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[luveline]

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

Hotch touches your face much more than a boss should. Or, 5 times you have a nosebleed +1 time Hotch does.

8k words, a slightly bloody coworkers to lovers, fem!reader, nosebleeds, reader works in the BAU but isn't a profiler, jack is a sweetheart, hotch has game fr, fluff + hurt/comfort

༺༻

You like your desk job. You handle paperwork primarily, and act as a sort of assistant unofficially. Anything to be useful — you get paid either way. It's why you don't mind trying to be helpful in the office and take on some of the office administrator's overflow. 

Today, that's fixing the coffee machines. The office can function on one at a stretch but both being broken means an entire roster of grumpy agents and all of them are on your back. And when they have to see all the stuff they say? You figure fixing the coffee machines is the least you can do. 

You're ignoring the weight of their waiting, elbow deep in one of the machines. The instruction manual had mentioned a little spout that can get clogged with detriment. Hopefully, you can clean it out and get at least one machine working by midday. 

"Oh no," you murmur. 

The piece you're trying to unscrew is tightly wound, too tight for your fingers to work behind. You're probably going to need a small tool, like an allen key. 

"No luck?" Agent Prentiss asks, sounding defeated. 

You look up from the machine and smile quickly. "I need smaller hands," you joke, letting the machine sit back on the counter and pulling out your aching fingers. "I'll have one working by the end of the day, Agent Prentiss. Scout's honour." 

She shrugs and waves a hand at you. "It's alright. What's one day without caffeine?" 

You laugh at her good-natured sarcasm and go back to your machine. When you're certain you can't jimmy it you turn your attention to the second machine and run through the steps. You're too determined to lose. Your coworkers depend on you. 

You start by changing the filter and are unsurprised when that doesn't work. You check the button connectivity, the fuse, and then you turn again to that small piece that needs to be washed. 

"Yes," you cheer under your breath, pulling the piece from its home to assess the problem. 

It's a tiny pipe with a piece of mesh that acts as a sieve to trap dust. Maybe. Whatever it is, it's full of caramelised coffee grounds. You move to the sink basin and turn on the faucet to clean it, washing with anticipation as the burned coffee trickles down the drain. 

You're pleased enough to feel a mild adrenaline rush, and your excitement leads to butter fingers: you drop the prized piece of pipe and it rolls out of sight.

This is not a good time for business casual. 

You tug your too-tight pants from your thighs and bend down in search. When it doesn't reveal itself you get on your knees and run your hands along the seams of the kitchen cabinets, face lowered. 

"Is everything okay?" 

You wince at a very familiar, very unfortunately timed voice. 

"Yes, sir, everything is perfect," you say, looking up to meet the eye of your boss' boss, unit chief SSA Aaron Hotchner. "I've misplaced a piece but I'll have the coffee machine working again in no time. I'm sorry." 

He raises his eyebrows at you. It's a very nice expression on him, his eyes light with an emotion you don't often see on him. "Is fixing the coffee machine in your job description?" he asks. 

You think it might be a polite reprimand. You won't insult him by insisting you're always on time with your actual delegated workload because he and your supervisor have to send you emails asking for missing paperwork all the time, so you try to disarm him. 

You beam. 

You're not a supermodel but everybody is pretty when they smile. "Sir, I thought I could sacrifice my lunch break for the good of the Bureau." 

"Yes, well." He looks like he wants to smile back. You might be seeing what you want to see, though. "That won't be necessary. Take your time." 

Your smile falters as you feel a telling heat at the back of your nose. "Thank you," you say quickly, covering your nostril with the pad of your index finger. 

You're hoping your swift words will send him on his way, but he's literally the lead profiler of the BAU. He knows suspicious activity when he sees it.  

"Is something wrong?" 

Blood starts to trickle down your palm. You slide your hand up to cover your nose the best that you can. The alarm on his face when he spots the blood sliding down your bare forearm can't be understated. 

"It's just a nosebleed," you placate, sounding stuffed up. 

He's a quick thinker, tearing a wad of paper towel off of the dispenser above the microwave and offering it to you.

If you weren't so distracted by your current predicament you'd say thank you. 

He turns back to the paper towels and tears off another wad. To your horror, Hotch bends down right there in the kitchenette and waits for you to open your palm, feeding the towels into your spare hand. 

"Should you tilt your head back?" 

"I think that's a myth," you say. 

Your skin starts to scrawl with embarrassment, the itchy, awful feeling of being pinned by his eyes. 

"How long do they usually last?" 

"Not very long, sir. I'm sure you're busy." 

He tilts his head slightly to one side as if conceding your point. "Let me help you up," he commands. 

You can't make yourself reject his help. Honestly, it's nice to have somebody care even if the nosebleed is purely superficial. His fingers curl around the crook of your elbow and he helps you onto your feet just in time for Agent Prentiss to return.

"Hotch, what did you do?" she asks, bewildered. 

You try not to laugh too much, worried you'll force another burst of blood. 

—

Confidential information. You hear it, you ignore it. Harder to ignore the whiteboards in the conference room that are currently choc-a-block with prints of crime scene photos. 

You don't mean to gawk at them. It's severely unprofessional and you shouldn't really be in here to begin with. The electronic screen is off, as are the monitors, so you know the room isn't in use. 

That could change any second, and it does. 

You hide your clammy palms behind your back at the sound of footsteps and try not to rush obviously toward the mug you'd come in here to collect. 

The door creaks open as you're leaning over the table. 

"I'm sorry," you say without looking. 

"You don't have to clean up after anyone." 

"Actually," you say quietly, abashed at having been caught, "this is my mug." 

You turn to face him. 

Agent Hotchner is tall and handsome. These are two undeniable facts and yet every time you see him it feels like a surprise. It might have something to do with how composed he is, how deliberate his movements are, or it might just be 'cause you have a crush on him. 

It's anybody's guess.

"I can make Reid wash it," he says. 

You're so whipped that your chest confuses his offer for something much worse. Like, he's on your side.

"That's okay, I don't wanna punish him for my own fussiness." You cover the mugs printed sides subtly, or as subtly as you're able. 

"What's special?" 

You smile at him, lips pressed together tight and eyes squinting slightly. You know what he's getting at but you ask anyways, stalling now he's caught you. "About what?" 

"About the mug." 

You peer behind him. 

"You can't tell anyone," you murmur, rounding the table to stand by his side with your shoulders to the door. "I'm not sure anybody knows it's mine." 

The mug is a corn-husk yellow and printed with a scene from a vintage Peanuts comic, dark-haired Lucy standing behind her lemonade stand that boasts 'Psychiatric Help 5¢'. Charlie Brown sits in front of it looking morose. 

It's hard to describe why you like it so much. 

"I see," Agent Hotchner says. 

It's become something of an office joke, offering each other five cents on bad days, calling someone Charlie Brown when they look lost. You doubt very much that anyone is making fun of you, you're just hiding that it's your mug because that's part of the fun. The mystery of the Peanuts mug. 

"I can't drink out of anything else," you confide, turning your face to his. 

He's definitely smiling this time. "Why would you?" 

You nod in genuine delight. "Exactly! Vintage Peanuts, and I searched so much for this because they used to use lead in glassware paint, and-" 

The nosebleed comes on suddenly. There's a drop of blood running down your lips before you've even realised. Agent Hotchner's eyes follow it all the way down. 

"Oh, no," you say, blood dripping to the hill of your chin. 

You use the back of the hand that's holding the mug to catch what's rolling down your neck and the other to pinch your nose closed, bending forward on instinct to hide your face. You're seasoned in nosebleeds. You know how you look — scary. Ridiculous. 

"Here," Agent Hotchner says. 

His hand comes into your eyeline, offering a dark square of fabric. You cringe at the idea of marring his likely expensive handkerchief but you can't not accept, pressing it haphazard to your bloody nose. 

"What were you saying about lead?" 

You're so frazzled about the blood you don't realise he's made a joke until it's too late to laugh.

"Do you know what causes them?" he asks. 

"I'm not really sure, sir. I used to get them all the time as a kid, um…" You pull the handkerchief away from your nose to check if it's still bleeding. When it doesn't continue, you say, "They're pretty harmless. It's done already." 

"If you need time off for a check-up, I'm sure the office administrator can find a sick day for you." 

You smile at him, and then remember the blood and grimace. I must look like Carrie right now, you think morosely. 

"That won't be necessary, sir, thank you. It's apparently the dry air." You're starting to feel more and more warm under his serious gaze. There's a startling amount of concern there. "I'm gonna go clean up now. Excuse me," you say, face glowing with heat. 

"Of course."

You cover your bloody face with the back of your hand, his handkerchief held in red-stained fingers. You pass Agent Prentiss on the stairs, hurrying past her with an I'm okay smile. 

"Hotch, again?" you hear Agent Prentiss ask incredulously. "Where do you get off?"

—

You can't return Hotch's handkerchief, it's a biohazard, but the fabric had felt so soft and the monogram in the corner had cued you in on how expensive it must have been. Your guilt manifests itself into three new handkerchiefs with the embroidered A.H. They aren't half as nice as the one he'd let you ruin. You leave them on his desk — or rather, you get Dr. Reid to leave them on his desk, as walking into his office doesn't feel like something you're allowed to do — and try to forget about them. 

For a week, you do. Agent Hotchner doesn't visit his office, Agent Jareau apprehends him on his way in that morning and the profiling team gather around their round table, and you don't see any of them for four days. The Friday they return, you're already on your way home. 

That's why his actions the following Monday shock you. 

It's unusual that he walks anywhere that isn't a straight shot to his desk. You're doing paperwork for once in your life, sitting awkwardly with your foot hooked under your thigh and a pair of wired earphones in. It's not technically allowed but he really doesn't venture over to you often. You've become complicit in your unsupervised nirvana of a desk job. 

You snatch your earphone out and struggle into a normal position. "Agent Hotchner," you say, wondering if you should call him Special Supervisory, or maybe something cooler, like your Highness. Your grace. He's intimidating in his accomplishments at the FBI, and he's super handsome. 

"Can I see you in my office? Ten minutes." 

You nod brainlessly. 

Your desk buddy doesn't wait long after he's left to investigate. 

"What did you do?" they ask from across the short partition. 

"I really don't know," you say, though you have your suspicions. 

"Were you reading on your computer again? I told you, read under the desk like a normal person." 

"No, I learned my lesson with that one when Agent Morgan started reciting Pride and Prejudice from over my shoulder." 

You check your face in a compact before you report to Agent Hotchner's office. Your heart beats in your throat as you knock his open door. 

"Come in," he says without looking up. 

You take a cautious step. 

He finishes off quickly and lifts his chin. His eyes are dark in the early morning light, his hair in mild disarray from the wind and drizzle. 

"Come in," he says again. 

You wish there was a word that could describe his voice accurately. He talks in the peaceable kind of cadence that comes with hushed tones without truly being hushed. 

"Sir…" You bite the bullet. "If this is about the macadamia cookies, I promise I'll replace them. I didn't actually eat any of them. They kind of fell out of the cabinet and exploded, it was a freak accident." 

He holds up his hand. "Thank you. For the handkerchiefs. They were unnecessary." 

He says 'unnecessary' with a smile. 

"Actually, sir, I think they were entirely necessary." You just disagreed with your boss. "Sir. I couldn't return the first, I ruined it and I- I didn't think you'd want it even if I got it dry cleaned." 

He raises his eyebrows. "It was unnecessary," he repeats, the word drawn out carefully. "But, I appreciate the gesture. Thank you." 

Two thank you's. You stop while you're ahead. "You're more than welcome, Agent Hotchner, sir." 

You share an amicable glance and turn to leave. 

"L/N?" 

You stutter to a halt. "Sir?" 

"Hotch is fine." 

You try not to swallow your own tongue. "Hotch," you say, and then worry that's something people only do in movies. 

A few days later, your humming along to your earphones and wading through the chaos of the bullpen feeling pretty happy. The office has been busy but not in the scary, suffocating way, and you're happy to be here. The BAU can be hard (and that's as someone who isn't on the front line). Times like this are cherished. 

You pause a foot from your desk, eyes creasing into a suspicious squint. 

There's a small box on your desk. 

"What is that?" you ask your desk buddy. 

"What?" they ask.

"That. There's a thing on my desk." 

"Nothing to do with me." 

"Think I should call the bomb squad?" 

"I'm sure you'll be alright. Maybe read the note before you raise the alarm." 

"There's a note?" you mumble, caution swiftly overrun by a burning curiosity. 

You'd be sincerely worried about a bomb, only this is the FBI. If a bomb got this far into the building half the people in it would lose their jobs. You kick your bag under the desk and drop your ipod onto the desk, tinny music blaring from your earphones. 

"What are you?" you ask under your breath. 

The box is wrapped in crepe paper and a yellow sticky note has been attached to the top. 

Rest assured, made without lead. 

That only confuses you more. You're hesitance has your desk mate sitting up in their chair. "Wait," they say, peering over the glass partition, "should I raise the alarm?" 

You slide a trim fingernail under a neat stripe of tape. "No, I think we're good," you mumble. 

And lo and behold, a mug is homed inside. A Peanuts mug no less; the mug has been printed with a Peanuts comic panel. Charlie Brown lays on the floor in a straight plank, and standing overy him is his friend Linus, who says, "I have been asked to tell you that your cries of anguish are keeping the whole neighbourhood awake!" 

You laugh loud and instinctively, shrill enough to attract the attention of half the office. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you slouch down as low as possible in your desk chair. Heat pools in your cheeks. 

"What is it?" your desk mate asks. 

"A present." 

And hence your new favourite mug is brought into life. You write your name on the bottom with black sharpie and continue to deny all knowledge of the first, which you retire to the drawer of your desk. 

For a while your nosebleeds go away. You know exactly who left the mug on your desk, and you remember the joke he'd made. Maybe Hotch had been on to something, and you'd inadvertently poisoned yourself.

You smile practically every time you see your new mug, and you're unsurprised when others appreciate its humour. 

You're not sure how to explain it to an eight year old, though. 

You're slumped over, nose to the desk and hand working diligently across your notes. Having a crush on your boss makes doing your work easier because you're constantly trying to impress him — an impossible task, but trying all the same. Your earphones bump a soft love song, something sweet to cut through the unhappy details of the case file you're working on. 

"What are you listening to?" a small voice asks. 

You drag your gaze up slowly and find Jack Hotchner standing beside your desk. You've seen him in person a few times, and once as Hotch's phone wallpaper, but he grows so much between visits you almost don't recognise him. 

"I'm sorry," you say, pulling your earphone out, "what did you say?" 

"What song are you listening to?" he asks, hands creeping up over the lip of your desk. 

You sit up and smile at him. You can't say he looks like Hotch, though maybe you can see it in his tiny grin, that hint of cheekiness. "I'm listening to a song called At Last. It's a love song. Do you… want to listen?" you offer quietly. 

He nods. 

You push your chair away from your desk and turn down the ipod's volume so it doesn't damage his hearing. "Here," you say, offering one of your earbuds. "Don't push it in, okay? I don't want it to hurt your ears." 

Jack takes the proffered earbud but doesn't seem super interested. "Do you have The Beatles?" he asks. 

"The Beatles! Is that what you and your dad listen to?" 

He nods, pleased, and you nod yourself, flicking through your songs in search of what he wants. 

"I have Here Comes the Sun. Do you like that one?" 

He beams. "Yes! Me and dad sing that one in the car." 

That's a really nice image, Hotch and Jack belting happy lyrics together in the busy mornings. It's also odd. Hotch singing isn't an image you can say you've ever thought of before. 

"I love this one," you tell him, letting your elbows dig into your thighs so the two of you are eye level with one another. 

"Me too." 

You share the earbuds, Jack combing your desk for something interesting no doubt. You cover a case detail that involves some gory images and almost knock over your mug in your haste. 

"What does that say?" he asks, pointing. 

Jack looks between you and the mug for answers. 

You lick your lips. "Uh, do you want me to read it to you?" 

He thinks about it. "Can I try?" 

"Of course you can." 

You clear a path for the mug and place it in front of him. 

"I have been asked to tell you," he begins confidently, "that your cries of an-" He frowns. "Anguish are keeping the whole ne… I don't know that." 

"I'm sure you do, it just looks weird. Neighbourhood." 

"Neighbourhood," he repeats. "Keeping the whole neighbourhood awake." He huffs a boyish, gentle laugh that makes your heart spin. 

"Good job, buddy." 

He melts under your praise. He's a cute kid, and his hair shines golden under the office lighting. It flops to one side as he tilts his head. "What's 'anguish'?" 

"Anguish. Uhm, it's like sadness." 

"Oh." He takes this in. "Do you have Let It Be?" 

You eventually give up your chair and let Jack sit with your ipod in his lap, playing through all The Beatles songs that you have. Nobody seems to be watching you and Hotch has yet to come out of his office and tell you off for supplying his son with technology, so you work around him, leaning over the back of the chair to fill in what's missing from your reports. 

Jack leans back in his chair, his adorable singing coming to a stop. "Do you have movies on the computer?" 

Yes, but should my boss' son know that? "It's for work," you say regretfully. 

"Not even FernGully?"

"I'm sorry." 

He shakes his head. "It's okay, it's not your fault."

"Do you like to draw? I don't have many colours, but we can play a game." 

He smiles for a moment, then hesitation crawls over his features. "Dad says not to disturb anyone." 

"I'm on my lunch break," you assure him. You hadn't been, but you don't mind taking it now. "Are you hungry? I have oranges." 

You and Jack end up sitting under your desk. You really don't mean to end up like that; you sit on your knees because your back has started to ache and Jack wants to sit with you. You can't say no to him. (You could, you just don't want to.)

"What did she say after that?" you ask, fingers digging into two orange segments to pull them apart. You shave off all of the strands of white pith before you pass it to Jack, who says thank you every time. 

"She said to ask Stacy who said to ask Morgan P who said to ask Joan. And Joan said she didn't wanna know, but then she changed her mind after I told her abd she said to ask Cooper." 

"What did Cooper say?" 

"Cooper says he doesn't think he knows where it is." 

You nod, chewing your own orange slice slovenly. "Well, what did your dad say?" 

"I haven't told dad." 

You lift your head from the paper where Jack has drawn an impressive house with five windows. "You haven't told your dad?" 

"He worries about everything." 

"That's his job, Jack. He has to worry about you." 

"He worries about everybody." 

"Some people do." You clean another orange slice for him, and he says thank you again. "You're welcome… Jack, I really think you should tell you dad. It sounds like somebody might have taken your pencil case on purpose. And even if he can't find out who did, he can get you some new pencils for school." 

"I told mom but she hasn't done anything yet." 

Your stomach hurts. 

"Well," you murmur, picking up the green pen, "I'm sure she's trying her best, baby. Can I help colour in these trees?" 

You and Jack fall into a companionable silence, his head bobbing to You Make My Dreams (Come True) the cutest thing you've ever seen. You're not sure how long you sit there, but all good things must come to an end, and your half hour for lunch draws to a close. 

"Hey, Jack?" you say, straightening where you kneel and preparing to stand. "I have some stuff I have to do but you're welcome to stay there." 

Unfortunately, you don't manage to grab his attention. Double unfortunately, somebody else does. 

"Morgan, where's Jack?" 

You peek past your desk chair. A little ways away, Hotch stands looking sick to his stomach, and Agent Morgan looks lost. 

"I didn't have him?" 

"I asked him to sit with you," Hotch says miserably, throwing his gaze over the office. "Jack?" 

Jack hears that loud and clear. Something in his dad's tone must spark some urgency, as he stands in a rush and trips on his own shoelace, smacking the top of his head into your nose. 

You gasp. 

"Ouch," Jack moans. 

Blinking, you shake off your disorientation. "Oh no, are you okay? Here, sweetheart, stand up," you encourage gently, "I'm so sorry, have I hurt your head?" 

Jack's gaze to the floor, he rubs the top of his head with a clumsy hand. "It's okay, Miss Agent, it wasn't you and-" He stares at you. 

"What?" you ask. 

"Dad!" he shouts, backing away from you. "Daddy!" 

Jack runs out of your little alcove and straight into his father's legs, almost bowling him over. Hotch drops two relieved hands down to his small shoulders. "What?" he asks, startled, "What happened?" 

Your nose stings, admittedly, but you've felt worse. It's a light throbbing that distracts you entirely from the blood racing down your lips until you taste it. 

Shit, you think, crawling out from under the desk with one hand, the other clamped over your bleeding nose. Your movement draws Hotch's attention, which in turn gathers at least a quarter of the office's. 

"I didn't mean to," Jack says shrilly. 

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," you say stuffily, clambering onto shaky legs. 

You turn your head away from the collective gaze of the office and start toward the kitchen and hear at least three different people say, "Wait!" 

You ignore them, using your elbow to help tear off a paper towel from the roll and pushing it without finesse against your face. You squirm under the weight of tens of eyes, more embarrassed than anything else, worse when a warm hand turns you by the shoulder. 

"He really didn't mean to," you say, looking up into Hotch's concerned face. 

"I know." 

"Is he okay?”

"He's not the one with a nosebleed," Hotch says, neither kind nor unkind. 

"I honestly didn't even feel it." 

His fingers curl around your wrist, a slow tightening. "That doesn't surprise me, Y/N." 

You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. “He bumped his head into me." 

"Mm. Just a red mark. It won't even bruise." 

You deflate in relief. "Oh, good." 

Hotch's hands have found their way onto yours. He pulls one from your nose, gaze hardening at the strong river of blood that makes its way into the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"I'm sorry, sir." 

He shakes his head and gathers another wad of tissue paper, a light blue that quickly turns to a wine dark when he presses it to your face. Your heart hammers at his proximity, a thousand and one nerves aflame. 

He's close but not too close, nothing anyone could mistake for something else, and still it feels like a strangely intimate moment. His careful touches. He directs your hand to hold a fresh paper towel to the stream of blood and discards the bloody tissue. You watch him push up his sleeves carefully and give his hands a quick rinse in the sink before he dampens another paper towel. 

It's cool against your neck. 

"I think your shirt is ruined," he says, dabbing at a line of dried blood. 

You shiver at the feeling of cold water dripping under your starched collar.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, moving up to your jaw. 

You don't know how to admit it to him. No, it doesn't hurt. Your hands are really warm, and you're touching me so gently I can barely feel it. 

"A little." 

"Well, Jack is very sorry." 

"He doesn't have to be. He tripped, he…" You fade off as Hotch lays his hand across your cheek, thumb lifting your head slightly so he can clean your chin. 

"How are you faring?" he asks. 

You pull your tissue away and wait for the tell-tale heat of continued blood flow. You're ashamed to admit it but you're almost glad it hasn't stopped, Hotch's hand warm and large and impossibly comforting. Nosebleeds don't stress you out, exactly, but it's not fun to be covered in your own blood at work where everyone can see you. It's nice to have somebody wiping it away. 

"I think I'll live," you say. 

—

Jack sends you an apology card. 

It's hand delivered. Hotch is coming up to the BAU main floor as you're heading out. Like a rock dividing a river, his teammates stream from the elevator around you and Hotch remains inside. 

"I'll catch up," he promises. 

Agent JJ raises her eyebrows. Agent Morgan chuckles. 

You draw in on yourself self-consciously. You don't dress as nicely when he isn't here, and today you're rivalling Dr. Reid for most lovable dork in a pair of brown pants and a big sweater. Teetering the line between professional and unprofessional. 

"Sir," you greet, stepping into the elevator.

He presses the ground floor button. "I have something for you." 

Your eyebrows jump up high. Hotch unzips the main zipper of his duffle back and threads between clothes and papers for a smaller envelope. 

"It's for you." 

You accept, careful not to tear the thin sheet of folded paper as you pull it free. You're thrilled to see a drawing of Charlie Brown on the front, crudely drawn but clearly him with his head-wrapped in bandages. His puppy Snoopy sits beside him with something in his hands. You're not sure what. 

The inside is even sweeter. 

To Y/N

I am sorry if I made your nose angwished. Please feel better soon 

Love, Jack Hotchner. 

"Oh, I love it," you say, rubbing your thumb over a heart drawn in red crayon. "He's really something else, Hotch. He's brilliant, and so smart. I mean, anguished." 

He laughs and it twists your chest in five different directions. "He is." 

"It wasn't his fault though. If my nose weren't so sensitive it really wouldn't have bled at all, I didn't bruise. How is he? Did his head feel better?" 

The doors open. You hesitate, waiting for his reply. 

"Children are made of harder stuff than we are," he says. 

You step backwards out of the elevator. "I felt so bad. I don't suppose he'll want to come and sit with me again." 

"Actually," Hotch says, stepping out of the elevator just as the doors close again, "he thinks you're, uh, in his own words, the 'coolest friend' I've ever had." 

"Friend," you repeat with a smile. 

You've focused on the wrong word, and you worry an awkward silence will ensue, but Hotch steps up to the plate and says, "Yeah. He wouldn't stop telling me about all the cool songs you have on your ipod." 

"Purely for non-working hours." 

"Right." His smile says that he's seen straight through you. 

You're thinking maybe he likes what he sees. 

"This is really amazing," you reaffirm, pressing Jack's card to your chest. 

"He felt guilty." 

"He doesn't have to. Please, tell him I said thank you. And that he's amazing. And that my nose was being dramatic." You smile softly. "He can sit with me whenever he likes." 

"Maybe at the desk, next time, rather than under it."

"Yes, sir." 

You nod at him and he nods back, and you take it as a dismissal, turning on your heel. You've barely walked a metre when he's speaking up.

"Y/N?" 

You look at him from over your shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Are you hungry?" 

You bite your cheek in a hurry to answer, “Yeah. I’m starving.”

Your heart is basically a ticking time bomb in your chest as you and Hotch make your way into the heart of the city. He's a fast walker with long legs and you rush to keep up. That’s totally why you’re breathless. Not because he makes you nervous. 

Hotch is a really surprising guy, though maybe he isn’t surprising at all, you’re simply unversed in how he is outside of work. He talks more and his voice grows louder the further into the city you go, more expressive. 

You’re no profiler, but you’d bet money on Aaron Hotchner being nervous.

Good thing you’re nervous, too. 

“It’s not far now. You like Thai?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course. Have you ever had Tom Yum?”

“With shrimp?” 

“Exactly.”

“I think I’ve tried it. I lived off of pad Thai when I was a prosecutor,” he says, head tilting back very slightly. His Adam’s apple works under the skin. 

He looks back down, a sheepishness to his voice as he continues, “A lot of late nights.”

“More than now?” you ask skeptically.

His laugh is low and warm. “No. The firm was much closer to the city than the bureau. It’s a long walk.”

“It is,” you say, taking a small step closer to his side to share a secret smile, “but it hasn’t felt that way tonight.”

You try to keep it light. You don’t want to scare him off. 

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t.”

You duck into a fragrant Thai restaurant and order fast, the two of you knee to knee in the very corner. A potted plant threatens to blind him every time he moves, and so he endeavours to stay very still. 

The food's a little on the spicy side, and while you're laughing you can't find it in you to feel embarrassed about your runny nose. 

"You didn't like Seinfeld?" you ask, and how you got here's a mystery, but Hotch is extremely passionate about it in the best way. 

"No, of course not. How could you? George was always worrying about something, he was the definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy and he never learned!" he debates, all in a rush, chopsticks moving in emphasis. 

You snort and wipe your nose again. "It was like a relief, though, that it was happening to him and not to you, you know? You might be having a bad day but George Costanza's having a worse one." 

"Oh, honey," he says. 

It takes you a second to realise that he's talking to you. 

"What?" you ask, perplexed. 

Hotch stands up though there's no space for it, chopsticks ditched and hand pushed into the recesses of his pocket swiftly. He pulls out a small packet of tissues, and he lifts his chin, a jut. You lift your own, and he's quick to press the tissue to your nose. 

"It's bleeding?" you ask, startled. 

"Just a little." 

"Sorry." 

"No, no," he says, bent down, a comforting hand around your shoulder, "don't be. It gives me an excuse." 

"To do what?" 

"To be this close." 

Your smile is a slow, molasses thick thing. You can't get a handle on it, and Hotch's answering one is worse. He looks so happy to be here with you, to be wiping your bloody nose. 

It's only a small nose bleed. Hotch pulls the tissue away once or twice to check, wiping at it tenderly and giving you a comforting squeeze each time. The silence feels natural as breathing. 

"There," he says eventually, pulling the bloodied tissue away with a smile. "All done." 

"Thank you, Hotch." 

"I'd think you'd better start calling me Aaron, considering."

"Considering what?"

His hand climbs from your shoulder to the column of your throat. He doesn't make you wait any longer, leaning down with a sure, brave deliberateness. He presses his lips to yours. 

A sweet kiss but too short — barely two seconds and he's taking a half-step away, your lips tingling in want. 

You go to stand and he pushes you down into your seat, not unkindly. "I'm gonna go see if I can get some hot water for you," he says, placating your gutted look with a kiss to your cheek. 

He wipes it thoughtlessly with the pad of his thumb before he goes. 

You're genuinely surprised your nose doesn't start bleeding again at the look he gives you as he turns the corner toward the restaurant's kitchen. Protective, knowing. Your heart races in your chest. 

You probe at your face, elated. Your sensitive nose is good for something after all. 

—

The first time you sleepover with Aaron is an accident. You don't "mess around," as you'd crooned over the phone, joking but with enough salaciousness to make him smile. The gas and hot water had stopped working in your apartment, and though the landlord had promised they'd fix it the very next morning, Aaron couldn't stand to think about you cold and alone when you could easily be warm and with him. 

So here you are. 

"Are you sure this is okay?" you whisper, peering over his shoulder at Jack. 

His son stands in the living room in his pyjamas.  

"It's okay," he says, "I asked him, and you know he's obsessed with you. His one condition is that you watch FernGully." 

"FernGully," you say, enthused. 

"You'll like it." 

You actually really do. Showered and dressed in your own pyjamas, a little shy but not too much to stop from laying against his side on the sofa. He's got one arm around you and one around Jack but he might as well be invisible, the two of you talking in murmurs across his chest. 

"And that's-" 

"Pips," Jack supplies helpfully. 

"Pips," you say, hand spread over Aaron's chest. 

If he didn't know better he'd think this was a slice of heaven. 

"So many people," you whisper in Aaron's ear. 

"More in the second one." 

"There's two?" 

After the movies finished — "It was better than you said, Jack," — and dinner’s been eaten and cleared away, Aaron takes Jack to bed. 

"Do you want a story?" Aaron asks, flitting around the room in a half-hearted attempt to square away the mess. 

"No." 

"You sure?" 

Jack's eyes are heavy, and they have been since dinner. "Yes," he mumbles, face turned into his pillow, hands lax on top of his blanket. 

Aaron smiles and makes his way to Jack's side. He kisses his son's cheek, and strokes the soft hair from his face. He smells like strawberry toothpaste and kids shampoo. 

You're sitting on the end of the bed when he gets to you, face damp with skincare and shining in the light. Aaron kisses you without touching it, worried he'll mess it up. 

“He’s wiped. All the excitement,” he says. 

“Excitement- From me?” you ask. 

“From you.” He puts his hands carefully either side of your neck.

You haven’t been dating very long, and still he knows how easy it is to fluster you. And while he loves to see it, see you giddy and shy, blinking at nothing like there’s a light shining in your eyes. He’d once pressed his thumb with the very faintest of pressure into your windpipe while kissing you, and you hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for three days. 

He loves that, but he’d prefer if you slept facing him. He wants to see what you look like asleep, as odd as it sounds, he assumes you’ll be beautiful. He wouldn’t be surprised if you were more. 

“Aaron,” you whisper. 

“What?”

“Want me to massage your bad shoulder?”

He wonders, as he thinks is more than allowed, if that’s a seduction trick, but you genuinely just give him a massage, as you have a couple of times in his office after noticing how sore it gets now the weather’s cold. 

You rub into the problem spot carefully, sighing with sympathy. “Oh, baby,” you say, more to yourself than him. 

He fucking loves the way you say it. Aaron’s never been called baby like that — like it’s his name, and it’s sweet to say. Your tired yawns warm the back of his neck as you go. He doesn’t think he’s getting lucky tonight, and he doesn’t care one bit. He feels pretty lucky just having you near. 

He gets you under the covers before you can fall asleep against his back and makes sure you know how grateful he is for the massage with two kisses. The first is a genuine thank you and the second is to make you laugh, nipping and playful under your jaw. 

Aaron falls asleep thinking about it. 

He wakes to something much less idyllic. 

It’s that strange feeling. Being a dad has honed it, but he’s always had it. It’s one of the things that makes him so good at his job, a prickling at the back of his neck. At first he can’t pin it down. 

Your waist rises under his hand with your breathing. He remembers that you’re there and smiles contentedly, hand sliding behind your back to pull you in. You’d fallen asleep on your back, and you’ve turned toward him in your sleep. 

The metallic stick of blood is sudden and sharp in his nose. He knows what it is before he opens his eyes. The room is dark, lit only by the red light of his alarm clock on the nightstand. His eyes ache with fatigue, and he knows in his gut that it’s too early to get up. 

Blood pools under your nose. Not a lot, nothing to panic over, but blood all the same. He sits up, quickly turns on his bedside lamp, and rouses you as gently as he can, a hand slid under your shoulders to drag you up. 

You blink blearily. “What?” you ask, voice scratchy. 

“Nosebleed,” he informs, pinching your nose before blood can slink down your neck and ruin your pyjama shirt. 

You wince and he hates the way you flinch away from his touch, your clouded confusion. It’s only a second but it doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Sorry, honey.”

You catch hold of his bicep and blink some more. 

“You okay to pinch it yourself? I’ll go grab some tissue paper.”

You nod robotically and replace his light pinching with your own, much less kind. He rushes to grab a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, and when he returns you've pulled yourself into an alert sitting position, awaiting his return. 

He tears you off a wad of paper. “Here, honey.”

“I think it’s stopped.”

“Yeah? Let me grab you a towel.”

Back to the bathroom. When he returns for the second time you’re holding his given toilet paper against your face. He’s alarmed to find your eyes glassy with tears, shimmering in the bedroom light. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, sitting across from you. 

He’d been right about sleepy you. You look lovely, a little funny with your rumpled pyjamas, and now quite sad because of your tears. “Honey,” he says again, pulling your hand from your face so he can assess the damage, “you’re okay. Is it hurting?”

You’ve told him before the nosebleeds are painless, but maybe they’re a symptom of something, maybe you’re sick—

“I ruined your pillow,” you mutter. 

Ah. That’s much better than your being sick. He can work with that easily. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He takes your chin between his thumb and his forefinger to lift your head. The blood has stopped already; your nosebleeds are often a whirlwind, over by the time you’ve started panicking. 

“I’m sorry.”

He drops your bloodied tissue into his lap and brings the dampened towel to your face. He’s cautious. Your nose gets irritated and any roughness could disrupt the blood clot or agitate the anterior blood vessels inside. 

“You think I’m mad over a pillow?”

“No, of course not.” 

You sound stuffy. It’s adorable. Adorable and sad. He rubs the hill of your chin in a show of affection. 

“Then why?”

“Sorry, I think I’m just tired. I- I was trying to make tonight perfect because,” — a small tear bumps down your cheek — “it’s our first night together even if it was accidental.”

He dabs at your upper lip and the wet blood there with a smile growing. “It was perfect. It is perfect. You getting a nosebleed on a seven dollar pillow doesn’t change that.” His hand moves to your cheek, squashing your baby tear. “You know I love any opportunity to touch you… Now, do you want a glass of water?”

You close your eyes and lean your face heavily into his palm. “Can I have one of those kisses from earlier?”

“Can you keep your blood inside your body?” he asks with a smile, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Depends how hard you bite me.”

He’s very, very gentle.

—

+1

Aaron breaks his nose. You are not supposed to know that he breaks his nose, only he breaks it so bad that he has to go to the hospital to get it set, and he decides he’d like you there. 

Technically, somebody else broke his nose. The details aren’t important. What matters is that Aaron makes a rookie mistake and he has to deal with the consequences, which is a biting, aching pain behind his eyes and a trip to the ER. He does not let them take him in an ambulance, and it really isn’t urgent. He sits in a waiting room chair with a stiff back and it doesn’t take long before you’re striding inside looking terrified. 

“Hey, baby,” he says, testing it out. He doesn’t really like it. 

“What did they give you?” you ask, bending at the waist to take his face into your kind hands. 

“Vicodin when I got here.”

“Lucky you.” You turn his face in your hands. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

“I wish I could say the same, but somebody messed you up bad.”

He laughs and takes your face into his hands, the two of you smiling way too much for the situation that you’re in. “I was so worried,” you say with a little laugh. 

He kisses you soundly. It hurts, but it’s worth it. 

They call his name not long after and a nurse takes you both into a grey examination room. The doctor is a short, stern woman who has to use a stool to reach Aaron’s face, and she sets his nose with a swiftness that even he manages to recognise for the brutality that it is in his drug haze. 

You hold his hand. He has to try very hard not to crush your fingers. 

It starts bleeding immediately. 

Aaron meets your gaze over the doctor's head, eyes wide and in similar fashion as your own, and he knows it’s an adverse reaction to shocking pain but he starts giggling. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t giggle, really. He laughs, and sometimes when he’s with Jack that laugh can get super loose and high, but this is a bona fide giggle. 

You try to gasp in shock but you’re laughing too. “Aaron,” you reproach.

He holds his breath as the doctor presses gauze to his face. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says.

You snicker behind your hand. The doctor presses gauze to his face and rolls her eyes. She likely does not get paid enough. 

“You’re still handsome,” you say giddily. 

“Oh, well that's good.”

There’s a small silence rife with tension, and when it breaks it bursts like a dam. You laugh so hard you end up clinging to his arm, chest pressed to his bicep. He strokes the back of your head with a wobbly hand, wondering how miserable he’d be if you weren’t here with him right now. 

“What happened to keeping all your blood inside your body, Hotchner?” you ask, delighted. 

He beams at you dopily. “I’ve never been any good at that.”

You kiss his forehead. The doctor is furious. 

༺༻

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Your Scars Are Mine

Ch. 3

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

LA! Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Mentions of Violence, I guess that's it, I'm bad at this

⚠️ MASSIVE ASS TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ : Self-harm, Blood, Implied PTSD

Summary: In the few months that he has known you, Mihawk has noticed the scars on your arm. You've refused to talk about them and skirted around the subject successfully, but a trip to Shells Town throws everything out into the open in a way that neither of you were prepared for.

It didn't matter. Not the any of the questions or their answers. Right now, Mihawk had to find you, to ascertain that you were safe—both from others and your own demons that he doubted you had buried as deeply as you intended to.

He made his way out of the base and through town in long, purposeful strides, scanning around the few storefronts amd vendors he passed to ensure you weren't still shopping for supplies.

And he slowed at the docks, his sharp eyes catching sight of you on the deck of your sloop, pacing.

Crossing and uncrossing your arms.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling to yourself.

Rushing a hand back through your hair and jumping in alarm when you knocked your tattered old hat from your head.

Tou stopped in your tracks and stared down at where it had landed for several long seconds, still as a statue...before picking it up and tossing it aggressively into the captain's cabin. Mihawk watched you lean your head against the wall next to the door for another long moment, before kicking at it and storming around the corner toward the small kitchen.

You clearly hadn't seen him, but he had seen enough to be more than a little concerned. He swore under his breath and picked up his pace, pushing past a few Marines and civilians, with a sore suspicion of exactly where the vast majority of your scars had come from.

The door to the kitchen was cracked, and Mihawk saw you were leaned over the dish basin on the counter with your back to him.

Saw you, with the sleeve ofnyour white shirt rolled up nearly to your shoulder, draw the razor sharp edge of one of your daggers across your arm, just above your elbow, flinching and drawing in a sharp breath just before he reached you and grabbed your wrist. You cried out in alarm, dropping the dagger right into the empty basin, whirling around and backing into the countertop.

Your eyes locked onto his, wide as saucers, more vulnerable than he had ever seen them. In their depths swirled astonishment, pain, caution—and fear. Bold as you were, you had never once looked at him with fear in your eyes. Even the first time you had ever laid eyes on him, the first time you had approached him, you hadn't shown a single sign of being intimidated, which was not something he could say of many people at all.

But right now, you were like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, frozen stiff and utterly helpless.

Mihawk remained frozen for some time himself, not at all used to the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling through his head. He wanted to shout at you, demand to know what the hell you were thinking—to pull you tight enough against him to knock the wind out if you—to down enough wine to forget about this madness, however briefly.

His eyes flickered to the blood still pouring from the fresh wound in your arm, and shook himself mentally, settling for pulling you over to the small, rounded kitchen table by your wrist and pulling out a chair.

"Sit." He was careful to keep his tone level, to keep any sharp edge from piercing through the command. Still, you obeyed wordlessly, lowering your gaze to your knees and folding your hands together in your lap, your shoulders drooping from your stiffened posture into one of utter defeat. Your breathing was short and shallow as it left your lungs, broken by a small hitch in your throat when Mihawk knelt down and grabbed a clean rag from the handle of of a cabinet behind him pressing it against your arm, carefully wiping away the blood..

Another small hitch interrupted your breathing as he glanced under the rag and sighed. It wasn't deep enough to necessarily need stitches, but they would help far more than they would hurt. He lifted your oposite hand and placed it over the rag, subtly slipping your second dagger from your belt and sliding it quietly across the counter behind him. "Keep pressure on it."

Every move he made either caused you to jolt in brief alarm or your breath to catch in your throat. Mihawk kept himself focused on the wound itself for now, simultaneously trying to gain control of his thoughts and shove them away entirely.

To figure out how the hell to address the subject of you slicing open your own arm.

Why exactly you had done it.

What the hell had possessed you to—

No. No, this had to be handled carefully. Handled in a way Mihawk was entirely unaccustomed to handling things.

He pulled the other chair over alongside your own—effectively blocking your path to the door in the process, a precaution he considered necessary—and set down a first aid box he had found tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets and a nearly full bottle of what smelled like strong whiskey. He pulled down the damp rag he had slung over his shoulder, shrugged out of his coat and laid it across the oposite side of the table to avoid getting any blood on it, and sat down, pulling your hand and the blood-drenched rag away from the wound.

It was a clean cut, considering how sharp you kept your daggers, and that alone was good. He pulled the clean damp rag down that he had draped over his shoulder and set to wiping the drying blood away from around it, glancing toward your face. Your eyes were still turned down toward your lap, your hands trembling a little now as you folded them together.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head a little.

What an absolute mess this day had turned out to be.

"Are you angry?"

The sound of your voice very nearly made him jump—he paused with the rag just beneath the shallow gash, his eyes darting back up to your face. Your voice was so quiet he might have thought he imagined it, if not for the way you swallowed and averted your gaze further away, toward the table at your other side.

"No," he said after a moment, keeping his tone level. Calm. "A bit frustrated, perhaps." You bit your lip, and gave a short nod. "And...curious as to why."

You hesitated a moment, still biting your lip. Your hands squeezed together briefly in your lap while his gaze lingered on the subtle shifts in your expression, long enough that you glanced over and your eyes met briefly.

The pain and hopelessness in yours made you look years younger—perhaps like the fourteen year old girl that had witnessed the destruction of her home and the cold-blooded murder of the woman who raised her.

Mihawk turned his gaze back to your arm after a moment.

"How much did Garp tell you?" you asked quietly.

"Far more than I bargained for," he sighed. He paused when you grew tense for a moment, realizing immediately how his words could have been taken. "Not like that," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I simply wasn't expecting anything of that magnitude." You still remained tense as he finished cleaning the wound, and kept the rag pressed to it as he picked up the open bottle of liquor. He decided to steer the topic slightly away, to attempt to ease into the main issue at hand. "I'm honestly curious how you managed to survive escaping into the Grand Line on a dinghy."

You glanced over slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. Your hands shifted in your lap, gripping lightly at the hem ofnyour shorts.

"I was lucky," you said quietly. Shrugged your other shoulder. "I was able to procure enough rations to last for a week. It was a time of year where the waters were relatively calm in that particular part of the Grand Line. I woke up the seventh morning to find a merchant schooner hauling my boat in. They saw it was a Marine boat. Discussed taking me in until I blurted out what happened and they took pity. Let me work as a deckhand for room and board and safe passage. They were bound for Loguetown. I got off there, worked odd jobs around taverns and inns that were as far from Marine territory as possible. Saved up enough Berries to purchase a sloop and sustain a comfortable lifestyle over a couple years and set out on my own."

"The Marines wouldn't have bothered you regardless." Your eyes twitched in his direction, then back down to your hands. "As Garp so aptly put it, you'll remain off their radar 'as long as the correct people remain in power and you don't do anything stupid.'"

You scoffed quietly. "Did you tell him he was wasting his pity?"

"No," Mihawk said slowly, pulling the rag away from your arm as he lifted his gaze to look at you. Not yet, he decided. You were still too tense. Too combative. "Frankly, I stared at him like he was speaking another language until he elaborated." The corner of your lips twitched the slightest bit, and your tension eased a little amid a small sigh. He lifted the bottle over, and you glanced over at it. "This is going to—"

"I know," you said. You drew in a deep breath, shifting back in the chair a bit, and held your arm out. "Go ahead."

Mihawk lifted his eyebrows a bit, his eyes lingering on your face briefly. Passing down the length of your arm, the line of scars winding down the limb beneath your newest wound, wondering for a moment exactly how many times you had done this yourself.

Then he tilted the bottle, letting the strong alcohol pour over the inflamed cut. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes snapping shut in a grimace, tensing up and shaking for a moment. You held your other hand out, your eyes still closed, and he handed the bottle off to you, watching you take a deep swig of the amber liquor.

You drew in a deep breath as you set it heavily on the table, and let it out in a shaking sigh, laying your head back against the back of the chair.

Lifted it and took another drink, and he plucked it from your hand as you lowered it this time—too much and you would only succeed in thinning your blood and bleeding all over the damned place again. You didn't question it, letting the bottle slip easily out of your grasp, your hand falling back to your lap as you caught your breath. Mihawk leaned back to set it aside on the counter, keeping his eyes on you. You were a ticking time bomb right now—one wrong move, one wrong word, and you were going to go off. There was no avoiding it.

There wasn't much he could do beyond attempt to lessen the blow—or simply get it over with.

It took only a moment for Mihawk to choose the former. Once you lifted your head, still breathing a bit heavily, he stretched his arm across the back of your chair.

"Did you ever intend to mention you mention you were raised by one of the most notorious pirates in modern history?" he asked.

He was a little surprised when you shook your head no, your head drooping, your chest still rising and falling heavily. "I...try not to think about her much," you replied. The pain seemed to have had something of a sobering affect on you—you spoke a bit louder now, a bit more confidently. You swallowed swallowed, running a hand back over your hair, and you turned your head, leveling your eyes with his.

"My last memory of her is watching a vengeance-crazed Marine Admiral saw her head off of her shoulders with a bowie knife."

For a moment, Mihawk could do nothing but stare in your eyes—not moving, not breathing, absorbing the toneless quality of your quiet words, the pain and anger in your gaze. After a long moment, he lifted his hand and pinched at his temples, shaking his head and drawing in a slow, deep breath. He lifted his other hand to the back of your neck and pulled you in so your forehead rested against his shoulder.

"She wasn't a pirate when I knew her, anyway," you said quietly. "I knew she had been, but she never talked about it. Not around me, at least. I think she was trying to avoid glamorizing it so I wouldn't follow in her footsteps. I probably still would have. At least she's not here to be disappointed in me." You gave a slow sigh, the breath trembling a little as it left your lungs. "Though she likely would be here if I had just done what she said and stayed out of sight."

"Don't do that." He kept his voice low but his tone firm—you weren't doing yourself any favors if your were blaming yourself for something as heinous as that. You drew in a sharp breath, and let it out as another slow, trembling sigh, your shoulders tensing a little again. He lowered his hand, wrapping his arm around them. You had a tendency to bolt any time you started to get the least bit vulnerable, and he had no intention of letting you. Not this time. "And it's not worth hurting yourself over."

"Yes it is," you said sharply. You stil didn't lift your head, but he still tightened his hold around your shoulders, just to be sure. You cleared your throat, but it didn't quite hide the hitch in your breath. "She wouldn't tell me about any of her scars." You swallowed audibly, your voice breaking as you went on in a softer tone. "She...told me they were hers to bear. Not mine. That they were reminders of her regrets and mistakes she made. I...I guess I didn't understand until I got this one." You lifted your hand to your neck, the same place Garp had indicated earlier when Mihawk had asked him about your scars. "Every time I saw it in the mirror all I could see was her. Hear her telling that goddamned Marine son of a bitch that he could do whatever he wanted with her as long as they let me go."

Your breath came in short, controlled bursts, your knuckles white as you gripped at the hem of your shorts.

"I have to remind myself. Any time I lose. Get too confident or let my guard down. Any time I make a mistake." Another deep breath, trying and failing to harden your nerve, still shaking like a leaf. "I have to remind myself that *one* mistake and I could—I could lose everything all over again."

"God dammit..." he muttered under his breath, lifting his hand to your hair and briefly lowering his forehead to the crown of your hair. You had this so deep-seated into your mind, so firmly established that it was like a law to you. A code that you had no choice but to follow, that you had no choice but to suffer for every mistake you made and trap yourself within a web of regret just to keep yourself safe.

Mihawk lifted his head from over yours, and took your face in his hands to lift your head. You swallowed as your eyes met, and for a moment the sight of the tears streaming down your cheeks made him freeze, made his chest ache, his own shoulders tense. You were on the verge of shattering like glass, and he didn't have any choice but to let it happen. He drew in a slow breath, keeping his gaze locked onto yours.

"You agreed," he said slowly, "some time ago, that you belong to me." You swallowed. "Which means that these..." He lowered one hand to your arm, and you tensed the same way you always did when his fingertips brushed across the column of scars extending down your soft skin, "...are not just yours. And that you're hurting more than just yourself— Don't," he added firmly when you clenched your eyes shut, your breath hitching, and you opened them again after a moment. "You learn from mistakes you've made and move on. You don't trap yourself inside them and live in misery." Your gaze fell from his as you bit down hard on your bottom lip, openly flinching when a whimper left you. "I personally have trouble believing that was what your grandmother intended for you when she gave her life to ensure you kept yours."

That was it—that was the straw that broke you. Your head fell, your eyes clenched shut, a torrent of tears falling from them. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him again, lowering his head over yours as your arms wrapped around his ribs so tightly that it was almost painful. You sobbed into crook of his neck like a child, broken apologies scattered between the sharp hitches in your breath, and he remained silent. Kept his own breathing slow and steady, cradling your head against his shoulder, letting you spill your heart in a way your solitary lifestyle had never allowed you to before.

Letting you calm down on your own terms, your tension slowly, slowly giving way until you were all but limp against him. Your breathing slowed until there was only an occasional hitch in your breath. It felt like hours had passed even though daylight still poured through the open door behind Mihawk,, casting his shadow over you while he combed his fingers through your hair.

"You won't be doing this again." You gave a small nod in agreement, not lifting your head.

"N...no stitches." He lifted his head a little at your quiet words, your voice hoarse. "This one has to scar." You sniffed, lifting your head finally and meeting his eyes. "I have to remember it so I never do it again."

He glanced down at the cut a couple inches above your elbow, and sighed. "Fine." He shifted his gaze back to your bloodshot eyes, and lifted his hand to rest it against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to your skin. "Fine. But never again."

You swallowed.

Nodded shortly, your eyes remaining firmly on his as you repeated the words back, your voice quiet, trembling, but unquestionable in its intensity.

"Never."

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1874 Gingerbread Victorian is a doll house. It was renovated, and some of the new construction is a little weird. Located in Annapolis, Nova Scotia, Canada it has 3bds, 2ba, C$595K.

Enter the beautiful hall with a gracefully swirling staircase.

In the sitting room, the re-done fireplace is the focal point. The walls are a softer griege (gray/beige) than stark gray.

In the 2nd sitting room, the current owner has a baby grand. You can see a built-in cabinet in the corner.

It's a large room to fit this piano with room to spare.

The dining room is next to new kitchen, and it's very spread out. I love the reproduction stove, I can't understand why this huge room has a stove and sink in the corner. No cabinets, no fridge.

A counter with a sink and dishwasher has a nice granite counter.

Cute pantry looks original. They chose to put the fridge in here.

The service stairs are still off the kitchen.

Breakfast room used for everyday dining.

They kept this wonderful original sink in the first floor bath and added a new shower and laundry, which put the sink in the middle. It needs to be in a beautiful Victorian bath.

There's even a fireplace in here. The toilet was placed in a corner behind the door and under the stairs.

Isn't this beautiful?

A delicate desk looks lovely up here on the landing.

Bedroom #1 is a nice large size. It looks like the floors up here are original.

This bedroom is set up as a home office and it has a fireplace that's closed off, but it's still a nice feature.

Bd. #3 is a little smaller, but still a good size. It's cozy.

This bath has all of the elements as the original except for the shower.

This is an attic bedroom and it's it needs some work. The chimney is in here and there's a hole in the ceiling, plus the wallpaper has peeled off, which could indicate maybe a roof leak?

The other attic room looks okay, except for the pipe.

Neat cellar storage area.

Isn't this well cute?

There's a nice new double garage with 2 sheds. One part looks like it could be an office or studio.

The 1.24 acre property is just across the road from the Annapolis Basin.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/5265-Granville-Rd-Annapolis-NS-B0S-1A0/350232544_zpid/

[erosmutt]

/ thinkin' bout﹒☆

﹒renovation w/ han and ani﹒⌅

𖦹 dubcon, spitroasting, infidelity, face fucking, face slapping, misogyny

"look at you, little miss housewife, up in the kitchen. makin' sumn for us, doll?" Han asks, taking off his gloves and smacking them down onto the counter. he runs a hand through his sweaty hair, shaking his head, droplets of sweat falling onto the floor. Anakin, who was standing next to Han, rolls his eyes. "she's married."

you turn and look at them, a smile on your face as you gently suckle lemon juice off your fingers. "lemonade, boys. done already?"

it was a nice break - the sound of drilling and banging and hammering and yelling ceased momentarily. a reprieve from Han going 'dammit Skywalker!' every two minutes was very welcome.

"yeah, done already." Anakin confirms. He lifts his shirt, showing off his toned body, and wipes the sweat from his brow. "got the bathroom cabinets up good and sturdy."

you smile as you pour them both a glass of fresh lemonade. "here you go boys," you slide them across the counter. both took their glasses. Han knocked his back like a fucking shot, and Anakin gulped his down with a bit of pacing. they were both parched, having worked all day, especially since it was summertime. Han interjects with a satisfied 'ahh', and Anakin just licks his lips and sets the cup back onto the counter. "so," Han begins. "when's that no-good man a'yours comin' home? been on business for an awful long while, ain't he?"

Anakin rolls his eyes again. "fucking hell," he mutters under his breath. it was no secret that Han had a thing for you. when the men were working, Han would often tell Anakin his fantasies about you.

'god, that fuckin' dress. whorin' 'erself out, ain't she? might as well be wearin paint the way that thing holds onto 'er.' 'i think the dress is pretty.' 'it'd look even better on the fuckin' floor while i bend 'er over.' 'you're so... vulgar, man.' 'stays in the kitchen like a good woman too. got it in check, mhm. can cook and clean. my typa woman.'

this conversation happened only just before they were called to the kitchen for refreshments.

"how 'bout this, dollface," Han starts. "whip us up somethin' for dinner, eh? all that work," he reaches over and pats Anakin's stomach, making the shorter man grumble. "gots us all hungry." as if on cue, Anakin's tummy growls, making you giggle.

"i suppose i can. what d'you have a taste for, hm?" you ask, rinsing out their recently emptied glasses. Anakin can't help but smile. but as opposed to Han, who was waiting to see you as the cute dishwasher you were, Anakin thought you were really sweet for offering them a meal.

𔓘

"how was it?" you ask softly as you wash the dishes, house dress swishing as you suds up a plate. the smell in the house was a mix of carbonara and sawdust. Anakin sighs softly, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with his curls. "good." he gives you a smile. but it immediately falls as he sees his partner walk up to you. "Han," he says in a warning tone. it was too late. Han's hands were already on your hips, pulling you back into him as if you were his wife. Anakin groans. "here we go,"

you gasp, dropping the sponge into the sink and gripping the edge of the basin. "look at 'er Ani," Han reaches up and grips your face, forcing you to face Anakin, who gives you a look of sympathy. but you did look good with that innocent confused expression on your face... so he gets up and walks around the counter, watching your eyes widen with what was more than likely fear. it didn't matter, though, that look would be replaced with something else real soon.

soon, not knowing how, you were squatted down on your kitchen floor, hands on either man's cock. Anakin's cock was slimmer, while Han's was fatter. you look back and forth between them - Anakin had his eyes closed and lip being bitten into while Han had a shit-eating grin on his face. "open up sweetheart," Han tells you, stepping in front of you. Anakin follows his lead, and the two men smack their cocks on your face. "shit," Anakin hisses quietly as he rubs his pretty pink tip onto your lips.

Han pushes your hair out of your face and watches as you open your mouth. "tongue out like a good girl," he praises as his partner slides his cock into your warm, wet mouth. Anakin shudders and puts his hands on the back of your head, tangling his fingers into your hair.

"i got an idea, Skywalker." Han says. he taps Anakin's hip and the younger man pulls out of your mouth. Han pulls you up off the ground so you're standing. once you're on your feet, he picks you up. both you and Anakin watch with curiosity, until Han impales you on his cock, forcing himself in until he's buried to the hilt inside you. "ohh," he manhandles you with ease, leans you back, his large hands (and your legs around his waist) the only thing suspending you in midair. "now," he looks up at Anakin. "put it back in 'er mouth."

obeying, Anakin steps up to you, putting his hands underneath your shoulder blades for added support. "oh, god," he whines, voice breathy as he slides into your waiting mouth.

"good girl," Han praises. "takin' 'im good." him and Anakin look up at each other, Han flashes him a knowing smile, as if saying 'good job'. they were most definitely going to do this again the next day they came to fix up your house - and maybe, just maybe, Han would let Anakin fuck you too.

[amethystamanda]

Basin Shower

This is a 'shower' to match my Pitcher and Basin Set. Your sims will be able to wash themselves without waiting for their weekly bath or for their 6 siblings to be done in the tub.

It's a bit tricky to place. The basin has nothing to do with the placement except that it's the part you hold. You can put the basin on the other side of the wall if you go too close, so if it vanishes, check there. The important spot is invisible once it's placed--you NEED the spot in front of the basin and to the immediate left clear, or your sim won't be able to reach it.

Clutter the basin up as much as you like, including putting things inside the basin. These all work in game.

I don't recommend the last one, but it will work.

It's designed to work with the dresser from Cottage Living. It floats a TINY bit on counters, but you won't see that unless you're at eye level with the counter. You can use move objects to raise it if you're willing to ignore your sims floating when using it, although there is a limit to how high it can go before sims can't reach it. If you want to put it on something lower, you can make that thing bigger or put something on top of it. You can place it using move objects onto things it doesn't want to go on, but if that thing is functional, you shouldn't because it can cause routing issues for that thing--not for the basin though, as far as I can tell.

It does NOT go into slots. Don't be surprised if a sim puts a toy or a dirty dish inside if you place it in the same place a slot exists. You may want to fill slots first and then place somewhere that has no slots it if that concerns you.

It comes in the same 8 swatches as the basins from the original set, which match the multitude of swatches for the pitchers.

Everything is properly tagged for the base colour. It should be off-the-grid compatible. I say should, because these (and the sink from the first set) are my first OTG items, and while they're based on in-game OTG items, OTG is tricky to get to stick.

152 polys. Costs 100 simoleons.

Important info:

Leave the space in front of and to the immediate left of that clear! That's where the 'shower' is.

There is no water effect, because that would mean water falling from mid-air.

There is no soap, because that goes with the water, unfortunately.

Can break, but will not visibly break. That also goes with the water.

Can get dirty, but just like the sink, it will not get visibly dirty. I had to choose between transparent or solid water, and transparent won. Visible dirt was with the solid water.

Sims can do everything that they can with a normal shower, including shaving if you have high school years, EXCEPT woohoo.

This has custom tuning. That makes it slightly more likely to break in a patch. If it does, I may not notice if I'm not actively using it in my game at the time. PLEASE let me know if you're using it and it breaks.

It does not have custom animations. Sims will act as if water's falling on them. Not so noticeable if you play with the game's mosaic, but if you play with the mosaic removed, it may look odd. I am not an animator, so it is what it is.

The water does not move. With the sink, I was able to move things around and make the surface move a bit when in use. When I tried that with the shower, there was water falling out of the cabinet underneath.

CC in the pics:

Walls by @peacemaker-ic https://peacemaker-ic.tumblr.com/post/152462832529/i-only-make-walls-when-i-am-in-the-mood-or

Lamp by @vampireloreskill, updated by @jewishsimming https://jewishsimming.tumblr.com/post/657737836277252096/historical-buildbuy-objects-made-off-the-grid-hey

Hair by @simstrouble https://simstrouble.tumblr.com/post/676540331899109376/elena-by-simstrouble-named-after-my-sweet-mama

Pitcher by me, from the set linked at the top

Download: http://simfileshare.net/folder/222894/

[neevblanc]

your cafe event is so cute!🩷🩷 Dazai hurt/comfort (the boy needs catharsis)...the word is scars. Thank you! -Iris🩵

a/n —hi hi iris!! tysm, im glad u think so :D i wanna wrap dazai in a blanket burrito like ppl do with their cats. hes just a little guy (in the tone of that tiktok audio thats like "what murdaaa?")!!! p.s i did ADA! dazai! sorry if you wanted mafia/dark era, pls let me know and i'll do another teehee

blanca’s cafe event!

૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Dazai Osamu x GN!reader

Tags— angst, hurt/comfort, dazai osamu needs a hug, but pls dont touch him, or maybe do because it's you, wound dressing, themes of depression

CW/TW— self-harm (character runs hot water on hands), mentions of sh scars (non-explicit), trauma, disassociation!

please keep yourself safe.

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:

"I Bet On Losing Dogs"

00:32 ━━●─────── 02:50

ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ "i bet on losing dogs, i know they're losing and i'll pay for my place"

"Osamu? You alright in there?" 

Your voice sounded muffled through the wooden door, and the cotton in his ears just made it that much harder to hear.

The tap kept running, the water so hot it steamed against the basin, rising and wisping across his face and leaving a dampness across his skin. His hands lay directly below the water, and he knows despite his nerves screaming from the cold feeling, they are experiencing a burn so intense the receptors cannot help but be confused by the extreme temperature.

He doesn't remember why he came in here or what he was doing before.

"...Osamu?" The door rattles for a moment. He can't tear his gaze away from the rushing water or his reddening skin. 

The bathroom door opens, and the sudden movement in the corner of his eye is enough to drag him out of the fog. His head moves just enough to look at you, eyes blinking slowly. 

"What?" He mutters, mouth heavy. His hands are still under the tap. He watches your face fall subtly. With gentle (kind, so kind) hands, you carefully push his hands out of the stream and turn the creaky faucet. The water stops abruptly, stray drops clinking against the sink. 

"Osamu, can you hear me?" You say, and your voice sounds closer than it had earlier. Everything does- the way your clothes crinkle as you move to open the cabinet and gather a collection of things he can't muster the energy to pay attention to, his breathing, the shuffling of your shoes. 

"Of course I can hear you." He answers, blinking heavily. He's present enough to feel a pinch of annoyance. Another episode, spacing out like an idiot when he could be doing anything else...like annoying Kunikida, napping, reading the same book for the 86th time,

Or talking to you. You said something again, didn't you? 

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He hummed, blinking to gather his bearings again. You'd gotten him to sit on the toilet, lid closed, while you gently dabbed a cooling gel onto his irritated skin. There's a jolt of fear when he realizes his bandages lay on the counter, unraveled messily and leaving him exposed. Dazai figures he must've taken them off while he was under. 

"I was just asking if you could hear me, Dazai-san." You say, smiling at him despite the concerned pinch of your brows. He nods, smiling in return.

"Yes, I can." He answers shortly. His skin itches where you touch, and he attributes it to the burns despite knowing touch has always felt vile to him. You put the burn gel on the counter and lean back, looking at him for a beat. He averts his eyes, shame clawing at his face. 

"You shouldn't stare at me like that. You'll give me the wrong idea." He teases, but it falls flat, and he knows it. You huff a tiny sigh, pick up a roll of bandages, and hold out your hand. 

"Let me?" You say, and your voice is so soft he leans forward like he was chasing the sound. His hair shifts with the movement when he nods. Your hands are on him again, and he focuses on keeping his breathing steady while your hands move to wrap his arms. The fabric settles familiarly against his skin, though these seem scratchier than the ones he prefers to buy. Your application is just as kind as you, not as tight as he often does, to keep them from unraveling faster. 

"I'm sorry." He says, and his voice falters in a way he had worked hard to never let you hear before. You finish off the first arm before saying anything, crouching so he'd be forced to look you in the eyes. You brace yourself against his knees, and the tingles that come from the touch aren't as pronounced this time. 

"Don't be. I don't mind, and I never will. Not if it's you, Dazai." You assure him, absently running your thumb across the fabric covering his knee. You stand again and gently take his other arm.

Dazai lets you, a mess of feelings that all feel like they burn across his skin, hotter than the water that had bitten at his hands.

"You shouldn't call me that, you know." He mutters, frowning. You pause, and he knows you tilted your head in confusion without even looking up.

"Call you what?" You answer, moving to wrap another loop around his arm. He grins. 

"You called me Osamu earlier, hm? It hurts my feelings to return to Dazai," He whines, and you startle with a little jolt. Dazai suppressed the smile that threatened to grow at your surprise. 

"Sorry, I- didn't think you could hear me, so I thought it would shock you if I used your name." You explained, voice small. He smiled this time, looking up at you. 

"Mm, smart of you. Still, you can call me Osamu. I like the way you say it." He says- eyes narrowed in that way he can't help. You fiddle with the bandage roll in your hands, and he's satisfied to make you flustered again. 

You settle with another sigh, resuming your task. With you so close, Dazai can see how you fight off a smile. It makes him feel like he's won, somehow- like seeing the worried crease on your face melt away was his only goal, and having done it makes his skin settle, no longer buzzing and crawling like it always does. 

"Sure, if you're alright with it then." You answer, smiling gently. He averts his gaze and lets you finish, feeling cold when you step away to put the things back into the medicine cabinet. He stands, mindful of the gel still on his hands, despite the urge to shove them into his pockets like he often does. 

You turn to him once you're done, a little nervous. He waits patiently for you to gather your words. 

"You shouldn't wrap your bandages so tight. It's not good for your circulation. I don't know how long you were like...that, but there were still marks from them on your arms. Please." You say, leaning your weight on the counter.

Dazai blinks at you for a moment, but he smiles and nods. 

"Alright, I'll try not to." 

You grin at his reply and exit the bathroom without another word. He follows, quickly turning off the light as you walk down the hall, back to the main room of Cafe Uzumaki. 

There's a lot left to say, he thinks. He knows you have questions about the scars that litter his arms, some clean and some jagged and painful-looking. He knows you want to help; it's in your nature to help.

He wants to ask you to say his name until it doesn't sound real anymore, wants to feel your hands on his skin again because he wants to know if the itch was really from you or the burn, and wants to let you bandage his arms every day because you do it with an amount of care he is sure he does not deserve. 

But walking up the stairs back to the agency (where Atsushi will look at him warily in fear of another report being bummed off to him, and Kenji will ask him if city folk always take hours in the bathroom) next to you, he finds he can't bring himself to be as selfish as to ask you anything more.

[acewritesfics]

Can I do it? | Eddie Munson

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Request: From Anon

Warnings: Mentions of murder and blood but its pure fluff. Established relationship.

Word Count: 653

Stranger Things Masterlist | Main Masterlist

While Eddie got ready for tonight's performance at The Hideout, Y/N was skimming a magazine while sitting on the bathroom counter. Eddie is taking a quick shower because he missed his chance to take a shower with her an hour ago and doesn't have much time for one. When finished, he turns off the water and reaches his arm out the curtain. Y/N rolls her eyes as she grabs his towel and hands it to him. 

"I've seen it all before, Eddie; why hide it from me?" She teases her boyfriend of four years. They've been together since they were 16 years old. 

"It's called protecting my modesty," he says as he walks out of the shower, the towel hanging low on his hips. 

"I don't think you've ever been concerned about protecting your modesty," she laughs. 

He smiles, his eyes gleaming with jest, "I lost it when we started dating." 

"So it's my all fault," she smirks. 

"You're such a bad influence on me, Baby," he says as he moves in between her knees and plants a firm kiss to her lips while she giggles against his. 

"You love every minute of it." 

"Of course I do," he admits as he moves away from her to collect his shaving foam and disposable razor from the shelf next to the mirror cabinet after turning the taps on to fill the sink with warm water. 

"Can I do it?" she wonders as she sets the magazine she's reading in the magazine holder between the bathroom counter and the toilet. 

"Do what?" he says as he removes the cap off the can of shave foam and pumps some into his palm before applying it to the lower half of his face. He was relieved to finally be getting rid of the five-day stubble that had been irritating him all day. 

"Shave your face for you?" she asks, having never done so before but being intrigued enough to finally ask. 

"This isn't where you plan to kill me, right?" he asks as his large brown eyes cast a wary glance her direction. 

She quips, holding her hand out for the razor, "If I intended to murder you, I would have done it years ago." 

"I'm trusting you with my life right now," he jokes as he hands her the razor and turns off the taps to the sink. "I'm too young to bleed out on my bathroom floor." 

He moves back between her legs, his hands moving up the outside of her legs and resting on her hips as she kisses the tip of his nose and holds the razor to his face to begin shaving. 

"You do trust me right?" she says, not wanting to begin until she knows she has his trust to do this. 

"With my life," he says, his eyes piercing into hers so she knows he's telling the truth. 

For the next five minutes, Y/N concentrates on not cutting his handsome face as she carefully shaves away the stubble. Only once did Eddie act as though she had nicked his chin, making her mad and smack him in the shoulder while calling him an asshole as he laughed at her reaction. 

"How do I look?" Eddie asks watching her as she wipes away the access shaving foam from his face. 

"As handsome as ever," she says, dropping the face cloth into the basin before holding his face in her hands and kissing him as her thumbs stroke his now smooth skin. "Thank you for allowing me to shave you." 

"It was my pleasure," he says, kissing her again. "Perhaps I can give it a try the next time you shave your legs." 

"You'd shave my legs for me?" 

"Of course," he smiles. 

"I love you, Eddie Munson," she says leaning in to kiss him again. 

"I love you too, Y/N L/N," he replies, closing the gap between them and kissing her.  

[mudandmire]

Changes

Azris Week - Day 6: Changes

~~~ Little heavy for @azrisweek day 6, but I've had this scene in my head for days now and wanted to do it justice. I hope I did! Thank you all for reading, hope you enjoy!! :D ~~~

Fixing it

The salve Azriel uses for his hands now has to be restocked in the washroom cabinet every week. A supply that once lasted him two, sometimes three weeks, is running out faster than before.

Azriel will never complain—never whine or groan about how quickly he runs out of salve. Because all of it is going to Eris, and there is not a more worthy cause to use up all the burn salve in the world than him.

Sunlight slants through the window, golden and liquid where it pools on the wood floor and in the wash basin. Azriel brushes his hand on Eris’s right shoulder, gentle and searching, down to his arm. Eris startles slightly—he always does these days, but Azriel knows not to take it personally.

“Mina’s down for her nap,” he says softly, his other arm wrapping around his waist, “we should change your bandages, sweetheart.”

Azriel knows a time when Eris would have turned to him, a smirk tugging at his pink lips that Azriel would kiss at just to make them bloom into a smile.

He now knows a time when Mina isn’t crying, or fussing, or sick, Eris is quiet. Pensive. He leans more to his right, turns to his right, his right hand following Azriel whenever he falls to his left side.

He presses gentle kisses to fabric on his shoulder, waits patiently for Eris to say something. Or nothing, they’ve cultivated a comforting silence like their own secret garden over the years—it’s come in handy. This is one of those times.

“Are her wings doing better today?” Eris’s voice is quiet, raspy from how little he talks.

Azriel’s eyes fall shut, melting into the line of Eris, chest to back, pulse to pulse. He’s near dead on his feet with exhaustion. Taking care of an infant, an Illyrian infant when neither of them had very good childhoods was certainly a learning curve. Unfortunately for both of them; the curve seemed to be carving out most—if not all—of their sleep.

“They are, yeah. A little sore by the tendons, but Mumiah took a look today and said it’s most likely growing pains.” He mumbles into the warm skin of his neck, eyes still closed.

“That’s good.” Eris whispers. His own hands, spurred on my the littlest of good news, the best news when it comes to them, find Azriel’s and lock around them.

“C’mon,” Azriel says, stepping away from the heat of his body and leading him to the washroom, “we need to change the bandages before she wakes up.”

“We don’t need to do anything, Azriel.”

Azriel pauses in the doorway of the washroom, spinning on his heel and fixing Eris with the sternest look he can possibly conjure when he’s one second away from either bursting into tears, falling asleep, or kissing Eris so hard both of them forget the past month. Past year, past whole of their lives. Until they’re nothing but warmth and starlight and forever.

“I’m saying this once: It’s not a chore, Eris. You changed my bandages for months, was it ever an obligation for you?”

“Azriel—no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sweetheart,” his fingers ghost along the cotton gauze of the edge of the bandage. “I know what this is like, intimately. I know what you’re thinking so I need you to understand this isn’t a chore, or a job, or whatever else you think it is. I do this because I want to, because I love you, because I want to do everything with you.” He holds Eris by his chin, waiting for the love his life to meet his gaze.

Eris swallows hard, a glossy sheen over his eyes. “I love you.” He whispers back.

He pecks his lips gently, “love you, besheirt. Will you let me change your bandages, now?”

“If you must.” He grumbles, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

Azriel brings him further into the washroom, settling him at the counter near the basin. “I must.”

He runs his hand under the water, Eris handing him the little bar of soap. “Is the new milk working better for her?”

Azriel shrugs, patting his palms dry with the towel. “Depends—I think we can do as much as we can, but as long as she doesn’t have a mother…” A pinch appears between his brows, and he shakes his head.

“It kills me we can’t be what she needs.” Eris whispers, softer than intended.

Azriel watches him carefully, paying close attention to the bandaged left side of his face and neck, down to his shoulder. The same sentiment had been running through his head, too. How no matter how gentle and loving, no matter how they gave her a soft bed with all the furs and blankets she could want or sourced different milks from all over Prythian—they couldn’t be what she most needed, at this stage.

“We’ll get there.” He’s reassuring both of them, but it comes out uncertain.

“I want to be good enough, Azriel. I need to be good enough for her.”

Azriel nearly breaks his concentration from where he’s cautiously peeling away the bandage from Eris’s skin. He knows it’s painful, knows how many nerves are sparking and screaming. But Eris bears through it, nothing but the tight clench of his jaw and his hands curled into fists on his lap revealing otherwise.

“You are good enough, Eris.”

“No, I’m not, I’m—” he cuts off, one hand gesturing widely to his face, the piece of mangled, scarred skin revealed by the peeled off bandage.

Azriel bites down hard on his lip. No, this past month and a half hasn’t been easy. But one of the hardest things has to have been watching Eris—lit up from the inside with his copper hair and his trickster grin and that caring, daring heart—fall into a shell. A safe cocoon of vacancy and indifference.

It kills him, that he can’t be what either of them needs. Can’t stretch himself far enough, can’t give parts of himself away like bandages or the right milk to fix whatever’s broken. He can stitch by hand, mend by touch; but give nothing of what the two loves of his life actually need.

He swallows past the knot in his throat, letting it bob along the rising tide of despair that swells till it reaches the back of his tongue.

Azriel lets the silence be for now as he works away the rest of the bandage around Eris’s left ear, the one that stretches down to his neck. Soft apologies slip from his lips with every hidden wince, every caught whimper that Eris keeps behind his teeth.

When it comes away, fully, Azriel discards it and looks at him. There used to be a time where Eris relished being the center of Azriel’s unwavering attention—the star that kept his gaze. It’s just another thing Azriel has had to adjust to: like touching Eris on his right shoulder before greeting him, changing his bandages at odd hours when Mina finally cries herself to sleep, and keeping his gaze light. Easy. Not a search light or heavy, shared secret—but simple.

Azriel does so what is silently asked of him when Eris curls in on himself. His eyes skate around the ridges of his scars, the angry, raw sheen of it and the tight, whitened edges.

“It’s healing at the ends, so that’s good.” He says quietly, a damp, soaped cloth in his hand he begins to blot gently over the burn.

“Mm.” Is all he says, amber eyes cast down to where his fingernails pick at his cuticles until small drops of blood bead.

Azriel cups his fingers in his. “It is good. It means this isn’t forever.” His voice is stronger, head ducking down to meet Eris’s gaze. “And,” he starts, “even if it was—this doesn’t mean you’re not good enough, Eris.”

“Then what does it mean, Azriel. Because from where I’m standing—sitting—it means I completely failed.”

“Gach’lilit, failed what? The only one who’s a culprit here is ten feet underground in a pile of ash. Your father is the one who failed you, failed your family but most of all you.”

“How am I supposed to—” his voice breaks, “how am I supposed to care for her, raise her and love her when I struggle to do that for myself most days? Azriel, this isn’t—”

“That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here. So when we fall short—because stars, Eris, we will constantly fall short—we have one another to pick up the slack. To pick each other up, dust us off, and send us on our way with a kiss.”

He laughs wetly. “Where did you learn all this wisdom, my love?”

“Zebedee.” He says simply. “He wasn’t my father, not by blood, but he was the father I needed.”

Eris nods with quiet contemplation. “And we’ll be the fathers Mina needs. Not ‘cause we’re blood, but because she’s ours—and we’re hers.”

“Exactly, gach’lilit.” He’s patting the burn salve on gently against the burn, his touch so light, it would be a whisper.

Eris’s hands circle his wrists when he pulls away. “I never meant to insinuate scars mean you’re unworthy, my love. I’m sorry.” He brings them up to his lips, pressing gentle, open mouthed kisses to each place he knows twinges with a dull ache now and then. The palm of his hands, the knobby knuckles of his fingers, the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrists.

Azriel sighs softly, wings shuddering, letting Eris’s lips take the path they want and basking in the warmth they emanate.

“Do you remember,” he says, and Eris glances up through the fan of his copper eyelashes, “the first week or two we had Mina and how she would just cry every time I held her?”

Eris frowns, his lips turning down where they’re pressed against Azriel’s hand. He nods.

“How she cried, and wiggled, and tried to get out of my arms—but every time you held her she would settle down enough to fall asleep.” Azriel casts back his memory to those first few dark weeks—Eris having just come back from his father, scarred and shattered, now deciding to raise a little Illyrian girl with no home, no parents, no living relatives to speak of.

Azriel gives Eris a grimace. “I thought she hated my hands, the feel of them. I thought I’d never be able to hold our daughter because of these.” He gestures to them with his head, fingers twitching in Eris’s grip.

“But,” he whispers, “you told me otherwise. And you didn’t just tell me, you helped find a solution.” He wings flutter gently, rustling the still afternoon air, and Eris’s eyes dip down to his tunic.

A smile quirks his lips. “Who knew infants had such specific fashion tastes.”

“Who knew—you did.” Azriel scoffs a laugh, his head thrown back.

“Well, I didn’t know, it was a guess. I just wanted to fix it.”

“Mhm,” he hums, “so, guess what I’m doing?” He says, holding up the clean bandages with raised brows.

Eris sighs, but he’s smiling and Azriel will count it as a win. Sunshine’s come back, at least for now, and when the clouds come back—because they will—he’ll sit with him then, too.

“Fixing it?” Eris guesses for show, but his soft eyes tell Azriel the truth.

“Yep.” He says, beginning to wrap the cotton gauze around the burn, now shining with ointment. “Because that’s what we do.”

“I fix it when it turns out you need to wear softer clothes, not Illyrian leathers, when holding Mina.” Eris finishes.

“And I fix it when you need your bandages changed—or if you need to sleep on the other side of the bed to be closer to her, to hear her better.” His careful, steady hands press the edges of the bandage down, keen eyes watching Eris for any flicker of pain or discomfort.

“How’s that, too tight?”

Eris leans forward, pressing his lips to his with a sigh Azriel catches and keeps. His arms circling around to rest on Eris’s waist.

“You always do it perfect, love, you know that.”

Azriel’s features twist. “Not always, I remember the first couple times I botched it because I was used to putting bandages on me, not on someone else.”

Eris’s hands run up the length of his arms to his shoulders, hanging loosely around his neck as the tip of his nose nudges against his cheek. “Yes, but you never hurt me.”

“Mm, never.” Azriel says against his mouth. Quiet, a declaration. Not to Eris, because he knows, but after a life of abuse from someone who was supposed to have made that same promise, Azriel didn’t mind vowing it out loud now and then.

It’s easy to bask in each other—the golden sunlight filling the room, warming their sides and arms, making them glow like some ancient, lovely carving of devotion. Eris keeps their foreheads pressed together, and Azril makes sure he’s nowhere near the bandage. Their eyes have fallen closed; whether from exhaustion or contentment, neither know. It remains easy, sitting in silence like this; their cultivated garden, their familiar cluster of stars.

A sharp cry echoes from the bedroom. Loud and wailing, heavy for being the product of such little lungs.

Eris laughs, and his breath brushes against Azriel’s mouth—who can’t help but press forward slightly to kiss him. Eris slips off the counter, a light in his eyes rekindled and Azriel smiles at him warmly.

“C’mon,” Eris says, “we have a little terror to feed.”

Azriel throws his head back in a laugh. Exhausted, drained, completely and utterly dead on his feet; he’s slightly afraid that if he even sees a bed he’ll fall asleep—but there is absolutely no grander part of his life than this. Nothing more luxurious than helping Eris change his bandages. Nothing more simple, but lovely, than watching as the first love of his life coos a soft greeting, and picks up the second to cradle her small body against his chest.

Golden sunlight pools around them, stars of a different kind, and Azriel walks forward to join them.

~~///~~///~~///~~

Alright yay cool they don't make me want to bang my head against a wall at a l l. I know nothing about changing burn bandages please don't come at meeee. The editing for this is rushed because I'm trying to get it out before work lol so I'll fix mistakes when I get back.

I can't believe azris week is almost over???? That's crazy this has been so so fun I'm gonna miss it so much :((

[rynneer]

Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

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Chapter Two

You’ve never missed plumbing more than you do now, looking around the bathroom. Polished stone walls, a polished stone floor. Just like every room in the mountain. Oh, how you long for a warm, hardwood floor.

Small basins sit on a granite counter below a mirror, with a bucket tucked underneath for easy refilling. The mirror is covered with a heavy cloth—Fíli says it’s been shattered and will fall apart if the cloth is moved. The rightmost basin is spotless, reflecting the light from the lamp hanging over your head. Another is decorated with long hairs that you pulled from your head when you tried to brush your poor mane.

Though at first you chuckle at how neat Fíli keeps his side of the counter, it dies in your throat. Maybe he no longer does it, but you recall that early in the journey, he would only tidy his things up when something was bothering him. To see his side scrubbed so clean—he must be very bothered.

It doesn’t take much to figure out what’s bothering him, either. It’s been a few days since you awoke in the middle of the night, head emptied of your life together. And while you certainly have feelings for him, your schoolgirl crush falters against his fierce love. Your heart leaps when you imagine touching him, yet you flinch from his hands. The right balance has yet to be struck.

With a sigh, you swipe your hand along the cool metal of your washbasin, gathering the hairs into a ball and flicking it onto the counter. You’ll dispose of it when you finish.

Fíli, eager to tend to your every need, already filled the large, marble bathtub with hot water. A pleased sigh escapes you as you step in. But your heel slides forward on the bottom of the tub, and you fall with a yelp, your head smacking the stone before you slip under.

drowning. drowning drowning drow–

Sudden panic shocks your system. You surge back above the surface, your breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Y/N!” Fíli bursts through the door. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Instinctively, you hug your knees to your chest to hide your body. Fíli rubs your shoulders from behind. “Easy, love. What happened?”

You take a moment to compose yourself, taking deep, steady breaths. The back of your head throbs painfully. “I just fell. I’m alright.”

“You’re not alright,” comes his worried voice from behind you. A groan of pain escapes you when he touches the tender spot where your skull met the stone. He leans forward over your shoulder and rinses his hand in the water before standing and snatching a towel from the counter. You stare dumbly at the red liquid falling through the water from where his fingers left it. With a shaky hand, you probe the back of your head. Your fingertips come away red with blood. More pain, as Fíli presses the towel against your hair.

“It’s not too bad,” he says after a long silence, lifting the towel and gently parting your wet hair around the wound. “Just a cut. Head wounds always look worse than they are.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to reassure you, or himself.

Fíli dips the bloodied towel in the water and wrings it out. He places it in your hand and brings it to your head. “Hold that there for a moment.” You hear him bustling around in the wooden cabinet by the door. He mumbles something under his breath about dust and cobwebs before grunting in frustration. “There!” His bare feet slap against the floor. For the first time, he comes around in front of you. In his hands, he carries a roll of bandages and a small flask of alcohol.

You almost drop the towel from your head in your rush to cover your chest. Heat pulses from your face in waves so intense that he must be able to feel it.

Fíli’s shoulders sag. “I’m your husband. You do not need to cover up in front of me,” he reminds you, though you both know you won’t listen. He strips his belt from his trousers and places it in your hand. “Close your eyes. Bite down on this.”

Your brow furrows, but you do as he says. Fíli removes the towel from your hand. You hiss in pain as he presses an alcohol-soaked bandage against your head, burning like a brand of fire. You’re glad for the belt now as your teeth dig into the leather. You lean forward instinctively to escape the pain, but Fíli quickly puts a hand on your forehead and pulls you back

“Hold still,” he grunts as he begins to wrap you up. You strain against him, the pain starting to make your eyes water. “I said, hold still!” he snaps this time, fingers digging into your temple.

Surprised at his harsh tone and rougher handling, you relent. After days of feather-soft touches and kind, understanding words, it’s almost a relief. Maybe he hasn’t quite lost his edge yet. Silence falls as he finishes his ministrations.

“I’m sorry, amrâlimê,” Fíli says at last. He shifts so he’s kneeling at your side instead. “I hate to see you in pain, and then my touch caused you more pain when I was trying to help… it’s too much like the first time.”

“The first time?”

Fíli winces and curses. You guess he didn’t mean to let that slip. He holds out his hand, helping you out of the now lukewarm water. It takes all your willpower not to hunch over, to cover yourself in front of him. He reaches up to the curtain hiding the mirror. Before you can protest, remind him that it’s broken, he sweeps the cloth away and wraps it around you as a makeshift towel.

The glass is pristine, newly polished. Not a single flaw mars its surface.

“I didn’t want to add more to your worries if I could help it,” he explains. “I wanted a chance to warn you before you saw.” Fíli leads you to the mirror.

When your face comes into view, you gasp. A harsh pink scar slices across your right cheek, ending on the underside of your jaw. You raise a shaking hand to trace the path, feeling now the slight dip in your skin. A few other scars pepper your body, ones you’ve already seen, but none as obvious as this.

“I tried to keep you out of the fighting, I really did,” Fíli’s whisper is shaky. “But we got separated… and then it just wouldn’t heal properly and–” He breaks off, tears welling up in his eyes, the memory clearly upsetting him.

With tears in your own eyes, you step closer and lean against him, resting your head on his chest. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “For everything. I’m so sorry, Fíli.”

Fíli takes you into his arms, laying his cheek on your head. The two of you stay like that for a long time. He was right—you do fit very nicely in his arms at this size.

“Y/N? Fíli?” There’s a thudding on the door. “Are you finished yet? I need to take a piss.”

Fíli kisses the top of your head, pulling away from you. He adjusts the curtain around your shoulders and smooths the bandage over your wound. “We’ll get you a proper bath later. Promise.”

We’ll get through this, you hear instead. Promise.

He ushers you out of the bathroom, barely dodging his little brother as Kíli blows by you and slams the door behind him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. He really needs to piss.”

Fíli shakes his head and chuckles. He flings open the wardrobe doors and pulls out a long, dark blue dress, trimmed with silver. His colors. “I thought you might wear this tomorrow night,” he explains, crossing back over to you and holding up against your front. “I just had it made.”

“It’s nice,” you hum in agreement, rubbing the velvet sleeve between your fingers. “Um, what’s tomorrow night, again?”

He rolls his eyes. “Amad insisted on a big celebration for my first birthday in Erebor.”

You snap your head up. “Your birthday? Fíli, I’m sorry, I didn’t know–”

“I’ve had eighty-two of them already,” he reminds you. “It is not that big of a deal.”

“Not a big enough deal to tell your wife?”

He replaces the dress in the wardrobe, grabbing a discarded nightgown from off the large bed. “My wife has had other things on her mind.” Fíli pulls it down over your head, smoothing it down your sides as you finally drop the curtain. There was a hint of a smile on his face when you called yourself his wife.

“Re-learning her way around Erebor, for one.” Kíli emerges from the bathroom and gives you a friendly shove, sending you stumbling.

One thing you’ve learned well, the brothers are a package deal. Fíli doesn’t go far without Kíli dogging his steps. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t share your chambers—but his chambers do neighbor yours.

Fíli catches you, flashing him a glare. “Careful, Kee.”

Kíli returns his brother’s look with wide, innocent eyes. “What? We’ve got to toughen her back up.”

“She’s hurt her head.”

“Oh, I thought the bandage was some sort of new fashion.” Kíli pulls you away from Fíli, lifting you by the waist and tossing you onto the bed. “Straight to bed for you, then!”

“Kíli!”

The cold air stung your eyes and shocked your lungs as you made your way, haltingly, back to the gates of the Lonely Mountain. All around you, soldiers celebrated triumphs or cradled fallen comrades. Most remained on the fields, but a few dwarves were also making a beeline for the mountain. Company members, all of them. You’d hastily agreed to assemble in the entry hall whenever it seemed the battle was over.

Bofur. Ori. Nori. Glóin. As you reached the gates, you found yourself taking inventory, scanning your companions to make sure everyone was accounted for, and mostly intact. It made you feel like you were doing something useful.

Five were missing.

You turned your anxious eyes towards the Ravenhill. Thorin. Dwalin. Bilbo. Fíli. Kíli.

A hand squeezed your arm. “Lass–”

“Don’t, Balin,” you interrupted him. “Please don’t tell me they’re gonna be okay.”

He cleared his throat. “I was going to say, you need to get your face seen to.”

“It can wait,” you shrugged him off. Your face had long since numbed. Unfortunately for the rest of your body, it was better shielded from the cold by the thick clothes you’d borrowed from the dwarves. Your left ankle throbbed, sending twinges of pain up your leg with each step. A trail of dried blood led down your arm from a laceration to your shoulder, slowly scabbing over.

Balin shook his head and led you to sit down by the wall. You leaned your head back against the stone. Every breath billowed out in a frosty cloud.

He pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in his coat. “Óin!” he called to the medic, checking up on Ori a few yards away. “Anything for our lass?”

There was no response from the half-deaf dwarf until Ori swatted at his arm and gestured towards you. Óin grumbled something and tossed a flask in Balin’s direction. The old dwarf wet his handkerchief and started gently wiping at your face. You winced at the cold touch.

“Look!” someone shouted.

You lifted your head, dreading what you would see. Two figures appeared over the crest of a hill. Bilbo and Dwalin, you assumed. Canon survivors. You held your breath, tracking the movements of the eagles in the sky, waiting for them to descend with dead bodies in their talons.

But none did. Behind Bilbo and Dwalin, three more dwarves followed. Alive—one limping, another clutching at an arm. But alive.

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring Balin’s protests, and sprinted as fast as you could. Jolts of pain shot through your leg until you could run no more. Fíli caught you in his arms as your ankle finally failed beneath you.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you gasped, clutching at him. “You’re okay!” You’d forgotten all other words.

He hugged you to his chest, burying his face in your hair. “We’re alright. Everything is alright, amrâlimê.”

“Are you hurt?” you mumbled.

“Not badly.” Unsatisfied with the closeness, Fíli’s gloved hand curled around the back of your head and brought it even tighter against him.

You stifled a hiss of pain as his armor rubbed against your cheek.

He pulled back immediately, his eyes round and worried. “Oh, Mahal, Y/N,” he breathed. Fíli bit the end of his glove and yanked it off, tracing his thumb along a sensitive path on your face. When you again winced, he scooped you into his arms and rushed to catch back up with his brother and uncle.

Kíli, the limping one, nevertheless flashed you a quick grin. “We did it,” he panted.

You didn’t know what reaction you’d expected when Thorin and the boys returned. Cheers, celebration. Instead, they were met with silence, all activity stilled, the Company eying Thorin with uncertainty.

Thorin looked around. You could see him doing the same thing you had done, conducting a headcount. Satisfied, he gave a short nod. “See to the wounded. Balin, Dwalin, a moment.” The three dwarves gathered in the corner of the hall, heads down and voices low.

Careful of your ankle, Fíli sat you down and began cleaning your thawing face with Balin’s abandoned handkerchief. The gentle motions were comforting, until the alcohol-soaked cloth passed over your cheek. You jerked away with a yelp at the unexpected burst of pain.

Fíli winced, but he took your chin in his hand firmly. “It’s a bad wound, Y/N. I need to clean it.” He stripped off his glove. “Bite down on this for the pain. I’ll be as gentle as possible,” he promised.

Your eyes watered as he wiped you down, but you squeezed them tight and sank your teeth into the glove.

“I’m done,” he said at last. He patted himself down for a second, tearing off a scrap of his tunic and holding it against your cheek as a makeshift bandage. Taking his glove back, Fíli gave you a small smile.

You looked into his blue eyes, so full of life. Not hollow and sightless, the face that haunted your dreams. And Kíli, resting against the wall as Óin examined his leg. Not bleeding out in the snow. Thorin, talking quietly with his friends. Not lying atop the Ravenhill.

They were okay. Everything was okay. Finally, you let the walls holding back all your anxieties and fears fall. You collapsed against Fíli, weeping.

“Shh, shh,” he pleaded. He pressed gentle kisses into your hair. “Amrâlimê, please, please don’t cry.

“You were going to die,” you whispered, your breath hitching. “Please don’t leave me.”

His hand rubbed up and down your back. “I won’t ever leave you. I want to marry you!” Fíli drew back to look at you, his brow creased with sudden worry. “You will marry me, won’t you?”

You blinked away tears, voice still shaky. “Are… are you proposing?”

“Are you saying yes?”

The word stuck in your throat and it took you several tries to get it out. “Yes.”

The tension melted from his face. Fíli grinned, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, still careful of your wound. “We’ll be alright, amrâlimê.”

[headfulloflettuce]

The Human Who Fooled All of Prythian

16. Open for Business

“Cosette! Are you even listening? Do you realize how irresponsible this decision was?”

Cosette stood patiently, waiting for Ophelia to finish the very much-deserved lecture. Theo and his father stood awkwardly behind Ophelia as she explained why Cosette shouldn’t have given away one thousand gold so easily. 

“Ophelia, I hear you.” Cosette spoke up, taking Ophelia’s short pause as an opportunity to resolve this conflict, “I agree with you, but we had been searching for a week with no luck. No place was willing to sell to us considering we want to open a perfumery.”

“Still…” Ophelia sighed, running a hand through her hair, “What if this business won’t take off? You spent a large sum of our money…”

“It will do well.” Cosette spoke confidently.

At the very least it had to be popular amongst the nobility and upper middle class.

“As for the money, if it had been any other building we would have had to pay twice as much, if not four times that amount; meaning, we would have had to take out a loan. All things considered we got really lucky with this find.”

I'll need to write up a detailed spending plan though. 1000 gold is a lot.

“Which is partially why I am concerned.” Ophelia calmed a bit, hearing Cosette’s reasoning, “Why would those people sell this building to you for so cheap?”

“Well, it’s not in the greatest condition.” The floorboards creaked as Cosette spoke, “And even though it’s near the center it’s not smack-dab in the middle of it.”

The two males tensed, sharing a look.

“Wait, you wish to open a perfumery?” Theo spoke up.

“Yep.” Cosette confirmed.

“See? I told you we should go.” the elder whispered to his son.

“Do you understand how challenging it is to sell perfume?” Theo asked, ignoring his father’s urgency.

“I recognize that, but there is a market for it. The available products aren’t good and I know I can deliver something of much higher quality.” Cosette spun around, taking in the building’s interior.

Despite its older and disheveled appearance, the building was quite nice inside, with various wooden trinkets lining the cabinets and shelves.

“What did you both primarily sell?” Cosette asked, gently examining a small dragon figurine.

“We are both trained craftsmen. We worked with wood to make various tools, furniture, and toys.” Theo explained, staring at the floor as Ophelia, who was still unhappy with the situation, glared at him. 

Located at the end of the room was a counter with two staircases on either side leading up to a mezzanine that wrapped around the second floor, full of disorganized tables.

Good news; no need to buy new furniture!

She was definitely trying to stay on the positive note of things considering the mezzanine looked really messy. Cosette walked deeper into the shop, taking mental note of what they would need to fix or reuse, Ophelia and the two men trailing after her. She carefully hopped behind the counter, entering the backroom area where there was a storage space and what looked like a room dedicated to construction work filled with pieces of wood, and carving materials. A sweet smell hung in the air.

“Do you guys cook here?” Cosette sniffed, trying to pinpoint the scent.

“Oh no, it’s just the soaps.” the elder answered quickly.

“Soaps?”

The older man showed her a cabinet under a small basin filled with various cleaning supplies, “We use these to clean whenever we finished work or polished our creations.”

Cosette nodded.

How did you even clean for it to still look this…unkempt? If I called this clean back in Autumn Court my head would have been put on a spike.

The group moved upstairs, stepping inside the main office.

Oh, it was pretty. Neglected, but pretty.

Large windows behind a desk illuminated the room and presented the view of the street below. Both sides of the office were lined by empty, dusty shelves.

“What was this room used for?”

“Oh, we just stored paperwork here.” Theo pipped in.

“Did you not use it as an office?”

“No, we didn’t need to.” the older man retorted.

‘Didn’t need to’? Ha.

Cosette didn’t push the subject, sensing the older man’s wounded pride.

If one doesn’t have a properly functioning center of management, nothing will get done. 

She eyed the scattered paperwork, running her finger along the oak desk, the three fae watching her quietly.

I wouldn’t be surprised if their lack of organization was part of the reason for their business’s downfall.

“Well then.” she smiled at the group, “We better get started.”

“Do we really have to clean the whole store?” Theo was borderline whining as he scrubbed the floor clean, dust and paint slowly coming away to reveal the beautiful cherry wood flooring beneath.

“Yes, we do.” Cosette wiped down the windows from the inside, while Ophelia cleaned them from the outside. The elder fae was tasked with unloading the paperwork from cabinets and drawers into boxes, since Theo insisted that he couldn’t do hard, physical labor, “Right now it looks like an abandoned haunted house. People don’t tend to want to shop in those.”

Theo sighed dramatically, scrubbing the floor harder. 

Cosette and Ophelia finished cleaning the windows, moving onto the shelves and cabinets.

“We’ll need to get a long stick to clean the top part of the porch.” Ophelia said, throwing away a dirty rag, disgusted by the collected grime.

“There is a broom in the back.” the elder said.

“That should work.” Ophelia disappeared into the back, returning with a broom, using it to clean the porch and ridges of the building.

“I am done.” the older fae put the last piece of paper into a box.

“Perfect, can you take them upstairs?” Cosette smiled.

“I’ve got it father.” Theo quickly grabbed the boxes instead, taking them upstairs.

The elder smiled fondly, watching his son go upstairs. Ophelia gave Cosette a small look, assigning the elder more paperwork to sort through and catalog away.

The man sighed, “Is this necessary? Can’t we just throw all this out?”

You want to throw away years worth of evidence of your hard work?

“Well, we can throw them out later. For now it’s best to gather them all into boxes for easy transport.” Cosette explained calmly.

Also, if I'm being completely honest, I want to see what went wrong with your business.

“Hmpf.” the elder nodded, reluctantly continuing his work.

“Alright, good work team.” Cosette smiled. The shop was no longer filled with dust, the tables and floors looking usable, “Tomorrow we’ll meet up here at 8 am to continue cleaning.”

“That early?!” Theo exclaimed.

Ophelia glared murder at the man.

Remind me to never whine in front of Ophelia.

“Yes, that early.”

Cosette was starting to see why these two were in so much debt.

“I want to be working on perfume production by the end of the week, so tomorrow we will clean out the back two rooms and continue to gather all your documents and supplies for record keeping.”

The two men nodded hesitantly, remaining at the shop, in the two rooms accessible through the mezzanine near the main office. Meanwhile, Cosette and Ophelia walked back to the inn in silence. Cosette hesitantly glanced at her friend.

“I am sorry.”

Ophelia looked at her.

“I should have asked you before buying the building. I just…” Cosette looked down at the ground, “We weren’t getting anywhere, and when the perfect opportunity presented itself I couldn’t let it go.”

Ophelia sighed, pulling Cosette into a side hug, “I get it. I am sorry for going off on you like that. It’s not even my money, you’re the one who…accumulated it”

Is that what we’re calling stealing now?

“That’s not fair.” Cosette shook her head. She wasn’t about to make Ophelia financially dependent on her in that way. It would be cruel.

“We survived this far together, I didn’t mean to undermine that.”

Ophelia laughed, “Oh…if more fae had your decency and kindness.” she looked down at her Cosette, “Are you going to try and help those two pay off their debt?”

“I am hoping that once we start selling perfumes I can pay them a salary which can cover that. You’re also going to get paid. Obviously.”

“Well gee I would hope so.” Ophelia laughed, bumping into Cosette playfully.

When they got back to the inn Blanche was serving the inn’s guests dinner. Ophelia dug into the food while Cosette slowly nibbled, staring at the parchment before her.

The main issue was money; they only had about four hundred and fifty silvers left.

I still needed to purchase the necessary equipment and glass vials for perfume production. We could save money on renovations by not using the building immediately and instead selling the perfumes outside in the fresh air. 

While they were exploring the city Cosette had recorded the most lucrative places to purchase glassware and materials for perfumes. A huge cost saving benefit came from the fact that perfumes in Winter Court traditionally were made to be so strong that all the materials sold for them were highly concentrated. Meaning, Cosette could save money by purchasing the necessary supplies and then diluting to achieve a more gentle version of the scent. 

I’ll begin with creating non-alcohol based perfumes as that permits me to reach a wider audience thus earning a larger profit.

Cosette frowned.

Despite all this, we’re barely fitting into the budget. Unless…I don’t eat breakfast and dinner. That way I could give the spending margin some wiggle room.

Cosette nodded approvingly, looking over her work.

“Don’t forget to eat.” Ophelia reminded her between mouthfuls of the soup.

“Right..”

Cosette savored the broth’s taste while she could.

Cosette had begun looking through the paperwork Theo and his father had filed while running their business, slowly discovering all the reasons why their business fell apart. First off, some of the first goods they had been trying to sell were considered luxury items that had high quality competition in the area with better marketing. Second, their turn out time for tools and toys was extremely low if she was to trust the listed dates on production records. Even if fae liked their products, there was too little being produced in too long a time frame.

A small knock pulled Cosette out of her thoughts.

“Yes?”

Theo opened the door to the office, giving her a small smile, “Ophelia brought lunch.” 

“Oh thank you.”

Theo walked over, putting a small sandwich down on the desk, turning to leave.

“Wait.”

He stopped, looking back at her, “Yes?” The man looked much better than his first day here. Not clean, but properly groomed hair and tucked-in clothes.

“I wanted to ask, how much debt do you still owe those men?” Cosette put her face into her hands, watching Theo closely.

“Ah…” Theo rubbed the back of his head nervously, “May I ask why you want to know?”

I need to know how high to price the perfumes and how much to pay you two so that you can pay off your debts at the end of this. That way I won’t feel as bad for stealing your home away…

“I want to help you. To do that I need to know how much money you owe.”

“Oh.” Theo stared at her with wide eyes, “It’s um…6000 gold.”

Okay damn.

“Do you have any money saved already?”

“Um…I haven’t told my father yet, because I wanted to surprise him, but I have saved up 2,500.”

Oh, not as bad.

“I can work with that.” Cosette jotted down the information.

“Aren’t you…going to ask why we owe so much?”

“Isn’t it because of your business?” Cosette looked at him.

“Yes…that’s what it started off with but it steadily got worse because of my father’s sickness.”

“He’s sick? What is he sick with?”

“The doctors haven’t been able to diagnose him, but the medicine the men provided him with helped.”

“Are they doctors?” Cosette raised her eyebrows.

They didn't look like they worked in the medical business.

“They’re not, but a healer who works for them said it was good for him.”

“I see. Is your father alright right now?”

Safe to assume he hasn't been getting his medication due to the situation.

“We have a small supply, so he will be alright for a while.”

Cosette nodded, “Oh by the way, what was the stuff the group took out of your building?”

“Uh…I am not sure actually. My father said that as part of the deal the men we borrowed money from would use a part of the backroom as storage space for their own business.”

“You don't know what you stored in your own home?” Cosette's voice was a bit harsher than she intended, but she was shocked by the lack of awareness this man was exhibiting, “Do you know what business they run?”

“From what I know, the central company they all work for does something related to shipping.” Theo paused, his voice turning insisting, “I trust my father. He can tell you the details.”

Something tells me your father won’t want to tell me those details.

Cosette smiled, “I'll ask him.”

Theo shifted awkwardly, looking like he wanted to say something.

“Yes?” Cosette looked at him

“I…wanted to say thank you.”

“Pardon?‘

“Thank you for helping us.”

Cosette laughed softly, “Thank me once we both get out of this situation.”

“No. I mean it.” Theo’s face turned serious, “We were about to be left without a home yet you saved me and my father. Now you're offering us a way to pay off our debt. It truly means the world to me.”

Cosette was taken aback. Considering this man's complaining over the past couple days, she had prepared herself to only hope for an amicable parting once this ordeal ended.

“Yeah, don't mention it.”

Just don't do anything that would jeopardize mine or Ophelia's life and we're Gucci.

Theo smiled, “Oh also, I cleared out some more of the equipment in the back and I found some glassware and bottles you mighty find useful.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Yay! Saving money!

Cosette turned back to the paperwork before her, stacking a few of the ledgers she looked over and moving them to the side. She looked through some of the papers listing off all owned materials. Since she wanted to start off selling perfumes outside she would need to set up a stand of sorts. Lucky for her there were plenty of tables in the catalog she could use.

It wasn’t anything fancy but it would do. 

Cosette put away the catalog with her list of renovation plans for the store once they could afford it. The first thing she would change was the flooring of the mezzanine, and the shelves there. Downstairs she wanted to reuse some of the older cabinets in the back for storage and replace them with updated versions. She also wanted to repaint most of the walls, or get some proper wallpaper as she had found peeling paint. Cosette really didn’t want to work in the 2.0 version of Miss Havisham’s house.

She paused suddenly.

What was this?

The ledger she picked up looked completely different from the other ones. Cosette flipped back to the previous one. 

Yep, definitely different. From the paper type to the handwriting.

She compared the two closely. On the surface level it didn’t seem like there was much of a difference, but certain terms kept getting repeated in the new ledger that weren’t present in the other one.

Rosewood, lilac and soaps.

Attached to every other strange ledger was a small list describing the number of shipments to be received.

‘Make room for five boxes of soaps.’

‘Shipment of seven boxes coming this Tuesday.’

‘Store three containers on the left side of the room.’

Cosette had decided to keep the majority of the ledgers she looked through filed within the office and pocket the stack of papers that stuck out the most. 

Just in case they ever came in handy.

“What do you mean no dinner?” Ophelia put her arms on her hips, staring down Cosette.

“I want to make sure we have enough money to start producing perfumes. In order to do that I am skipping breakfast and dinner.”

“Cosette, if anyone should be skipping meals here it’s me. As a fae my body can heal and recover much faster than yours.”

“Ophelia I can’t ask that of you.”

Not after you were denied proper food for so long, or when I threw us head first into this situation.

Ophelia groaned from frustration, stomping downstairs. Cosette continued working on the documents before her, humming gently as she looked over their progress that week. Everything was set up to begin perfume produ-

“Cosette!” Blanche burst into the room.

Uh-oh.

“Yes miss Blanche?” Cosette looked at her bewildered.

“Why is Ophelia telling me that you’re not coming down for dinner?”

“Because we need to save money?”

Blanche huffed, storming away. Ophelia looked sheepish.

“Did you snitch on me?”

“No!” Ophelia waved her hands, a small smile on her lips, “I just told her the truth!”

Cosette sighed.

Blanche quickly returned with an overflowing plate, and an empty one.

“Miss Blanche, really this isn’t necessary.” Cosette protested.

I don’t want to owe you!

“Nonsense.” Blanche placed the plate before Cosette, motioning Ophelia over, “I am giving you one plate of food as requested.”

Cosette looked at the plate. It was obvious the serving size was for two people.

“Miss Bla-”

“And stop it with the ‘miss’ title, just call me Blanche.” The woman looked frustrated.

“Thank you Blanche.” Ophelia dug into the food.

Cosette looked at the food, her stomach growling.

“Eat dear.” Blanche gave Cosette a look similar to the one she gave Fermin when he refused to eat his breakfast.

“Okay.” Cosette reluctantly ate.

I don’t want to owe you…

Cosette glanced back as Blanche left the room, returning to her duties.

Why sacrifice food for us when prices were only rising?

Reading the question on Cosette’s expression Ophelia smiled, “Perhaps she’s just a good person, like someone else I know.” she winked.

“What is that?”

“Glassware for extraction.”

“What’s that?”

“A pot for combining oils and solutions.”

“What’s that?”

“Tubes for diluting substances.”

Cosette had finished cleaning out the back area of the store, turning it into a miniature chemistry lab. The small shelves lining the tables no longer contained tools for carving, but instead beakers and vials.

Theo stared over her shoulder in wonder as she adjusted and examined the simple glasses and tubes. Cosette carefully set up a miniature pot to begin boiling, testing if the equipment worked.

“Do you use any magic to make the perfume?” the elder leaned over as well.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, there is no need.” Cosette replied, smiling slightly at the elder’s shocked expression. The pot’s water began boiling.

Good, everything was working well.

“I rely on alternative methods to produce perfumes.”

“Huh.” the older fae examined the equipment, “I am unsure if that will work well, Winter fae like high quality products. This just seems like a fast way to ruin ingredients.”

“I am not ruining the ingredients, I am extracting the most out of them.” Cosette clarified, concentrating on organizing the glass vials. She would need to be careful with these as she couldn’t afford to replace them at the moment.

Meaning I have only so many chances to get the scents just right.

Theo stared at the set up in wonder, “How many bottles of perfume can you make with this?”

“I’ll need to test the exact amount but I estimate around 20 small bottles per run.” Cosette adjusted a funnel and the improvised filtration paper, pouring some dirty water through it to test its effectiveness.

“We don’t need too many though for the first test run.”

Theo perked up, “You mentioned wanting to sell the perfumes outside since the store isn’t in working condition; have you thought of how you want to set the whole thing up?”

“Hmm, well I was thinking of just setting out a table with some nice cloth on it. Maybe design some signs for it too.” Cosette answered.

“I can build a stand if you want.”

“Sorry?”

“A stand.” he repeated, “Somewhere to store your items and goods to show off to the people outside.”

“You can build that?”

“Of course.” Theo smiled cockily, “I am a woodworker, I can build anything you ask me to!”

“Ha!” the elder man laughed, “Don't even think about bothering with it son. A table is more than enough.”

I am willing to bet money you are responsible for the below product output of your previous business.

Theo deflated slightly, clearly having been excited about the project.

“But I want to. Cosette has been working hard to prepare, it would be good to do something besides cleaning the shop.”

“She hasn’t even begun making the perfumes! It’s all a waste until she has an actual finished product.” the elder stomped out of the back area, muttering under his breath, “Seriously, younglings, always ignoring their elders’ advice.”

Cosette watched the fae leave with narrowed eyes, turning back to Theo.

“If you’re willing to build a stand, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Theo dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, “You heard what my father said, it won’t make much of a difference.”

“Presentation does matter.” Cosette corrected.

Sometimes it was a matter between life and death.

“The fact that you thought of it is a sign you understand good business practices.”

“Thanks, I am sorry about him. He’s always been a little bit skeptical of change. He really cares about the business we had before and it’s hard for him to let go.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Cosette smiled, “You haven’t done anything.”

Theo stared at her, blushing slightly, “I’ll um, get started on designing the stand.”

“I look forward to seeing what you create.”

“Cosette…get in bed.” Ophelia murmured sleepily, turning off the lights.

“I will in a bit.” Cosette poured over paperwork filled with chemical equations and formulas.

I haven’t done synthetic organic chemistry in a while.

Cosette scrunched her nose, drawing out the necessary chemical reactions she would need to recreate to produce the selected scents. She had settled on cinnamon and vanilla as her launching points. She was having to simplify certain parts, simply because she didn’t have access to technology of Earth, but it would still produce the required effect.

Her other concern was her own scent. 

How was I supposed to make a scent that acted as a void? One that could mask my humanity?

Cosette stared at the papers before her, words and letters beginning to warp together. She flinched, feeling two hands gently wrap around her in a hug. The arms stopped, pulling back.

“Sorry.” Ophelia said softly, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t do anything.”

You weren’t the one to hurt me.

Cosette let Ophelia lead her over to the bed, snuggling close as Ophelia blew out the last candle.

Cosette lay there, engulfed by the darkness. She didn’t feel happy, but she didn’t feel sad either.

Yeah…this is okay.

“This is boring.”

“It’s necessary.”

Oh my Lord, like father, like son.

Cosette took a deep breath to remain calm. She had tried to be understanding of Theo’s initial reactions to repetitive work, but the fact that a grown-ass man couldn’t put together that sometimes success requires doing something less ‘fun’ was crazy.

No wonder Theo was the way he was, his father is no better.

She glanced at Theo who was working on unpacking glassware with no complaints.

“What should I do once I get these put away?” 

He even looked different. Gone was the unhappy expression, replaced with a small burning passion. Theo had shown Cosette his designs for the stand he wanted to build which she quickly approved. The display looked inviting and well structured to contain many bottles of perfumes.

She had to insist Theo keep the designs as they were after his father tried to critique and correct them.

“Can you bring over the bottles on the right?” Cosette examined the boiling cinnamon sticks and powder, taking the pot off at the appropriate time.

The elder sighed heavily, continuing to write out labels. Theo quickly did what she asked, rushing over to the older man.

“Here father, I can take care of this. You go take a break.”

“Oh, thank you, boy.” the elder smiled, quickly leaving the room.

Cosette narrowed her eyes. She had always been taught to respect her elders. To treat those who are weaker with kindness and compassion. However, as far she could see…this man did not deserve the same treatment.

What kind of parent shoves work onto their child? What kind of man actively puts down their son’s good ideas?

Suddenly the elder coughed, stumbling slightly.

“Father?” Theo practically flew over to his parent’s side.

“I am alright boy.”

“You haven’t forgotten to take your medicine, right?”

“I’ll go do that now.”

Cosette shook her head. How could she think that way about a sick person?

He was trying his best.

Cosette forced her judgmental thoughts under.

It was wrong of me to think that.

Yes still, Cosette shivered. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was off.

“Cosette, are you ready to go?” Ophelia entered the back room, pulling on her cloak.

“Almost.”

Ophelia smiled fondly, joining Cosette on another stool, “What are you working on?”

“I am finishing up the first perfume samples.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Ophelia leaned in, watching curiously as Cosette mixed solutions together, pouring the two finalized liquids into two separate vials.

“They look gorgeous.”

“Thank you. Which one do you want to try first?”

Ophelia shyly pointed to the yellow toned perfume.

“Vanilla it is.” Cosette handed her the vial, letting Ophelia apply it to herself.

Ophelia carefully spritzed the air, taking a careful sniff.

“Oh wow!”

That was a good reaction.

“If I found this in the store I would totally buy it!” Ophelia fangirled.

“I do think I made it a bit too sweet, so I am going to try diluting or countering it by adding musk or citrus oils to it.”

Ophelia nodded in approval, “Can I try the newer versions once you make them?”

“Absolutely, who else would I trust to test the products?”

Cosette began cleaning up her equipment, washing the vials carefully. Ophelia assisted by drying them off, eager to get home.

“What do I smell like?”

“Eh?” Ophelia was taken aback by the question.

“What do I smell like?”

“Like that atrocious perfume you bought from that damned street.”

“No, I mean after I bathe in the evenings. What is my human scent like?”

“Oh, you smell like magnolias. It’s quite wonderful, perhaps even my favorite smell.” Ophelia winked, setting aside the cleaned vials and glasses into their appropriate shelves.

“I appreciate the compliment, but how do you know it’s human?”

“There’s this…subtle undertone of mortality to it?”

“Uh-huh, okay.”

Not the most helpful but it’s a start. What does mortality even smell like?

“Why do you ask?”

“I am making a perfume that can cover my human smell. I don’t want to keep smelling like spoiled fruits and rotting flowers.”

Granted, that was better than smelling like mud.

“You know Cosette, you never cease to amaze me.” Ophelia murmured softly.

“I haven’t even done anything impressive yet.”

Ophelia leaned against her, “‘Yet’? Now I am scared for the fate of Prythian.”

Cosette laughed, “No need to fear. I don’t plan on doing anything too bad.”

“Hm, yeah. You’re too good to do any real damage.”

“Oi!”

The two quickly left the shop, saying their goodbyes to Theo.

Outside darkness had already fallen yet the city was still brimming with life. Cosette took a deep breath, letting her senses overflow with the various smells of foods and spices.

Cosette paused.

What if…instead of masking or nullifying a scent, she could attempt to compliment it? Create a perfume that when added to her existing scent created something new - something that didn’t smell human?

“Ophelia, Blanche, I have a request.” Cosette smiled, holding two small bottles. After spending the whole week perfecting the scents, she was finally satisfied with the end result.

“What is it dear?” Blanche looked up from her food, Forrest trying to force broccoli down Fermin’s throat while Ophelia sipped her tea.

“I want you two to wear these perfumes for the next week.”

Blanche’s expression fell, turning hesitant, “Perfume dear?”

“Ooo, is this the final product?” Ophelia leaned over, looking at the two vials.

“Yeah. Take your pick Ophelia; cinnamon or vanilla?”

“I want the vanilla one! ” Ophelia took the vial, aiming it to spritz on her hand.

“Wait! Spray it outsi-” Blanche and Forrest both moved in a slight panic to stop Ophelia as a gentle scent of cinnamon and nature filled the air.

“Oh.” Blanche said simply.

“I adore this one.” Ophelia smiled.

“Blanche?” Cosette smiled at the woman shyly, “Would you be willing?”

Blanche tentatively took the small bottle, spritzing her wrist once, her eyes widening as a soft cinnamon smell filled the room.

“Oh.” she repeated.

“It’s good right?” Ophelia beamed, excited, returning to her food.

“I want you two to wear it over the course of this week, and if people ask where you got the scent from, tell them it’s from our store.”

“You got it girl!” Ophelia gave Cosette a thumbs up, “I’ll visit all the most popular places!”

“I’ll make sure to let them know.” Blanche agreed, moving closer to her husband to let him smell the perfume.

Forrest nodded in approval, “It’s a delicate smell.”

“Thank you.” Cosette blushed slightly.

The group quickly finished their dinner, dispersing to their rooms.

“Alright Ophelia.” Cosette took a deep breath, “Let me know if you can still smell the mortality on me.”

Cosette had gone out on a limb here - Ophelia said she smelled of magnolias with a hint of ‘mortality’, what if she created a perfume that smelled of eternity?

It was a lot of effort to find dahlias, but she managed to find a couple for a reasonable price. 

Reasonable as in I stole them.

A part of Cosette hated how easily she relied on such skills to survive. The other part of her understood that it was necessary.

It’s okay, I’ll return and pay the person back once I can.

Cosette sprayed some of the perfume on herself.

Ophelia shook her head, “No Cosette…I can still smell your humanity.”

“Hm.”

Should have guessed it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Perfumery street ‘perfumes’ it is for now then.”

“I truly feel terrible for Blanche.” Ophelia smiled.

“Me too. I haven’t scared off all the customers yet have I?”

“Miraculously no.”

“Cosette stop fussing, the stand looks perfect.” Ophelia chidded.

Cosette looked up at her friend, “I am just double checking everything is in order.”

“You already triple-checked everything. Just breathe for me, okay?”

The fateful opening day had arrived after four weeks of grueling, nonstop work. 

Cosette nodded, taking a deep breath of the crisp air. She had been standing outside for only a minute and already felt like she was about to freeze.

The stand Theo built was perfect, its structure reminiscent of a vanity. Its shelves and sides had vines and snowflakes carved into it, with the shelves and holders being modeled exactly for the perfume bottles they were using.

I’ll need to thank him again for his work later.

Faes had begun walking down the street in the early morning, most trying to get to work, others going to get breakfast. Quite a few faes crossed the street, avoiding their little stand.

Hmm, this wasn’t going well. These people were too scared to even try the perfumes in fear of being bombed by a stench.

Cosette picked up a sample bottle of the vanilla scent, spritzing the air a couple times.

Let’s try to convince them we weren’t biohazard waste disguised as a business. 

One fae female paused, turning back to look at their stand, tilting her head as she smelled the air.

Cosette maintained a calm aura as the woman approached, curiosity etched into her features.

“Excuse me, are these perfumes?”

“Yes miss.” Cosette smiled, her joy bubbling to the surface slightly, “We have two new scents, would you like to try them?”

“What’s the scent in the air?”

“Ah, that’s our cinnamon perfume.”

She nodded hesitantly, picking up the bottle, looking at it closely, “Did you make these?”

Cosette nodded, “I did miss.”

The fae looked impressed, examining the vanilla bottle too.

“This would make a good gift for the Winter Solstice.” The woman looked at the bottles thoughtfully, “How much is it?”

“5 gold pieces.”

“Hmm, affordable compared to the prices in those stores.” the fae nodded to herself, “I’ll take the cinnamon one.”

A couple other faes approached the stand, drawn in by the sweet gentle smell. Others arrived due to Ophelia’s and Blanche’s marketing efforts.

It was by midday that the stand became full of customers. Cosette was for once thankful for the Winter faes’ colder, calmer demeanors as they formed actual lines, rather than all crowding around her and Ophelia all at once.

“What is this?” a male shoved his way through the line.

“Hello sir, can we help you?” Ophelia quickly moved to put herself between the fae and Cosette.

“Like hell you can, what do you think you’re doing? Stealing business away from us good folk?”

“Stealing?” Ophelia laughed, “All we’re doing is selling perfume.”

“You have no right!” the man practically spat, an unpleasant odor, a clear marker of the perfumery street, made everyone around him pinch their noses in displeasure.

“All we did was set up a stand in front of a building we own, we very much have the right to do that.” Cosette spoke up, looking at the man.

The fae laughed, waving his arms as if that was going to strengthen his argument, “Oh so you think you’re all that huh? Coming in with this new perfume or whatever? Trying to steal business away from the professionals?”

The faes around them glanced at each other, their concern growing.

“If you truly were a professional these people wouldn’t be shopping here.” Cosette pointed out.

That was the man's breaking point as he charged at Ophelia, Cosette pulling her to the side as the man ran into the stand, knocking it over, and smashing the perfume bottles. The faes around them cried out, quickly rushing away from the violence, some running to call for the royal guard.

Cosette tried to take a step forward, rage filling her veins, but Ophelia pulled her back.

“Don’t stop him.” she whispered.

“What do you mean ‘don’t stop him’ he’s going to destroy all our hard work!”

“And destroy you in the process.” Ophelia looked at her with a serious expression, “You don’t stand a chance in a physical brawl against him.”

Cosette hated to admit it, but Ophelia was right. So, she swallowed her pride, watching her hard work get broken into smithereens.

The fae eventually stopped, looking at the two women gleefully, “Now what are you gonna do huh? Got no more perfumes left to sell, haha! ”

Good thing I didn’t bring out all the perfumes, though it was a shame to lose that many bottles.

“What got nothing to say?” the man taunted.

The two of them remained silent as he strutted away, making both women, and bystanders cringe.

Theo, having heard the commotion, rushed out of the store. 

“By the Cauldron, what happened?!”

Ophelia carefully approached the shards, picking them and placing them into a pile on the snowy pavement. 

“A perfumer from that stupid street showed up, angry that we were stealing his sales.”

“That bastard.” Theo muttered, pushing the stand into an upright position, assessing the damage.

Cosette kneeled down, helping Ophelia collect pieces of glass and broken off chunks of the stand.

A couple faes approached the group.

“Is anyone hurt?” the woman to make the first purchase asked, her tone worried.

“No, everyone is okay. Except for the stand.” Cosette joked lightly.

“That’s good to hear.” another fae spoke, “We notified the authorities what that man did. Absolutely unacceptable behavior.”

The winter faes around them nodded in agreement - violence of such sort was not to be tolerated.

“Thank you for your assistance.” Cosette smiled.

Really, I should be thanking him. This man has just given us free, good marketing, and the evidence I needed to confirm that we were a worthy competitor. 

Next: Chapter 17 - All Things Magic and Mystic

Back: Chapter 15 - A Sweet Stench

Masterlist

Tag list: @rcarbo1

[cevans-is-classic]

You went with Bo three days ago, and he'd never wanted you home more than now.

Grogu made another grunting noise, hand held high to snatch the metal ball from the top of the cabinet. Djarin pressed his lips together as the kid started clacking it against the kitchen counter.

"Grogu."

"Ahhp." He gives Djarin a solid frown then whacks the ball again, "Mata"

"I know." He did.

It'd been cloudy days since you left, the rain threatening to fall while ratcheting the heat higher and higher. Grogu was grumpy, missing you and Djarin related.

"Ahhp.' The ball hit the floor again and he gritted his teeth.

"Grogu, come on, give me the ball." He held out his hand, letting his body relax, willing Grogu to hand him the object.

Grogu lifts his head, ears straight out, mouth set in a thin line as his forehead wrinkles.

He's grumpy but dammit he's the cutest thing Djarin has ever seen.

He sighs, "Fine. Keep it. You're still taking a bath."

That in and of itself has been a fight all day. Before you, Grogu would be okay with the expected wash up time.

Now he expects bubbles, his favorite wash cloth with the right amount of soap on it and — of course — his metal ball.

The kid is definitely spoiled.

(Djarin has far more reason to have spoiled him than you, but for the sake of arguing — no definitely doesn't.)

"I'm going to fill the basin, please Grogu, grab the dryer and your night covers."

An even grumpier face stared back at him.

Djarin frowned back, "What do you expect me to do about it? They'll be back when they're back and until then -"

The door opened, a rush of humid air followed by you beaming a smile at them.

Djarin didn't even have time to say welcome back before Grogu leaped landing in your arms with his metal ball waving. You laugh, head back, holding onto his son with love and patience.

"Good." He shakes the wash cloth at you, "He's your problem now."

Grogu gave him an open mouth, toothy smile that had him smiling back.

(Thank the stars for the helmet)

Pedro Masterlist

Galaxy Eyes Masterlist

[impossibleprincess35]

Asphodel | ch 26

[Excerpt:]

When Satine and Obi-Wan found themselves alone in her quarters, there was an odd moment of silence. Her focus returned to the items in her sink as she rinsed and washed dishes and silverware, and as he turned to watch her, she looked less like a Duchess or a child of a noble lineage and more like an ordinary woman, albeit, a beautiful one. He offered his assistance to clear the table, and when Satine declined, insisting on cleaning it all up herself, Obi-Wan huffed until she gave in.

“I can’t stand here and watch you do all of this yourself,” he confessed.

“Ugh, fine. You’ll do it even if I tell you not to, so why should I trouble myself with an argument over something so silly?” Satine responded as she looked up from the sink basin where she was steadily cleaning.

Obi-Wan snickered as he worked alongside her, “You’ve argued with me over far less matters of importance, my dear.”

Satine shrugged, “For Korkie’s sake, I am demonstrating a great deal of restraint with you this evening.”

They were quiet as they finished returning the kitchen to its clean and orderly state. As Obi-Wan straightened the dining room table chairs, Satine began to prepare him a cup of tea. He walked up beside her as she pulled his mug down from the cabinet and he leaned against the counter’s edge and watched her as she filled an infuser with tea leaves and paid him no mind.

“You keep my favorite tea around,” he murmured softly.

Satine was stubbornly focusing on her task at hand, refusing to make eye contact with him, and she replied, “I had purchased it in the market right before the funeral escort for my fallen guards, days before Padme told me..” her voice trailed off as she didn’t desire to relive memories of his funeral in Coruscant. “When I came home, I couldn’t bear to throw it out yet. So, luckily, you benefit from my poorly managed grief.”

From where he sat watching over her, Obi-Wan exhaled and looked down at his hands as he brought them together before himself. The thought of her grief undermining her ability to let go of tea leaves made him feel guilty. A quick recollection of the tea set that belonged to Master Qui-Gon, that now resided in his own temporary residence in the Jedi Temple, came to mind. Would he have been able to let go of something of hers had he believed she had died? He wanted to say yes, but the thought brought an acute pain to his chest and he knew he would only be lying to himself if he did.

--

Chapter 26 is up.

Korkie and Obi-Wan fluff in the beginning. :)

[szlachtas]

@cemeteryfun [thread]

Ieuan patiently leads Nero around the maze of tunnels that make up the majority of their haven, mindful of how his preoccupied staring at the warm pulsating walls could get him easily lost. They make casual chatter about the recent cold, the winter flowers, and the cost of heating in the townhouse they appropriated.

Coming to an incline, they climb stone spiral staircases into a tower, and eventually open the door into their destination: the workroom, ushering their guest in.

Different from any other room in the haven, the work room is tiled - wall to floor - off white. Yellowing LED lights line the ceiling, casting a sickening hue about. The circular edges are bordered with cabinets and counters: a doctor’s office or a lab. There's a waterpump above a large wash basin, towels, and soap aplenty; a drain at an edge, showered mostly clean of blood.

The centerpiece, of course, is a vivisection table. In parts metal, in parts bone, with conspicuous flesh toned pads near the head, feet, and arms. These connect down to a barely encased organ hanging by the base of the table. Heavy duty straps lie open, welcoming, the tough leather flecked with baked in stains.

An instrument table sits nearby, covered in bottles and tubs: every chemical way that Ieuan knew to clean mold, they had gathered, giddy to try on dead flesh.

They close the door behind them, leaning on it, appraising their friend (project) with excited (predatory) huge black eyes.

‘I don’t think I’ve shown you this room before.'