#Broken Woodworks

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[nautarot]

Have You Eaten Yet? (2016)

Mixed media sculpture - Plywood, maple veneer, laminated glass, spraypaint, cherry wood (hammer), leather

[deanpinterester]

once again watching room makeover videos and wishing i could do SOMETHING to my room

[aislop]

Not only is the one door off its hinges, and the window panes in each door mismatched, but they wouldn't even reach across the entire doorframe when closed.

We should also be able to see at least part of that open door reflecting in the mirror on the opposite wall.

And of course… what AI-generated interior design "photo" would be complete without a fucked up, (partially) floating light fixture casting incongruent shadows?

[dvchvnde]

PRAIRIE WOLF | prologue

domestic violence, abuse (not Price). unexpected pregnancy. implied age gap.

MASTERLIST. AO3

He's a regular at the diner you work at.

Sits in the same spot, orders the same thing. Doesn't say much, but—according to Elliot—he never does. English, too. A foreigner. But here longer than you've been. Grown roots. Stretched his legs.

He owns a cabin in the woods that be built with his bare hands, and does odd jobs around town wherever he's needed. Mostly carpentry. Woodwork. Only forty, Elliot says, and already semi-retired. Military grunt, though (and in a terrible, exaggerated cockney accent, he adds) back home.

Running from something, he surmises, and you try not to feel flayed under his heavy, pointed stare, offering little more than a shrug you hope is more blase than you feel and a flat, aren't we all? so what makes his marathon so special?

Comes by at five in the morning, fours hours into a twelve hour shift. Likes, what he calls, an English Breakfast.

He isn't like some of the men who show up after midnight, or in the early hours. Blue collar works hungry for more than rubbery pancakes and coffee. The ones who ignore the split in your lip, hidden under a thick coat of lipstick, the puffiness of your eye. Whispering oil-slick charm at quarter to three in the morning when the pregnancy test you stole from the dollarrama is still buried under bloodied toilet paper in the motel you've converted into a temporary home.

Price—John Price—stares at the mess of your pretty face and meets the ugliness head-on, eyes narrowed into something that might be suspicion. Askance. Wariness. Some amalgamation of what the fuck happened to you and don't bring that mess over to my table.

Quiet. In theory.

You've heard him talk—this low, growling thing; the misfire of an engine, a rumble that reminds you of the old Plymouth Fury your dad had. Dangerous. Men like him usually are.

Little girl fantasies spun into real life. Duct tape. Magnets to girls like you with all the broken pieces, fragile parts. And with the bruises bubbling under your skin—burst blood vessels, fist-sized—and the—

The kid, you suppose. Baby. You can't afford to get wrapped up into something like that no matter how many times you catch him staring.

Watching.

The other server always handles his order when he arrives. Since starting work here four months ago, you maybe had all of a single conversation when you floated through the diner in search of something to do.

more coffee? a glance. a grunt. yeah, love. I'll have some more.

So you ignore it. Him. Keep your head down and pour cup after cup to the other regulars who congregate and pretend you aren't living in a motel to escape a man who seems to prefer you bruised up and bloody. Who—

Knocked you up.

Your hand goes there. To your belly. Nauseous, suddenly, with the thought of it. This.

When you glance up, unease prickling across your nape, you catch him staring at you. At the hand still splayed over your stomach. Something frisson across his expression—whiplike: ripples over a lake—but it's too fast, fleeting, for you to catch. Tucked back inside the folds of his patented frown, the ever present crease between his thick, umbre brows.

John lifts his eyes from your ringless hand, the swollen index finger from when you made the mistake of pointing to the door, trying to stand firm with your luggage hidden in the bushes, and meets your gaze. Stares at you head-on. Implacable as always. Blank.

But—and it's so silly, really—for a moment, you thought it was hunger. Something heavy and dark. Possessive.

Then his head dips. A shallow nod. John looks away, eyes slanting towards the window as if he didn't have to tear his gaze away from your belly. From you.

Your heart is in your throat. This too thick, fragile thing thudding against your jugular. Hard to breathe, hard to swallow around it. In the way—

Outside, tires squeal against the pavement.

John tenses. A shadow falling over his brow, a tug on his lips hidden under thick, wry curls.

You don't know what it is until the familiar gurgle of an engine cuts through the silent diner.

He looks back at you as a door slams. A shout erupts.

Fear is a thick, oily sludge filling your lungs. Tarlike. Sticky molasses. It burns, corrosive, and eats away at your tissue until a hole forms, letting spill out inside of you. To your belly where it hardens into a ferric ball of panic.

You thought you had time. One last shift. Collect your paycheck and then run—

But he found you.

He bellows out your name, angry and a little slurred. Drunk. High. Like the passive, maltreated dog he turned you into, you follow the sound, cowing a little when you see him stumble into the diner, face collapsed into fury.

There's a clatter. The hollow echo of wood hitting linoleum. Screams, his yells. It's all muted in your head. Panic throbbing against your ears, stuffing them full of cotton.

His bruised, marled fist reaches for you—

But John gets there first. His broad stretch of his back filling your vision as he pushes himself into the empty space between you and this man, hands raised, catching his mangled fist in one and grabbing a handful of his shirt, tugging him closer. It's all raw, untameable anger as he huffs into the man's face, grinding the words out on a rough, animalistic snarl—

"Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do."

Stress like this ain't good for the baby, the paramedic tells you, brown eyes dampening with a thick ring of sympathy as she turns over your wrist, and dabs cool, wet cotton over the welts on your skin.

She's pushing for you to press charges. Keeps swiping at your skin to unveil more of your hidden hurts to the police officer that holds an old kodak in his hands and snaps, snaps, snaps at every weakness, each vulnerability she offers up.

It'd be the smart thing to do. He's already being booked on assault, threats. Battery for hitting John on the shoulder, the only place he could reach, with the shovel left by the cooks to scrape the snow away from the spot they usually gather around to smoke. No one brings up the fact that John was choking the life out of him at the time, and the bruises around his neck—ugly red fingerprints—are easily ignored.

Adding domestic violence to the list of charges, she mutters, will keep him locked up. Away from you. Can file for a restraining order, the cop adds, scratching the back of his neck as the camera sits, poised and intrusive, in his other hand.

The problem is that you've been through this before.

Like mother, like daughter.

The knife twists a little deeper. Gouges out another pound of flesh lost to a broken home. Another cog in a ruinous system. Poor kid, below the poverty line, with a dad who sold drugs and mother who did them. Dime a dozen.

And with that comes the knowledge that his sentence will be lighter than they're alluding to—if he has one at all. Upstanding citizen before he got shackled in with the wrong crowd, the runaway. Trouble who breezed through and picked the son of an attorney in the big city some three hours away from this town, this dilapidated diner. Sinking claws in.

My son never drank or did drugs before, your honour—

He'll get off with a slap on the wrist because he's never been in trouble before.

Your dad, too—in jail for the weekend when your mother relented to the impassioned beseeches given to her by rookie cops who just wanted that arrest notch on their belt. Saw a judge on Monday. Prison too crowded for such a paltry offense.

The hurt, after, was always worse than what he went to jail for.

So. No. You won't press charges even though you know you should. It'll take too long and you don't plan on staying much longer. Not with your luggage packed in the trunk. The cheque shoved clumsily into your hands when the manager came out to make a fuss, angling a purpling finger in your direction—nothin' but trouble since the day you were hired—only to be stopped by the wall that is John Price, a snarl pulling up at his lips as he barked call the fuckin' police and, low, as if he didn't want you to hear, adding: you ever point your finger at her again like that, and I'll hang you from the goddamn rafters.

You're not sure why he's still here, standing watch. On guard. His bloodied, bruised hands shoved into his armpits as he paces back and forth like a caged tiger unaware the door has been open the whole time. Stalking. Taking measured, meaningful steps towards anyone who tries to come over—badge or not. Barking out orders. Lancing people with his glare when they tread too closely.

Good fucking samaritan, you think, eyes riveted on the blood drying over the gravel. Your head looping, weaving in arching circles as you try to contend with the fact that it somehow isn't yours, but his.

Maybe that's why he stays. Obligation. Civic duty. It makes you snort, and the paramedic glances at you sharply, assessing in that too thick, too kind, way of hers.

"You doin' okay, mama?"

And you wish she wouldn't call you that. Make it real. Mama. Your idea of motherhood, of mothers and moms and mamas, is a woman slumped on the couch, passed out after staying up all night talking to ghosts. Nails caked with the dust of percocets and restoril and oxycodone (oxycotton, she's always called it). Popping mouthful of pills in the morning, afternoon, evening, and night. An assortment to keep her functional—and asleep.

Nodding off in the middle of conversations. Or fighting it to stay high. Irritated and combative whenever she ran out, supply gone dry.

Toxic.

Neglectful—at best.

You can't think about what you'll end up doing to this kid with her blood in your veins. Her ghosts in your head.

John moves. A shadow in the corner of your eye. "'bout enough of that, don't you think?"

She backs up, startled by the aggression in his voice. "I just—"

You think you hate them both. "I'm fine."

She looks back at you, searching. Wanting that assurance, but whatever she's looking to find, it isn't there. You won't give it, and eventually she nods. Peels back. "Okay. If you feel any soreness at all, if anything changes, come to the hospital."

The nod is for her benefit only, and she takes it with a deep inhale.

It thins out after that. The cop and his camera leave, too, after making you take the paperwork needed to file charges. If you change your mind. His number in smeared blue ink on the back. The paramedics go after another futile round of are you sure you don't want to get checked out at the hospital that's decline with a shake of your head.

It's just you and Price now. Your beatup Saturn three spots away from his truck—an old Ford you hadn't been expecting a man like him to drive, with his thick Levi jacket and his steel-toed boots. Standing there with an armful of paper that's going to go in the trash, you're not sure what to do. How to untangle yourself from the claws of this vicious bear that seems content to loom over you like an unasked for cloud, glaring down at you from the bridge of his nose. Expression pinched, like he's displeased. Mad.

You've had enough of angry men, though, and you turn, offering a hollow smile that works it's way around your mouth like a grimace. "Guess I should head home—"

"Running, mm?"

You blink. "Sorry?"

He leans down, all grit and blunt teeth. "That your plan? Runnin' away from all'a this? Find another town. Another motel."

Another man.

He doesn't say it, but it's there. The implication. The idea. It rankles down your spine, a whitehot ooze of shame. Of anger.

"You don't know me," you spit, all anger and indignation. Embarrassment so sharp, it cuts. "You don't know anything about me."

He rocks back on his heel, mouth flattening into an even line. "No, I don't. But I know your type."

"You—"

The indignity is increased tenfold when he meets your ire with an impassive stare, so firm in his assessment of you that he doesn't even bulk when you glare at him. When you rage in quiet fury, shoulders shaking.

"You'll run," he continues, bulling over the vitriol that stutters out in broken squeals of anger. "You'll find a new place. And it'll be fine for a little while but then you'll end up in the same situation because that's all you know, isn't it? S'why you're not pressing charges. Why you got your bag in your back seat. The slightest pressure and you bolt—straight into the same predicament you're in now."

"It's not my fault—"

"No," he grinds the word, firm and sure, and it snatches you by the throat because no one has ever agreed with you on that. It's not your fault. It's just—

"—all you know."

"What am I supposed to do differently, huh? Stay and press charges that won't stick? Wait for him to get out, frothing at the mouth for revenge? Yeah, right," you scoff, rolling your eyes up towards the stale sky. "End up as another statistic? Or—"

Like your mother. It quiets you. Snuffs the flames. All you feel is scraped raw. Hollowed out. Empty and hitting and—

"So you'll just run your whole life? Until it catches up to you, mm? What happens when someone finds you in a place you can't run? When you're all alone, and cornered?"

It tastes like defeat. Resignation. "You think I haven't thought of that before?"

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. "Got yourself into a little mess, but it ain't the end of the world. Jus' got to fix it. Can't do that when you run."

"And what's your solution? Find another job, hope that his charges stick? He—"

Drained you financially. Beat you bloody.

You shake your head. "The best thing to do is to leave. I'll be smarter, I'll—"

He scoffs. You ignore it, hands shaking.

"I can't. I just—I can't."

"Come stay with me," he says. Just like that. Stay with me. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Come stay with me. "Got a spare room."

"I don't even know you—"

"People rent to strangers all the time."

"I don't have a job. Money. I can't pay you—"

"Been needin' a receptionist for some time. Pay is fair. Hourly."

You blink, eyes hot. Wet. You feel the sharp edge of hope digging in, that deadly, terrible thing that only ever falls apart when you finally relax.

"Just like that?"

He nods, sharp and firm. "Jus' like that."

"I have a kid," you blurt out, panicked. This conversation is getting away from you. Slipping through your fingers. And the worst is that it sounds so good. Too good. "I'm—I'm pregnant," you add like he doesn't already know. Hadn't heard you mutter it to the paramedic hours ago.

The look he levels you with is an incendiary thing. You feel it in your chest. Deadcentre. "I know," he rasps, head bending down closer to you. "Doesn't change anythin'."

"How could it not?"

"How should it?" He counters.

"In a few months, when the baby is here—"

"I won't change my mind."

"You say that now," you breathe, pulse thudding in your ears. "But when it's screaming in the middle of the night, and—"

His hand reaches out slowly, like he's trying not to startle a horse. Fingers grazing your arm, warm and rough, before closing around your wrist. The one that's bruised and sore. Swollen in his hand. Its done with measured purpose, confidence, that the panic doesn't have time to surge. Instincts too incipient to keep up with the sure, steady way he winds around you.

With his hand on your wrist, fingers folding over the hurt—hiding them—he leans down, thumb stroking along your skittish, unraveling pulse, and makes you meet his stare. Open, maybe, for the first time since you met him. All raw want, naked truth. The bare, fractured look is enough to steal the air in your lungs, snuffing out the innate protests that spume whenever someone offers any sort of help or charity. The no crushed under his heel.

"m'a man of my word," he low, drawing the words out. "I'll be there for the cryin' and the dirty diapers and the sleepless nights."

"And when I can't work for you?"

His lips quirk. "I offer better MAT leave than most places. Reckon you could even do the bloody job from bed."

"Price, that's—this is insane—"

"John," he grunts, giving another shrug before peeling away from you. "Savin' me the trouble of talking to these idiots. Ain't nothin' crazy about that."

"I could be a horrible person. A murderer. Rob you blind, and leave you with you nothing."

It has the opposite effect of scaring him off. If anything, he looks amused. Squares his shoulders, stands to his full—intimidating, impressive—height. Stares down at you with a brow quirked and strange gleam in his eyes.

"Think I can handle myself, love. And if you wanna rob me, bite the hand, so to speak, then I promise you, you won't like the consequences."

You swallow. His tone sparks against your sense of self-preservation, and you fight the urge to take a step back. To put distance between yourself and this grizzly-like man with blunt teeth and sharp claws.

He senses your hesitation. Must because he quiets, shoulders sinking. Hand warm on your skin, giving a slight squeeze before he lets go. You ignore the urge to chase that heat again, and hide a shiver behind a shift.

"How 'bout a test ride, mm? A trial. Stay for a few weeks and then decide if you still want to leave."

Too good to be true. You know this deep down in your marrow. Every instinct inside of you rebelling against this, screaming trap, it's a trap. But there's a truth to what he says, and maybe if you weren't pregnant, you would have flipped him off and ran because men like him aren't kind to girls like you unless they have a reason to be.

You're just not sure what he has to gain in all of this. Why he put himself between you and harm without so much as a sparing glance. Stayed, too, and barked at everyone who got too close. A thunderous shadow full of teeth.

And maybe it's that. The blood concealing into a thick, pulpy plum over the split of his knuckles, the blood on the gravel that isn't yours, the goosebumps rising over the spot he touched, colder than the rest of your skin, that makes you quieten under his heavy stare. Softening into something agreeable. Unreasonable. Instincts shoved into a box.

So you nod and let him place his hand over the small of your back, guiding you to his truck with a firm nudge. Say anything when he helps you in, hands fastening the seatbelt with a clipped I'll be back when he finishes, keeping his wary eyes on you even as he moves quickly towards your car, grabbing your suitcase from the back. Promises to get your car later, too. Bring it back to his house.

And yours, too, he adds, glancing your way after he tosses the suitcase in the backseat, searching for something you're not sure he'll find. So you look away, staring at the dust on the dashboard as he rounds the truck, and slips into the front seat. It smells like him. Fresh leather and the wild. Cedar and moss. Tobacco. Something heady. Masculine. Soaked sage. Loam. Gasoline.

You lean back on the headrest, breathing it in. Trying not to think.

You'll keep your luggage packed. The keys in the ignition. When whatever it is he's planning comes to the forefront, you'll be ready to run.

But right now—

You just want to sleep. Your jaw aches. Your wrist. There's a knot in your stomach—not good for the baby—and it thickens each time you look at his bloodied knuckles curled loosely over the steering wheel, the other on the stick. Close enough that you can feel the heat bleeding into your knee. All fire and spite, and—

Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do.

"Get some rest," he grunts, eyes slanting towards you in a brief, heavy flick. "I'll stop and get some food soon, too, but it's a two hour drive to mine. And you look dead on your feet, sweetheart."

Love. Sweetheart. I won't change my mind.

You swallow down the protest that swells, the lingering residuum of self-preservation that won't let you bear your neck just yet, and offer a slow nod, blaming the easy submission on fatigue. These aches and pains that weep, tender to the touch.

Your eyes slip shut against your better judgement, the warm interior of the truck, his smell, bleeding a sense of soporific comfort you can't remember the last time you ever felt. Just a quick nap, you think. Long enough to rest your eyes—

It's swallowed under the deluge of exhaustion that rushes through when your shoulders drop, lax. He mutters something, but it's awash under the seafoam that fills your ears, lapping waves dragging you further and further away from shore. Something that sounds like girl good but you can't be sure. Hypnagogia is a terrible a thing that likes to spin dreams, play pretend in the cradle of your subconsciousness until the lines between reality and fantasy blur. Ignoring it is easier than admitting that it floods you with a warmth so deep, sweat gathers along your hairline. Feverish and sickly sweet.

Fingers dance along the edge of your brow, rough and coarse, and it's a devastating thing, isn't it? All this tenderness along the broken edges of yourself, nails grazing the fractures like they can be fixed, pushed back into place, and not as if they're about to shatter. It makes you want to lash out even though you can't feel your body anymore, stuck between worlds of wake and rest. Later, maybe, when the phantom press doesn't feel so sweet you'll snap—broken jaw and brittle teeth—at his hand until he remembers to never touch you again. A risk he won't take.

But with the knot in your belly, a baby there, too, and a body more contusion than flesh, you let it happen. Mewl, maybe, a quiet little slip of a thing, and curve into the palm resting over your cheek. Small and docile, leaching comfort as fast as you can before you remember yourself.

in the moonglade, you murmur thank you and swallow down a rough, painful sound when he scoffs under his breath, and says ain't got nothin' to thank me for, sweetheart.

[theculturedmarxist]

In 2020, Robert Kuciemba, a woodworker in San Francisco was infected with covid by a co-worker after his Nevada-based Victory Woodworks transferred a number of sick workers to the San Francisco site for a few months. 

Through the proceedings of the case it turns out that the employer knew some employees might be sick but they transferred them anyway and ignored a San Francisco ordinance in place at the time to quarantine suspected covid cases.

Kuciemba was subsequently infected and he then infected his wife, who ended up in ICU on a ventilator.

The California Supreme Court just ruled against Kuciemba on the basis that a victory, while, in the court's words, "morally" the right thing to do, would create "dire financial consequences for employers" and cause a "dramatic expansion of liability" to stop the spread of covid.

There’s a few stunning details to note in this case. First, the court agreed that there is no doubt the company had ignored the San Francisco health ordinance. In other words, they accepted the company had broken the law. And then concluded “yeah, but, capitalism.”

Secondly, the case was so obviously important to the struggle between capitalism and mass infection that the US Chamber of Commerce, the largest business lobbying organisation got involved and helped the company with its defence. Remember, this is a tiny company in a niche industry. The involvement of the biggest business lobbyists in the country tells us a lot about the importance of the principle they knew was at stake.

Thirdly, the defence of the company is very telling. They said “There is simply no limit to how wide the net will be cast: the wife who claims her husband caught COVID-19 from the supermarket checker, the husband who claims his wife caught it while visiting an elder care home." 

Well, exactly. Capitalism couldn’t survive if employers were liable for covid infections contracted in the workplace, and the ripple effect of those infections. And they know it. 

This case is something of a covid smoking gun, revealing what we always suspected but had never seen confirmed in so many words: the public health imperative of controlling a pandemic virus by making employers liable for some of that control is, and always must be, secondary to capitalist profit. 

This ruling is also saying out loud what has been obvious to anyone paying attention for the last two years: employers don’t have a responsibility to keep your family safe from covid. You have that responsibility. And if you give a family member covid that you caught at work and they get sick or die – even if it was a result of law-breaking by your employer – that’s on you buddy.

It is the same old capitalist story: the shunting of responsibility for ills that should be shared across society, including employers in that society, onto individuals.

This ruling essentially helps codify workplace mass infection and justifies it as necessary for the smooth functioning of capitalism.

This is not new. This is where the ‘just a cold’ and the ‘mild' narrative came from. It came from doctors and healthcare experts whose first loyalty was to capitalism. Not to public health. To money, not to lives. Abetted by media who uncritically platformed them.

While this ruling tells us little that we couldn’t already see from the public policy approach of the last two years, it is revealing (and to some extent validating) to see it confirmed by the highest law of the land in the United States. 

[makisdiyworkshop]

Giving a second life to a piece of wood by making it a nice decoration.

I made this broken heart using a piece of wood from a pallet and some rope.

Check out how I made it and how you can make it. ⚒🪚

#MakisDIYWorkshop

[literallyimthenerdemoji]

pottery

Since Odysseus is into carpentry, Penelope is into weaving, what do you think Telemachus' art thing will be?

[geocyclist]

New project! Long bed jointer with a myriad of missing and broken parts.

[phantomrose96]

The timeline for Pikmin 2 is so funny because like, Olimar's been missing-presumed-dead for an entire month (rightfully so, considering how very dead Olimar should have been with the events in Pikmin 1) and he escapes by the skin of his teeth and beelines it back home with the desperate desire to see his wife and children who've probably been starring on Dateline: Hocotate every day for the last month to be grilled about their tragically missing father.

And instead. Instead. The absolute literal second Olimar's ship docks down, his fucking boss of all people comes running out of the woodwork and shakes him by the shoulders going "Terrible news Olimar your new coworker fucked up and now we're $10 million in debt! Go immediately back to that planet you escaped from and hunt its wildlife to extinction in order to collect enough valuable treasure to pay this off."

Like we're not even gonna let Olimar brush his teeth huh? Not gonna shove some antibiotics in him for the undiscovered foreign pathogens clinging to his suit? This man survived 30 days on 10 days of emergency rations and probably a few bulborbs once he got hungry enough to no longer care about the parasites. Not a hello? Not a 'you're alive'? Not a coffee?

What the hell does this even look like from the President's perspective? Your shipwrecked presumed dead employee whose life insurance policy paperwork is sitting on your desk shows back up out of the literal sky, down 20% of his bodyweight covered in superficial injuries smelling like gangrene and carrying himself with the haunted and (no, dare I say, passionate?) look in his eyes of someone who has learned to indiscriminately kill for the sake of survival.

And your first thought is "oh thank god my single competent employee isn't actually dead. I need to exploit him as soon as possible."

President's so fucking lucky Olimar is both a broken salaryman and also deranged enough to find wonder in the hostile world that so very wants to rip him to pieces. If I were Olimar I'd have killed President and Louie on the spot.

[ichsany]

Logo Design: Broken Road - Woodworking

https://ichsanypro.blogspot.com/2019/08/broken-road-woodworking.html

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[class1akids]

"I like food"

I saw many posts people saying how random Shouto's line is about praying at Touya's altar and realizing that he likes food - and I wanted to point to how it helps wrapping up his arc.

Shouto is saying: "When I was praying at Touya's butsudan (Buddhist altar), I suddenly realized something, I liked eating food. I realized there's more to me than just the person I want to become."

Food was a "negative space in the Todoroki family, so liking food was not evident to Shoto growing up.

In Shouto's flashbacks with his family, we never see him eat food. His only memory tied to the kitchen is the kettle incident. We know from Natsuo that Shouto ate alone, a diet prescribed by Endeavor, no doubt all geared towards maximum performance, rather than enjoyment. Not even knowing your siblings favorite food is the ultimate symbol of how dysfunctional the household was.

2. Food was a positive space in Class A - tied to comfort, bonding, friendship

In class A, Shouto starts eating with Iida and Midoriya after the Stain incident. Food becomes comfort, connection, sharing, caring, teamwork, etc. He experiences things like using his fire to prepare food together, eating together, cleaning up.

Many memorable Shouto-scenes are tied to Class A eating together (e.g. heroes cry too) and he connects to Inasa over a discussion about favorite foods (udon vs soba) which is a theme that carries over to his endgame with Touya

3. As the Todoroki family tries to reconnect, food plays a central role

As the family changes, they attempt to reconnect around the family dinner table (the famous sluuurp scenes). But Todoroki dinners end in a disaster - still they are useful bringing to the surface important conflicts and trying to communicate about them (another important theme discussed in Shoto Rising).

There is more in the light novels: Shoto's and Rei's decade late reconnection as Rei offers him a little kid strawberry milk that she remembers he liked when he was 5, and their attempt to connect with Natsuo ending up in a mush of ruined soba - it's all out of sync.

4. Food as a symbol of lost time and broken futures

Food is also very central for the hopes of a happier future: Enji's dream of his family at the dinner table, Natsuo's regret about years of missed meals, Shoto wanting to share noodles with Toya, all culminating in the heartbreaking realization that they have the same favorite food they'll never get to share.

5. Food as a symbol of processing grief and healing

Praying at the butsudan (the Buddhist altar at home set up for a deceased loved one) involves the preparation of offerings of food and drinks, which then the family eats afterwards. We see this practice referenced in Ch 249 when Enji prays at Toya's altar.

So Shouto making a reference to it is a shorthand for telling us that Touya died at some point, Shouto is still grieving him and just like Deku and Ochako, he's trying to make sense for himself out of their short encounter. So wanting to learn how to make chopsticks and bowls (a traditional Japanese craft of woodwork and applying lacquer, often involving intricate patterns) implies that he wants to bring Touya the perfect offering, but also that he's finally stepping outside fully of the framework Endeavor created for the family, where children are cast into roles of heroes, villains and by-standers, masterpieces and failures but never human beings. He's thinking about what connects him and Touya together and who they would have been in a different story.

6. Shouto's personal arc

Shouto's character was always about balance. Balance between past and future, ice and fire, duty and family, etc. So crafting chopsticks and bowls to elevate good food connects the grief and survival guilt with healing and growth. It is both a tribute to Touya's memory and a new possible hobby to express still undiscovered sides of himself.

It fits the theme of the chapter "More" - as it focuses on what lies beyond being a hero, reaching a goal, working hard and how Izuku, Ochako and Shouto have been transformed by their experiences of trying to save their villains.

But it also fits Shouto's personal arc that was about discovering who Shouto really is. Earlier in the chapter, Shouto refers to being constrained into the framework of a bigger story, where his choices are bound to happen. As a hero of the sidestory of that manga, Shouto has no choice but decide what kind of a hero he wants to be (not-Endeavor, like All Might, reassuring, family hero). Encounters with his family helped crystallized this image of himself.

But now that he's being released from this story, he can look outside of the framework of a hero manga and discover those "more sides than just a hero". And Touya was the last encounter - the last piece of that puzzle. I think there is a parallel in how Tomura destroyed much of hero society - Touya also destroyed the foundations of the Todoroki family, so something different can maybe built.

Without Touya, I think the family would have kept at trying to piece themselves together in a tense, fake kind of peace to keep up appearances. If nothing else, Touya's actions tore through that need of saving face - leaving them all exposed and grappling with the harsh realities of their actions. But I think it also allowed the younger siblings to step outside the cage their parents created for them and build things better from scratch. It allows them to find more sides to themselves outside of the logic of the Todoroki household.

[nachrosas]

AUTUMN MEMOIRS | s.reid x reader

summary: in which spencer decided to take you to a cozy weekend in the countryside to relax after a difficult case. pairing: spencer reid x reader content warnings: mentions of past case, brief childhood mentions, a little bit of angst, teasing, praising (i think), oral sex (f receiving), dirty talking (one sentence tho), fingering (r receiving), nipple sucking, unprotected p in v sex (tap it before you do it), +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT WITH IT!! (i think this is all) word count: 4.4k a/n: hello hello! this is the first one-shot for the “nachrosas season” with the theme being autumn/fall! also this is the first time i wrote a long fic (+ 1.5k) and smut in a very long time (i think it’s almost 10 years), so please let me know if ends up good (still self-conscious posting this tho)! i had fun writing this and i really hope you guys like it! feedback is always appreciated! also, my inbox is always open to chat! till the next one! (also, want to thank @mggslover for encouraging me to write the smut of this fics!!)

For a few weeks now, all the houses in the quiet neighborhood — a very small number, by the way — had been decorated with orange and brown leaves falling from the surrounding trees. The few children and young people walking along the streets took the opportunity to play with the huge piles of leaves made by the residents of those houses — in a failed attempt to keep their yards clean and organized.

Spencer slowed the car as the trees opened up, revealing the cottage in front of them. Small but inviting, it looked like it had been taken out of an autumn painting, with its dark wooden façade framed by dried vines and surrounded by fallen leaves in shades of gold, copper, and red. The engine turned off with a soft roar, and a welcoming silence took over the room, broken only by the sound of the wind blowing lightly, swaying the bare branches of the surrounding trees.

You climbed down from the old but cozy car with a tired gesture and leaned on the door. You closed your eyes and a few memories still danced through your mind in flashes that you tried to forget in the past. Recalling them was never pleasant, especially about things that hurt you in some way and that you had no control over.

You opened your eyes and realized that Spencer had repeated your movements, stopping right next to you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “It's prettier than it looks in the photos, don't you think?” he commented with a serene smile lighting up his face, his eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and relief.

“Yes, it's perfect,” you replied, your voice almost a whisper, as if something in that place called for silence, for respect.

In the background, the sound of children's laughter reached both of them. They were a few meters away, but their voices echoed amid the stillness of the field. From a distance, you could see a little girl in a red scarf, who you guessed was no more than six years old, run up to a particularly high pile and dive into it, scattering leaves everywhere, while a little boy tried to catch up with her, laughing.

Spencer hugged your waist a little tighter and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if to record the smell of the air. “Smells like fall... dry leaves and wet earth... oh, and probably the fire in the cabin. Do you feel it?” he looked at you, with that enthusiasm you loved, a gleam of genuine curiosity that made everything seem more interesting.

“Yes, I do. And it's delicious.” you replied, with a small smile on your face, as you pulled on your jacket to protect yourself from the wind.

He let go of your waist and walked around the car to open the trunk, but not before looking at the cottage again, as if analyzing every detail. “The woodwork on the façade is well preserved. It's probably been restored recently… It's an interesting project, using rustic materials, but…”

“Babe.” you interrupted him with a laugh. “We came here to relax, not to do an architectural study.”

He laughed, a soft, relaxed sound, and closed the trunk, balancing two backpacks in his arms. “Okay, okay, you're right. I bet the inside is even cozier.”

You walked to the door, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot marking every step. The key turned in the lock with ease, and when Spencer pushed the door open, a pleasant warmth enveloped you, accompanied by the faint scent of burning wood and something sweet, which you quickly recognized as cinnamon.

“Welcome to our weekend getaway.” he said, placing the backpacks next to the door and looking at you with a satisfied smile. “Ready to start relaxing?”

You looked at him, at the delicately prepared fireplace in the corner of the room and at the strategically positioned sofa near the window that offered a perfect view of the golden countryside outside.

“Ready.” you replied, already feeling your shoulders relax as you closed the door behind you.

The crackling of the fireplace filled the silence of the cottage, casting dancing shadows on the living room walls, its comforting sound blending with the subtle howl of the wind outside. But you couldn't feel completely warm. You were sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, your back against the sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket, your legs folded under your body. In your hands, she held a mug of tea that Spencer had insisted on making for you. The warmth of the fire and the steam rising in slow spirals seemed to ease the tension that had settled permanently in your shoulders since the last case, but the promised comfort seemed distant.

Spencer was sitting next to you, his legs stretched out on the floor, and one of his hands holding your thigh. He hadn't said much since you arrived, just enough to make sure you knew he was there. And now, in the silence of the cottage, it was impossible not to think about the case.

“I can't stop hearing that poor girl's voice,” you said, finally breaking the silence. Your voice sounded low, almost fragile, but firm enough to show that you were trying to confront your own thoughts.

Spencer turned to look at you but didn't interrupt. He knew you needed to get everything you were feeling out in the open.

“She looked… so scared, Spencer. So lost. And I… I told her everything would be okay. I promised her she'd be safe.”

“You did what anyone would do,” he replied softly. “And you did the best you could. Promises like that are… difficult, but they have a purpose. They give people a reason to fight, a hope to hold on to.

You shook your head, your hand squeezing his. “But she wasn't well! We couldn't get there in time. And the worst thing… was seeing her die like that and seeing how it hit me in a way I hadn't expected. That little girl could have been me. I saw so much of myself in her…” Your voice faltered, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears that insisted on escaping.

Spencer moved closer to you, lightly squeezing your thigh in an attempt to convey comfort and support. “You're absolutely right. It was personal. And that's why it hurts so much. But it also means that you care. You empathize with her because you have a huge heart, and that's not a weakness.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the security that his close presence conveyed, but the words still came, as if a dam had been opened. “I just… I can't deal with it for long. It's too heavy. And when it's personal like this, it feels like I'm carrying the whole world on my back.”

“Then you're not carrying it alone.” he said, his voice firm now, but full of tenderness. “That's what I'm here for. I always will be, even if you don't realize it. Even if you don't ask. And… you know that, don't you?”

You turned your head, meeting his eyes. There was an unwavering sincerity there, something that almost made your chest ache with how comforting it was. You nodded, finally allowing the tears to fall, because you knew that there, in the safety of that cottage and in Spencer's presence, you could be vulnerable.”

He smiled softly, wiping away a tear that ran down his cheek. “Now, how about we make a deal? The next two days are for you to heal. No pressure, no judgment. We'll go for a walk, cook, look at the stars... and if, in between, you need to talk more about the case, about her, or whatever you want, I'll be here, listening. Always.”

You took a deep breath and leaned against his body, feeling the weight of the moment begin to ease, even if just a little. “Thank you, Spencer.”

“No need to thank me,” he replied, squeezing your thigh a little harder. “You did the same thing for me when I was arrested, I'm just returning the favor.”

A few hours had passed since that conversation, and you couldn't tell if the weather was mild or cold. You knew it was 18°C, but you couldn't decide if it was really cold for you, since Spencer had re-lit the fireplace and the heat from the flames was taking over the room.

You could hear music coming from a few houses down the block. The area had few people and plenty of space. And you mentally thanked the cottage for being so far from the city.

Spencer was in the small kitchen, stirring something in a small pot with his usual precision. The scent of hot chocolate and cinnamon filled the air, bringing a soft nostalgia that warmed as much as the fireplace. He hummed softly, an almost imperceptible sound, but enough to draw a smile from you. 

“It's ready!” he announced, bringing two mugs to the coffee table. He placed one in front of you before sitting down next to you. “I know I've said this before, but let me make it clear again: this is officially a worry-free weekend. No work, no answering messages from Garcia, no worrying about the team, nothing. It's just us, the fire, and maybe some cookies, if you ask nicely.”

You can't help the laugh that escapes. “So you kidnapped me to fill me up with sugar and keep me from thinking too much?” 

“Basically.” he replied with a satisfied smile. “It's a foolproof plan.”

His smile was infectious, and for the first time in days, you felt the weight of the last case finally dissipate completely. You plopped down on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you held the warm mug between your hands. On the opposite side, Spencer was relaxed, with his legs folded under him and his head slightly tilted, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Did you know that in some cultures, autumn is considered a time for reflection and gratitude?” he began, his tone calm but charged with that peculiar enthusiasm that appeared whenever he shared something new. “In ancient China, for example, the Mid-Autumn Festival was a celebration of the harvest, but also a time to gather the family and enjoy the full moon.”

You arched an eyebrow, a smile appearing. “Let me guess, you know why the full moon is important?”

“Of course!” he replied, leaning forward excitedly. “In Chinese mythology, there's a legend about the moon goddess, Chang'e, who drank the elixir of immortality and went to live on the moon. During the Festival, people make offerings to the moon as a way of honoring her and celebrating the connection between heaven and earth.”

“You really know everything, don't you?” you joked, but there was genuine admiration in your voice.

Spencer shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “Not everything, but I like learning about traditions. It's fascinating how different cultures interpret the changing seasons. If you look at Europe, fall was seen as a period of transition, as if it were a moment between life and death. It's because of this that many transitions, such as Halloween, have their roots in rituals to honor the dead.”

You smiled and took a sip of your hot chocolate, letting the warmth soothe your throat before answering. “It's funny how something as simple as falling leaves can have so much meaning. I've never given it much thought, to be honest. I've always seen fall as… a reminder that the year is ending.”

Spencer tilted his head thoughtfully. “That makes sense. It's a period of closure, but also of preparation. Trees lose their leaves to conserve energy during the winter so that they can bloom again in the spring. A necessary cycle, you know?”

You watched him for a moment, admiring the way he saw meaning in everything. “You can turn anything into a life lesson, can't you?”

He laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe. But I think fall is special to me because it reminds me that change can be beautiful. Even when it seems like something is ending, there's always room for a new beginning.”

There was a comfortable silence after that, as you let his words echo through your mind. Then, leaning forward, you asked. “And what's your favorite memory of autumn?”

Spencer smiled, his eyes wandering as if searching through the archives of his mind. “When I was a child, my mother and I used to walk through the park near our house. She loved to quote romantic poets as the leaves fell. One time the wind was so strong that it lifted the leaves everywhere. She told me that it was as if the world was dancing to entertain us. I will never forget that.”

Your chest warmed at its memory, and you reached out for Spencer's hand to hold, giving it a gentle squeeze as soon as you found it. “It's a beautiful memory, Spencer. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He smiled, squeezing your hand back. “And you? Any fall memories you like to recall?”

You paused to think, letting the moment linger. “I think mine is something simpler. I remember playing with leaves as a child, throwing them up in the air, and running through the trees. It wasn't anything big, but there was something magical about it, you know? And it ended up annoying my parents a bit,” you laughed.

Spencer nodded, his eyes fixed on yours. “That's what I like about fall. Little moments, full of meaning, even if they seem simple.”

You stood there, the warmth of the fireplace and each other's company filling the cottage with a rare and welcome tranquility. The comfortable silence continued for a few more minutes, with the sound of the wind outside and the warmth of the fire creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere. You stretched out your legs, letting the blanket slip off slightly as you watched the soft light from the fireplace illuminate the rustic walls of the cottage.

Spencer moved next to him, leaning over to pick up the mug he had left on the table. He took a sip, his distracted gaze lost for a moment in the movement of the flames. When he looked back at you, his eyes were filled with a serene calm, but also with something else - a closeness that went far beyond the words you exchanged.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, his tone almost casual, but the slight smile on his lips gave away that the question had more meaning than it conveyed.

“More than comfortable.” you replied, pulling the blanket over your feet again. “I can't remember the last time I felt so at ease.”

He nodded, his smile softening. “That's all I wanted for us. A place where we could just… exist. Without rushing. No worries.”

For a moment, you just stared at each other, and then you pointed to the rug in front of the fireplace. “I think I'll go closer to the fire. It's so cozy in there.”

Spencer smiled, watching as you got up and walked over to the rug, taking the blanket with you. He didn't take long to follow, bringing another cushion to settle down next to you.

As you settled in, the conversation dwindled, but each other's presence seemed to say enough. Spencer propped himself up on one elbow, watching you as the fire reflected in his eyes. You, for your part, remained mesmerized by the flames, allowing the calm of the moment to envelop you completely.

It was as if the world outside had disappeared, leaving just the two of you, the warmth of the fire, and the promise of a night that seemed to have something more in store.

Spencer held out his hand, his fingers gently brushing yours. The touch was so delicate that it almost seemed accidental, but when you looked at him, the look in his eyes said something else. He smiled sideways, a little shy but determined, before entwining your fingers in his.

“Come here.” he murmured, pulling you slightly closer.

You let yourself be guided until you were so close that you could feel the warmth of his body rivaling that of the fireplace. He slipped an arm around your waist, enveloping you in a hug that, although it started innocently enough, soon changed a few seconds later.

His hand gently pulled your waist, making you sit on his lap. You felt his breathing change, slower, deeper, as he looked at you with an intensity that made your heart soar.

“You look so beautiful…” he whispered, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Heat rose to your face, but you didn't look away. It was impossible to ignore the way the glow from the fire danced in his eyes, making the moment almost magical. He leaned in slightly, their faces so close now that you could feel his warm breath against your skin.

“Spencer…” you murmured, but anything else you could have said was forgotten when he finally ended the distance between you.

The kiss began slowly, hesitantly, as if he was savoring every second. But soon, the intensity grew, a fire that seemed to reflect the flames in the fireplace. His hands gripped your waist more firmly, pulling you even closer.

You pulled away just enough to catch your breath, your eyes fixed on his. He smiled, that shy, adorable smile, but there was something else there now — a desire you'd never seen so clear before.

“If at any point you want to stop…” he began, but you quickly interrupted him, smiling as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“I don't want to stop, Spencer.”

And with that, you leaned in again, your movements surer now, as if you knew exactly where this would lead. You narrowed the space between the two of you, gluing your lips more fiercely to his. Spencer stood still in shock, since you had never kissed him so fiercely, and you closed your hand in his hair, running your tongue like a demand against his lips. Let me in. When Spencer came back to reality, he murmured something against your lips, his cold hand slipping under your sweater and dragging up your skin, higher and higher. 

Your kiss was interrupted as shortness of breath overtook you both. Spencer's breath Your breathing faltered when his hands stopped at your breasts, above your bra, gently caressing them. A restrained moan escaped your lips, causing Spencer to press his hand harder.

fueled your feelings, the taste of hot chocolate now a ghost between the two of you. You inhaled the scent of Spencer's perfume sharply, his heartbeat vibrating in your ears.

 “You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured into your skin and you finally feel his cool hand sliding across your skin.

“Spencer!” you shouted, pulling away from him.

He smiled. “I'm sorry, my love.”

He got up and sat back against the sofa, watching the way you undressed in front of him. Your jeans slid down your smooth legs, stopping calmly at your ankles as you bent down to take them off, and you quickly took off your sweater, revealing the lilac lingerie that Spencer loved so much.

You moved your hands to your bra, intending to take it off, but he stopped you. “Leave it on, you look even more beautiful with it on.”

Pulling you by the waist back towards him, one of his hands ran down and rested on your ass before giving it a spank. You stayed still, looking at him sitting on the floor.

“Have I mentioned that I love it when you wear this lingerie?” he says to you, running his fingers along the lilac lace.

“I know,” you smile.

Spencer pulled you down to lie on the floor again, this time sitting between your legs, one on each side of his body. You propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. Spencer pulled your pants aside, his gaze fixed on your pussy and, without warning, he slipped two fingers into you. The moan that came out of your mouth was like music to his ear.

His fingers curved upwards, and his back arched with an enormous sensation of pleasure that consumed his entire body. Your hand reaches down to grasp his wrist, but he gently pulls it away, using his free hand to pull your two hands together and rest them on top of your head.

“Behave yourself.” he tells you, adding a third finger.

You unconsciously spread your legs wider, giving him more room to get on top of you. Spencer's cheek touched the inside of your thigh, and he watched as your face contorted with pleasure and he smiled, 

Spencer felt your eyes on him, taking the lilac panties that were still on his body and gently pulling them down his legs, letting them fall to the floor with the rest of his clothes. He wants you to look at him. Your hips jerked when you felt his tongue against your clitoris, and you used your free hand to grab his hair.

He knew you like the back of his hand, so when you closed your thighs around his head, he held them in place while his tongue attacked your clitoris again.

Three fingers inside you and Spencer looked up, watching as you threw your head back, your eyes closed, and his hand, which he had previously held above your head, groping your breasts. Between the magic of his fingers and tongue, your orgasm was close to coming, and he knew it.

Spencer withdrew his fingers carefully and a groan of disapproval left his lips.

“Come here.” He stood up and patted his lap.

With his help, you managed to stand up. Your legs seemed to have turned to jelly as you climbed into his lap. Spencer's hands stopped on your ass, his fingers roaming up and down the curve of it. It was only then that he realized: you had already removed your bra.

Spencer brought his hands down to your stomach and sneaked his fingers up your skin until he reached your breasts again. He hummed, totally focused on your breasts and oblivious to everything that was going on around you. Holding his chin between your fingers, you pulled his face towards you.

“Please fuck me!” you murmured, a hint of desperation hanging in your voice. Spencer smiled, nodding with a look you'd seen on his face many times before.

Your hands went straight to the zipper of his pants and he helped you, pulling them down enough for you to get his cock out of his underwear. One of your hands rested on his shoulders, giving you physical support as you sank down onto him.

You went back to watching Spencer, watching as he spread kisses over your chest, lightly brushing over your breasts until he wrapped his lips around one of your nipples, running his tongue over it. Your hand tangled in his hair again and a moan of his name escaped your lips.

His other hand passed over your hip until it reached your other breast, his fingers twisting and rolling your nipple gently between your thumb and forefinger.

“Spence.” you breathed, rocking your hips forward in response to all the stimulation you were receiving.

“Fuck, you're so perfect,” he said, closing his eyes. “Your pussy looks like it was made just for me.” His hand slapped down hard on your ass. Your lips found his neck, leaving a trail of marks and sloppy kisses all over the end of it. “Come on, Baby, come for me.” Spencer pleaded, knowing he wouldn't be able to hold off much longer.

Between the movements he made with his lips and the fact that his cock was hitting all the right spots inside you, he pushed you over the edge. The knot in your stomach loosened and Spencer watched as you came. The mixture of your come and a few more quick, sloppy thrusts, he came right after you.

The dim light from the almost extinguished embers still cast a few soft shadows across the cottage room as you stood entwined in front of the fireplace. The remaining warmth of the fire, combined with the heat emanating from Spencer's body against yours, created a delicious bubble of coziness that seemed to isolate you from everything that was happening outside. You could feel Spencer's calm breathing against your hair, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, and this, for you, made the situation even more perfect than it already was.

“I should have made more hot chocolate.” he commented suddenly, his voice slightly husky and a little sleepy, which made it all the more adorable.

You lifted your face to look at him, the corners of your lips curving up in an amused smile. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yes.” he continued, his eyes half-closed as he stroked your back in an unpretentious way. “Hot chocolate is practically obligatory on nights like this. The two of us together, fireplace on... it's definitely a classic.”

You laughed, leaning in to place a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I think you've just found the only flaw in this weekend.”

Spencer opened his eyes, feigning an expression of indignation as he tried to hold back his laughter. “Flaw? I think we've just made it even more perfect.”

The laugh that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, and he smiled in satisfaction as if it was the reaction he'd been waiting for. Spencer pulled you closer, kissing your forehead and murmuring against your skin. “I promise to make it up to you next time. With marshmallows and everything.”

“Oh, right,” you joked, giving him a smile. “I'll charge you.”

His smile softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes shining with something that seemed like pure affection. “Are you happy?”

It was a simple question, but full of meaning, making your heart squeeze at the way he cared. You nodded, pulling the previously forgotten blanket over you both. “Very much. Thank you for that, Spencer. For knowing exactly what I needed, even when I didn't know it myself.”

He closed his eyes again, a satisfied smile on his face. “I'll always know. You're my favorite spot in any season, anywhere.”

With those words, the comfortable silence took over again. Little by little, Spencer's breathing became slower, and you realized that he was starting to fall asleep.

You smiled to yourself, snuggling further into his arms, while also letting the weight of tiredness carry you off to dreamland.

[twistedtwintaker]

50% opacity

Warning: strong language.

Story: you've just moved into a new home, only to discover the ghost of a witch it's hunting the house.

Light angst and fluff. Use of y/n

Y/N should have known the day would be a disaster when the movers dropped her coffee table on the front porch. The “haunted” house her cousin pawned off on her had looked normal enough—just a little dusty, maybe leaning a bit to the left.

It started small: a whisper in the hall when she knew no one else was there. Lights flickering ominously, doors creaking open on their own. Y/N had seen enough horror movies to know what was coming, but what she wasn’t prepared for was the ghost herself.

“Nice aim,” a smooth, sarcastic voice commented after Y/N threw a shoe at the flickering lightbulb.

Y/N spun around, heart pounding, to see a woman leaning against the wall. She was tall, with wild curls and a smirk that radiated smugness. Her clothes looked old-fashioned, but her sharp wit was unmistakably modern.

“What the fuck?” Y/N blurted, scrambling for her broom. “Who the hell are you?”

“The ghost, obviously,” the woman replied, completely unbothered. “Agatha Harkness. And you?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “The living person who owns this house.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Owns? Cute. I’d say you’re more of a temporary guest.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Y/N jabbed the broom in Agatha’s direction. “If you’re gonna haunt me, at least do something useful, like pay rent or clean up around here.”

Agatha chuckled. “Pay rent? Sweetheart, I’ve been dead for centuries. You can’t charge me for haunting rights.”

Y/N groaned. She’d barely been here a day, and she was already done with this place.

Over the next few weeks, Agatha made it her mission to be the most annoying housemate imaginable. She moved furniture when Y/N wasn’t looking, “accidentally” turned off the hot water in the middle of showers, and kept leaving cryptic messages on the bathroom mirror.

“Seriously?” Y/N growled one morning, scrubbing at the words “Nice bedhead” written in condensation.

From the hallway, Agatha peeked in, grinning. “What? I’m just being friendly.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Agatha said, smirking as she floated past.

“You know, you could try dusting once in a while,” Agatha quipped one morning as Y/N struggled to clean the fireplace.

“You could try leaving once in a while,” Y/N shot back.

Agatha smirked, floating lazily in mid-air. “I can’t. This house is mine, remember? You’re the intruder here.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Y/N threw her cleaning rag on the floor. “If you’re so attached to this place, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you died.”

Agatha gave an exaggerated gasp. “Ouch. So rude. No wonder you’re single.”

Y/N flipped her off without even looking.

slowly painfully, even Y/N started to warm up to Agatha. The ghost, as annoying as she was, had her moments. Like when Y/N couldn’t figure out how to fix a broken chair, and Agatha “accidentally” revealed she knew woodworking because she “used to build her own furniture back in the day.” Or the time Y/N had a terrible day at work, and Agatha distracted her with a dramatic re-enactment of how she scared off the last potential buyers who came to see the house.

“You’re insane,” Y/N said, laughing despite herself.

“And yet, you’re still here,” Agatha replied, her smirk softening into something warmer.

Months passed, and their banter became less biting, more playful. Y/N found herself talking to Agatha late into the night, sharing things she hadn’t told anyone else—dreams she’d given up on, relationships that had ended badly, fears she didn’t even like admitting to herself.

And Agatha listened. For all her sarcasm and sass, she had a knack for cutting through Y/N’s bullshit.

One night, as Y/N sat on the couch scrolling through her laptop, she felt Agatha hovering behind her.

“Do you mind?” Y/N asked, not looking up. “You’re creeping me out.”

“I’m a ghost. It’s literally my job,” Agatha said, leaning over her shoulder. “What’s that you’re working on?”

“None of your business,” Y/N muttered, trying to ignore the way her heart jumped whenever Agatha got too close.

“Suit yourself.” Agatha floated away but stayed in the room, watching Y/N with an expression Y/N couldn’t quite read.

It wasn’t until one particularly quiet evening that Y/N finally said what had been on her mind for weeks.

“Do you ever wish you could leave this house?”

Agatha, who was lounging in the air with one leg crossed over the other, looked startled. “Why would I? This place is my home.”

“Yeah, but… you’re stuck here. Don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”

Agatha hesitated. For once, her smirk was gone, replaced by a flicker of something vulnerable. “Maybe. But I don’t get that choice, do I?”

Y/N frowned, guilt twisting in her chest. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” Agatha sighed, running a hand through her curls. “But the thing is… this house isn’t so bad. Not anymore.”

Y/N felt her face heat up. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

Agatha’s smirk returned. “Oh, sweetheart, I never said that. But if the shoe fits…”

“You’re impossible,” Y/N muttered, but she couldn’t help smiling.

They didn’t have all the answers. How could they? One of them was dead, and the other was barely holding her life together. But as Y/N sat beside Agatha on the couch, listening to the ghost ramble about her favorite books from the 1800s, she realized she didn’t care.

They’d figure it out. Together.

[callme-holly]

Could you maybe write dally with a reader who's in the middle of a depressive episode? Like can't leave their bed, stopped brushing hair and teeth etc...?

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - in which dallas does his best to show he cares 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - im back from my break but content wont be as frequent bc im going into my final year of high school and stress is high 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 1k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - mentions of depressive episodes, not eating, etc

Dallas knew something was wrong the moment you didn’t pick up the phone. He knew something wasn’t right the second it went straight to voicemail, that dull, grating tone sounding through the line instead of your usual soft voice. Something was wrong, and the fact that this was the fifth time he’d called you with still no answer didn’t bode well with his growing concern. 

Maybe that’s why he found himself balancing on the ledge outside your window, desperately trying to figure out a way to get in without getting caught by your parents—or showing that he cares too much. He’s got a reputation to uphold afterall, and while it’s not entirely untrue that you’re important to him, he’d rather look tough than risk appearing vulnerable by throwing himself into your room and demanding an explanation. 

With a carful and much practised ease, Dallas manages to make his way onto your windowsill, flicking out his blade and jamming it into the gap just under where your lock would sit, twisting and turning until the lock releases from its place in the frame with a quiet click. You were going to kill him one of these days for how many times he’d left little marks against the woodwork or broken off pieces entirely, but there was a time and a place for everything and he knew better than to mention the new scars on the paintwork to you right now.

The inside of your room is uncharacteristically dark when Dallas slips in through the window, lit only by the small lamp on the your desk, the dim glow casting tall, looming shadows across the walls. It’s as if the entire room were swallowed up, consumed by the darkness which has cast itself over every inch of your space, hiding you away, making you seem smaller, weaker, somehow. 

Your bed is a mess of blanket and pillows strewn about haphazardly, and tangled in the midst of all the chaos is you, curled in on yourself like you have been all day, face hidden from the light of the world, eyes shut tight. You breathe deeply, in and out, in and out… 

Dallas has never seen you so still before, and even though he doesn’t want to disturb you, he knows that you're way too caught up in your own head, too wrapped up in your own self pity, to notice him standing in the middle of your room. He can see the rise and fall of your shoulders and chest, can see the way you shift every now and then, the tension and sadness clear in every movement, as if you’re fighting off some invisible demon.

The sight frustrates him, the thought of you sitting here alone, unable to do anything against your spiralling mind causes those gears to grind within him. He knows what it’s like, how it feels to be trapped in your own head, and he hates to see you suffer from it.  

“Hey,” he murmurs softly after a moment of prolonged silence, attempting to break you from the trace you’re submersed in without startling you. He takes a tentative step forward before carefully moving to sit on the edge of your bed, not really knowing what to do from there. “You good?”

You don’t respond immediately, your response getting stuck halfway up your throat, struggling to get past the thick wall of emotions blocking any kind of sound from leaving your lips. You swallow heavily, the action painful and raw, and your words come out in a tiny, hushed whisper, barely louder than the wind whipping through the trees outside.

“Don’t know.” The word comes out as more of a sigh than an actual word, and though your mouth opens to continue the conversation you’ve cut it short, unable to force another syllable past your throat. It seems as if your brain had completely gone blank, the thought of continuing speaking seeming impossible. There’s a pause between you two. A moment in which you’re both waiting for the other to speak, to say something, but neither can find the words to fill it. It stretches on, almost unbearable in its intensity, the silence so thick and heavy with unsaid thoughts and feelings you could cut it with a knife if you wanted to. 

Finally, it becomes too much and Dallas is the first to break, shifting awkwardly to sit beside you. He's not good with this sort of thing, emotions aren't exactly his area of expertise, but he isn't completely heartless and he sure as hell isn't gonna leave you like this. 

“Have you eaten anything today?” There's a strange note to his voice, and even though you don't turn to glance at him, you feel his eyes on you. You shake your head in confirmation and he huffs. “Then eat,” he says simply, reaching forward to brush some of your knotted hair from your face. 

The gesture is gentle, comforting almost, but his touch is still firm despite his attempts at being a calming presence. That much about him doesn’t change.

You want to tell him that it’s not that easy, that you haven’t actually left your bed since yesterday morning—except to go to the bathroom—and even then, the effort it took drained what little energy you had left. You want to say that the thought of forcing food down your throat feels impossible because your stomach hasn’t stopped feeling like lead weights. But instead, you bite your tongue. It’s too difficult to explain something like that to Dally, and honestly, you’re not sure you could handle his bluntness right now.

Instead you reach out blindly for him, gripping onto his wrist tightly and pulling him close, ignoring any protests he may make. He sits stiffly, unsure how to react to the sudden contact, but after a moment of hesitation he allows himself to relax, one arm coming to wind around your middle.

He doesn't smother you, doesn't tease you for wanting him so close like he normally would. Instead, he remains quiet, offering nothing but silent support. And you appreciate that; you appreciate how he doesn’t push you away, how he doesn’t leave you alone to deal with things yourself. You appreciate that, despite it not being his scene at all,  he stays beside you, lets you cling to him and rest in his arms without complaining. And then you realise, maybe Dallas Winston isn't as heartless as everyone makes him out to be. 

Maybe, just maybe, you mean more to him then he lets on.