But when Donnie told you Leo was already out and that your missing notebook wasn’t in the lab, you figured—just maybe—it had ended up in Leo’s room.

The notebook was important. It had your training notes in it, doodles, even a few snippets of poetry you’d never admit to writing out loud. But mostly, it had Leo’s handwriting in the margins—small corrections, comments, thoughts from your shared training sessions. That made it special.

His room was tidy, of course. Not obsessively clean, but well-kept in that disciplined way that just was Leo. Sword racks on the walls. A few cracked comics under his bed. A blue blanket thrown over a floor cushion that doubled as a reading spot. The air smelled like old books, tea, and faintly of whatever incense Master Splinter had lit earlier that evening.

You were just about to give up when your hand brushed something behind a stack of old comic volumes on the shelf. A cardboard box—plain and unassuming—worn around the corners, like it had been opened and closed more times than it should have. You shifted it toward the light, blinking at the neat label stuck to the top:

To Y/N — letters never sent

Your chest constricted.

There was something achingly intimate about it, like finding someone’s diary with your name on the first page.

You hesitated.

Then you sat down on the edge of his bed and opened the box.

Inside were layers of folded paper—some crisp, some worn thin like they’d been read over and over. Napkins, corners of pizza boxes, torn notebook pages. One had a coffee ring stain on it. Another was sealed with blue painter’s tape. At the very bottom, there was a tiny origami turtle with your name carefully inked on its shell in looping, delicate script.

You stared. Then slowly, reverently, picked up the first letter and unfolded it.

Dear Y/N,

Mikey made a dumb joke again tonight—said Donnie should get a PhD in “Mutant Mayhem Management.”

Everyone laughed.

You laughed too.

I don’t think you noticed, but when you laugh, your nose scrunches slightly. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes it impossible to look away.

I laughed too, but not at the joke.

I was laughing because you were laughing. Because your happiness makes me feel like maybe the world’s not so broken.

— Leo

You swallowed hard.

This wasn’t just a silly crush. These weren’t random musings. These were confessions—tiny glimpses of thoughts he’d never shared, pieces of a quiet heart too cautious to speak them aloud.

Your fingers moved to the next one without even thinking.

Y/N,

We were on the roof last night. Do you remember? The wind was colder than usual. You asked if I was okay. I said I was fine.

I lied.

I’m not okay. I’m scared. I’ve fought mutants, robots, aliens… but this is scarier.

Because I think I’m falling for you, and I don’t know how to say it.

I’ve always been the leader. The protector. The strategist.

But around you… I just want to be Leo.

— Leonardo

You felt something warm and sharp and real press against your ribs. A ache, but not a painful one. You could almost hear his voice in the words—stiff, deliberate, like he had to wrestle each letter down on paper.

The next few letters spilled out more of the same: thoughts, memories, little daydreams. He noticed everything about you, from the way your hands moved when you spoke passionately, to how you always stood a little closer to him when the city felt unsafe. He wrote about the first time he saw you cry. About how he wished he knew what to say when you did. About how he practiced telling you how he felt but never got past “hey” before chickening out.

Some of them were funny. One was an apology for nearly knocking you over during sparring. One was a list of reasons why he wasn’t going to give you a letter, followed by a reason that simply said:

“Because you deserve someone better than me.”

That one made your throat tighten the most.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“Y/N?”

You froze.

Leonardo stood in the doorway—gear still on from patrol, blades strapped to his shell, blue mask untied and trailing behind his neck. His eyes went from you, to the box, and then to the open letters scattered across his bed like his heart had been spilled out in paper form.

His entire face went pale.

“I—” he stammered, voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

You looked up, eyes wide, caught in a mix of guilt and heartbreak. “I didn’t mean to. I was just looking for my notebook. Then I saw my name.”

Leo stepped forward slightly, then stopped like the floor might break beneath him. “You weren’t supposed to read those.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of one of the letters.

“Leo… these are beautiful.”

His mouth opened. Then closed. He looked away, jaw clenched.

“I was gonna throw them out,” he mumbled. “They were stupid.”

“They’re not.” You stood slowly, holding one of the letters like it might fall apart. “They’re… honest. They’re you. Why would you hide this from me?”

He gave a weak, humorless laugh. “Because I’m not good at this. I’m not like Mikey, or Raph, who can just… say things. I’m quiet. I freeze up. I overthink. I thought maybe if I wrote it down, I could get it out of my system.”

You stepped closer. “And did you?”

He looked at you. Really looked. And for the first time, his voice softened into something fragile.

“No. It just made me love you more.”

The world fell still.

Your chest rose with a trembling breath. Then you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out something small—creased, folded, worn with time.

A note.

You placed it in his hand. “Then you should probably read this.”

Leo unfolded the paper carefully, fingers trembling.

I think I love the way he carries the world like it’s nothing.

I think I love the way he speaks like silence is holy.

I think I love him.

But I’m scared he’ll never feel the same.

His hands dropped to his sides, eyes never leaving yours.

“You wrote this?”

You nodded.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Then slowly—awkwardly, cautiously—he reached for your hand. His was calloused, rough from years of training, but warm and steady.

“You mean it?” he asked softly.

“I do.”

His voice cracked again. “Then I’m really going to kiss you.”

You blinked. “Okay.”

It wasn’t perfect. Your noses bumped a little. His hand hesitated at your waist, unsure if it belonged there. But when his lips touched yours—soft, gentle, reverent—it was everything you’d imagined in the lines of those letters and more.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were scarlet. “That wasn’t too weird, was it?”

You smiled and rested your forehead against his. “No. It was you.”

_____________

Later that night, the box remained on his bed—still open, no longer a secret.

You lay together under his blanket, side-by-side, fingers intertwined as you read every letter together. He buried his face in your shoulder each time you teased him, and you kissed the tips of his fingers each time he got flustered.

Some letters made you laugh. Some made you cry. All of them made you love him more.

Eventually, you held the final one in your lap, the tiniest origami turtle of them all.

“What was this one for?” you asked, lifting it gently.

Leo rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “That was going to be the one I gave you… if I ever got brave enough.”

You smiled.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you whispered, leaning in.

“Why?”

“Because now I get to hear it from you.”

And he did. In whispers. In kisses. In quiet, unspoken promises sealed not with ink, but with arms around each other, breathing the same soft rhythm into the night.

[adelina-shifts]

i need you to know i just shifted

theres no calm way to explain this.

it freaked me out.

as soon as i realized.

i wasn't excited i was fucking terrified.

now, the thing is, i saw this video on youtube, and there was this one method i thought i would try out.

basically, all i did was tell myself i was going to shift to a reality just like my current one, only my curtains are going to be pink.

i was in and out of sleep or whatever (i don't remember) but there was a flash of light and then my eyes shot open because a siren passed by me. they were police sirens–now this shit pulled me out of whatever dream/sleep thing was going on and i was pissed, but then i glanced at my bookshelves.

of course, first i looked at my curtains–were they pink? no, but when my eyes landed on my bookshelves (for reference i have 3 directly at the foot of my bed, with a little walk space in the middle.

there was something off, first i thought the last one look way skinnier than the first two, so that was freaking me out, i was trying to calm myself down (it took a while). i wear glasses, so looking at the shelves, i thought it was because it was dark and i couldn't see that they were wobbly, like, the corners were blurry (if that makes sense).

eventually i grabbed my phone and turned on the flash to get a better look. the bookshelf looked so weird, in fact my entire room just felt off. theres a space between the shelves for aesthetic purposes, but the last one is bigger because theres an outlet there.

i stepped in between the shelves and nearly shat myself, because there was a graduation lay with money attached to it. i was sure i had spent all the money on the lay when we got it (it was only $3 but still).

this is when i knew that i wasn't here–i was there. i went to explore the rest of the house, looking for anything that looked different. there wasn't much else–just one thing, my shoes.

i have a pair of hightop converse, typically they are shoved into a little shelf beneath the television, this time they were not and placed in the little rack near the door, alright acceptable, could be mom just put them somewhere else.

but then, walking back to my room, mom dropped her phone and my heart dropped. she asked me to pick it up, so i did, she asks why it's so hot, i tell her the air is off–which is weird because only i turn it off.

i hear my brother, he's awake in his room so i ask him if he turned it off, he says no, i ask him again and to stop messing with me, seriously did he turn it off? he said no, now i'm like, wtf because i know for a fact that my mother had turned the air on and i didn't turn it off and she was asleep.

whatever, i turn it on and go to my room. i look around. no. no there's something off about this fucking room. this is not my room–i mean it is–but it's not.

alright, theres only one way to be certain, yeah? i say my safe word, though it's a phrase really.

i lay back on my bed and say it. i do not close my eyes, but the second it leave my mouth, i feel a surge of energy and then like that it's gone.

a second later a car vrooms past and i realize i hadn't heard a car pass, nor had the upstairs neighbors annoyed me with their ruckas, nor had i got a notification from my online friends, which i get nearly all night because we live in separate timezones.

so now i'm sitting there, trying to figure out if i'd heard anything other than my brother in his room before i said my safe-word/phrase. i didn't i didn't. i just didn't.

now again, you could say this was all a coincidence. but i have this thing with loud nosies. i can't stand them, they're annoying and the cars that go back and forth throughout the night/day never fail to irritate me, i've woken out of my sleep to go upstairs and bang on my neighbors door to keep it the fuck down.

i have turned off my notifications because i get irritated easily if they keep pining.

perhaps i was caught up in the moment, the thought process of "have i shifted, if i have what's different?" but i can't shake the feeling of that room, nor of the way i was awoken by the sound of a loud ass siren, only to hear nothing else after that besides my brother–then to start hearing things once again after i say my safe word/phrase.

please let me know what you think, for me, i believe i was terrified at first because my mother and my brother are people i know in this reality, the potential of seeing them in another for the first time threw me so off guard, i don't know why i didn't think they'd be there when i asked for everything to be exactly the same.

[springtyme]

𝐏𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐞𝐚 ♡

Spencer Reid x afab!reader || Masterlist || Spencer playlist

Started my period today and cramps are kicking my butt. So, nataurally, I wrote some Spencer fluff to self sooth.

word count: 1.3k

warning/tags: Reader is on her period. Mention of cramps and cravings. Spencer is a sweetheart. Roommate au. Mutual pining. Fluff and comfort. This hasn't been proofread, so apoligies for any potential mistakes <3

You groan slightly as you clutch a cushion to your chest, trying to settle on the couch while a wave of discomfort washes over you, the familiar twinge in your lower abdomen, an annoying reminder that your period has arrived. You wish you could curl up under a blanket and disappear for a few days, which life doesn’t usually allow for, but it is Friday, and there is at least that little sense of relief that the weekend is here.   

You take a deep breath, feeling the cushion’s softness against you, and allow yourself to sink a little deeper into the couch, squeezing your eyes shut for a brief moment as another cramp ebbs and flows. Just as you’re about to let yourself wallow in self-pity, you hear the gentle sound of keys jingling and the front door creaking open. 

The slight shuffle of footsteps makes your heart flutter. You can almost picture him as he hangs up his jacket next to yours. It’s not as if you officially have designated places on the coat hanger, but you both seem to instinctively know where your things go: your coats to the right, his jackets to the left, closest to the door. It’s a tiny ritual, an unspoken symmetry: your shoes on the top shelf of the shoe rack, Spencer’s on the bottom. It’s comforting, a bit like the hot fudge brownie you’re currently craving—soft, warm, and reassuring. 

Spencer’s voice calls out your name, breaking the quietness.  It’s soft, laced with a gentle curiosity that always makes you smile, even when you’re feeling less than great. “Are you home?”

“Yeah, I’m on the couch,” you reply, trying to keep your voice upbeat, even though your abdomen protests with another cramp.

“Hey,” Spencer’s voice is warm, as he peaks around the corner, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern as he takes in your curled-up form. The way he looks at you—soft brown eyes wide with worry as his gaze lands on you makes your heart swell, even amid the discomfort. 

“Hey,” you reply, forcing a smile. You could use some comfort right about now, but you’re not sure how to express it.

He tilts his head, his brow furrowing slightly as he takes you in. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you reply, sitting up a little straighter and attempting to brush off your discomfort. 

Spencer’s brow still knit with concern as though your discomfort is a puzzle he wants to solve. “Are you sure? You seem... a bit off.”

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether to open up. But there’s something in his eyes, a soft understanding that makes you feel safe. “It’s just— you know, girl stuff,” you mumble, biting your lip. His expression softens, instantly changing from concern to something gentler—perhaps empathy, or just the simple desire to help.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, lingering by the doorway, his hands fidgeting with his messenger bag. The sight of him, warm and slightly disheveled from his day at work, makes your heart swell. He looks so sincere, and it’s hard not to smile.

Falling in love with your roommate was the furthest thing from your mind when you moved to D.C. a year ago and desperately looked far and wide for a place to live. But here you are, head over heels for the man who has a penchant for collecting obscure facts, making the best cup of coffee you’ve ever tasted, and hanging his coat on the left side of the coat hanger while yours resides on the right. 

He hates how the water makes his hands pruny and how the leftover food on the plates turns mushy when doing the dishes, which you have never really minded, but he loves vacuuming, which you on the other hand have never been a big fan of, and he tolerates the tedious routine of folding laundry just about as much as you do. So you wash the dishes and he dries off the plates and silverware you hand him, and on Sundays you fold your laundry together and every time you do so, you fall a little harder.

“Maybe some chocolate?” you admit, a hint of shyness lacing your words. It’s a little embarrassing, even though it shouldn’t be, but it feels good to be honest with him.

“Chocolate it is,” he replies, a bright smile breaking through his initial concern. You can see the shift in his mood, and it warms you to know your simple request has lifted some of the weight on his shoulders.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the soft clattering of cabinets opening and closing as he rummages for something sweet for you as well as the familiar clinking of cups and the sound of water hitting the bottom of the kettle. The comforting rhythm of those sounds gives you a moment of solace, allowing you to let your body sink back into the couch, still cradling the cushion against your chest.

You close your eyes again, letting your mind wander as you anticipate the moment Spencer returns. You feel a little guilty for making him work for your comfort the second he comes back home from work, the drive from Quantico is long, but he was the one who asked. And the thought of him moving around the kitchen, searching for that little bit of happiness on your behalf, brings a flicker of warmth to your heart and you have every intention of sharing your chocolate with him.

A few minutes later, you hear his footsteps returning and he appears with your chocolate and a big cup of tea, the steam rising in delicate tendrils and the pleasant minty scent wafting through the air. “I read that peppermint tea can help with cramps. It’s supposed to be soothing.” He hands you the mug with delicate care, his fingers lingering on yours for just a moment longer than necessary. “Here you go,” he says, his tone casual, but you notice the way his eyes linger a little longer on you, taking in the moment. 

You take the cup from him, the warmth radiating through the ceramic and into your hands. You can’t help but feel a little bit like the luckiest person in the world as you settle back against the cushions. There’s something about the way he takes care of you—whether it’s tea for cramps or the endless supply of random trivia that somehow always manages to make you smile—that makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

“Thank you,” you whisper, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. He smiles back at you, the slight curve of his lips lighting up his face and making your heart race just a little faster.

“Of course,” he replies, settling down on the couch beside you, the cushions shifting slightly under his weight. He reaches for the remote, flicking through the options before finally deciding on an old classic—something light-hearted to distract you both.

You take a sip of the tea, letting the comforting warmth seep into your bones. As you do, Spencer settles on the couch next to you, his presence a comforting weight of safety and familiarity as you take the chocolate bar Spencer had brought from the kitchen, breaking it in two and handing the slightly bigger piece to Spencer. A little smile gracing your lips as you watch him take the piece from your hand, and even amid your discomfort, the gesture feels like a tiny moment of victory. The simple act of sharing, of being taken care of, fills your heart with a warmth that competes with the soothing tea in your hands.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. You steal a glance at him, the way his curls fall slightly over his forehead, the way he occasionally glances and smiles just for you—moments that seem small, yet mean everything.

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Random Facts: Caleb

Home Tour, Part 2:

Good morning, class lol. Let's kick the analysis series off with Caleb's living room! This post will also explain the "unknown area" listed in the first post and then very briefly touch on the kitchen.

The Living Room:

Throughout the main story, Caleb's living room is depicted in various stages of decoration. The first depiction (left) is shown when the protagonist first enters his home. They give us a panning shot of it, so I've stitched the image together as per usual. This initial depiction is what I used for my floorplan sketch. But over the timeline of the story, we're shown various additions (right) to the decoration:

An apple pillow

An animal pelt rug

Additional books on the upper shelf

A lamp on the lower shelf

A large poster

A round table with a dish of apples

For this next part to make sense, I'd like to point out the following living room details because they're very important:

The couch style, cushion configuration, and the lap desk attachment

The layout of the far right corner (diagonal step, window and curtains, "coat rack thing", fireplace, bench/seat)

The "coat rack thing" and pile of packages in the foreground

The "Unknown Area":

In the "Captive Bird" portion of the Main Story, we get two scenes that occur in the "Unknown Area": scene #1 (when Caleb is treating the protagonist's wounds) and scene #2 (when Caleb and the protagonist argue). Based on what we can see in both scenes, I'm 99% confident that it's just the living room shown from different angles/perspectives.

Remember those important living room details? If we look closely at the background throughout scene #1, we can see some of those same details. This suggests that we're seeing the farthest side of the original living room depiction. Here are those details captured in still shots:

At the end of scene #1, when Caleb walks across the room, we can see the following additional features of the room:

Windows and a slanted portion of the wall to the right of the TV table

The TV table with a TV, a lamp, and a rubix cube

Windows to the left of the TV table

In scene #2 (if you pause and screenshot a billion times), we can see an almost 360 view of the area. In addition to the new details this scene reveals, it also shows common elements shown in scene #1 and the initial living room depiction. We start facing the windows from the farthest side of the living room depiction. Then, as we turn left, we see the diagonal wall, the TV table, and the windows on the other side.

As we continue turning left (images ordered 1-4 below), we can see a hallway, stairs, another fireplace, another room, and "two seat" side of the couch. The configuration of the cushions and the lap desk attachment directly match the living room depiction. We can even see the pile of packages.

(Images below have been brightened for maximum visibility)

Theorized Floorplan:

So, after all of that detective work and taking the above analysis into account, here is my theorized floorplan for the living room.

Bonus Detail:

As a bonus detail, when Caleb says "I'm about to leave. It'd be nice if we had a meal together", he's pulling the protaganist towards that "other room". Based on that clue and other supporting evidence I'll cover in the next post, it seems to suggest the "other room" is actually the kitchen. Buuuuut we'll cover all that soon!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I can't believe that I just found one of my all-time favorite houses still on the market. I love this 1889 Gothic Victorian in Milwaukee, WI. 3bds, 2.5ba, 2,869 sq ft, $415k. It's been so lovingly cared for w/just the right dash of funkiness. It's perfect. Take a look at it, if you haven't seen it before, you're gonna fall in love with it.

Aren't the entrance doors and porch grand? And, they're in such good condition. Look at the original light fixture.

Perfect original railings, stick floor, and a cheery peachy wall color.

The sitting room has a lovely corner fireplace and pocket doors.

Isn't this amazing? There are rotating windows up there on the next floor. What a great 2 story living room with a soaring fireplace. And, that's a curved arch ceiling, too, with a medieval chandelier.

I love that they kept the original floors. This room could be another sitting room or whatever. It would make a fabulous plant room or art studio.

I love what they did with the kitchen. Look at how adorable it is. They made the baker's rack out of pipes, and the island is an industrial salvage piece. You can also see the way they made a bathroom sink, on the left.

LOVE the mismatched cabinets and the worn counter.

Look at the industrial piece that they fitted the ovens into. How cool is that? My favorite thing is the lighting- See what they did? Every fixture is subtly different, yet matching. I love this house so much, I could cry.

This home is soooo creative. Look at the tall cabinet next to the fridge, made from 2 different ones. And, the stove top has a wood counter and shelf around it.

Back door to the yard.

Here's that vintage powder room off the kitchen. Such creative elements and a pocket door.

They made this table with what looks like bricks or wooden blocks and topped it with a piece of glass. The owners are so clever, and this is a lovely dining room.

Check out the primary bedroom suite.

I don't know if they knocked the wall down to make a bath, or if it was an alcove, but I love how they made it look industrial, like an old gothic factory.

On this floor, they have a separate apt. with a bedroom, laundry and kitchen.

Recognize the rotating window from down in the sitting room?

Look at this big bath. They sure made the bathrooms spacious.

There's a finished attic with another bath.

Nice clean basement has potential and the heating unit looks new.

Lovely fenced in patio and gardens.

There's also a side garden. It's a lot of house for under $450k.

4,791 sq ft lot and there's a nice park nearby. The new Zillow listing didn't show the photos that I recalled, but I found them.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3402-W-Saint-Paul-Ave-Milwaukee-WI-53208/40470662_zpid/

[oofmybad]

Hey, pretty! I have a silly request if that's okay with you. I'm not sure if your requests are open at the moment, so please feel free to completely ignore this ❤️

I just saw this TikTok where a girl kept acting like she couldn't reach the top shelf or open a jar, so her wife would help her. But one day, she walks in and catches her literally lifting the entire couch to vacuum underneath. 😭

What can I say, we only want attention from our baby! 😔

His & Hers

warnings: fluff, gentle teasing

a/n: hi lovey <333 this is such a cutesie request. thanks for sending it in :P i’m always so happy to see ur guys ideas! i hope i did it justice - enjoy! 🫶🏽

~~~~~~~~~~~

“hey, pretty girl. whatchu up to?” you walk into the kitchen, seeing your wife lose a fight with a jar of peanut butter.

“can you get this, please” billie holds out the large jar in one of her hands.

you retrieve it from her, easily untwisting the metal lid from the mason jar. “girl! where is your grip strength? has rock limbing taught you nothing?” you tease her as you hand the peanut butter back over.

billie says nothing in return, simply shrugging her shoulders with a coy smirk on her face.

she rolls up onto her tippy toes, leaning into your face as she presses a kind kiss to your cheek. “thank you, baby” billie cheeses as she lands back on her sock-covered heels.

———

“y/n!!!” you hear from your seat in the upstairs office, your attention being ripped from your book. shark’s head perks up from your lap searching around for billie’s voice.

“huh?!” you shout back. you stay sat, waiting in silence for billie to answer you. moment after moment, nothing. you huff and peel yourself up from your reading nook, and place your open book face down on the cushion.

joggin down the stairs, you call out to billie once again.

“baby?”

“in here!” your wife finally calls back - her voice coming from the garage.

you walk into the concrete room to see billie precariously climbing a step ladder, her arms reached out above her head.

“can you get the box that says ‘2019’ on it for me, please?”

“of course, mama” you reply. walking up behind billie, you gently pat her ass twice, signaling for her to climb down from her dangerous stance.

without climbing the ladder, you teeter up onto the balls of your feet and wrap your elegant fingers around the corners of the cardboard box, pulling it from it’s spot at the top of the shelf.

bringing the box down to waist level, you blow some dust off the top of it - making billie cough through a laugh.

you let oud a loud cackle before apologising for blowing the dust in her direction.

———

it’s been a really long day at work, your company needed you to work an event on saturday. you pad up you and your wife’s doorstep, toying with the doorknob and opening the door.

once you’ve hooked your keys onto the rack that says “his & hers” - billie bought it as a joke when you got married. she was adimant that she should have the ‘his’ spot - you walk past the front hall into the living room to see the front side of the couch seemingly ascending in the air; a loud whirring echoing through the room.

you walk around the couch to the other side to see billie’s petite body underneath the it. one of her arms is holding up the full weight of the couch as her other arm is moving back and forth with the vacuum in hand.

“hey!” you shout over the whirring.

“oh my god, you scared me!” billie says, her hand dropping the vacuum and landing on her chest.

“hey baby, i didn’t hear you come in” billie says as she puts the furniture down, turns off the vacuum, and pulls out her airpods - sliding them into her pocket.

you walk closer to her, your eyes looking down at her, “so you can carry our massive couch, but you can’t open a jar of peanut butter?” you question her teasingly.

“funny that, isnt it” billie shyly laughs, trying to play off the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“real funny” you place your hands on her waist, “i think you just like being needy.”

“me? never!” billie feigns innocence, her hands wrapping around the back of your body onto your thighs. she pulls on your thighs and lifts you into her embrace.

“ah!” you yelp with a giggle into her ear, quickly wrapping your arms around her shoulders for stability.

“if you can carry my 5’9 self you can open your own jars next time” you pull your head back from billie’s neck to look at her eyes as you set a new, joking boundary.

“you love doing it, though” billie flirts, leaning into you to leave a peck on your lips.

[strnilolover]

Matt and Chris taking care of adhd!reader when she’s rlly active and bouncy and they struggle as she’s not listening

Matt …

Matt loved your energy — on most days, it was one of his favorite things about you. You could make even the dullest moments feel exciting. But tonight? Tonight was on a whole new level. It was like you’d had five shots of espresso and the energy of an entire marching band.

“Babe,” Matt called softly, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching you dart from one corner of the room to the other. You were currently reorganizing the spice rack for the third time, narrating your choices like a dramatic cooking show host.

“Paprika here, cinnamon there… Matt, do you even know how much cinnamon we have? So much cinnamon! Wait — oh my god, do we have nutmeg? We do, right? Should I bake something? Cookies! Cookies sound amazing. Do you want cookies? I’m gonna bake cookies.” you rambled as your hands searched the rack for said nutmeg.

Matt leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to laugh. “Sweetheart, it’s 11 PM. The cookies can wait until tomorrow.” he said, hoping to try and redirect you from the chaos you were creating in the midst of trying to “rearrange things”.

“Tomorrow? No! Tomorrow is just… future today. We don’t wait for future today! That’s boring.” You bounced on your toes, spinning to face him, your hands gesturing wildly.

Matt stepped forward before you could bolt again, gently catching you by the waist. His touch was firm but light. “Hey, hey. Slow down for a second, alright? Look at me.” Your eyes flicked to his, wide and sparkling with excitement. “Okay, I’m looking, but you’ve got two seconds. Two seconds, that’s all you get.” you said, already itching to make the cookies you were talking about.

Matt chuckled, taking you and guiding you toward the couch. “Deal. Two seconds. Let’s just sit down for a minute, yeah?” You pouted but let him lead you, your hands still fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie. “But I’m not tired, Matt. I need to do something.” you stated, his hands guiding you to sit down.

“I know, babe. I know. But you’re running in circles, and you’re gonna burn yourself out,” he said gently, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face as you reluctantly sat. “Here’s the plan: We’re gonna breathe. Just breathe with me for a second.” He exaggerated a slow inhale and exhale, making it impossible not to copy him.

After a few rounds, Matt turned on your favorite show, one you always found comforting and familiar. “Let’s watch this for a bit. If you’re still bouncing after one episode, then we’ll bake cookies. Sound good?”

You hesitated, your body practically vibrating with pent-up energy. But the way Matt looked at you — calm, patient, and just a little tired — made you soften. “Fine.“

He smiled, draping an arm around your shoulders to keep you close. He kissed your temple as you fidgeted with the blanket.

By the time the episode ended, your head was resting on his shoulder, your eyes drooping shut. Matt glanced down, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Guess the cookies can wait after all,” he whispered to himself, pulling the blanket up over you and turning the TV off. He stayed there with you, his own eyes drifting shut.

Chris …

Chris isn’t as naturally patient as Matt. He loved you, of course, but when you got in one of your super active, can’t-sit-still moods, it was like wrangling a hyper puppy — and Chris was not good at wrangling.

“Angel, please just sit down for a second,” Chris groaned, watching you dart around the living room. You were carrying random knickknacks, moving them from one shelf to another like some sort of chaotic interior decorator.

“But I have so much to do,” you sang, spinning in place as you inspected a framed photo. “Do you think this would look better here? Or — oh my god, wait. What if we moved the couch? Do you think we should rearrange the whole living room?” Chris blinked at you, jaw slack. “The whole living room? It’s almost midnight, babe.” he muttered, his hand rubbing his temple.

“Exactly! That’s the perfect time. It’s quiet. No distractions. We can focus!” You clapped your hands, already eyeing the furniture. Chris groaned, running a hand down his face now. “You’re killing me, darling. Killing me.”

But you weren’t listening anymore, your mind already racing to the next task. Chris watched as you buzzed around the room, trying not to smile despite his frustration. You were too cute for your own good.

Finally, he sighed, stepping forward and scooping you up mid-spin. You let out a squeal as he tossed you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Chris!” you laughed, kicking your legs. “Put me down! I’m busy!”

“Nope,” he said simply, carrying you over to the couch. He plopped down, keeping you firmly in his lap and wrapping his arms around you like a human seatbelt. “You’re staying right here, angel.”

You squirmed, trying to wriggle free. “You’re so mean! I was just trying to be productive!” Chris smirked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Maybe. But you’re running around like a maniac, and you need to chill. So, congratulations, you’re officially stuck with me.”

You huffed, your pout still in place as you leaned back against his chest. For a while, you fidgeted with the strings of your hoodie, your fingers tapping against his leg. “Fine. But I’m still thinking about where to put that picture frame.”

Chris chuckled, letting his head rest against yours. “Of course you are.” He paused, an idea lighting up his face. “Alright, here’s the deal: Tomorrow, we’ll rearrange the living room together. But right now, we’re chilling.”

Your pout softened into a small smile as you tilted your head to look up at him. “You’d really help me?”

Chris grinned, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Always, angel. Even if it means moving the couch ten times until it’s perfect.” You beamed at him, and Chris swore it made the late-night chaos worth it.

[cherriesnkisses]

velvet & violence

where harry has to see (y/n)’s bakery.

achilles heel installment

word count: 2.3k

content: mentions of blood, swearing, other mafia stuff

hopefully this one is a little bit better, i'm trying so hard!! :,)

The light of the sun starting to set spilled through the windows, golden and soft, washing the polished counters of Petal & Pastry in a warm glow. You sigh, exhausted but happy. It had been a good day: More traffic, lots of smiles, and a few regulars placing orders for upcoming events.

Still, one thought had been echoing in your mind all week: Harry.

Tall, mysterious, and entirely out of place in your world of pastel piping and croissants. You thought about the way he’d said your name, the way his eyes lingered like they were searching for secrets you didn’t even know you had. You’d barely spoken to him for an hour, but somehow, he was stuck in your thoughts like flour to your apron.

You moved behind the counter to tidy up, gently wiping stray crumbs off the glass display. Then, as if conjured by thought alone, the door chimed again.

“Sorry, we’re-” You turn, then freeze mid-sentence. “-closed.”

Harry stood just inside the entryway, still in a dark suit, though his jacket was unbuttoned this time. He looks like a wolf in a candy shop, both completely out of place and strangely at ease. His eyes are focused on you, the corner of his lips tilting upwards ever so slightly. 

“I know,” he says. “Didn’t really come for cupcakes.”

Your heart does something fluttery. “Oh?”

“Came to see you.”

You blink. “Me?”

His smile widened a bit, stepping closer as he surveyed the space. “Petal & Pastry,” he hums. “Fits.”

You flush almost immediately. “It’s...a little silly.”

“It’s cute,” he corrects, gaze falling to the marble counter you’d been in the midst of wiping down. “So’s the owner.”

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a smile while you mentally squealed over the casual compliment.

“This all yours?” Harry asks, gesturing around with a finger.

“Mhm,” you nod, unable to stop the slight swell of pride in your chest. “Took me two years of saving, a loan, and a lot of elbow grease, but yeah.”

He gives a soft whistle in response. “That’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” you say, a bit shyly. Then, before you could overthink it, “Do you want a tour?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “A tour of a bakery?”

“Sure. Why not?” you challenge, already moving toward the back of the shop. “Don’t knock it till you’ve seen the kitchen.”

He follows you, amused. You led him past the prep tables, showing off your light pink mixer, your recipe shelf full of scribbled-on notebooks, your custom piping tips. He listened more intently than you expected. His eyes watched you like he was hanging onto every word that came out of your mouth, acting like you were the most important thing in his world at the moment. 

Which isn’t that far off, if he was to be honest. 

“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a triple-tiered cooling rack, “is my pride and joy.”

Harry studies it like an artifact in a museum. “All this...from today?”

You nod proudly. “Brioche rolls, shortbread, lemon tarts, a few cupcakes. I’ll donate the extras if they don’t sell by tomorrow.”

He reached toward a small red velvet cupcake, topped with cream cheese frosting that’s delicately swirled on. “May I?”

You nod encouragingly. “Go ahead.”

He took a bite, and you watched, weirdly nervous. His eyes closed briefly as he chewed, and then:

“Bloody hell.”

You giggle softly. “Is that good or bad?”

“Dangerously good,” he muttered, licking a bit of icing from his thumb. “If I knew your sweets tasted like this, I’d have shown up hours ago.”

“Not really your scene, though,” you teased lightly, leaning against the counter.

“No,” he admits. “But maybe it should be.”

You tilt your head, playful. “What, cupcakes and shortbread?”

He smirks, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of a stool. “Cupcakes, shortbread…and you.”

That flutter in your chest returns, stronger this time. You try to busy your hands with reorganizing the already-perfect stack of takeaway boxes, but your mind is spinning. No one had ever looked at you like that before; Like you were something worth seeking out, like you were more than flour and sugar and polite smiles.

“I don’t really get people like you around here,” you admit, glancing up at him.

Harry raises an eyebrow, resting one hand on the counter, his rings catching the fading light. “People like me?”

You gesture vaguely toward him, his tailored suit, the energy that seems to simmer just beneath his skin. “You’re…I dunno. Kind of intense.”

His lips twitch. “You think I’m intense?”

You nod slowly. “But not in a bad way. Just- like you walk into a room and everyone notices.”

Harry’s gaze lingers on you, quiet for a second. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You walked into mine,” he says, voice low. “And I noticed.”

Your breath hitches slightly. There’s a heat to his words that makes the air feel thicker, like the scent of warm sugar and spice clinging to the walls. You’re not sure how someone can feel dangerous and comforting at the same time. But that’s exactly what Harry feels like.

You look down at your flour-dusted apron and then back at him, squinting a little. “You’re not just saying that ‘cause I let you have a free cupcake, are you?”

He grins, wicked and beautiful. “Wouldn’t dare.”

There’s a pause. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward, but full of curiosity, of questions you haven’t found the words to ask yet. Then, without any pretense:

“Go out with me.”

Your heart skips a few beats.

“W-What?”

“Go on a date with me,” he repeats, a little more slowly this time. “Not a club. Not a drop-in. A real date.”

You blink. “Like…flowers and dinner and everything?”

His lips twitch again. “If you want flowers, I’ll bring a whole damn garden.”

You feel your cheeks burn, comparable to the feeling of opening the oven and getting blasted with hot air. “Why?”

Harry’s eyes soften, the sharp edges of his usual intensity melting just a little. “Because...I want to know the girl behind Petal & Pastry. The one who makes cupcakes that can make a grown man swear.”

You laugh, a light, melodic sound that makes him grin. “I’m just a baker.”

“No, you’re not,” he insists gently. “You’re different.”

You fiddle with the edge of your apron, nerves fluttering but curiosity shining bright. “Different how?”

He pauses, gaze drifting just for a second toward the window where the last rays of sunlight dimmed behind the city skyline. “You have a kind of warmth that’s rare. Like the sort of light that makes people want to come closer. That makes people feel safe.”

You blink, unsure if he’s being poetic or serious. “That’s…really sweet of you.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping just a little closer, though still careful to respect the delicate boundary of your small bakery space. “And I don’t usually say things like that to people I just met.”

Your stomach does a little flip. “And I don’t usually meet people like you.”

Harry chuckles softly, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Good,” he says. “Maybe that means you’re a little special.”

You swallow, wanting to believe him but also wondering what exactly it was about him that felt so elusive. He had said nothing about what he really did, only hinted. The shadows behind his smile told you there was more, something darker, but you didn’t ask. 

Not yet.

When  you don’t respond for a moment, he adds, “I promise it won’t be some noisy, flashy club. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can actually talk. I’ll get us reservations at a nice place where I know the chef.”

You look down at your hands, the faint smell of vanilla and sugar clinging to your fingers. “I’d…have to think about it a little.” You speak softly.

You want to. You really, really want to. But it’s clear that this man has his own skeletons in the closet, plus he doesn’t really give off the vibe that he’s inexperienced when it comes to women. You’re anxious. 

Harry’s gaze flickers down to your hands, then back to your face, as if memorizing every detail before you could fully retreat behind your shyness. He isn’t usually a patient man in any situation. It’s truly a wonder how he hasn’t even kissed you yet. 

But for some reason, there’s something about you that makes him want to wait. That makes him want to put in the effort to show you how serious he is.

“No rush,” He hums, giving you a small smile. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small slip of paper, sliding it across the counter with a slow, deliberate motion.

“My number. Call me when you’re ready.”

You stare at the handwriting, feeling warmth curl through your chest. Something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the world who mattered, made you want to believe in fairy tales and happy endings, even if you didn’t quite understand who he was yet.

“I will,” you said softly, tucking the paper carefully into your apron pocket.

Just as you tuck the slip of paper into your apron pocket, the door chimes again.

You both look over instinctively, but it’s only the wind nudging it slightly. Poor latch, you mentally remind yourself. Still, Harry steps away from the counter with a glance over his shoulder, something unreadable flickering across his face.

You wonder, briefly, if it was instinct. A habit. Like he was trained to always look for exits. You make a mental note of this and file it away to think about later.

“Your door’s a bit touchy,” he says, smoothing his tone again as if it didn’t just dip into something sharper.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Old hinges.”

“Still,” he responds, walking back toward you, “You might want to get that looked at. You work late a lot?”

You nod, a little surprised by the concern in his voice. “Sometimes. Depends on orders.”

Harry is quiet for a beat, then: “You should lock the door when you’re closing up. Even before the sign flips. You can never be too careful, y’know?”

You hum, squinting playfully at him. “Do you always act like someone’s coming after you?” you ask, trying to keep it light.

He chuckles softly. “Only when I’ve got something worth protecting.”

There’s weight in those words. You feel it. Like something sharp wrapped in velvet.

Your smile fades just slightly. You glance around your little bakery, suddenly aware of how small it is. How small you are in comparison to him and whatever shadows might follow him around.

“Noted,” you say quietly.

Harry watches you a second longer, then softens again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

“You didn’t,” you lie.

He hums but doesn’t call you on it. Instead, he pulls his jacket back on with ease, the lines of his suit sharpening around him like armor being re-donned. The softness he’d worn in your kitchen begins to tuck itself away again, bit by bit.

But before it’s gone completely, he leans in, just close enough that you can smell something spicy and rich on his cologne.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers, voice low and warm near your ear. “I’ll wait.”

And just like that, he’s gone. The bell chimes, the door shuts behind him, and the bakery is quiet again.

You stand in the silence, the only sounds being your own breath and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Slowly, you reach into your pocket and pull out the slip of paper again.

You trace your thumb over the ink. Still fresh. Still warm from where his fingers had pressed it into your hand.

You know you shouldn’t be thinking about him as much as you are.

But you are.

- 

Across the street, Harry slid into the back of the black SUV, the soft click of the door closing behind him. The leather seats creaked as he leaned back, exhaling slowly.

Ash sat in the front passenger seat, arms crossed, his gaze already fixed in the rearview mirror.

“Well?” he asked without turning around.

Harry didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the bakery, the faint golden light from the window casting a gentle glow onto the sidewalk.

Ash shifted. “She’s got no idea, does she?”

“No,” Harry said quietly.

Ash turned in his seat just enough to look at him. “And you’re not gonna tell her.”

“Not yet.”

Silence stretched for a moment, thick and heavy in the dark interior of the SUV. Ash ran a hand down his jaw, clearly debating how much to say.

“You know how this goes,” he said eventually. “You get close to something soft, and someone else will use it to hurt you.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “I know.”

“So why risk it?”

Another long pause. Harry's fingers drummed once on his knee before he finally spoke, voice low and unreadable.

“Because for once...I want something that doesn’t come with blood on it.”

Ash stared at him for a beat, then turned slowly to face forward again.

“Then you’d better be ready to bleed for it.”

Harry didn’t reply. He just kept looking out the window, toward the little bakery with the fading light and the girl inside who didn’t yet know how dark the world could be.