#ceramic knife sets

[raekensluver]

hearts aligned

description: you and your roommate spencer reid have always been there for each other. one night he comes back from work and you two discover a different side to your dynamic.

pairing: roomate!spencer reid x fem!reader

contains: fluff!! mutual pining, typical criminal minds violence, reader is described as having shoulder length hair

song rec: fallen star by the nbhd- "you're in my dna, i can't keep away no matter how hard i try"

w.c: 2.7k

an: *sob* i love him.

it was a mundane tuesday evening, the kind that bled into the fabric of the week seamlessly. the apartment was quiet, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator echoing through the hallway. the soft glow of the living room lamp cast a warm, buttery light, a stark contrast to the deepening shadows outside the window. you sat cross-legged on the couch, your nose buried in a well-worn paperback, the plot weaving in and out of your consciousness like a gentle stream.

the sound of the lock turning brought your head up with a jolt, the bookmark slipping from your fingers to land silently on the carpet. spencer reid, your roommate, stepped inside, his eyes weary but a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. his gaze swept the room before settling on you, the surprise in his eyes unmistakable. "you're still up," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to shake the very air.

you closed the book with a soft thud and gave him a warm smile. "yeah, i had some trouble sleeping," you admitted, your voice a little hoarse from the quiet of the night. "do you want some tea?" you offered, already pushing to your feet. his nod was all the encouragement you needed as you padded into the kitchen, the cold tiles a stark contrast to the warmth of the living room. while the water heated, you listened to the soft thud of his shoes against the floor as he moved towards his room, the jingle of his keys a familiar lullaby.

but when you turned with the steaming mug in hand, you found him hovering in the doorway, watching you. "you know, i can do that," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "i don't mind, really." his voice was gentle, a hint of concern lacing his words.

you paused, the ceramic warm against your palms, and studied him for a moment. his tie was askew, his shirt wrinkled from a long day's work, and his hair, normally a neat cap of chocolate waves, was disheveled. "you've had a long day," you said, your voice firm but kind. "just sit." you gestured to the stool at the kitchen island, the one that faced the stove where you were already setting out ingredients for a simple meal. "i'll make us something light."

he hesitated, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "alright," he conceded, his shoulders slumping slightly as he took a seat. the fabric of his pants whispered against the leather of the stool as he settled in, his eyes never leaving you as you moved with an easy grace around the kitchen. you could feel the weight of his gaze, a warm presence that made your cheeks flush, and your heart stutter in your chest.

you filled a pan with oil, the faint sizzle as it heated up a comforting sound. "so, how was work today?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual despite the sudden thrum of anticipation that had taken root in your veins.

spencer took a sip of his tea, his eyes thoughtful. "it was… interesting," he said, his gaze drifting over the steaming liquid. "but i'd rather not talk about that right now," he added, his voice a low murmur. "do you mind if we talk about something else?"

you nodded, setting aside the knife you were using to chop vegetables. "of course," you said, wiping your hands on a dishtowel. "what do you want to talk about?"

spencer leaned against the counter, his expression pensive. "tell me about your day," he said, his eyes searching yours. "i feel like i never get to hear about it."

you felt a flutter in your stomach. "it was…normal," you said, the words feeling almost rehearsed. "work, errands, the usual."

spencer's gaze remained steady, a hint of curiosity lighting his eyes. "anything exciting happen?"

you couldn't help but chuckle at his persistence. "well, if you consider accidentally matching my socks with my shirt 'exciting,' then yes, it was quite the thriller," you said with a wry smile.

his eyes lit up with amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching. "i see," he said, his voice teasing. "that does sound like a tale for the ages."

you rolled your eyes playfully, the tension in the room easing a notch. "it was definitely a fashion statement," you quipped, tossing a chopped carrot into the pan. the sizzle filled the air, the scent of garlic and onions mingling with the warmth of the kitchen.

spencer set his tea aside, leaning closer. "i'm sure it was," he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "but really, anything interesting happen?"

you met his gaze, a sudden realization dawning. "you know what, spencer?" you said, your voice earnest. "right now, this moment, is the most interesting thing that's happened to me all day." his eyes widened slightly, and you could see the wheels turning in his head. "just being here, with you, talking about nothing in particular… it's nice."

his cheeks colored slightly, and he ducked his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "it is," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "i don't get to do this very often."

you cocked your head to the side, studying him. "what do you mean?"

he shrugged, his eyes darting to the floor. "i spend so much time working, or reading, or… just in my own head," he admitted. "i don't get to just sit and talk with people. not like this."

you felt a warmth spread through you, a sense of connection that was more profound than any conversation you'd had with him before. "i'm always here, you know," you said softly, the words slipping out before you could second guess them. "if you ever need someone to talk to, or just to sit with."

his eyes snapped back up to yours, the surprise in them clear. "i know," he said, his voice a little gruff. "i just… i don't want to burden you."

you set the spatula down, moving closer to him. "you're not a burden, spencer," you said, your voice firm. "you're my roommate. and if you ever need anything, i'm here."

his eyes searched yours, the depth of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. "i know," he repeated, his voice softer this time. "it's just… i don't want to take advantage."

you reached out, placing a hand on his forearm. "you could never take advantage," you assured him, your thumb stroking a gentle circle against his skin. "we're friends, we're supposed to be here for each other."

spencer's eyes dropped to where your hand rested, the warmth of your touch seeping into his bones. "i know that," he murmured. "but i also know that you have your own life, your own things to deal with."

you gave his arm a gentle squeeze before retreating to the stove, the comforting dance of cooking resuming as if the moment had never happened. "and you're part of my life," you said, your back to him. "so, what's one more thing?"

spencer watched you for a moment, his eyes tracing the curve of your back, the way your hair fell in soft waves down to your shoulders. he took a deep breath, the scent of the simmering food filling his nostrils. "what's your favorite memory?" he asked, his voice a little rough.

you glanced over your shoulder, a smile playing on your lips. "just one?" you teased, turning back to the stove. "that's a tough one." you stirred the contents of the pan, the spices releasing a symphony of aromas into the air. "but if i had to pick, it would probably be the first time we moved in together."

spencer's eyes lit up, the memory obviously a good one. "that was… crazy," he said with a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "but also… nice."

you nodded, your smile growing. "i remember being so nervous," you said, the words bringing a warm rush of nostalgia. "i didn't know what to expect, moving in with someone i'd only met once before."

spencer's gaze grew distant, his mind traveling back to that fateful day. "i was the same," he admitted. "i had this whole speech prepared about how we should respect each other's space and keep things clean, but when i saw you, it all just… disappeared."

you turned to face him, your eyes wide with surprise. "really?"

he nodded, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "i know it sounds ridiculous, but you just… you made me feel comfortable. like i could be myself around you."

you felt your heart swell at his words, a warmth spreading through your chest. "i felt the same way," you admitted, your voice a little shaky. "i remember walking in and seeing all these boxes, and thinking 'what have i gotten myself into?'" you laughed, the sound a little too loud in the quiet kitchen. "but then you looked up from your book, and you just… you were so genuine, so welcoming."

spencer's smile grew, his eyes a soft brown in the muted light. "i've never regretted that decision," he said, his voice earnest. "you make this place feel like home."

you blinked, the sudden weight of his words settling in your stomach. "i'm… i'm happy to hear that," you said, your voice a little breathless.

spencer pushed himself off the stool, the sound of it scraping against the tile floor breaking the silence. he took a step closer to you, the warmth of his body radiating like a small sun. "i mean it," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "you're the best roommate i could ever ask for."

you swallowed hard, the heat of the stove behind you seemingly nothing compared to the warmth in front of you. "thank you," you whispered, your hand still clutching the spatula. "you're pretty great too."

his smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "yeah?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

you nodded, feeling your heart race. "yes," you said, turning back to the stove to give yourself a moment to compose. "you're always there when i need you, and you put up with my terrible cooking."

spencer chuckled, moving closer to peer into the pan. "i wouldn't say it's terrible," he said, his eyes twinkling. "just… adventurous."

you shot him a playful glare, but couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "adventurous, huh?" you said, shaking your head. "i'll take that as a compliment."

spencer stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently take the spatula from your grip. "i'll help," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. the air between you felt charged, the tension thick and palpable. your heart was racing, each beat echoing in your ears like the tick of a clock counting down to something you hadn't quite anticipated.

you let him take over, watching as his long, slender fingers deftly stirred the sizzling mixture. "i've been meaning to tell you something," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "i know we've been roommates for a while now, but… i've started to realize that i might like you a little more than just a friend."

you froze, the heat from the stove forgotten. your eyes searched his, looking for any sign of uncertainty or jest, but all you found was sincerity. "spencer," you began, but he held up a hand to stop you.

"i know it's weird," he said, his voice rushing out like a river that had been dammed for too long. "and i know we're friends, and roommates, but… i can't ignore it anymore."

you stared at him, your thoughts racing faster than the cars on the street outside. "spencer," you breathed, his name a question, a declaration, a plea all rolled into one. your hand hovered in the space between you, unsure of where to land.

his eyes searched yours, the warmth of his hand as he took the spatula a silent promise. "i know," he continued, his voice a little shaky. "but i can't help it. every time i come home and you're here, waiting for me, it's like… it's like coming home to a piece of sunshine."

you felt your heart stutter in your chest, the words resonating deep within you. "spencer," you whispered, the name a prayer on your lips. "i… i feel the same way." the words hung in the air, a soft confession that seemed to illuminate the kitchen with a gentle glow.

his eyes searched yours, a hopeful spark lighting them up. "you do?" he asked, his voice tentative, as if he was afraid to believe.

you nodded, your own heart racing. "yes," you said, your voice clear and firm. "i've liked you for a while now. i just didn't know how to tell you." the admission felt like a weight lifting off your chest, leaving you feeling lighter than air.

spencer's smile grew, a genuine, boyish grin that made your heart flutter. "really?" he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

you nodded, your cheeks flushing a soft pink. "yes," you whispered, your eyes never leaving his. "i just didn't want to mess things up."

spencer set the spatula down, the clatter against the pan a jolting sound in the quiet kitchen. "you could never mess things up," he said, his voice a soft promise. "not with me."

you took a step closer, the warmth of his body drawing you in like a magnet. "are you sure?" you asked, your voice a little shaky.

he nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "i've never been more sure of anything in my life," he said, his voice a low murmur. "you make me feel… alive, in a way i haven't felt in a long time."

you felt your breath catch in your throat, the confession so raw and honest that it was like a punch to the gut. "spencer," you whispered, reaching out to touch his cheek. your fingertips traced the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath your fingertips.

his eyes searched yours, the question in them unspoken but clear. "what are we going to do?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

you took a deep breath, the scent of the food on the stove forgotten. "i don't know," you admitted, your voice a little shaky. "i just know that i don't want to ignore this anymore."

spencer reached up, his hand covering yours on his cheek. "neither do i," he murmured, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. "i don't want to pretend it's not there."

you stepped closer, your hand sliding down to cup his face fully. "then let's not," you said, your voice a little tremulous. "let's see where this goes."

his eyes searched yours for a moment before he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours tentatively. it was a gentle touch, a question that hung in the air between you, waiting for an answer. you responded with a sigh, your arms wrapping around his neck as you deepened the kiss. his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body a comforting embrace that seemed to fit you perfectly.

the world outside the kitchen faded away, the only sounds the faint crackle of the stove and the thud of your hearts beating in sync. the kiss grew more urgent, more passionate, as if you were both trying to make up for lost time. your hands tangled in his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers like silk.

you two broke apart, breathless, your eyes searching each other's for any sign of doubt or regret. but all you saw was a reflection of your own feelings - a wild, unbridled hope that seemed to set the room alight. spencer's chest rose and fell in time with yours, his eyes dark with want.

"i've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

you nodded, your eyes searching his. "i know," you said, your voice just as soft. "me too."

his thumb traced the curve of your lower lip, his gaze never leaving yours. "are we… are we okay?" he asked, his voice a little unsteady.

you nodded, your heart racing. "yes," you breathed, the word a soft promise. "we're more than okay."

edited 11.30.24

[momomogos]

*围炉煮茶·寒窗对酒听雨雪

'stars in the garden' by @jackofallrabbits

Here's the list of gifts:

Geisha！Sun: A beautiful tea-making set with a portable oven, the main teapot is made of terracotta, with a cherry blossom relief and four gold-edged ceramic cups. It is used by people when they "围炉煮茶(make tea around the hearth)", and unlike the traditional tea tasting activities, "围炉煮茶" focuses more on the enjoyment of the atmosphere rather than ornamentation. Geisha！Moon:《枕上宋词( Song Ci on the Pillow)》, English translation of Song Ci, this book is a selection of 115 hand-me-down Song Ci, which can be understood by native English-speaking animatronic while preserving the beauty of ancient poems to the greatest extent. Beautifully packaged with a hint of aroma and a lotus motif on the front and back cover. Geisha！Eclipse: A collectible replica of the Imperial Tang Knife, handcrafted by craftsmen at an expensive price, perfectly reconstructed with a gold and silver flat Tang horizontal knife (the original in Shosoin in Japan), with”鎏金错银(gilt silver)”, restored one-to-one (and bladed). cherry blossom！Y/N: A box of delicious Chinese pastries, held in a bamboo basket, filled with a variety of flower-shaped desserts that young people will love, the most special of which is a large custard rabbit cake（奶黄玉兔糕）. The bamboo basket was accompanied by a box of desiccated coconut balls and some fresh fruit.(Only there is no traditional cherry blossom cake, because you can only buy one piece at a time, considering the distribution problem....)

Why Gift?

It started with a joke I had while chatting with Jack:

Then I thought, since I'm bustard, then this Chinese New Year's holiday, I have to send year-end bonus gifts to my employees, and then there is this doodles, and this post (just a joke for self-amusement haha, it has nothing to do with the novel itself~)

Here are some zoomed-in details:

以及礼物参考图片：

（There are some places I really don't know how to translate, so I put them in Chinese~）

Happy New Year daring! (and pass a cup of hot water to Jack)

[daylighted]

( -_•)╦̵̵̿╤─ ㅤ ─ ㅤ the people all scream. ( d.w ) ²

cw. pre-established relationship. normal!au (kind of). unhinged!dean. sweet!reader. obsessive tendencies. ig you could say ... gaslighting as a tag but its not that deep.

"WHAT'S THIS?"

YOUR voice sounds so sweet in his ears. it always does. it has a lilt at the end, like everything you ask is tacked with a gentle little question mark. you'd been cleaning the house. he'd been doing dishes in the kitchen.

sundays were like that, with dean and you. it was a cleaning day. he didn't feel unsafe or worried for you at all, his head was at rest, because you were always within sight.

dean glances over his shoulder, and he expects to see the ring that he'd gotten for you in your hands. a bright smile on your face, knowing what it meant. instead, he sees his knife.

clean and sharp as ever. not a trace of blood on its handle, or staining the steel.

it takes all of his strength to not react; to keep an air of nonchalance. his fingers still, though, with the sponge in one hand, and the ceramic plate in the other.

"a knife," he says slowly, and he hates talking to you like this. it kills him, to treat you like anything besides the perfect partner he knows you are. he sets the plate on the drying rack and turns off the sink faucet as he turns to face you. "was in my nightstand, yeah?"

you nod. your face is lit up in curiosity, not fear, never fear. he could reveal every dirty secret he keeps buried in his mind and you wouldn't be afraid, he thinks.

"s'just for if someone breaks in," dean waves his hand dismissively, "just in case. there's a lot of fucked up people out there, isn't there?"

no. he is not one of them. the monsters he takes care of for you, in your defense, try to tell him this every time, as their blood splatters onto his clothes and his eyes go bleary and sting from it getting in them, but he's not. he does this for you. he is protecting you.

the relief on your face at his words is evidence enough, isn't it? that you need him? that without him, you'd end up gutted by a werewolf, drained by a vampire, or some other fucked up thing that he's kept you from figuring out about?

you turn on your heel, and his heartrate finally decreases to a normal speed in his chest, even as his lungs ache. dean does not want you to learn about the sacrifices he's made to keep you safe. that is not on you. it's his choice. he'll make it every day.

"make sure to put it back, yeah?"

you don't ever notice when his voice cracks, or he stumbles over his excuses like they're physical road blocks. you didn't notice, once, when his white button-up had a blood speckled collar. tossed it into the wash with all of his other clothes. he'd thrown that shirt out, though ─ didn't want it to be a bad omen.

was it, still? you'd found his knife. his lucky blade, inherited from his father, a weapon unused until it reached dean's hands. on the handle, a 'w' engraved. his destiny carved out for him.

no. he makes the decision, ultimately, to trust his judgements. it'd gotten him this far, hadn't it?

he will continue to ignore that his judgements had led to numerous deaths by his hands. that there would always be more to come, because the world was so, so determined to get its filthy, violent hands on his angel's innocent, untouched skin.

dean picks up the plate again, scrubs it until the sponge's top layer is starting to crumble in his fingers. scrubs it more, then, because his baby deserved perfect, and nothing in this house was clean so long as he touched it.

so he'd clean it. again and again. wash away the blood on his hands over and over, so they'd be good enough to deserve touching you. his pretty, naive baby.

. . . tags.

@whyyouegg @sthefferrete @cevansbaby-dove @titsout4nicholas @cosmicanakin

@bluestrd @ultravi0lence14 @mccartneyqp @poughkeepsie99 @depressionbarbie2023

@im-bili @ariasong11 @chevroletdean @angelblqde @ostaramoon

@deansbite @lyarr24 @psyches-reid @reynas13 @momoewn

@deanswidow @jasvtsc @figthoughts @beausling @frosttbitessam

@aileenunfiltered

[wesstars]

hot tea

wednesday addams x fem!reader (no pronouns)

summary: your addams just really needs some physical contact :) wc: 737 tags: established relationship. nevermore ‘university,’ all characters involved are 18+. ooc wednesday. idk something about tooth rotting fluff a/n: first wednesday drabble wednesday, in collaboration with @evilrawr! fluff has been requested by @melrodrigo. still not my strong suit but we’re going for it anyway. 

masterlist

Steam rose from the warm mug that you carefully wrapped Wednesday’s fingers around, but the heated ceramic was nothing compared to the searing lance of your grasp around her wrist. She watched as you settled yourself down on bended knee in front of her, respectfully pulling back your hands. Her own twitched, minutely. 

It hadn’t been that difficult to come knock on your door, 10 minutes before curfew was over. Wednesday knew you’d be there in your dorm, making something absurdly sweet with your—respectably contraband—electric kettle. You’d stepped aside to wordlessly let her in, and she’d taken her usual seat at the foot of your bed. Strewn around were your day’s assignments, a jacket or two, and she wrinkled her nose at the mess. Your lamps cast a gentle candle-eseque light across everything, blurring every sharp edge. The exact reason why she was in your room, well…

“Long day?” Your gaze was inquisitive but warm, as always. Wednesday watched you, taking in your socked feet and soft pants. Then, she did the Wednesday Addams equivalent of what might be considered a frustrated huff from Enid, or a desolate sigh from you: she looked away first.

The reaction was immediate, she noted absently. You tried to catch her gaze again, the slope of your shoulders and the wring of your fingers imploring her to look back at you. “Weds… talk to me?”

She took a slow sip from the mug, avoiding your eyes. To tell the truth, Wednesday was busy aching in the way that she wished you’d reach across the sea between your knee and hers. Her intense feelings were something that she typically kept locked away, not just with the protection of a key, but with a castle moat, bolted doors, and plenty of booby traps. Inside that cage lay other previously dormant feelings, ones that you managed to pull out, sharp knife to soft underbelly, with startling ease. Wednesday set her mug down on the floor, cocking her head at you. Often she’d feel a baser, visceral urge to blurt out whatever thought she had to you. Restraint was becoming more and more difficult, the more you seemed to flay yourself open in front of her for a perusal akin to autopsy.

There was a muffled thump as you got up just a bit to shift from your kneeling posture, and Wednesday couldn’t take it anymore.

She grabbed the collar of your shirt, pulling tightly until you were about nose to nose. Her mind knew that your actual body temperature wasn’t that high, even lower than the average, but her cold heart felt the bone-deep bonfire of your proximity as your hands slammed into the bed next to her thighs, preventing you from tumbling into her. You took a sharp breath, a fateful one, as it seemed to pull all the oxygen from the room, leaving Wednesday blissfully bereft of that life force. She didn’t need it, anyway; she was convinced she could sustain herself on the dilating of your pupils, the flickering of your eyes down to her lips.

“Come here.” Wednesday’s voice came out in a rasp, but she reasoned with herself—it was the best she could do after you yanked the air out of her still lungs. That ache of absence turned into a yawning chasm, reserve and restraint tumbling down into that eager maw. Her demand fell into that same ravine, eclipsed by the endless depth of darkness.

You stood from your position to sit on the bed as soon as the plea left her, and Wednesday was impressed at your speed. You pulled her into your arms not a beat later. Everything smelled like a faint mix of linen and honey, between your sweater and your tea, and something in it brought Wednesday’s world to a halt. The skin of your collar was warm against the tip of Wednesday’s nose, grounding like the nip of winter air. The two of you fell easily into your sheets, and Wednesday’s mind finally felt like it had found the smoking gun for the investigation. It settled like a content cat right in her diaphragm, making it easy to breathe you in.

“Is this what you wanted?” Your voice, already sleepy, sent vibrations down Wednesday’s spine. She hummed back, leaning her temple up against your shirt and letting her head fall onto your chest. You didn’t say a word more; you didn’t need to.

--

a/n cont'd: so... playing with words… what do we think :0

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

[anyarose011]

The Most "Wonderful" Time of the Year {Angus Tully x Reader}

Summary: Despite a nice trip to the art gallery and ice skating rink, sometimes, Andy Williams just gets it wrong.

Part 8 of 10 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Swearing, description of nudity (on art), suggestive conversations, minor sexual harassment, a father has issues, fighting, Reader has a knife, and ANGST.

Heyyy guys (senior year, once again, has been kicking my ass and I also started a new mini-series that should be done soon). Again, I'm so sorry for how long it took me to upload and write this, and I know this chapter is short, but I swear it's got good shit in it. It's also fitting to have more chapters around Christmas time since, you know, this be a Christmas movie (yes, Alexander Payne, this can be a standalone movie, but you set it during Christmas so....) Anywho, I hope you like it (and that it breaks your heart :)

Word Count: 5.5k

You hated to admit it, but you actually like history museums. Even though your father always dragged you to them from childhood to adulthood, you didn’t really mind them. Your father’s additional commentary only added to the experience as you walked through the Greek section. It didn’t really for Angus.

“Are we almost done?” He asked.

“Quit whining.” You reprimanded him.

“I’m not.”

Your father chuckled. “What’s your hurry? I thought you liked Antiquity?”

He sighed. “In class, maybe. But I never think about it unless I need to.”

Humming, your father pointed to a casing of ceramics behind you. “Here, what do you see?”

You and Angus turned. Of course, he said. “A bunch of pottery.”

“Look at that one.” He pointed.

You certainly weren’t expecting to see a man diving his dick into a woman as she bent over to pick something up on an ancient Grecian artifact, but there you were in the Boston Fine Arts Museum, jaw on the floor.

“Amy look, a Candy Cane!” Angus teased.

“I hate you.” Was all that managed to leave your lips.

Your father chuckled, shaking his head. “Children, there’s nothing new in human experience. Each generation thinks it invented debauchery or suffering or rebellion, but man’s every appetite and impulse, from the disgusting to the sublime, is on display right here, all around you.” He gestured around the room filled with art. “So, before you dismiss something as boring or irrelevant, remember that if you truly want to understand the present, or yourself, you must begin in the past. History is not merely the past; it’s an explanation of the present.”

Angus nodded. “See, when you say it that way, and throw in some pornography, it’s a lot easier to understand.”

Mr. Hunham glanced over at you, surprised at your lack of outburst. “You’re not going to comment on that?”

“No,” you shrugged. “porn helping men understanding things checks out.”

Angus snorted, turning back to the teacher. “You should try talking more and yelling less in class. You know, most of the kids pretty much hate you. Teachers, too. You know that, right?”

“Hey.” You glared at him as if to say, ‘Lay off’.

Your father nodded, obviously trying not to show the hurt that was apparent on his face. “Well, I appreciate your frequent candidness, Mr. Tully.”

“Sure…” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down.

It was then you realized another thing about Angus Tully that reminded you about yourself: You only noticed how horrible your words were as soon as you were done saying them.

The rest of your time at the art museum wasn’t as awkward as that entire scene, thankfully. The sun had completely set by the time you had exited, and the three of you made your way to the park. It almost made you laugh how quick Angus was to the booth to rent ice skates.

“Have you been ice skating before?” He asked as you both sat on the bench, tying up your skates.

“Once when I was eight, I think. You?”

“I played hockey until high school.” He finished tying his and stood. “And I go every chance I get when I’m in the city.”

“So, you should only fall if I push you, right?”

“Right.”

You smiled after double knotting your ice skates and approached the entrance to the rink. “My feet feel weird.”

“Yeah, you haven’t been skating for almost ten years.” He teased, walking past you and standing on the ice with ease.

Sighing, you took a step out and immediately started flailing. Still, the two of you laughed when you retreated back to solid ground. “Nope.”

Angus begged. “Come on.”

���Nuh uh, not going to do it.”

“Your dad paid a good two dollars for us to skate, and you’re going to waste it?” He joked.

“Two dollars doesn’t mean anything to my father if I’m dead!”

“You’re not going to die.”

“But-.”

He said your name with the right amount of sincerity and playfulness. “You can hold onto me. I’ll cushion you if you do fall.”

Grinning from ear to ear, you still held onto the side railing, but stepped out onto the ice. Taking a deep breath, you began walking.

“You don’t want to do that.” Angus skated by your side at your pace.

“I’m alright.” You struggled to say.

He scoffed, holding out his hand. “Yeah, I can tell. Come on.”

You stared down at it as if he had never touched you before. Still, you took it. You expected him to pull you out into the center and leave you there for dead (or try to figure out how to skate on your own), but instead, you stayed by the wall.

“Okay, you’re gonna want to lean forward, and just glide; don’t walk.” He explained, showing you.

“I’ll fall.”

“No, you won’t. Just trust me.”

Against what your nervous system was saying, you decided to. Leaning forward, you tried to copy him; and it worked for like a few seconds before you started tripping over your own feet. He caught you, of course.

“Hey, not bad!” He held you up so you could stand.

“I almost died.”

“You’re standing on your own though!” He backed away, and you still were. “That’s a good start.”

You wanted to fire a nasty retort at him, but you could only girlishly giggle. You don’t know how long you spent on that ice skating rink with him. Yes, there would be times when your feet would ache, or you’d be a mix of sweaty from the physical labor of skating and freezing from the cold, Massachusetts air. Yet, as you finally gathered your footing, you felt as if you could compete in the next Olympics.

You couldn’t, of course, but you sure had the confidence to do so.

And it was fun to laugh and talk with Angus. It always was, but it felt as if you were both on an actual date as you skated together. To everyone else on that ice rink, you were. When Angus had completely fallen onto the ice (you didn’t actually push him down, he fell on his own), pulling you down with him, you’d nearly forgotten that your father was chaperoning you two as you laughed.

After leaving the rink and taking your skates back, you walked up a set of stairs with your father and Angus, discussing where to go for dinner when-.

“Paul Hunham, is that you?!” A man and a woman approached the three of you with a gleeful look. “It’s Hugh. Hugh Cavanaugh.”

Your father’s face fell for just a moment before laughing. “Yes! Yes, of course. Wow, Hugh Cavanaugh. Oh, how are you, Hugh?”

“Oh God, what’s it been? Thirty years?” He turned to the woman beside him. “Oh, uh this is my wife, Karen. Honey, this is Paul Hunham; we went to Harvard together.”

She smiled, shaking his hand, then yours, then Angus’. “Hello.”

“Yes,” your dad nodded at Hugh’s comment. “yes we did. Uh, wow; what have you been up to, Hugh? Still in the area?”

“Oh, uh, yes-yes I’m still in Boston. Cambridge.”

“Harvard.” Karen said proudly. “He just got tenure, statistics. He won’t blow his own horn, I have to blow it for him.”

“Okay,” Hugh said to change the subject. “what about you, Paul?”

“Oh, still teaching, we have that in common.” He nodded. “History, ancient history.”

“That’s great, that’s great. Where?”

“Abroad mostly.” Your father lied through his teeth on each word. “On fellowships. Privately funded fellowships. Universities and private academies. Mostly fellowships, you know. I’m currently posted in Antwerp. Just back here for the holidays.”

“So, are these your kids?” He pointed to you and Angus.

“Well-.”

“-I’m his nephew, Laurie.” Angus cut in, then looked at you. “This is my cousin, Amy.”

Karen smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Hugh squinted his eyes as if to see you more clearly. Then, he chuckled. “Paul, do you know who she looks like?”

Your father hummed. “I would hope me.”

It was weird to hear your mother’s full name come out of a stranger’s mouth. He went on. “Do you see it? Same nose, same hair; you are the spitting image of beauty, young lady.”

Snickering, you didn’t even think of thanking him. “I’ve been told I have more of her temper than her looks. Although, our mouths are the same.”

“I have no doubt.” He laughed. “Paul, do you remember that one time freshman year?”

“Oh yes!” Your father pretended to. “When she-it was that one time during Roman history when Nolan-.”

“-Wouldn’t call on her when she was the only one to raise her hand,” Hugh looked back at you as if you didn’t know the story from the set up. “so she fed all the boys in the room the wrong answers for the rest of the class!”

“Yep,” Mr. Hunham nodded. “even I fell victim to it.”

Hugh was the only one who had relatively been amused by the fable. “Never put you and her together.”

“A lot of people didn’t.”

The group fell into a strange silence after that. Thank God for Angus Tully.

“He’s writing a book now.” He titled his head toward your father. “Tell them about your book, Uncle Paul.”

“My book.” Your father snickered, then immediately played it off. “It’s not a book, really. Just a monograph. Nothing special.”

You decided to jump in. “Don’t be so modest, dad. It’s about, uh, cameras, right? Ancient cameras?”

Hugh hummed, a quizzical look on his face.

“What she means, of course, is the camera obscura.” Your father explained. “You know, the optical and astronomical tool that dates back to, um, the time of Anaxagoras.

“Tell him the title, Uncle Paul.” Angus went back, and you masked your smile for one of curiosity and not at the misfortune of your father.

“He’s not interested, Laurie.”

Hugh smiled. “Sure, I am.”

Sighing, Paul Hunham said with the perfect amount of enthusiasm and disinterest. “Lights and Magic in the Ancient World.”

Hugh nodded before turning back to his wife, and then to your father, clasping his hand on his shoulder. “Well, Paul, I’m so glad you landed on your feet. You look swell.”

“You too. So, swell.”

“I’m sorry about your mother, Amy.” He said to you.

Thinning your lips in a tight smile, you said. “Thanks.”

Him and Karen walked away hand in hand, but he turned over his shoulder. “And we’ll keep an eye out for your book, Paul. Won’t we, honey?”

 She nodded. "Of course. Merry Christmas, Paul. Bye, Laurie and Amy.”

You all wished them ‘Merry Christmas’ as you three also left. Angus wasted no time turning to you.

“What the fuck just happened?!”

“You’re asking me?!” You matched him. “You sprung into ‘Tell them about your book, Uncle Paul!’, ‘What’s the title, Uncle Paul?’.”

“I had to think of something!”

Your father sighed. “I appreciated your efforts, but I would’ve been fine on my own.”

Rolling your eyes, you asked. “Can we get dinner now?”

“I need to pick something up from the liquor store first.”

Sighing overdramatically, you and Angus stumbled behind your father. That was when you looked at the boy beside you. “Also, Laurie and Amy? Really?”

“What? They’re like brother and sister. If I said you were Jo, then that would’ve been weird.”

Oh my god, he wasn’t even halfway through the book.

You wish you had a camera solely to capture the look on your father’s face as he turned over and stared at both of you. You wonder if that was when he found out about you and Angus.

Shaking your head, you didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff as you said. “Unbelievable.”

“What do you mean ‘unbelievable’?” Angus questioned. “Jo and Laurie get married in the end, right?”

“Unbelievable.” You repeated but smiled this time.

“Right?!”

Your father sighed as you finally made it to the store. “Look, the fact of the matter is, what happened, happened, and we should just pretend it didn’t.”

Angus furrowed his brow as you all walked in. “I thought Barton men don’t lie. Don’t get me wrong, that was fun, but you just lied through your teeth.”

He held up his hand, not having it. “What I say during a private conversation is none of your goddamn business. You’re not to judge me.”

“It wasn’t a private conversation; your daughter and I were there. Besides, he brought her into it.”

“I’m right here.” You announced yourself.

“Why’d he ask if you landed on your feet?”

Your father glanced up from searching through the shelves. “What is this, Nuremberg?”

“You’re the hardass constantly telling everybody not to lie and going on about the honor code!”

Looking up at both of you, Paul Hunham sighed. “There was an incident at Harvard with my roommate.”

You gave him a look. “I’ve never heard this story before.”

“He accused me of copying from his senior thesis. Plagiarizing.”

“Well, did you?” Angus asked.

“No! He stole from me.” Your father relented. “But that blue-blooded prick’s family had allies on the faculty. I mean, their last name is on a library, so he accused me in order to sanitize his treachery. And they threw me out.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “you got kicked out for cheating?”

“No, I got kicked out of Harvard for hitting him.”

Angus asked. “You hit him? Like punched him out?”

“No, I hit him with a car.”

“You got kicked out of Harvard for hitting a guy with a car?!”

“By accident,” he approached the counter, talking to the cashier. “Pint of Jim Beam, please.”

You piped up, still in astonishment. “Mom said you left because your grandma was dying.”

“She was, it was just perfect timing to go and help take care of her.” He shrugged. “But my roommate broke three ribs. Which was technically his fault, because he shouldn’t have been in the road.

“Two dollars, please.” The cashier said.

Your father took his wallet out, continuing his story. “Also, he shat himself; which was the greatest indignity.”

The cashier handed him the wrapped-up bottle. “Here you go, killer.”

You couldn’t help your laughter at the sudden statement. As the three of you left and walked down the darkened, cold roads, Angus said.

“So, Mr. Hunham never even graduated college? Holy shit, you didn’t even finish up somewhere else? Who else knows?”

“Did mom even know about you hitting the guy?” You asked.

Your father nodded. “Of course she knew! She gave me an earful on the phone the first time she called me after I left. It was only Dr. Greene who knew it after that. He’d always believed in me, so he gave me a job. Adjunct faculty: zero respect and even less pay, so nobody batted an eye, and I’ve been at the school ever since.”

“Are you ashamed at how things turned out?” Angus questioned.

“Not at all. I’m proud of my work, I love history, I married the smartest and kindest woman on the planet, I helped raise a spitfire of a girl, I love Barton. Barton is my life now. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“Then why did you lie to that guy?”

“Because I knew he’d relish the fact that I’m a washout and never left my own high school. And he’d probably repeat that story to everybody we used to know. So, I figured he’s not entitled to my story. I am. “

Angus nodded. “Yeah. Fuck that guy.”

“Exactly. Fuck that guy!”

“Fuck him, I hope his car slides on black ice and crashes into a lamp post.” You chimed in.

“Woah,” Angus gasped.

Your father said your name scoldingly.

“What?” You scoffed. “It was weird as hell when he talked to me about my mom like he knew me.”

“I’ll admit it was strange and unnecessary.” Your father tossed his arm around your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He looked at both you and Angus. “But you’ll keep this quiet, right? No one is to know.”

“Entre nous, sir.” Angus nodded. “Entre nous.”

Your father nodded then chuckled, poking you. “‘Ancient cameras’. Where’d the hell you come up with that?”

“I tried my best!” You whined. After the men ceased in their laughter, you then said. “Can we please get dinner now?”

“Alright, alright.” Your father snorted. “Where would you like to go for your absolutely atrocious food concoction?”

“South Street.”

“I figured.”

And that is where the three of you went. It shouldn’t have surprised you it was packed the day after Christmas, which was also a Saturday. It had to have been a miracle you managed to get in line only when it was starting to go out the door; a few minutes after you arrived, the line had started to curve around to the nearest streetlight.

The diner was filled with life once you got in; families pushing tables together, friends absolutely drunk off their asses laughing, even half of the staff seemed to be enjoying the sheer joy from others. Of course, a few were understandably stressed and annoyed from the number of customers and their behavior.

The three of you were soon sitting at a booth. When Angus sat close to the window, instead of sliding into the seat across from him, you took the one beside him. Leaving your father alone on the other side. To ordinary people, it perhaps didn’t mean anything; but you still felt as if it was a signal.

“I can’t believe they’re still playing Christmas music.” Your father grumbled as The Ronettes sang about a sleigh ride and he slipped off his jacket.

You giggled, copying him. “It was just yesterday.”

“I know, but still.”

“I like this song, thank you very much.”

He held up his menu as if to hide his disgust. You and Angus chuckled.

"I feel like I’ve been here before.” Angus looked around.

“You don’t know if you have?” You asked.

“It feels familiar. Maybe when I was a kid?”

“We’d always come here when we’d visit Boston.” You looked at your father. “The owner gave me a free banana split when I turned twelve, he knew us so well, right?”

That managed to pull a laugh out of him. “That he did. If he’s here tonight maybe you could get a free dinner for us.”

You and Angus looked down at the menu before you, and soon enough, an exhausted waitress came by to take your drink orders and lay down silverware. Immediately, you asked for French fries and your favorite milkshake.

“There’s no way that’s going to be good.” Angus pointed out.

“Oh, ye of little faith.” You scoffed.

“That’s not faith, that’s fact.”

“What you’re speaking of is an opinion, not even a theory. If you ever want to make it in this world, I suggest you learn the different between those two before you can even begin to comprehend what an actual fact is.”

“And what is an actual fact?”

“You’re an idiot.”

He smirked despite the fact you insulted him. You also couldn’t hide your own smile. It was apparent from anyone in that room, it was not a smile of victory; it was one synonymous with the feeling inside of your chest as it felt like your own heart would burst forth like light.

Your father had felt this feeling before, so it was not lost on him.

“You seem awfully happy to have your entire statement dismantled, Mr. Tully.” He said to Angus.

The boy looked up, still with a smile but one not as euphoric. “I mean, I wasn’t that serious about it.”

“Oh, and I didn’t think you were. It just astounds me how close you two became in a matter of a few days.” He said. “Wasn’t it only yesterday you both were at each other’s throats?”

You stepped in. “No, that was the first few days, actually. I mean, we were the only kids at Barton after that, so it’s probably best we figured how to deal with each other. I guess we both liked some of the same things too, so that made it easier.”

“Yeah.” Angus nodded.

Your father straightened his gaze between the two of you, but then smiled, getting up from the booth. “I have to use the facilities; don’t go anywhere.”

“No papa,” you teased. “we’re going to go do a line of cocaine with the homeless man a few blocks away.”

“You know, I’m beginning to believe that you’re the bad influence on Mr. Tully and not the other way around.”

With that, he left the two of you by yourselves as he walked to the back of the diner. Once he was gone, you and Angus cackled to yourselves.

“Do you think he knows?” You asked, a hint of concern mixed in with delight.

“I don’t know, probably.” He shrugged, still chuckling. “Is that so bad?”

“I mean…I’ve never had a boyfriend before.” You admitted, smiling shyly.

Even though the rest of the diner was booming with Christmas music and leftover excitement from the holidays, it all fell silent between you two. The boy who was once radiated in the happiness you shared with him, now covered in a shroud of terror.

Well…in reality, he was alarmed, not terrified; yet, that is all you saw.

“Shit I-!” You realized what you had just said. “I didn’t mean-I mean, we don’t have to be together, I just meant that I’ve never had someone like me back when I’ve liked them, and even then, it didn’t happen very often-.”

“-Hey, hey.” He stopped you. “No, I’ve never had that happen either. I mean, I’ve been to all boys’ schools since I was fourteen. I think…yeah, I think I’d like to give it a try.”

“Really?” You felt the weight from your shoulders loosen as your face brightened.

He nodded, glowing with you. “Really.”

You glanced up at the bathroom door, and when there was no sight of your father, you took his face into your hands, pulling him into a kiss. It wasn’t as intense as your previous ones, but not as quick as the one you gave him outside the bookstore.

He pulled away first, and before you could say anything about it, you saw the waitress leave from the corner of your eye. She had brought the drinks, including your milkshake and fries. Turning back towards the table, you immediately picked up a fry and dipped it into the milkshake.

“Oh my god, you weren’t joking.” Angus said with no emotion behind it.

“I know I’m funny, but this I would not joke about.” You talked as you ate. “Try it.”

“No.”

“I’ll kiss you if you do.” You took another fry.

“You’ll kiss me anyway.”

“I’ll kiss you like how the French do.”

“You already do that.”

 “I’ll do something different.”

His eyes grew, and he huffed out a surprised laugh. “‘Something different’?”

“Yeah.” You dipped a third fry. “I don’t know what, but I’ll do it.”

 “Not that you have to, but fine I’ll try it.” Angus reached for a fry, then dipped it into your milkshake and ate it.

Angus’ face went through more arrays of emotions in a short time since you met him. You grinned from ear to ear. “Well?”

“Fuck off.” He tried to hide his smile as he took another fry.

“I’m sorry, what?” You taunted.

“It’s not the best-.”

“-I’m sorry, what?!” You repeated louder, and you both were talking over each other. “It sounds like-!”

“You don’t have to be so-!”

“It sounds like you actually like it!”

“You’re so loud.”

You finished with laughter, and then kissed his cheek. You returned to your milkshake and fries as Angus talked about something funny that happened back in the fall. You can’t remember what he said to this day, because a familiar voice entered your ears as it entered the diner.

Angus kept talking to you, but it was in one ear and out the other as you tried your best not to show your discomfort at the man who laughed a little louder than the rest of the people in the diner. When you thought Angus wasn’t paying attention, you glanced over your shoulder at the entrance.

There he stood; a man around the same age as your father with a woman perhaps ten or fifteen years younger than him, holding a baby on her hip, and clutching her seven-year-old daughter’s hand.

Despite what Andy Williams was singing from the jukebox, this was not the most wonderful time of the year.

Angus tapped your shoulder, and you drew your eyes away to look at him.

“Hey, I hate this song, I’m gonna go change it.” He said. You got out of the booth for him to stand, and once he did you sat back down. Only for him to then say. “Okay, scoot over.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Scoot over.”

“You didn’t even change the song.”

“I changed my mind, it’s not that bad.”

He was bullshitting you, but you scooted over anyway, and he sat beside you. “What’s going on?”

You scoffed. “You’re the one that got up and sat down again.”

“Is that guy Daniel?”

“Angus-.”

“-Tell me.”

“Is he bothering you?”

Both you and Angus looked and saw the man from the entrance stand before you with his hands in his pockets. You dropped your gaze.

“No, he’s not.”

You had no idea what you hated more that night: hearing a man you never met say your mother’s name, or hearing a man you knew too well say yours.

“If he is, just say the word and-.”

“-He’s not bothering me.” You hissed.

Angus slipped his hand into yours as you kept your eyes down, but he kept his trained on the man standing in front of him.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Look, I just didn’t expect you to actually show up.”

You didn’t say anything, so Angus did.

“Could you go? She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He ignored him, still angling on you. “Look, sweetie, you don’t have to, and I get it if you don’t want to, but I’d really like it if you came and meet them. They’re all right here now; Carol, Maria, and Frankie. He just turned one last week-.”

“-Can you just fuck off?” You finally looked at him.

He tilted his head and raised his brows before looking at Angus. “Young man, could you give her and I some privacy-?”

“-No.”

The man looked at you, scoffing. “Jesus Christ, what’d you do to make him so fucking head over heels for you? Was that the issue just now between you two? Under the table action?”

Angus stood. “Fuck you, what’s your problem?”

You pulled on his sleeve, hissing his name and kneeling on top of your seat to try and get him to sit back down. The man continued to taunt him.

“My problem is that you don’t know what’s going on boy, and you’re being a little prick about all of this.”

“Get the fuck out of here or I’ll…”

“‘You’ll-you’ll what?’” He looked over at you. “I can’t tell if you picked the bravest or the stupidest kid to fool around with, Eurydice.”

You were always a strange child growing up. Perhaps it was that there are times in your life you picture music whenever a certain emotion arose within you.

As you heard him say that name, a name that you heard last when your mother was dying in her bed, a name that was only for her to use and her alone…You heard Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns.

You don’t even remember grabbing the stupid butter knife from your silverware, just raising it up above you and believing it would cause any harm. As Angus held you back, the man reached over you to grab your hair.

Chaos ensued for a moment in the diner as you cried out when he pulled the ribbon out of your hair, and both him and Angus engaged in a battle of expletives. Most of the diners held back and watched in shock, while only two of them came up. A man stood between him and Angus, and the wife of the yelling man pulled him away.

“Daniel, what the hell is going on?!” She hissed.

“Yes, Daniel,” all eyes fell onto Paul Hunham, who was behind Daniel. “what is the meaning of this?”

You shrunk back in the booth, Angus hugging you tightly against him as if to hide you from Daniel. Both of you stared at the scene before you.

“Paul…” Daniel nodded, standing taller and holding his wife’s hand.

Mr. Hunham nodded back. “Your Christmas went well I take it?”

“It was fine; yours?”

“Just peachy.” He gave a tight smile, looking around at everyone else. “Family matters everyone, I sincerely apologize.”

Hesitantly, the crowd went back to their own business; or they were at least good at pretending to as they eavesdropped. Mr. Hunham continued.

“Why’re you here exactly?”

“The same as you.” Daniel explained. “Dinner with my family.”

He hummed. “And you thought it wise to inform the child in the scenario but not me?”

“Now wait a minute-.”

“-I assume your wife also didn’t know about this or the letters and money you sent?”

At the mention of her, Daniel’s wife scowled. “Danny, what’s he talking about?”

He shook his head. “Hunham, you should just mind your own-.”

“-Well now you see, I can’t do that, because her mother trusted me to provide and care for her.”

It was only then did Angus Tully understand what exactly had been going on. As the adults fought, he looked down at you in his arms. It was as if it were the first time he had seen you, and it was the first time he noticed that he could not find a trace of Mr. Hunham.

The eyes he thought you had gotten from your mother stared up at him with dread, and when Angus looked back at the man seething with unspoken rage, he saw them there too.

“Look,” Paul sighed. “I don’t want to cause another scene, so let us handle this like men. You will not make contact with her again, and we can walk away.”

He took a heaving breath before responding. “Fine by me. Come on, Carrie.”

Daniel began to lead her away from your booth, but Paul stopped them. “I believe you have something of my daughter’s.”

His eyes trailed down to the ribbon in his hand. He let go of his wife to walk back to Paul who held his hand out. Instead of giving it to him, he turned to Angus, smiling. He handed it to him.

“Keep her on a short leash, boy. She’s got her mother’s mouth.”

With that, he and his wife and children left the South Street Diner. You only pulled away from Angus when he did from you. No tears had fallen onto your cheeks, but that didn’t mean they weren’t stinging your eyes as you tried to keep them at bay.

You took the ribbon from Angus only for it to hang loosely at your side. Paul softened his gaze as he began to put on his jacket.

“I think we should just settle on room service tonight.” He said gently. “I can get them to bag up the fries and let you take the milkshake glass?”

You could only nod, not wanting to look at either of the men with you. You all put on your coats in silence, and Angus, though not hugging you, hovered as Mr. Hunham spoke with the staff; both about not wanting to report the incident, and also on paying extra for you to take the glass.

It was so cold out, and everyone was so tired from not just the events of the night, but the entire day, that Paul splurged on a cab for the three of you back to the hotel.

Angus also didn’t feel shame in trying to hold you hand in front of your father; or…stepfather. You limply held his hand back, but you leaned against him as you sat in the cab, staring at the Boston Christmas lights as the city passed by you.

When the cab made it to the hotel, you led the way in a tired haze to the elevators. It wasn’t just the three of you in the elevator; there was a somewhat large family that piled in, all merry and jolly and reeking of chlorine from the pool they had just swum in.

It was as if God himself was rubbing salt into the wounds, tempting you to lick them.

When you made it onto your floor, you also led the way back to your connecting rooms. There was no ‘Goodnight’ or ‘Can we stay up just a little longer?’ to your companions; you simply opened your door and shut it in their faces.

Setting the milkshake down, you tossed off your jacket and pulled your shoes off. Collapsing on the bed, you looked down at the ribbon still in your hand…and you cried.

[kysstar]

BROKEN WINGS | CHOI JONGHO (requested 💕)

pairing : : choi jongho x fem!reader

synopsis : : cursed to become a swan each night, you’re wounded by hunters and found by jongho, a forest healer. he takes you in, unaware of your secret—until morning reveals your true form.

genre : : strangers to lovers

warnings : : blood, wounds, slight nudity (not in a sexual way)

word count : : 3.9k

author's note : : yeah not one of my best works :( sorry anon :'(

—The moon hung low, veiled in thin clouds, casting a pale light over the forest. Jongho’s boots crunched softly through the underbrush, his satchel swinging at his side, half-filled with herbs, mosses, and the rare mushrooms that only surfaced on damp spring nights.

The woods were familiar, but never predictable. A change in birdcall, a bent branch, a fresh paw print in the mud—he noticed it all. His fingers brushed past a patch of goldenroot when the silence hit him.

Then he saw it. A pale shape collapsed near the edge of the stream, half-hidden by reeds.

A swan.

Its white feathers glistened, but they were streaked with something dark—blood. One wing lay at an unnatural angle, and its long neck curled in on itself like it had folded beneath the weight of pain.

“Damn it,” Jongho muttered, already dropping to his knees beside it.

Up close, the damage was clearer. An arrow had grazed the wing, tearing through the muscle but missing the bone. Still, the bird had collapsed from blood loss, pain, or fear—or all three.

He unbuckled his satchel, fingers moving on instinct. “I don’t know who you pissed off,” he murmured as he worked, “but you’re lucky I came this way.”

The swan didn’t stir. He cleaned the wound with water from his flask, then applied a paste of ground birch bark and comfrey. It was the same salve he used on wolves, sometimes even villagers. Carefully, he wrapped the wing with a strip of linen, looping it just snug enough to keep the joint from moving.

“You’re not going to die tonight,” he said under his breath, lifting the bird gently.

Jongho shifted the swan’s weight in his arms and stood, heart beating faster than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t one to believe in omens or signs. But something about this didn’t feel like coincidence.

The cottage was warm by the time he laid the swan down on a folded wool blanket near the hearth. Jongho set a bowl of water beside it, then poked the fire to life again. Flames crackled and flickered across the bird’s feathers, giving them a strange silver sheen.

He sat beside it for a moment, staring into the embers. His breath had steadied, but the questions in his head hadn’t. What was a swan doing alone, this deep in the forest?

Jongho rubbed his hands over his face and stood. “We’ll see in the morning,” he said, mostly to himself.

—Jongho woke with a start.

It wasn’t the quiet creak of the trees or the howling wind that pulled him from sleep—it was the unmistakable crash of something hitting the wooden floor in the other room. For a heartbeat, he lay still, muscles tight, instincts alert. Then he grabbed the knife he kept near the nightstand and rushed barefoot into the main room of the cottage.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting a faint orange glow across the floorboards. At first, he saw nothing. Then his breath caught.

Where he had left the swan was now you.

You were crouched near the hearth, wide-eyed, your hands gripping the edge of the nearby table where a ceramic bowl now lay shattered on the floor. Your clothes were torn and stained—blood, mud, and something else. Your long hair clung to your face in damp waves. Your bare feet trembled against the rug, and your lips were parted, like you were trying to breathe through panic and smoke.

His gaze darted to the blanket on the floor. Empty. The swan was gone.

He blinked once, then again, but the sight didn’t change. You were still there.

The swan is you.

Before he could say a word, you backed away, stumbling over the broken bowl. You caught yourself on the mantle, but your legs gave out anyway and you dropped to the floor with a sharp sound of pain. One hand flew to your shoulder. Blood seeped through the bandage.

Jongho moved on instinct, the knife forgotten. “Wait—don’t move. You’re hurt. That wound—”

“Where am I?” Your voice was raw, edged with panic. “How did I—? I don’t—” You looked down at yourself, at the room, at him—like he might be the reason for all of this. “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t— I found you,” he said quickly, hands raised, keeping his distance. “You were injured. Badly. By the river. You were… I found you unconscious. I brought you here to help.”

“God,” you muttered, barely audible. “Not again.”

You pushed off the table, stumbling toward the door, but the moment your foot hit the ground, pain lit up your shoulder and your legs gave out. Jongho caught you before you hit the floor.

“Let go,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to shove him away. But your strength didn’t follow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re bleeding again.”

“I don’t know you,” you snapped, voice cracking. “I don’t know what this is—what you are.”

“And I don’t know what you are either,” he replied, quieter now. “But I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a healer. That’s it. I treat wounds. I don’t make them.”

He lifted you carefully—more carefully than you expected—and guided you back to the blanket near the fire. Your whole body ached. You wanted to argue, to bolt, to disappear again—but your body wasn’t keeping up with your fear.

“You were barely alive when I found you,” he said. “Arrow through your shoulder. Passed out cold. I carried you here. Patched you up. That’s all.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the door, jaw tight, pulse still racing.

“I don’t know what you are,” he added. “But I don’t care right now. I don’t leave injured things to die.”

That seemed to get through a little. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I just want to make sure you don’t bleed out in my house.”

You sat stiffly, every muscle taut like you were still waiting for the real danger to show itself. But it didn’t. Jongho crouched beside you, pulling his satchel closer, and set out what he needed: a fresh strip of linen, a small jar of salve, a flask of clean water.

“This will sting,” he said, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

He peeled back the soaked bandage and hissed under his breath. The wound had reopened—blood had soaked through the outer layer. You clenched your jaw as he cleaned around the tear, the cloth dragging against raw skin. You didn’t look at him. Not until you felt his fingers, steady and careful, applying the cool paste. His touch was warm, firm, but never rough. He worked like someone who’d done this a hundred times—and cared enough to do it right every time.

“You’re lucky,” he muttered. “Another inch lower and it would’ve torn through the joint.”

You glanced at him then, studying the line of his brow, the way his hair fell across his forehead, damp from sleep. He didn’t meet your gaze, just focused on your wound like it mattered more than what you were, or what he saw when he walked in.

He wrapped the linen slowly, tying it off just above your shoulder with the precision of someone who’d learned healing the hard way—through real people, real pain.

“You need to stay,” he said, straightening up. “At least until that closes properly.”

You blinked. “I can’t—”

“Just for a few weeks,” he said before you could finish. “That’s all. I’m not going to keep you. I just… I need to keep an eye on it.”

You started to argue, but your mouth stayed half open. You didn’t have the energy. Not after what just happened. Not after the last twenty-four hours that had folded in on themselves like some fevered dream.

He stood and offered you a hand. You hesitated but then took it.

“Come on,” he said. “You should eat something. I’ll make tea.”

The kitchen was small, tucked into the far end of the cottage, lit by the fire’s glow and the faint grey-blue of dawn beginning to slip through the windows. He helped you into the chair nearest the table, then moved around the space with easy familiarity—filling a kettle, slicing bread, breaking a few dried herbs into a pot.

He set a bowl of something warm and simple in front of you—a stew, still steaming—and pushed a cup of tea across the table. You hadn’t realized how hollow you felt until the scent hit you. You took the spoon, hands still trembling faintly.

After a moment, Jongho sat across from you. Arms crossed, one foot tapping against the floor.

“I need to ask you something,” he said finally. “That swan… that was you. Right?”

You didn’t look at him. You stared down at the tea instead, as if the leaves might rearrange into a better answer.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” he said quickly. “I just—”

“I’m cursed,” you said flatly, cutting him off. “I turn into a swan every night.”

You braced for disbelief. Pity. The usual reactions. But he just nodded once, slow and thoughtful.

“Alright,” he said, like you’d told him the weather. “That’s what I figured.”

You looked up at him sharply. “You don’t think I’m insane?”

“I found a swan bleeding out in the woods,” he said. “Woke up to a bleeding woman in the same place, with the same wound, the same bandage. I’m a healer, not an idiot.”

You exhaled, something tight in your chest cracking a little at the edges.

He didn’t press. Didn’t ask who cursed you, or why, or how long it had been happening. He just sat with it. With you.

“Eat,” he said finally. “You’ll feel worse before you feel better if you don’t.”

You finished eating, slower than usual, the food settling like warmth in your chest, steadying the frayed nerves still clinging to your bones. Jongho watched quietly, elbows resting on the table, tea cooling in his hands. He didn’t rush you. Just waited.

When you finally stood, a little shaky, you caught his eyes flick briefly to your shoulder—checking, measuring—but he didn’t say anything. He moved toward the door instead, grabbing a coat hung near the frame.

You hesitated, unsure if you were supposed to stay behind or follow. You didn’t like sitting still. Especially not in a place you didn’t know, so you followed him out the door.

The morning air was crisp, damp with dew, and the garden just beyond the cottage was still wrapped in early fog. Jongho crouched by one of the garden beds, already tugging at stalks and checking leaves with that same quiet focus he had when he treated your wound. You lingered awkwardly by the steps, watching.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet yet," he said, not even glancing up.

You stepped off the last stone and into the grass anyway. “Then give me something to do.”

That made him pause. He looked up at you—really looked this time. His expression wasn’t annoyed. If anything, there was a flicker of something almost like amusement in his eyes, like you’d just said something unexpected and kind of endearing.

“Alright,” he said, nodding toward the other bed. “Come here, stubborn.”

You made your way over carefully, still favoring your leg. He noticed, of course he did, but said nothing. You knelt down beside him, lowering yourself slowly into the damp earth.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a clump of green. “Comfrey. Good for bruises, swelling. Grab it by the base, pull slow.”

Jongho shifted closer, gently brushing your fingers aside. His hand closed around yours, warm and steady. He didn’t rush. He just guided your hand lower, fingers curling softly around your own, showing you where to grip.

“Right here,” he said, voice lower now, almost careful. “Too high and you’ll snap the stem.”

Your eyes flicked up to his face—just for a second. He was closer than before. He didn’t seem to notice how your breath caught. Or maybe he did, and he was just pretending not to.

“Good,” he said, a smile barely tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a natural.”

You tried to focus on the plants. Tried to act like your heart hadn’t suddenly found a faster rhythm. The garden was quiet except for the sound of earth shifting and the occasional brush of your shoulders as you both moved. And then, when you tried to get up—too quickly this time—your legs buckled without warning.

You pitched forward, catching yourself with a startled gasp, but not fast enough.

Jongho caught you, one arm slipped behind your back, the other around your waist, holding you firmly. You ended up in his arms again—closer than ever. Your palms pressed against his chest, your face inches from his. You could feel the thud of his heartbeat. Or maybe that was yours. You weren’t sure.

His breath was soft against your cheek, his gaze locked on yours. There was no teasing this time, no quick comment. Just that thick, charged silence that felt heavier than anything you could say.

“I told you to take it easy,” he murmured, but it came out quieter than he probably meant. Almost fond.

You swallowed. “I was being careful.”

“Mm. Clearly.”

But he didn’t let go. Not right away. And when he finally did, it was slow, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. As he helped you sit back down, his fingers brushed the curve of your arm, your side—light, but enough to leave your skin humming.

“I’ll bring you something for your head,” he said, already standing again. “And next time you feel like collapsing, give me a little warning.”

You watched him head back to the cottage, lips tugging up just slightly despite yourself.

—Jongho made you promise to stay inside.

“Don’t wander. Not even to the garden,” he’d said that morning, slipping on his coat and checking the latch on the door twice. “You’re not healed yet. And if you change before I’m back…”

You’d nodded, quiet, not arguing this time. He had to go into the village—supplies, medicine, things he couldn’t forage for. He’d promised to be quick.

But now the sun had dipped below the trees, casting long shadows across the forest path as he made his way home, breath visible in the cooling air. He moved faster than usual. Not running—but close. His satchel bounced against his hip, heavier than when he’d left.

The cottage came into view, windows dark, smoke curling faintly from the chimney. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low but expectant. “I’m back.”

No answer.

His heart tightened a little. He dropped the satchel by the door, scanning the room quickly—the hearth, the kitchen, the empty chair where you'd sat that morning. Nothing.

Then he saw the shape curled near the fire.

You. Well, not you.

Swan you.

You were tucked close to the hearthstones, your body curved protectively around yourself, head resting gently against the folded edge of a blanket. Your wings were tucked in tight, though one stuck out just slightly—wrapped in clean linen, the bandage still holding. The firelight gave your feathers a soft amber glow.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He crouched beside you, careful not to make a sound, not even sure why he was being so quiet. Maybe it was the way you looked—peaceful for once.

His fingers brushed your head gently, just between your eyes. Feathers softer than he expected. You didn’t flinch. In fact, you leaned into his hand a little, still asleep. That tiny gesture, so simple, so trusting—stirred something in his chest.

He reached behind him for the wool blanket draped over the armchair, then carefully laid it over your body, tucking the edges near your side to keep the warmth in.

—You woke slowly, warmth wrapped around your body in a way that felt unfamiliar. It wasn’t the hearth rug. It wasn’t the hard floor by the fire. This was softer. Still. Sheets brushed against your skin, and your eyes blinked open to pale morning light filtering through a half-drawn curtain.

The bed wasn’t yours. The room wasn’t either. But it was warm, quiet, and smelled faintly of pinewood and smoke. Your shoulder ached with a dull throb, but the bandage was holding.

You pushed back the blanket and stood carefully, bare feet against the wood floor, making your way toward the kitchen where the sound of movement—soft clattering, the scrape of iron—filtered through the walls.

When you stepped in, Jongho was by the stove, sleeves rolled, hair damp and freshly combed. He was plating something, back turned slightly, humming under his breath.

He glanced over his shoulder the second you stepped in.

“Morning,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You looked uncomfortable, curled up like that, so I moved you to my bed.”

You froze, blinking. “Oh—um…” Your voice came out smaller than intended. “Thanks.”

He turned back to the stove, clearly trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t worth lingering on. But you knew he’d picked you up, carried you and tucked you in.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked, gently.

You nodded. “Still sore, but… better.”

“Do you mind if I check it?”

You hesitated, then nodded again. “Yeah. Sure.”

Jongho set the ladle down and dried his hands on a cloth. He stepped toward you slowly, quietly, as if afraid of startling you.

You reached up and pulled the collar of your shirt down over one shoulder, baring the wound.

He leaned in, inspecting it closely, his breath warm on your skin. “It’s healing,” he murmured. “But the ointment’s faded. I’ll need to rewrap it.”

You gave another small nod. Then he hesitated as if he wanted to say something.

“What is it?” you asked, watching him shift.

He cleared his throat. “You’ll… probably need to take your shirt off. I can’t reach around the bandage properly like this.”

You froze for half a second, then nodded once. “Okay.”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you pulled the shirt over your head, careful not to jolt your shoulder. You sat on the edge of the table, left only in your bra, arms loosely crossed, eyes cast downward. You could feel it—your skin flushing hot. Embarrassment prickled along your neck.

Jongho didn’t look at anything he wasn’t supposed to. His eyes stayed locked on your shoulder, his hands focused and steady. He dabbed a fresh layer of ointment over the healing wound, the coolness of it making you shiver slightly.

He rewrapped the bandage slowly, tying it off with a firm, neat knot. But he didn’t move away right away. Neither did you.

You looked up at the same time he did.

Your eyes met. His hand still rested gently on your arm. Your faces were too close—one small movement and your nose would brush his. You felt the pull of the moment like a cord drawn tight between you.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

Then the kettle on the stove let out a sharp hiss, steam whistling through the spout. Both of you jumped slightly, the moment shattering clean in half.

Jongho stepped back quickly, running a hand through his hair and muttering something under his breath as he turned to kill the heat.

—It had been days since that morning in the kitchen.

Every morning, you woke in Jongho’s bed, tucked under heavy blankets that still carried the faint warmth of his body. He always rose before you, already halfway through tea or chopping something in the kitchen by the time you stumbled in, sleepy-eyed and sore-shouldered.

And in the evenings, before the sun dipped too low, he’d always make sure you were somewhere warm and safe before the change took you again.

You and Jongho had fallen into rhythm. He showed you how to make tea the way he liked it, how to identify herbs by smell alone. You told him things you hadn’t said aloud in years—memories from before the curse, small fragments of who you used to be.

You’d grown used to the silence between you. It wasn’t empty. It was full of glances, of quiet moments where his hand would brush yours when you passed him something, of him tucking your hair behind your ear while pretending it was nothing. You laughed more. You smiled without realizing. You felt human again.

These had been the best days of your life in a long time. Maybe ever.

Which made what you were about to do feel worse.

The wound had healed. You weren’t limping anymore. The bandages had come off two days ago, replaced by a scar that barely stung. And with that last tie gone, you knew you couldn’t stay—not without asking him to carry something that wasn’t his to hold.

You’d already said thank you. For the food, the care, the silence. You hadn’t said anything about how you’d started waking up hoping to see him first. You hadn’t said that leaving made your chest feel hollow. You couldn’t.

So, that morning, you dressed quietly, tucked your things into a small cloth bag Jongho had given you, and stepped outside. The sun was climbing, the air warm with spring.

He was tending the herbs by the edge of the path. You almost turned back when you saw him—but you didn’t.

“I should go,” you said, voice steady, too steady.

He looked up slowly. His hands stilled, “You’re sure?”

You nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “You’ve done more than enough. I don’t want to overstay. I don’t want to be a burden.”

He stood, brushing dirt from his palms, watching you. “You’re not,” he said, but it didn’t come out loud enough.

You stepped forward. “Thank you. For everything.”

He nodded again, this time slower. Still no step forward. Still no words that you wanted to hear.

You wanted him to stop you.

You wanted a reason to stay.

And then—he reached out, his hand wrapped around your wrist. “Don’t go,” he said. There was a crack in his voice this time, "Please."

You blinked. “Jongho—”

“I know you think you’re being kind. Leaving before you take up too much space. But I—” He looked down, then back at you, eyes clearer now, steadier. “I don’t care about that. I care about you. I want you here. Even if you change every night. Even if you leave feathers on the rug. Even if you never tell me everything.”

You couldn’t speak. Could only stand there, your heart tripping over itself.

“I didn’t plan this,” he said softly. “Didn’t expect it. But it’s real. You’re real. And I don’t want this to be the end.”

Your eyes stung before you could stop them. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be stuck with—”

“I’m not stuck,” he said. “I’m asking you to stay.”

You searched his face, trying to be sure. He didn’t give you time to second-guess it. He leaned in—not rushed, not unsure—and kissed you.

It was warm and slow, like he’d been holding it back for days. His hand rested lightly at your hip, the other brushing your jaw, steady and sure. You melted into it before you even knew you were moving. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the quiet space between you.

You barely managed a whisper. “I was hoping you’d stop me.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “I couldn’t let you go.”

© kysstar

[shewroteaworld]

PCOS

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

100 Follower Celebration Request: "🤨 + 'You’re braver than you think and more beautiful than you know.' "

Premise: You've been keeping a secret from your boyfriend. At the most inopportune time, it thrusts itself into the light. He doesn't have the reaction you feared.

Warnings: mentions of Criminal Minds--typical violence, mentions of nausea, discussions of chronic illness, mentions of poor self-esteem

Word count: approx. 3,000

When the unsub impaled you with the knife, you gasped awake.

You blinked open your eyes to pitch black darkness, a pulse of 200 beats per minute, a stomach frothing with queasiness, and cold skin sticky with sweat. 

Something velvety constricted your body like cling wrap. The suffocation was akin to being buried six feet under. Fortunately, the feather pillow cushioning your head and the soft foam squashed beneath your fingertips broke through your sleep-addled mind. 

It was only a nightmare. You were still laying in bed next to Aaron Hotcher.

Your breath caught, and you went rigor mortis still. Once A’s soft snoring reached you, you relaxed.

 Tiredly, you smiled at a ceiling you couldn’t see. You didn’t wake him. The last thing A needed after a horrifying case was to not only be woken before dawn but also be woken by his girlfriend gasping in terror. 

Your boyfriend of six months, Aaron, was an FBI supervisory special agent. As a civilian, there was plenty of work information to which you were not privy, especially if a case went south. Often, Aaron didn’t tell you where he flew for work. All you knew was, he’d be away for days. However, sometimes you’d know where Aaron was flying back from once the case was handled. Either, he could tell you once the target was apprehended or you found out via news report.

Based on the news reports from New Mexico that featured the BAU's media liaison, Jennifer Jareau, a cult leader ended his sadistic campaign with an AR-15 shootout and a murder-suicide that caught the state police completely off guard. The FBI caught the scent of his plan, but by the time they sniffed it out, they were 5 steps too far behind. Thankfully, Aaron nor any of his unit members died. 

Aaron returned to his DC brownstone to ceramic pans full of your best dishes— all piping hot— on his kitchen counter.  You made sure to prepare enough food to last him a couple weeks; emotionally trying work events and tons of paperwork were the perfect recipe for Aaron to not eat enough, and you weren’t going to make it easy for him. The past work weeks had been a whirlwind for you as well; you’d billed 15 plus hours every day for the past week to resuscitate a major merger on its deathbed. You set the last dirtied spoon on A’s drying rack two seconds before he unlocked his front door.   

Aaron left the details of his past case vague. He kept the details of his emotional state even vaguer. But you could tell in the extra tight grip of his hello hug that he was in need of grounding. You anchored him with a constant, comforting grip, on his calloused hands. You fed him your best mac and cheese; you even cut back on your beloved pepperjack for his spice sensitive taste buds. Later that evening, you took a soothing shower together and collapsed into bed. You broke your typical bedtime routine: instead of discussing the latest novel you’ve read or life realizations, you watched a so-bad-it's-good corporate soap and ripped it a part for its inaccuracies.  That’s when Aaron laughed for the first time since he came home. 

You were relieved you didn’t wake him. Even though food comas were “scientifically disproven,” a factoid Aaron passed on to you from his team's young genius, Doctor Spencer Reid, you hoped the welcome home dinner you made him helped sustain his deep sleep.

Your adrenal glands calmed. You closed your eyes, but, not a second later, you were rudely interrupted by a sharp pain three inches below your belly button--- right where the unsub stabbed you.

It was just a dream. With a quiet huff, you rolled onto your side and curled against Aaron’s back. 

That’s when you felt it— a tacky liquid sticking your satin pj pants to your thighs. A swell of nausea overtook you, and you feared it was not a byproduct of anxiety alone. 

Gingerly, you slid out of bed. With the nausea sliding up your esophagus and the sensation of the room spinning, it wouldn’t take Holmes to confirm the cause, but you refused to panic without irrefutable evidence.

Gently, you folded the covers back.  Not daring to turn on your phone flashlight, you tapped your home screen and raised the brightness. 

When you hovered the light over the bed sheet, deep red splotches of smeared period blood screamed against Aaron’s stark white sheets. 

Something deep and cold coiled in the pit of your stomach. You clicked your phone off. Carefully, you took a few steps back from the bed. 

Your stomach whirled. A shiver crawled up your spine. You hurriedly tiptoed across the carpet to Aaron’s ensuite. Even in your haste, you quietly shut the door behind you. As soon as the door was in its oak frame, you turned the lock.

You pulled the roots of your hair with an iron grip. Shit. Shit.

You collapsed onto the edge of Aaron’s bathtub. There was blood all over your pj bottoms. You stood in a panic. You looked back and, of course, in a matter of three seconds, you stained the white acrylic.

You went to his faucet and patted ice cold water on your cheeks. Get a grip. Stress would only make the inevitable worse. Why it was possible for your body to malfunction this severely, you’ll never understand. 

If you’d only been blessed with a normal body, one that menstruated on a timely schedule and didn’t come with a laundry list of ugly, graphic symptoms, tonight would be nothing more than a minor embarrassment.

The guilt for waking Aaron on tonight of all nights would be strong, but all you would have to do is tap him awake, apologize, and attack your blood splotches with a hydrogen peroxide–soaked cotton ball and the night would revert back to a typical night with your boyfriend.

You wished you were well enough to clean his sheets. Unfortunately, for you, it wasn't possible. You’d get even more nauseated. Or too lightheaded. You already felt sick when you woke up, which meant you were menstruating for a few hours. 

How did you not catch this? Your body at least has the decency of shooting some warning flares, and the new medication your OB/GYN prescribed three months ago was far from 100 percent effective at calming your PMS symptoms.

You ran a hand over your face and through your hair. You were two weeks early after billing unbelievable hours for that merger dispute. This was stress induced.

You forced a deep breath. You needed to find a way out of this.

Suddenly, your vision swam. With no other option, you sat on the stained portion of Aaron’s bathtub. You gripped your stomach as the pain twisted deeper into your abdomen. You hunched over yourself.

Tonight could not become Aaron’s baptism by fire into your PCOS. He was exhausted physically and emotionally. He shouldn’t have to deal with all the baggage that comes when you experience the most natural thing in the world for a woman. 

The nausea crawled up your throat, and you forcefully swallowed it back with a groan.

You put your head in your hands. You didn’t bring enough pads. Or tampons. You didn’t have any anti-emetics. What if you got a migraine? What if you fainted and A woke to what appeared to be your corpse lying on his bathroom tile? 

Your spiral was interrupted by the man in question. “Honey?” Aaron called, voice strung. 

Before you could respond, he yelled. “Honey?!” 

You stood, and Aaron’s bathroom tilted on an axis. You barely managed to stumble to the doorway.

Fumbling, you unlocked the door just as Aaron reached the it. 

His brown eyes were wide blown and wild. You'd never seen that expression on him before. “Are you okay?” He held your forearms as if he were afraid you’d crumple with too harsh a touch.

“I saw the blood and I…” He swallowed. He scanned you from head to toe repeatedly. “I thought the worst.” He whispered. Your heart fell through the pit of your stomach to the soles of your feet. 

He cupped your cheeks. “Baby, you’re really off color. I need you to talk to me. Where are you hurt?” The blood stains on the back of your pants were out of his view.

“I’m not hurt, A.” You said.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Your side of the bed is blood stained.” He said, his voice taking a sterner edge. 

“I’m on my monthly.” 

“Oh.” He released your arms. His cheeks dusted pink. “Sorry, honey, I…” He ran his hands over his bedhead. “I should’ve…I jumped to conclusions.” He sounded shocked with himself.

“You’ve had a long day.” You whispered. “Give me a minute. I’ll clean.”

Suddenly, everything went blurry. Your muscles slacked, and your forehead dropped onto Aaron’s pectoral. 

A hand was back on your forearm, this time with a tighter grip. A calloused hand tapped your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Baby. Stay with me.”

Carefully, he walked you away from the door. “Sit.” Fully supporting your back, he sat you on the floor and leaned you against the bathtub. 

As soon as your back was fully supported, his ensuite regained color. You could take a deep breath again.

Aaron knelt in front of you. “Honey,” Aaron said, his stare piercing through yours. He stroked your hair out of your face. “I need you to be honest with me. What’s wrong?”

“I told you.” More accurately, you began to tell him. 

You shivered. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead and stroked down your cheekbone.

“I don’t have a fever.” You insisted. “It’s just my monthly.”

 He pecked your forehead. He didn’t believe you. “Is it always this bad?” He asked with a mix of concern and skepticism. 

“Yes.” You sighed. “I have polycystic ovarian syndrome.” 

“PCOS?” He asked. 

You were shocked. “You know what that is?” 

He nodded. “I’ve heard of it.” 

“It can make my time of the month super severe.” Stubborn tears leaked from your eyes. You wiped your cheeks with the cuff of your pajama shirt. 

You were supposed to be the woman who kicked ass in the boy’s club of corporate law by day and kicked ass as the perfect girlfriend by night.

He was not supposed to see you trembling before him, huddled in pain. He was not supposed to see you on the verge of throwing up from period cramps when he almost died in a hail of bullets less than twelve hours ago. He was never supposed to see how weak you truly were. 

He took over wiping your tears with his thumbs. “Scale of 1 to 10—how bad is the pain?”

“Maybe an 8?” You said. It was a 9. If you could’ve managed without your head aching, you would’ve rolled your eyes at yourself. The one thing about dating a profiler is they always know when you’re fibbing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked. 

You sniffled. “About my condition or that I’m in pain?”

“I think those are a package deal.” He said gently.

You sighed. Your instinct was to lie, but you stopped yourself. Aaron could see right through you. He was one of the best behavioral analysts in the entire world. For the first leg of your relationship, you’d managed to avoid this confrontation which was a blessing in itself. 

“I didn’t want you to see how sick I get. How sick I am.” You toyed with the ends of your hair. “I didn’t want you to know how weak I am.” You whispered. 

His eyes softened. “Honey, you’re not weak because you have PCOS."

“There are months where I can’t even stand up.” You said, voice taught with tears.

“And that’s why I need to know." He smoothed your hair. "Have you been going through this every month by yourself?”

“Since I moved out of my mother’s place for undergrad, yeah.” You sniffled with a watery smirk. 

He wrapped an arm around your back, then hesitated. “Can I hug you?”

“Please.” You whispered

He pulled you into a hug. His hold was looser than normal, but his embrace still filled you with warmth from head to toe. 

“Darling, I love you so much.” Aaron said.  “I would never look down on you for this.”

“It’s just…I’m not used to….”

“Being this vulnerable.” Aaron finished sympathetically. 

You nod. “It’s just…I get so sick. It makes me so ugly.”

He shook his head. “Hey.” He made sure you were looking him in the eye. “You’re never ugly.”

You chuckled. “You’ll revisit that answer when you see me dry heaving at 3 in the morning.” You said, unpleasant nights resurfacing.

His lips don’t do so much as quirk upwards. Rather, he looked shattered. He squeezed your hands. “I won’t.”

“What can I do to help?” He pivoted.

“You can change the sheets.” You looked to the top corner of the ensuite door frame as more tears welled. “And go back to bed.”

“I won't ever leave you on the bathroom floor in pain, alone.”

“But you should.” You said. He cupped your cheeks with his homey hands. He gently pulled your chin back to level your gaze, but you resisted. 

“Why should I?” He asked.

“Because you’re tired. And I’m sick. And I’m broken. And there’s nothing you can do.” You make eye contact and immediately are wracked with full body sobs. 

Suddenly, every second of you’d spent building up your self-esteem went out the window as your deepest insecurities broke through. You were never supposed to be a burden to him. 

He pulled you into chest and wrapped you in his arms..“Helping you when you’re sick is never a burden. I love you so much.”

“What if you get tired of me?” What if this made him stop loving you?

“I won’t.” He promised. 

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “We’ll return to this conversation when you’re feeling better.” He stroked your cheekbone with his thumb. “What helps? Do you have medication?”

“I have daily medication. I’m still working with my doctor to get a regimine that works.” You wiped your eyes. “Heat helps. I drink this peppermint tea to help my stomach when I’m at home.” You rambled.

“The one by that British brand?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“When I saw their tea in your apartment, I bought some to keep here. I might have some peppermint. I’ll be back, honey.” He left you with a kiss on the cheek.

The tailoring he did to his world to accommodate you would never cease to flutter your heart.

The pleasant moment was quickly halted by your stomach bubbling. 

As A’s slippers padded down the stairs, you crawled across the tile floor over to the toilet. You forced your head between your knees.

About ten minutes later, you heard the clack of his slippers against the bathroom floor. “Nauseous?” He asked.

You nodded. 

He sat the mug close to you. “Your tea to your left within arm's reach. I’m going to grab some blankets and pillows. I’ll be right back. Shout if you need something.”

You learned by “some blankets and pillows” Aaron meant an entire blanket set. 

As you leaned your head back against the wall, Aaron began prepping your makeshift bed. In your peripheral vision, you laid pillows as floor cushioning.

“I won’t judge you if you go to sleep in bed. This gets ugly.”

“Baby, I’m an FBI agent for the BAU. Even if you threw up on me, it wouldn’t make the list of the top fifty gross things I’ve experienced by miles.” 

You scooched onto a pillow. Aaron slipped the blankets around you.

Your head found the soft crook of his neck. He pressed his head onto yours, and the pressure instantly relaxed you. Unfortunately, your your uterine muscles corkscrewed. You squirmed in pain.

Aaron shushed you. “You need to breathe. This will pass, just breathe.”

You clasped his hand like a lifeline. What feels like hours later, when the pain begins to ebb away, you pant, “It’s alright if you need to go to sleep.” Aaron already relayed his plans to go into the office on Saturday morning to attack some dense paperwork. 

He placed his free hand overtop of yours. “You will always be a priority for me. I hope I’ve shown you by now that I will always take care of you.”

You smiled into his shoulder. 

“Also, the heating pad is charging in the bedroom, and, before you ask about the sheets, they’re already in the wash.”

You sighed in happiness. “I could kiss you right now.” 

“What’s stopping you?” Gently, he pressed his lips to the top of your forehead.

You smiled again. You could count on your hand the number of times you’d smiled when you’re like this: on the bathroom floor, nauseous and dizzy.

You squeezed his knee with your free hand. “You promise you’ll stay with me?”

“Of course I’ll stay with you. I love you. And, just for the record…this may be tough, but you're not ugly and you're not weak. You're braver than you think and more beautiful than you know. I'm grateful to be the one holding you through this."

In the coming days, you’re certain you’ll have a laundry list of next steps from your boyfriend: call your doctor, check in with a dietitian, monitor stress, anything he could think of to lessen these symptoms. He’ll probably want to talk more about why you didn’t tell him sooner.

But, for now, you're both satisfied with sitting on the bathroom floor and riding this out. And in a moment where the pain could split you in pieces, you somehow felt whole. 

Author's Note: I'm happy to say the 100 follower celebration fics are finally going live!

I hope you're having a good day or night! Thanks for taking the time to read my work! And, to anyone struggling with a condition similar to the reader's: you, too, are braver than you think and more beautiful than you know!

xoxo,

shewroteaworld

[laswells-ashtray]

Which of the COD guys/girls would be trinket people?

Or what hobbies in general you you think they have?

I'm so glad you asked.

I've said it before, I'll say it again, I think John has a collection of lighters that he's accidentally or deliberately stolen from people throughout the years. Nikolai helps add to it after finding out about it and spotting two of his own lighters in there.

Kate keeps sword-themed trinkets but she isn't entirely aware of the fact that she keeps sword-themed trinkets. She has a sword-themed letter opener, bookmark, pin, set of paper clips and a knife that has no real purpose other than to look like a sword, it's barely usable. But she doesn't think she's a trinket person, those are just things she picked up because she likes the way they look. No one will tell her because they don't want to ruin her fun.

Ghost has been given so many silly ghost-themed objects over the years that he has a shelf full of them and then that expands to two other shelves. He starts to get offended when his birthday or Christmas goes by and he doesn't receive any mini ghost-themed items. He has a Ghoaster [coaster] on his desk with his ghost-themed halloween mug on it that he uses to hold pens.

Alex has a thing about mini items. Mini frying pan that came from a kids toy? In the box, mini dice? In the box, a tiny pair of scissors? In the box. He doesn't put them out anywhere, he has has a little wooden box full of mini items that he keeps for his own amusement and he tells Farah that he's leaving it to her in his will.

Rudy likes weapon-themed trinkets, he will just put them about the house and Alejandro is so used to it that he typically doesn't say anything. Slightly chipped ceramic revolver on the shelf next to their plant? Looks good, solid artistry. Switchblade themed hair clips that neither of them have a use for? Clip them to one of the ties that they never use either, they're nice decoration. Small, worn brass shotgun that just appeared one day? Paperweight for takeout menus.

Hobby wise, Graves likes fixing broken watches or clocks that he finds in his free time. He'll give the watches to a Shadow if he sees them without a watch and if not, he'll donate the clock/watch to a thrift store. His only exception was a small vintage clock he found that had been gifted to someone for their years of work at a home that helped kids. The clock was worn, scratched and just not that pretty, the owner of it was likely dead so he kept it for himself. It's the one thing he lets himself be sappy about.

Gaz can crochet, he just doesn't unless he's at his parent's place. His mum daughter him and his siblings when they were young, he was the only one who actually enjoyed it. When he's staying at home, on the nights he can't sleep or can't stay asleep, his mother will find him in the living room and she'll hand him hooks and yarn. They'll sit together crocheting for hours while they catch up on Coronation Street and bitch about what's happening.

Valeria only does so for herself and she rarely wears it outside but she can make jewellery with wire. It gives her something to do with her hands and she's good at it, it's the one thing she has to herself that no on else knows about and she can enjoy it privately.

[yesimwriting]

pleaseee write smth about that fight between Felix and reader

a/n i've been thinking about this scene for days so when i saw this ask i got so hyped

warnings: reader being AFAB/female is plot relevant (reader's father has always wanted a son), implied emotional/financial parental abuse (not described in too much detail), potentially inaccurate portrayal of early-ish 2000's phones bc i was a toddler during their oxford era, hurt/comfort

we're getting into reader's background!!

itallic texts = from felix, bold texts = from reader

There's a scratch embedded into the dark mahogany. It's small, no wider than something you could make with your finger nail.

"How's your food?"

Your attention shifts towards the ceramic plate that's almost covering the dining table's only blemish. "It's good," you mumble with a slight nod, fork instinctually jabbing at a piece of food without you even looking at it. "Yours?"

"Great," he hums casually, cutting into his steak. "Part of the reason I picked this hotel is because of the restaurant. The visiting chef's a guy that I met in New York when he was looking into financing an international expansion of his franchise."

You bring your utensil to your lips. "That's cool, daddy."

The comment only strengthens the question that's been silently ebbing at your mind since your father first suggested lunch. Why did he order room service instead of taking you to the hotel's restaurant? Your dad has always loved the ambiance, the leisure of sitting in a nice restaurant.

"Is that why you're in town?" You reach for your glass, taking a sip of your drink before continuing. "To finalize something with the chef?"

He sets down his knife. "That and a few other business arrangements that needed to be checked on." He pauses, shoulders relaxing. "And to see you, too, Ace. It feels like it's been awhile since we talked."

Your lips quirk into what's almost a smile. When your father called to let you know that he'd be staying near Oxford for work and that he wanted you to visit, you had been apprehensive at first. Your mother was cautiously supportive of the idea.

Things with your father have been relatively stable recently. He liked the way no university seemed off limits to you with your grades and extracurriculars. He loved the idea of a daughter studying abroad at Oxford (which, is part of the reason you seriously considered Princeton for some time). And he's been drinking less. Part of that whole reborn, second marriage to a late-20-something methodist thing.

"Yeah, dad," you agree, as sincerely as you can manage, "It's been awhile."

"You know I'm friends with one of your deans." He doesn't give you a chance to reply. "We had coffee together, and he told me you're on track to finish in the top 10%." Rumors about the top percentages had been circling around Oxford for the past month. Still, it's relieving to know. "Congratulations, Ace."

This time, your smile meets your eyes. "Thanks."

He smiles, a flash of something practiced and charming. "When I get home, the first thing I'm doing is picking out a gift to send to you."

"If you need time, you can always wait and give it to me over the summer."

The infamous summer. Your mother is going to be spending most of the summer volunteering for an organization that brings counseling to children that have survived traumatic experiences but can't affording therapy. Your father suggested that you stay with him for a little while so that you wouldn't have to spend an entire two months in an empty house.

He stretches an arm like he wants to pick up his fork, but decides against it. "I--I want to tell you something." His tone is softer now, almost hesitant. "But you have to promise not to cry."

You try to swallow around the lump in your throat, body familiar with the command. "Okay?"

"I don't know if this summer's going to work out the way we talked about." He taps his fingers against the surface of the table. Your eyes lock on the scratch marring the wood. "Things have gotten complicated."

"Complicated?"

Your father sighs. "I'm sure you've noticed Christine's not here." You can't bring yourself to react at the mention of your step-mother's name. "She isn't in--she isn't in the best condition to travel." The tapping continues. "Christine's pregnant. She's due in early June, and she isn't having an easy time. I think it'd be best to not do anything that could potentially be stressful."

Oh.

"It's a boy."

Oh. A boy. With his perfect wife, in his perfect penthouse on the Upper East Side. Of course. Of fucking course.

You can't breathe right or thing of the way you're supposed to react. All you can do is stare at the scratch. At the only thing that indicates that anything bad has ever happened to the table.

"You promised you wouldn't cry." The words feel far. "You look too much like your mother when you cry."

That seems to force you back to earth. Any and all reminders of your mother must be eradicated in his presence. "I know. I'm not going to cry." You blink once, hand moving to wipe away tears you refuse to let spill. "Congratulations."

He's quiet for a moment, pressing his lips together, before finally settling on a perfunctory, "Thank you." After a beat of silence, he continues, "Were you planning on staying tonight? I was thinking of flying back early, but I can--"

"Oh, no," you shake your head once, "I actually have a lot of homework, so it's probably better for me to get back."

Your father nods, "Always the academic, Ace." He pushes his seat back. "If you're done eating, I can walk you to the lobby and have my driver take you back."

"Yeah," you push back your own seat and stand, "Sounds good."

The two of you reach the front doors of the suite. "Hey," your father starts, "Why don't you travel this summer? That's all I did during college breaks. I'll pay so you can do it up right. You should go somewhere with a friend. Paris, maybe. You two always had fun as kids."

You nod once, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah, daddy, I'll ask Paris about what she's doing this summer."

"Good." He pauses at the door, reaching into the pocket of his slacks. He pulls out his wallet and counts out a few bills. "Here. A pre-gift." You hesitate. "C'mon, top 10%."

Your mother's voice rings in your ears. He won't change, you might as well take the money. You stretch out a hand, forcing a smile as you take the cash. "Thanks."

----

Stupid. You're so fucking stupid.

You really thought you'd be there all weekend. You really thought Christine would let you into her home for longer than a day or two.

And the pregnancy thing? That--that's going to get back to your mom in one way or another if you don't tell her. And hearing that, hearing that your dad's finally getting his son is going to kill her.

It's all you've been thinking about since you got back yesterday afternoon. After mumbling a halfhearted explanation to your roommate, you changed into some pajama shorts and a giant T-shirt that you only realized was Felix's after the fact and crawled into bed. You've moved as little as possible since.

Something near the foot of your bed buzzes, snapping you back to the present. You flip the phone open, immediately noticing three text notifications. From Felix.

hope ur weekend's going better than mine

lovie

i feel abandoned

Despite your angst, you smile to yourself before sending a response: it's been one day.

After a minute, there's another text on your screen: so it's a crime to miss u. You roll your eyes, fondness pooling in your stomach. how are u doing.

The second question, though sincere, forces you to spiral. You want to be honest. You don't lie to Felix and he doesn't lie to you.

But, everything comes with exceptions, and making sure no one finds out how tense things actually are with your dad is yours. Before you two got close, it felt too private, and once you finally did, a few comments from Felix's friends made you feel like the worst thing you could do for your friendship was let him see any kind of darkness.

It's not that he'd judge you, he'd just want to help you so badly that it'd take over everything else. Farleigh's made it clear that Felix loves a charity case. And you don't want to be that. You won't let your dad take that from you, either.

You want to say that you're fine, maybe text a comment about things being a little awkward because it's no secret that your mom took care of you after the divorce. But lying about being on campus feels like something that could easily morph into something else.

Felix, who actually has enough of a social life to pull sleazy moves like that never has. i'm sick. came home early.

ur back!

why didn't u tell me

i'm sick, can't hang out

are u ok

do u need anything

Guilt prods at you. You've been texting him on and off since yesterday and never mentioned that you came back early. Felix is always so good to you. But, you're in no place to see him. no just need rest

You shut your phone. You're not sure that saying you're sick is enough to keep Felix away all weekend, but it could be enough to keep him away tonight. It's Saturday night. He'll have plans.

And tomorrow, you'll feel better. More stable.

"I have some time before I'm supposed to go to Jake's. I stole some bread from the dining hall." Nadia's offer is gentle. "Do you want to go feed the ducks?"

You wipe at your face. "That's a really nice offer, Nadia, but I'm feeling a little sick. Maybe when you get back?"

She frowns. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," you mumble, "I just need some sleep."

"You've been sleeping on and off since yesterday afternoon." Nadia hesitates, eyes darting towards the bathroom. She does need to start getting ready for her date. "Maybe you can call Felix later? It's Saturday night, you know there's some terribly exclusive, not meant for any of us ordinaries party he's dying to take you to."

The attempt at humor is enough to get you to roll onto your side. "Since when do you like Felix?"

To be fair, Nadia's never disliked Felix. Before you became friends with him, she had a bit of a crush on him in that way that all freshmen girls at Oxford do. After you started hanging out with him all the time, that crush turned into an awareness that fueled her worry. She's always implied her concern that he'd eventually hurt you.

"I've never not liked him," she mumbles, "I was just scared he'd break your heart, but, the last couple of times he's come over...something about the way he looks at you."

"So you finally accepted we're just friends?"

She walks towards the bathroom, "Didn't say that."

You roll your eyes, letting yourself rest on your back. You shut your eyes, trying to force out any thoughts of the outside world as you drift off.

The familiar creek of the hinges of your room's door pulls you back to reality slowly.

"Took you long enough." Nadia's voice. "All she does is sleep and mope. She didn't even want to go feed the ducks today."

"She loves feeding the ducks." Another familiar, much more moving voice. You manage to move, wiping at your eyes as you sit up.

"I know!"

You finally sit up, blinking your eyes as your vision adjusts. Felix. He's standing in near the foot of your bed. "Felix--I-I told you I'm fine. Just a little sick."

"Nadia called and told me the opposite."

You turn your head to glare at you roommate, who doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "You stole my phone and called him?"

"I had to," she defends. "All you do is sleep and cry, and you've been like this since you came back yesterday."

Felix's expression drops as soon as the final word comes out. Your eyes widen, head shaking as subtly as possible as if a too late warning will erase the sentence from existence.

"Wait," his voice is softer than you've ever heard it, "You've been back since yesterday and you didn't tell me?"

You swallow, unable to look away from Felix.

"I--I have to go." Nadia's announcement breaks through the stiff silence. "I'll be back sometime tomorrow, so um..." She turns away, swinging an overnight bag over her shoulder before disappearing out the door. You can't blame her for running out as soon as possible.

"Felix," your voice is low, gravely, "Darling."

"Don't." His eyebrows pinch together, sadness tinging his expression. It doesn't fit him. "Why--why wouldn't you tell me you were here?"

You sit up a little straighter, wiping at your eyes with the back of your palm. "I told you I'm sick. I'm not up for anything right now."

Felix is still watching you with that kicked puppy look. "That doesn't--" He cuts himself off with a sigh. "You know I don't care if you don't want to do anything. We can--we can just sit or-or talk, or read or--do nothing." Felix presses his lips together, "I thought you knew that."

You know he's right, and that makes it harder to look at him. Felix would have been a sweetheart about it. He would have let you mope, cry even, and he would've spent the entire time holding you. It should have been easy to tell Felix, instinctual...and yet...

Your eyes briefly shut. "I do." The admission's painful to get out. Some of your hesitation was over the way Felix reacts to tragedy, but the rest is something more personal. Telling Felix would have solidified it. Would have made that label of 'abandoned child' that you've always been so wary about permanent. "It's more than that."

"Then what is it?"

Sighing, you push yourself to the edge of your bed. "My head hurts, I need a Tylenol."

Your words and movements are drowsy as you push yourself to stand. Felix takes a partial step forward before forcing himself to freeze into place. It's hard not to help you.

"Then what is it?"

You push open the bathroom door. "I don't--I don't know." It's a weak attempt at dismissing the conversation before things go to a place that you can't handle right now. "I couldn't get the words out." Still can't.

You find the pill bottle you were looking for on the bathroom counter and start working at twisting off the childproof cap. "We tell each other everything eventually." His voice is dry, almost hesitant. "At least, I do. We trust each other."

Your eyes shut as you sigh, fingers briefly releasing the top of the bottle. "Maybe that's not trust. Maybe that's your life being so perfect there's nothing you need to keep secret."

The words come out in a rush, angry and sharp. Regret floods through you instantly. "I'm sorry."

"No." The syllable is hard. "No. You're not. Don't do that. Don't--don't start saying what you think I need to hear--or keeping in what you think I don't." There's a concerned anger there, an unfitting combination that you don't have the energy to decode. "What could be so bad you can't tell me? We know about Ollie's parents and that didn't change anything, did it?"

Actually, things did change a little. Oliver's broken home life seemed to only make Felix want to pull Oliver into his world even more. You hate thinking it, because it's insensitive and a little mean, but of course Oliver was willing to give Felix all the gritty details.

After the initial implications came out, Felix devoured them with the same silver spoon that was placed in his mouth at birth. In a way, Felix's desire to fix and ease pain brought them closer together. And it probably means more to Oliver coming from Felix than anyone else.

But your relationship with Felix is different. You don't want sadness and coddling to be what makes you feel certain in your bond with Felix. You want things to stay the same. You don't want to give your dad anyway to change one of the most important connections in your life.

"You have a big heart, Felix, and I love that about you." Your hand reaches for the Tylenol again. "But I don't want you helping me to become all that I am to you. I don't want to be a charity case." You squeeze your eyes shut, cringing at your wording. "And--and I'm not trying to say that Ollie's just a charity case, it's that--some stuff Farleigh's said and--" Tears are pricking the edge of your vision.

"You're more than that," he scoffs the words out like it's ridiculous he even has to say that, "Of course you're more than that, I thought you knew." He scoffs. "I--I don't just wait around for people."

You scoff, the sound almost a bitter laugh. "Oh--so now it's not about trust, it's about your ego. That I don't just sit around next to my phone, waiting for the Felix Catton to call me."

Felix takes a step forward, "It's not about that!" You raise your eyebrows, uncertainty leaving you frozen. Felix has never yelled at you before. "...It's not about that," he repeats, voice a more acceptable volume. He takes another step forward, his fingers finding your forearm. "You know how I meant it."

There's a tension in the way he's touching your arm. It's nothing harsh, if anything it's almost too soft. Hesitant. He's watching you with an intensity that pins you into place more than his actual hold.

You wouldn't be surprised by his anger, you're not even sure you'd be able to blame him for it, but that's not what you see when you look at him. You can't exactly read the look behind his eyes, but something about it reminds you of Nadia's earlier comment.

It's heavy. Too heavy for you to think about tonight. That's how Felix is. He's intense. All consuming. When all you do is blink at him, he lets go of your arm.

"Felix."

His eyes dart towards the ground, body angling itself away from you.

It's subtle, and not a direct dismissal, but after everything that's already happened, it's enough to serve as a final nail hammered into your chest. "I don't want things to change between us." You sigh, finally getting the pill bottle's lid to pop off. "Because I'm fine."

You force a smile, but there's a tightness to your features that makes it feel like a grimace. "It's not a big deal. So my dad asked me not to come home this summer, because his wife's pregnant and he doesn't want to 'stress her out'. I'm fine." You can feel the tears welling in your eyes. "Y'know it's a b-oy." Your voice cracks on the last word, a laugh or maybe a sob interrupting the single syllable. "So um...good for him, he's finally getting his son."

Felix is watching you cautiously, expression not quite sympathetic, but not relaxed either. "Oh my god, I have to tell my mom. And it--it's going to kill her." You gasp the words like the realization's just hit you, even though it's been on your mind since the beginning. "I don't know why I said that like I'm surprised--because I--" You laugh, the sound shrill and uneasy, "But it's whatever. I'm fine."

You nod once, as if that'll be enough to make you feel fine. Another sound comes out, this one a lot closer to a whimper. "I'm fine. I don't know why I'm being so dramatic. I'm fine. I'm--" You squeeze your arms around your waist, supporting yourself the way Felix usually would.

You're crying openly now, tears blinding you. This is pathetic. You need to get it together.

You're pulled forward with no warning, your body hitting something solid and warm. Felix.

His arms around you, firm and supportive. It's surprising enough to force a full breath of air into your lungs. For a moment, all there is Felix. You inhale again, and again, doing your best to hold the air in your lungs.

Felix's hand smooths circles against your back. He whispers soothing words that you can barely make out. Between that and the even rhythm of his heart, you manage to ground yourself.

"You don't have to be nice to me right now," you mumble into his shirt. "I was really mean to you."

He continues to trace patterns against your spine. "We don't have to talk about that right now."

"I know," you whisper, "I just--I don't want you to feel like you can't be mad at me."

He gently smooths your hair away from your face. "Can I be mad from right here?"

"Yeah." You sniffle once, letting your chin press into his chest so that you can look up at him. "If you want to."

"Then okay," he mumbles, knuckles running up and down the length of your spine, "I'll be mad from right here."

----

taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains @ker0senebunny

[deadgiants]

How to Paint on Leather Jackets:

A Relatively beginner friendly guide.

Things you will need:

- A leather jacket.

-Card stock ($6 for 50 sheets at staples, or steal it from work)

-Xacto knife ($12 or wander around an art campus for a few minutes, and you'll find one)

- A surface to cut on (cutting mats are relatively affordable, but a flat piece of glass or ceramic will probably also work fine. The mat I use for this is a tempered glass one)

Paint markers. the main thing is to make sure you are NOT using oil-based paint. Some brands make both oil and water/acrylic based pens, and it can be hard to tell which is which at a glance.

Ok lets start!

Find an image you want to use. Once you get used to it, you can get extremely detailed results with this method, but for now we'll use a more simple example.

Ok, I don't really like the common Mischief Brew patch logo, so were using the twxt from this album instead. I'm doing this all at work, so you can also see that you don't need any fancy software for this. I'm using MS Photos for this whole process.

So crop the image close to your text

Fiddle with the settings in edit if you want, i usually think making it b&w with a higher contrast helps.

Now we're gonna cut. With stencils, start with fine details near the center of the design and work outward. This way you keep as much solid paper around your cuts as possible, which helps prevent ripping or deformation and mis-cuts. I also usualy cut in two stages, all horizontal cuts and vertical cuts.

Heres the big difference between what we're doing here and making a regular stencil. We don't care about islands. You see the empty spaces in the B, the e's, the S, etc. We arent cutting that out, we're taking the whole shape and we'll add that shit back in later.

So now we cut it out, we have something like this:

You can see how anything I came across that seemed mildly irritating to cut out, I ignored.

Thin lines connecting parts? We can draw a line. Islands? We can do the basic shape and refine it later. The point is that this stencil will put the right shapes together with the right scale and spacing.

Next we'll put it on the jacket.

Tape that shit down, you don't want if moving more than it's already going to. Next, trace the outline, that's it, then remove the stencil and burn it or something.

Should have somethong like this

Now by hand, fill in the stencil. I advise tracing the outline again as you fill. It helps prevent overflow. If you feel confident, try and build the empty space here instead of later.

So it's filled in and we have a general shape. I recommend at least two layers with 10-15 min dry time between. More layers might look a little better but also run the risk of cracking if it gets too thick (this ended up needing 3 layers).

You may have noticed that the outline looks kinda shit, here's the main thing we're gonna do here, editing.

I hit the photo limit here, so hang on for the next part.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

Quiet Morning Together

character: Kang Dae-Ho X fem!reader

Summary: You and Dae-Ho enjoy a peaceful, quiet morning together in bed. No rush, no obligations—just the two of you.

Warnings: none🦑🦑

The world outside was slowly waking, but inside your bedroom, time moved at its own pace. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks over the bed where you and Dae-Ho lay, wrapped in warmth and the kind of comfort that only came from being beside someone you loved.

He was still half-asleep, one arm draped lazily over your waist, his breaths steady and deep. You traced absentminded patterns on his skin, enjoying the rise and fall of his chest. Eventually, his eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep. "Morning," he murmured, his voice rough and low.

"Morning," you whispered back, smiling as he stretched, his arm tightening around you for just a second before he let out a content sigh.

"Stay here," he said, his lips brushing against your forehead before he slid out of bed. You curled up in the warm space he left behind, watching as he ran a hand through his messy hair and padded toward the kitchen. The sounds of quiet clinking and soft movements filled the air as he worked. You could hear the faint sizzle of eggs on the pan, the rhythmic tapping of a knife against the cutting board.

The smell of toast and coffee drifted into the bedroom, making you smile.

Before long, Dae-Ho reappeared, carrying a tray with breakfast—simple but thoughtful. Eggs, toast, a few slices of fruit, and coffee made just the way you liked it. He set it down carefully beside you before climbing back into bed, his knee bumping against yours as he got comfortable.

"You really didn't have to," you said, though you couldn't hide your appreciation.

"I wanted to," he said simply, handing you a fork. "You deserve a good morning."

For a while, there were no words, just the soft sounds of eating and the occasional clink of ceramic. Then, the conversation started—light, meandering, like the morning itself. "Did you know," Dae-Ho said between bites, "that in some places, people believe eating fruit first thing in the morning gives you more energy for the day?"

You raised a brow, popping a piece of strawberry into your mouth. "Sounds like something you just made up."

He chuckled, nudging your foot under the blanket. "Maybe. But if it's true, you should eat all of yours." "And if it's not true?"

"Then at least I get to see you enjoying breakfast in bed."

You shook your head, laughing softly. It was moments like these—simple, unhurried, filled with quiet affection—that made you fall for him all over again.

Eventually, the food was gone, the coffee cups emptied, but neither of you moved to get up. Dae-Ho leaned back against the pillows, pulling you into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Let's stay like this a little longer," he murmured, his voice thick with drowsiness again.

You didn't argue. You simply nestled closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. Outside, the world kept turning. But here, in the warmth of his embrace, time could wait.

🦑🦑🦑

[mochinomnoms]

i remember once i almost made a project about mushrooms for school but in the end chose to do one about frogs. THE POINT IS, imagine yuu actually being a fan of mushrooms but being lowkey about it and mentioning doing a project about them in a passing conversation and ptm jade just knowing he chose the right mate

Fun fact mushrooms actually scare me they look too much like flesh and feel weird and i also don't like those hyperlapse videos of them growing because it looks like flesh but i like the aesthetic of mushrooms and of course jade so i must suffer. Also this is the mug mentioned in the story, I own it!

Epel was carving an apple for Sebek into the shape of a dragon, as Sebek was still fascinated at Epel's skill, and Epel was happy to show off when asked. And an apple was a healthy treat to go with lunch, one that Vil had allowed and that Sebek approved for himself as a part of a knight's ideal lunch.

“Don't forget the horns!” Sebek pointed as Epel started the head, the latter huffing and kicking at his friend's leg.

“I know! I'm trying to be careful so it doesn't break!”

A comfortable silence resumed as they both focused on the knife slicing through the apple like butter.

“Epel! Sebek!” Both jumped, Epel letting out a choked yelped as he noticed his knife dig deeper than he intended. Both sighed in relief as he carefully slid his knife out with the start of the horns still intact.

“Aaah! Prefect!” Epel growled, turning towards you as you sat across the table from him with a bundle of paper in your hands.

“Don't scare me like that! I almost broke the horn!”

You smiled apologetically and winced as Sebek laid into you.

“Indeed! You of all people should no better than to interrupt Epel as he carves the Young Lord's image!”

You perked, leaning over to see Epel's progress. He'd carved out the basic shape of a dragon's body and wings, and had been working on the head and horns.

“Oh, is it Malleus's dragon form? Aaaa! That's so cool that you can do that Epel—oh wait! I wanted to show you something!”

You excitedly, yet very carefully, set down the pile of paper in your hands. The two realized that there was something in it as you unwrapped the paper. Practically vibrating, you picked up the ceramic item in the palm of your hands and presented it to them.

“Ta-da! It's a mushroom!” True to your word, in your hands was a ceramic mushroom. The base white with ridges and a handle like a mug, and the top a bright red with white spots.

“But, not just a mushroom. It's also…a mug!” You grab the red top of the mushroom and simply picked it up to show it off.

Like a child with a new toy, you kept placing the top back on and back off, looking at the two for a reaction.

“Really?” Unfortunately, Epel was less than amused.

“What? It's cool!”

Sebek shook his head in disapproval, resuming watching Epel as he started back on the dragon's head.

“It's a mug that looks like a mushroom, how is that exactly impressive?”

A soft whine left your throat as you pouted, cradling the mug to your chest.

“It's just cool, it looks like a fly agaric mushroom! Sam had other ones too!” You took out your phone and started swiping to your photos. “This one looks like a crimini mushroom, this one is just a green one, but it's still cool! And all their tops can be removed, aaaand Sam was selling mushroom coffee to go along with it—”

“Isn't one of the Leech brothers known for his fascination with fungi?” Sebek asked exasperatedly. “Which one was it?”

“Jade.” Epel answered, pausing to look at you from the corner of his eye and smirked. “Why don't you go show off to your boyf—”

“Shut up!” You crush some of the paper in your hands and toss it at his head. Epel softly giggled as it bounced off his head.

“I'm just teasin', besides he'd probably be more than happy to hear you rant about mushrooms. You do it all the time.”

You crossed your arms, huffing, “But I want to tell you guys, you're my friends!”

An evil smirk appeared on your lips, before quickly disappearing as you made a sad face.

“You know Sebek, Malleus would listen to me talk about mushrooms all the time.”

A wistful sigh left your mouth as you continued. “I would listen to him talk about gargoyles, and he would listen to me about mushrooms. He loved it too, he'd be so sad to know that no one is listening to his friend as attentively as he did.”

Epel rolled his eyes, watching as Sebek paled and internally panic. He kept focusing on his carved, counting under his breath.

“3, 2, 1…”

“Tell me all about your strange mushroom mug and drink! If just for the Young Master's sake!”

You brighten and smiled, immediately going on a tangent about the coffee you found at Sam's.

Unbeknownst to you, Jade at a nearby table had been listening in, smiling in bliss as you described the benefits of reishi mushrooms in place of espresso.

“What are you smiling about, Jade?” Floyd asked, popping a shrimp tempura into his mouth.

Jade sighed, twirling his pasta onto his fork. “Nothing in particular…”

“Just thinking about my pearl, and how wonderful they are…”

It was a good thing most students steered clear of their table, otherwise there would be a wild amount of rumor about who his 'pearl' was.

Floyd peered over Jade's shoulder, watching as you animatedly waved your hands about.

“Hmm? What are they talking about?”

“Mushrooms~”

Floyd cringed at his brother, both because of the mention of mushrooms, and the lovesick look on his face.

“You're both so fucking weird, match made in heaven I guess.”

[honeyandruin]

Between the Shadows

Chapter Three: Blood, Then Silence

"It was never the blood that broke her. It was the silence after."

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: PTSD, emotional distrust, mild violence, trauma recovery, survivor’s guilt POV: Second person Status: Ongoing

"You didn't cry when it happened. Not once. But the silence afterwards—that's what stayed."

----

It’s been two days since you told Tommy you’d take the job.

He was elated—thanked you about ten times, and told you to take your time setting up.

Even though you could feel that he was hoping it’d be sooner rather than later.

You start with the cabinets.

The top ones first, where someone crammed mismatched jars of gauze and tape beside a cracked ceramic mug. You toss what’s expired. Keep what’s salvageable. Make a pile in the corner for anything that might still be useful—half-full bottles, torn gloves, unlabeled antibiotics.

The room smells like dust, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic that never quite left the tile.

You open the window to let the cold in. Fresh air cuts through the stillness.

It helps, just a little.

You’ve been seeing minor things—splinters, rashes, sprains, a boy who split his chin on ice, a man with a bad cough. Nothing urgent. Nothing dangerous. Just the kind of work you’d never let yourself imagine again.

It’s quiet. Routine. Peaceful.

And it terrifies you.

You don’t trust calm. Not when it lasts this long.

You’re halfway through writing a supply list when the clinic door slams open hard enough to rattle the hinges. The sound jolts straight down your spine.

You whip around—and freeze.

Ellie is standing in the doorway. She’s pale, wild-eyed, blood smeared across her sleeves and throat. She’s breathing too hard to speak at first, but her arms are full.

She’s dragging someone.

“He’s hurt,” she gasps, stumbling inside. “I didn’t—he—please, I didn’t know what to—”

You move. “Back here,” you say, your voice already steady, already shifting. “Now.”

You rush forward as she hauls the boy toward one of the padded tables. He’s older than her—maybe fifteen—but limp. His shirt’s soaked through with blood, dark and spreading. A jagged wound tears across his left side, just below the ribs.

Ellie helps you get him on the table. Her hands are shaking.

“It was a tripwire,” she stammers. “Out near the mill. He stepped on it. It—” her voice catches. “It was metal. Not infected. I swear. Just metal—”

You press your palm into the wound, hard.

He groans, barely.

“Is he bit?”

“No,” Ellie says. “No, I swear—”

“Then help me.” You grab her wrist, place her hand where yours was. “Hold pressure. Don’t stop unless I say so.”

She nods quickly, jaw clenched. Her fingers are trembling, but she presses down with everything she has.

You’re already ripping gloves from the tray, already opening gauze, grabbing the clamp, the suture kit.

The bleeding is bad. Not arterial, but deep. Long. Ugly.

You’ve seen worse. That doesn’t mean you’re not panicking under your skin.

You work fast, sharp. Clean the edges. Clamp what you can. Stitch in fast, uneven lines. You don’t talk. You don’t breathe.

Ellie stays still beside you. Blood soaks through her sleeves. She doesn’t ask questions. She just keeps her hand where you told her.

Eventually, the bleeding slows.

The boy is unconscious. His pulse is faint, but it’s there.

You sit back slowly, wiping your hands on your jeans, heart hammering.

He’s alive.

You look up—and find Ellie staring at him, shoulders shaking. There are tears on her cheeks she hasn’t noticed. They slide silently down her face, cutting clean through the blood.

You watch her for a moment.

Then you get up, cross to the sink, and start scrubbing your hands.

Neither of you says a word.

You’re still cleaning the blood off your hands when the door slams open—hard enough to shake the frame.

You turn quickly—your hand gripping the knife you keep strapped to you now.

It’s a man you’ve seen around Jackson, primarily with Tommy or Ellie. Broad shoulders. Heavy coat. Jaw locked tight beneath a scruff of salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes burn like he’s searching for someone to blame and already found them. There’s something dangerous about the way he moves—like every step is a threat he doesn’t need to say out loud.

Joel, you think is his name.

Joel storms in like he’s already halfway through a fight, eyes blazing and jaw set hard enough to crack teeth. He sees Ellie first—her bloodstained sleeves, the boy on the table, your hands still red.

“What the fuck, were you thinkin’?” He barks.

Ellie flinches. “I—”

“You left,” he growls. “Didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not Maria. Not a single goddamn adult knew where you were.”

He takes another step into the room, fists clenched at his sides.

“And now he’s hurt,” he snaps, nodding toward the boy. “Bleedin’ out on a table. You think that’s somethin’ you just walk back from?”

Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but Joel cuts her off before she can.

“You don’t get to decide shit like that, Ellie. Not when people are countin’ on you to be smart.”

You stay near the table, checking the boy’s pulse. Stronger now. Stable. But Joel’s voice is rising, sharp and cutting, and Ellie’s shoulders are curling in like she’s shrinking beneath it.

“You don’t even know how bad it is,” Joel continues. “How the hell are we supposed to explain this to his parents? You didn’t think about that, huh? About what they’ll say when they see him with stitches down to his ribs and no clue how it happened?”

Ellie’s voice comes out small. “I didn’t think he’d get hurt—”

“You didn’t think,” Joel snaps. “That’s the whole fuckin’ problem.”

You lift your head, finally. “That’s enough,” you say.

Joel doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps his eyes locked on Ellie, who’s standing there like the wind’s been knocked clean out of her.

“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice,” he says. “You pull a stunt like this again, I don’t care what you think your reasons are—I’ll have you off patrol rotation so fast your head’ll spin. You hear me?”

Ellie’s voice is raw. “I was trying to help him—”

“This ain’t about help,” Joel growls. “It’s about responsibility. And whether or not you can be trusted with it.”

Silence stretches wide and stiff between them.

You turn back to the boy, adjust the bandage around his torso, and say nothing. Not because you don’t have things to say—but because they won’t hear it right now.

Joel looks at the boy one more time. Then back at Ellie. His voice is quieter when he says, “We’ll talk later.”

And then he leaves. Just like that. No thank you. No apology. To either of you.

Just boots across the floor and the door shutting behind him like a warning.

----

The clinic is quiet now with Joel gone.

The boy is alive, stable, breathing. The crisis has passed, but the tension hasn’t. It clings to the walls, to the floor, to the blood still drying on the tile.

You exhale, slow. Your hands tremble.

You’re about to tell Ellie to go—because she should, because it’s late, because you don’t want anyone else in the room right now—when you hear the soft scrape of a stool.

She’s already moving. Grabbing a bucket. Filling it with water from the sink.

You blink.

Then reach for the towels.

No words pass between you for a while. You scrub the counter where your gloves had landed, where blood pooled and smeared and settled in the grooves. Ellie wipes up the trail near the door, then moves to the wall. There’s a rhythm to it—back and forth, rinse and wring, breathe and hold.

Finally, she speaks. “Do you ever get used to it?”

Her voice is quiet. Not shy, but uncertain. Like she already knows the answer.

You glance at her. “The blood?” You ask.

She shrugs, eyes still fixed on the floor. “The panic. The way it hits your chest like it’s gonna break something.”

You don’t answer right away. You think about all the nights you woke up sweating. About the bodies you couldn’t save. About the ones you didn’t try to.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to,” you say finally.

Ellie huffs a breath that sounds a little too bitter to be a laugh. “Yeah. Joel’s definitely not.”

That makes your lips twitch. Just slightly. “Is he always like that?” you ask.

“No,” she mutters, then sighs. “He’s just scared. But he doesn’t say it. So he yells instead. Acts like a dick.”

You glance at her. She shrugs. “You get used to that, too.”

You nod once. “That part I believe.”

Another pause.

Then Ellie lowers her towel, sets it in the bucket, and leans against the wall. “That boy,” she says, quieter now. “He’s my friend. One of the only ones I got here.”

You watch her.

She doesn’t meet your eyes. Just stares down at the stained floor. “I didn’t think anything would happen,” she says. “I just wanted to show him something. A spot I found. Somewhere quiet.”

You know what that means. You know what it is to want quiet.

“He’s lucky you brought him here,” you say. “And you’re lucky he didn’t bleed out on the ride.”

Ellie winces.

You shake your head. “That’s not a scolding. It’s just the truth.”

She looks up at you, eyes red-rimmed, tired.

You hold her gaze.

And for the first time—you see it.

Not just the fear, but the grief behind it.

How much she’s holding in. How much she can’t say.

“I won’t tell Joel,” you add, “about the place.”

Ellie looks up at you. Her mouth presses into a thin line “Thanks.”

You go back to cleaning. She joins you. Neither of you speak again until the last stain is gone.

----

You lock up the clinic as the sun dips below the ridge. The streetlights glow with soft amber warmth. Chimney smoke curls into the air, carrying the scent of pine and something faintly sweet—bread, maybe.

Ellie walks beside you. She doesn’t ask if she can. She just falls in step, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched.

The silence feels less heavy now. Not comfortable, exactly—but shared.

Halfway to your house, Ellie clears her throat.

“He’s not always like that,” she says. You know who she means. “He just doesn’t know what to do with people he cares about,” she adds.

You don’t respond. But you understand.

When you reach your gate, she stops.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “For not letting him die.”

You glance at her, but she’s already turning away.

She walks down the path without looking back—until, just before she rounds the corner, she lifts one hand.

A small wave. More a gesture than anything else.

You watch the street long after she’s gone.

Then step inside and lock the door behind you.

[tachiharastanacc]

Tachihara gift exchange headcanons

Port Mafia-

Mori (and Elise):

-Tachihara probably gets him a nice pen or something

-Elise gets a coloring book and a set of colored pencils and she thinks it’s way cooler than Mori’s stupid lame pen (he also gets roped into letting her put bows in his hair. Again)

- Mori gives him like a bonus or something idk I really don’t like when they interact

- Elise draws him a picture of him and Hirtosu and gin

Kouyou:

- they’re not close so he wasn’t expecting anything, but Kouyou makes little gifts for everyone every year and he didn’t have anything to give back so he made a little flower out of metal for her

Chuuya:

- wanted to get him wine but doesn’t actually know anything about alcohol. Refused to ask Hirotsu, but he ended up getting carded and having to ask anyway

- ended up with some vintage wine that chuuya had mentioned to Hirotsu from both of them

- I feel like chuuya didn’t super know what to get him so he invited him out to go drinking and hang out instead

Verlaine:

- doesn’t know him. Didn’t interact at all. A single cupcake appears on his counter one day with a note just signed ‘~v’

Akutagawa:

- Tachihara got (read: spent way to long figuring out how to make) a dessert with figs for him

- Akutagawa got him a vase of hyacinths since gin mentioned that they were his favorites

Higuchi:

- tachi got her a basket of chocolate and a bunch of rom coms and agrees to suffer through watching them with her

- Higuchi knits him a scarf and it’s kind of janky but it’s addressed to her favorite little brother and he never takes it off ever

Hirotsu:

- Tachihara and gin get him a really nice lighter that’s engraved

- Hirotsu gets Tachihara a new coat (except he low key just drags him shopping because he goes on about how important it is for him to keep warm (cuz y’know coats are important in bsd)

Gin:

- gets him the set of pencils he’s been eying every time they walk by. And a box of bandaids

- he makes them a tiny knife they can slip under a dress for missions

Q:

- most people forgot about them but he ventured down to the basement with some sweets and his old fnaf books because you can rip fnaf kid Q from my cold dead hands

- Q gives him a really ugly mug they painted with the kit chuuya gave them. It’s definitely not food safe, but he keeps pencils in it

Kajii:

- Tachihara very distantly slides him a card with a gift card for a hardware store

- Kajii gives him a gun that allegedly shoots lemon bombs except it’s bright yellow and Tachihara doesn’t know what to do with it

Hunting Dogs-

Fukuchi:

- tachi stresses over what to get him until jouno smacks him and says the captain just enjoys spending time with them (this is canon btw, he says one of his happiest memories is when all 5 of them were together)

- Fukuchi also stresses over what to get tachi bc he feels like it should be practical but doesn’t know what he’d want and low key does he even deserve to give him a gift

- Tecchou tells him Tachihara is also worried and wants to impress him

- Fukuchi takes Tachihara out to do some father-son activities and they both have a good time

Teruko:

- most of Tachihara’s budget goes to getting things for teruko (she gave the hunting dogs a Christmas list in the group chat)

- it ends up being a lot of stuffed animals and weapons from all of them

- plus a coupon for a free piggy back ride

- teruko bitches to the others because Tachihara never actually asks for anything

- she ends up getting him a new holster and tools for cleaning his guns because it’s all he fessed up to wanting (he’s very happy with it, even if teruko calls him boring)

Jouno:

- Tachihara gets him a couple records (I feel like Jouno owns a record player, sue me)

- Jouno gets him a set of ceramic dish ware because he complains Tachihara has a bunch of cheap stuff like some college freshman (to which Tachihara points out that he’s a 19 yr old middle school dropout)

- the stuffed animal Tachihara originally refused also shows up on his bed and he keeps it this time

Tecchou:

- Tecchou gets Tachihara a new sword because the grip on his was getting worn down and trains with him

- Tachihara gets Tecchou a new yoga mat and set of weights

Bonus-

- ango and Tachihara exchange respectful Christmas cards

- Yosano gets a dead fish wrapped in newspaper on her doorstep, but it’s preserved in the snow and she assumes that it was from Kenji and takes it as a gift

- a bouquet of purple flowers is laid on a lone grave. The cold wind blows, and it almost feels like someone ruffling his hair

[walkingzombiegirl]

hii can i request a fic with bakugo and reader cooking together?

━ 𝙔𝙪𝙢 𝙔𝙪𝙢 𝙔𝙪𝙘𝙠

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 - Katsuki Bakugou x Reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 - You can't cook however that's (mostly) okay with your boyfriend whose here to help. And make fun of your awful skills. 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - cursing 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘀 - ❤️

REBLOGS APPRECIATED

His back faced the living room, head hunched over the stove all while he muttered nonsense you couldn't seem to hear. The room wafted of burnt food and sadness, your nose twitching at the stream of smoke finding it's way out the window above the sink. And all you could do was watch with a pout.

"I didn't mean it..." You mumbled, trying your best to peak around his broad back and see the horrid monster that he was scraping off the pan. "I know." He stated, his tone seemingly unreadable. It made your stomach fall so far you almost tumbled off your chair.

"I'm sorry." He whipped around, holding up the blackened pan which the soon burnt piece of depression fell out of and plopped onto the ceramic floor.

"This is art, what are you talking about?"

You stared at him, blinking in the dead silence of the kitchen for a few beats. The stove vent groaning behind your curious confusion.

"Art?"

"Nobody I know has ever burnt a piece of spam quite like whatever the hell that thing is." He pointed to it like a child would a bug, your face forming into one of petty annoyance. You scoffed. "It isn't that bad."

Both your heads turned down to look at the most unrecognizable piece of ash that sat sadly on the ground.

"Okay... it's that bad. I only walked away for a second!" He raised an accusatory eyebrow, a sassy tone as he spoke, "That fucking phone, you were too busy shitting to make us dinner." "I was not! I was peeing you asshat, give me that pan!"

He moved it away, shaking his head as you got up from your chair.

"Oh no goblin hands, you're not touching this even if you beg." You paused, tilting your head. "Is begging an option?" His crimson eyes bored into yours, his jaw clenching. "Don't tease. I'm hungry." You let out a groan, glancing down at the sad chunk of spam. "Can we at least cook together then?"

He seemed to think about it, giving up with a breath and walking to place the pan in the sink, turning the faucet on.

"Sweep that sad thing up and I might let you stir something." The broom was in your hand within a few seconds, a string of curses falling from your lips as he bit a smile back from crossing his mouth. His head tilted ever so slightly so he could watch you mean mug the poor crusted piece of food.

"Can I do the vegetables? Veggies are easy." He turned to you, giving to the sassiest eyebrow lift he could muster. "What?" "Hand me a knife." You asked, leaning towards them. "In your dreams babe." He pushed the block of sharp utensils before you could snatch one, a glare being shot his way.

"Fine then... the rice?" He nodded. "Realistic." He again held a grin at your angry grumbles all the way to the bag of rice, then listened to your stress grumbles as you picked it up.

"Am I a bad housegirlfriend?" He sputtered in response to you, eyeing your face as you poured the rice into the cooker. "What the fuck does that mean?" "Am I a bad housegirlfriend?" You questioned in a genuine tone, setting the bag down while pressing buttons. "Cause I can't cook."

"Oh. No. Just useless."

You scoffed watching him laugh at his own joke, blocking you from pinching his arm. The wooden spatula he was holding falling into the pan while he all but collapsed with his own ability to find himself hilarious.

"Take that back you shithead!" He wrestled against you, holding your arms against your body. "No take backsies." "No way you just said that."

You both nearly tumbled from losing your footing, food popping on the pan as he huffed and you attempted to pinch him away.

"Am I really useless?" He shook his head, kissing the side of your head while holding you up. "Eh, you're nice to look at." "You are insufferable. I can't believe you save people for a living." "I smolder them to life with my charm." He grinned, holding you from escaping his arms and taking off. "Great lord I think that face would scare me back to death."

He teetered his head back and forth, the smell of smoke entering the air that you both noticed almost immediatley. Heads slowly turning towards the stove that seemed to evilly grin back to you both.

"Kats... I think you burned the food."

"Shit."

[octopiys]

I fear I've become obsessed with the Honey series

Lost and Found

Prev | Next

iv. dinner de novo

(anon I love you thank you so much <3)

Cw: blood mention

You flit throughout the kitchen as Simon watches from the corner, the noisy buzz of the heat lamp filling the silence.

Simon Riley was not scared of many things. He can't risk fear in high stakes settings that he tends to find himself in. He has to stay strong, be a leader, and think fast.

Simon Riley is.... apprehensive. He wanted to offer help, but he knew that if you set your mind to something, you'd get it done. Anyone in your way would probably be smacked with the nearest spatula. He valued his life, thank you very much.

You had come back in with a handful of herbs that he didn't recognize, and with wet socks. Your heart had been racing, and he was damn well sure it wasn't because of the duck. He knew he'd be foolish to think it was because of dinner tonight.

Now was not the time to ask.

He knew, at some point, hed have to find out. Not that he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to press you into admitting something when you're not ready. When he had found you, weeks ago, scratched up, bruised, and bloody, a fogged up look in your eyes, he knew you had been running. He ran once, too. He knew some things were better left buried.

He knew that once you told him, he probably wouldn't stop until he found the bastard that had dared lay hands on you. His little stray that done more than enough for him, innocent, but not helpless.

Dog lumbers over and sits on his lap, yawning. He spares a glance at his bookshelf. Maybe when he got back from his mission, hed take you to a bookstore. He thinks you'd like that. A good girl like you, cooking him and his best mate dinner, you deserve a reward.

You yelp in the kitchen, metal clattering to the floor, and he's up in an instant, at your side even quicker. Blood pearls on your thumb, the thin slice going deeper than appeared. A tomato lay cut in half, the kitchen knife on the floor, the likely culprit.

Tears pool like diamonds in your eyes and he wants to kiss the salt away to make it better. He huffs lowly under his breath, heart spiking in his chest as he pulls a paper towel off the counter and gently, yet firmly, wraps your thumb.

Before you know it, hes chopping the rest of the tomato so you don't have to. His movements are jerky, unskilled, but the attempt warms your heart.

This is how Simon helps, you think.

The rest of dinner preparation goes by smoothly. By smoothly, you mean, you pick up the next ingredient and utensil, and Simon wordlessly puts out his hands, looking at you with his slightly droopy brown eyes, unrelenting. Your heart beats a little faster in your chest, and you hand them to him. The corners of his mouth pulls up, just the slightest bit, and he turns to the stove, or sink, or whatever you need him to do.

He is under your thumb, he is your whim, he is under your mercy, utterly dedicated and devoted to you. Don't wanna stress his best girl out, he thinks, glancing at you nursing your cut thumb with watery eyes and a nervous voice as you tell him what to do.

When the tomatoes are done, you tell him, they go in the ceramic tray with the onions, oil, paprika, and italian seasoning. It had taken a little while to find the paprika. You're not sure what that says about the store, but honestly, you're too far in now to worry about it. You cut the top off a head of garlic and stick it in there while Simon mixes it up. When he realized you were working while so gravely injured, (really, he's being a little dramatic. You've survived much worse.) he shot you a look, until you glared back at him, and he backed down a little bit. He moves to get the pasta ready to boil, and you cover the tray with aluminum foil.

You're humming to yourself softly as you put the tray in the oven, and bake at 200c (or 400f) for an hour. The salted water rolls to a boil, and you ask Simon to put the pasta in-

"Slowly, Si- I said slowly! Slowly, it's gonna-!" You laugh, tugging him backwards as the water boils over the side as he tries to pour all the pasta in at once. When the water settles, still giggling, you ease him back towards the stove, and show him how to properly add in the pasta. Really, how this man got by before you, you don't know.

When your hour is up, Simon leaps at the chance to take the tray from the oven.

"You'll burn yourself, Honey. Can't have that." He murmurs, flinching slightly at the warm air.

When the pasta is al dente, cooked to your liking, you strain it. Simon adds a few greens, half a lemon's worth of juice, and squishes the roasted garlic into the tray. You gag at the thought of adding coconut milk, so you leave it out. You stir in the pasta- slowly- and the doorbell rings.

Your eyes widen, flashing to the door, before looking at Simon.

"'S just Johnny, honey. Johnny and Peach. 'Member?" He says, voice gentle, hand held out. "I'll plate these up. Can ya get the door for me?"

Your feet are glued to the ground, your mouth is dry. Your eyes flick to the door. He's sure, he's sure it's them? You haven't had any... welcome visitors here.

"Here, I'll go with you. Bastard can plate himself." He snips, and your shoulders ease, taking his hand.

Scraggle is clawing at the door, while Dog sleeps against the couch. Some guard dog. Simon nudges Scraggle out of the way with his foot, before unlocking the door.

Your heart is in your throat.

"I told you he'd open the door!" Peach's loud voice was evident behind the door, followed by a dull *thwack!*

"Oi! I wasnae sayin'- Hi, LT- wasnae sayin' he forgot!" Says Johnny, sounding highly accosted, and slightly dramatic. You see him with a pout on his lips, and Peach's eyes light up when she sees you.

"Aren't ya so pretty? We brought a housewarmin' gift, Hon, hope ya don't mind!" She laughs, and your face flushes warm as she puts flowers in your hands. You glance and see Simon being handed a small bottle of amber liquid, before the two are ushered into the house.

"Ooh, shite, smells lovely, Honey." Johnny says, and you open your mouth to mutter a quiet thanks, before Peach interjects with a, "Language!"

"It- It's really okay," you hum softly. "It's in the kitchen, er- the plates aren't out-"

In the blink of an eye, Simon is opening the cabinet, and tossing a plate at Johnny, and handing one to Peach. Peach hands her plate to you, saying, "Cook gets the first dig!"

You flush, thanking her quietly, as Simon grabs a plate for himself, "accidentally" whacking Johnny over the head with it when he tries to reach for the ladle.

Simon looks.... happy.

You hum, an almost chittering sound, and scoop some pasta onto your plate as your stomach growls. Everyone else plates themselves, and the group migrates to the table.

You look... happy, Simon notes. As soon as the fork touches your tongue, you're shovelling food into your mouth, delighted at the way it turned out, but also ravenous, like you're worried you're never gonna have anything as good ever again.

Under the table from where he sits, Simon rests his hand on your thigh. His pulse beats firm beneath his wrist, and you falter. You take a breath. You don't have to eat like it's your last meal. It's okay. You're safe here, no one is going to judge you.

You smile at him, slightly relieved.

The push and pull of the waves, the horror and euphoria of being known.

This is how Simon loves, you think.

"Nae fookin' wonder yer so eager tae git home, LT-" Johnny practically moans through a mouthful of food. "I would take if Peach here wouldnae burn everythin'-"

"I do not! But oh my gods, Honey, this food is so fuckin' good, you gotta give me your recipe- pardon my language, but..."

She continues talking, playfully arguing with Johnny over a glass of bourbon, and Simon cracks a few laughs. You smile into your water, choking at some joke, and Scraggle screams under your chair for some pasta scraps mother, please, kindly donate a few to a starving Creature, never before eaten, Mother, you Do Not Understand-

You drop a noodle or two, and Scraggle yowls happily.

It feels... peaceful, in your house tonight.

Relaxation eases your shoulders, even after Peach and Johnny leave.

On the couch, you sip a few drops of Simon's bourbon. You don't usually drink, it makes you feel...... nervous, but a sip or two to relax wouldn't kill you. It was rich, smoky almost, and warm down your throat and into your chest.

Winter is coming soon, and the fire glows warmly in embers. Some movie is playing on the telly, and you're curled up against Simon's side. It took him a few moments to realize that you wanted comfort, and even then he asked to make sure. Now, his hand slowly rakes through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. Tingles rise on your arms every once in a while.

At peace.

Your eyes blink slowly, as you snuggle into him.

He doesn't take his eyes off you.

"Simon?" You ask, as if making sure he was still here.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." You say softly, a murmur. His heart quickens just the slightest.

His face is warm. "For what?"

You hum in response, hand drifting down to lightly pet Scraggle, who had fallen asleep right next to the couch, a note carried on by the warmth of the fire.

Your breathing evens out, deepens, and he knows he won't get an answer tonight. That's okay, he thinks.

His phone buzzes.

He yawns, thinking nothing of it, and looks down.

A text from John.

He opens it, rubbing his eyes slightly, before going back to petting your head, before cold flushes down his neck as he reads.

JP: Someone's looking for your girl.

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A/N: Hello! Thank you guys so much for the love on the past few chapters. I'm so sorry it's been a while since I updated, but I had a lot going on. Luckily, I'm okay and much better now, but I just wanted to let you all know that you're so so so loved! Also, the recipe in here is an actual, functional recipe. If anyone makes it, please let me know! I personally wouldn't add the coconut milk, but to each their own lol. see you next chapter!