#the moments are usually soft because every single one of their lives is steeped in tragedy and it hurts to have just the pain : | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs | Tumgik (2025)

Traffic Lights Are Burnin’

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @nebluus‘s birthday! She asked for some WFB, and of the options I gave she chose the next part of our Six Flags saga...only the beginning scene of that chapter ended up ballooning out into this so...it ended up being less Amusement Park Shenanigans and more Wholesome Boys Will Be Boys Content. I’M SURE MADI WILL BE JUST FINE WITH THAT TOO 😂

“Are you making an omelette?”

English is not, functionally, Mitsuhide’s first language. Not that he thinks of it like that-- first or second, third or fourth; there’s no ranking in his life, no moment in which one language followed another. There was English with Mama and quebecois with Papa; a plan quickly scuttled by Mitsuhide being the fifth Lowen sibling. Refusing to be pigeonholed into a single language no matter how many times Mama repeated consistency is key, his brothers mostly spoke a tossed salad of both and assumed he’d understand the lettuce.

Coupled with the fact that all his cousins lived in Toronto anyway, Mitsuhide had hardly begun talking himself before it became outside quebecois and inside English. Unless they left the province, in which case it was a free-for-all that left his few monolingual aunts and uncles dizzy.

Which is to say, Mitsuhide only becomes aware of the precise inner ranking of his languages in moments like this, where gut immediately kicks out a dry ‘j’essaie.’ The translation is vetoed on the grounds that although in quebecois he’s never met a word he couldn’t steep in sarcasm and smuggle in a sacre, he prefers to keep his English so clean it squeaks.

You’ve got it all backwards, Kihal had told him as he sweltered under the San Juan sun, English is fake, you can be as much of an asshole as you want it in, it doesn’t count.

It’s true, there’s something that’s more real to him in French, that’s more real about him, but, well-- there were far fewer cousins to tattle on his potty mouth this way. And now that he knows Obi...

Well, if Kiki ever made good on her threats to teach him any of his “church swears,” he’d probably never sleep easy again. So instead, he scrolls through his mental rolodex of possible appropriate replies before settling on, “Would you like one?”

Zen glances up from his array of pamphlets, glossy paper glaring beneath the overhead lamp. It matches the way Zen is looking at him. “We don’t have time for that.”

Mitsuhide frowns, giving his eggs one last vigorous whisk before pouring them into the pan. “There’s always time for breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

He glances over just in time to see Zen’s grimace. “Shirayuki really could be your sister.”

There’s really no reason he has to look so horrified by the idea. His brothers may all be broad shouldered, barrel-chested giants, but plenty of his cousins made pocket money in high school through catalogue modeling. And they’re all very nice girls.

He doesn’t mention it. A conversation never ends well if you have to whip out photos of female relatives to prove your point. “Would you like one?” he repeats instead, a safer tactic overall.

Zen’s nose wrinkles beneath some dubiously drawn eyebrows. “Are you putting spinach in there?”

“Kale,” he agrees. “And chicken.”

“In a breakfast omelette?” He clucks his tongue, just the way the Wisteria’s chef would when he attempted to cook at the estate. Quel dommage, he would say, sighing over the cutting board, why would you do that to perfectly good eggs? “Why would you do that?”

Because these muscles don’t come cheap; Mitsuhide chokes down a truly staggering amount of chicken in order to keep them. Roasted, of course-- boiled is technically better for protein, but even he has to draw the line somewhere. The eggs have less, but they are calorie efficient; he’d eat more of them if he could stomach the slimy, snake-like sensation of swallowing them down hard boiled.

But explaining his diet regime usually ended with glazed eyes, so he settles for, “I could always put something different in yours. There’s ham.”

Fancy ham, Obi calls it. It’s just from the deli counter, fresh sliced from whatever quality cut’s on sale, but considering how the first time Obi saw a charcuterie board, he shouted, Oh, Lunchables!--

Well, Mitsuhide can accept that maybe they have different benchmarks for fancy. And somehow just the simple act of calling it that does make it taste better. Or at least more satisfying when it’s shoved between a Hawaiian roll and deli cheese.

There’s a soft shuffle by the kitchen door, and a wild thatch of bristle peeps around the frame. Mitsuhide shakes his head with huff. That’s a new one-- just think the devil’s name and he appears.

Obi lopes into the kitchen, all long limbs and smooth movements, blurring right into the background without any effort at all. He’d gotten Mitsuhide a few times when he’d first moved in, popping up wherever it was sure to be the most inconvenient, grinning like a cat with feathers in its teeth. But once you knew the trick of it, well-- it’s no effort to keep the kid in his sights.

Which is why he has a full, uninterrupted view when Obi slips right up to Zen’s elbow, and asks, “Whatcha doing, chief?”

“Wah!” Pamphlets fly up, a glittering flock of wings swooping beneath the lamp. Zen slaps them down before they can skitter off the table’s edge. “Obi! Make noise for fuck’s sake!”

“Sorry,” he sing-songs, not a sincere note in it. Two long fingers pluck a pamphlet off the wood, twisting it between them. “What’s all this? They starting to put theme parks on exams now?”

“No.” Zen scowls, snatching it out of his hands. “I’m just making today’s itinerary.”

Mitsuhide slides his omelette onto a plate, turning just in time to catch the glance Obi sends him. It somehow says is he fucking with me while also implying I’ll hold him down if we gotta send him to the doctor. “An itinerary?”

He leans a hip against the island, fishing out a fork. What was it Obi always said? Dinner tastes better with a show. Time to find out whether it extends to breakfast too.

Zen fixes Obi with a look that could have had trenches with all its affront. “You can’t go to an amusement park without a plan. How else do you get on all the coasters?”

“It’s only Six Flags New England.” A week ago, the name alone made Obi flee like a cat from a bath, but now every syllable drips with derision, like a sommelier reviewing boxed wine. “They’ve got what? Superman?”

Mitsuhide shoves a corner of his omelette in his mouth. It’s not as good as a sausage, mushroom, and cheese, but, well, it’ll do. “Bizarro.”

“Bizarro.” Obi scoffs. “See? Nothing. Besides, I thought you were the kind of guy to spring for fast passes, boss.”

Zen’s always been sensitive; the sort of kid who tended to pop off when a situation came to a simmer instead of trying to turn down the heat. When Izana had been sitting president, he’s spent half his tenure fielding tense calls, sometimes even climbing into a towncar at a moment’s notice to be taken back east. The school, he’s always say, lifting a shoulder, my brother is proving to be a challenge, and my mother is...unreachable.

He’d thought this Zen kid must be like the ones he knew on the ice, punching first and asking questions later, complaining about being put in the box. All temper and no temperance, Mama used to say when she drove him home, can’t talk when you got plastic between your teeth.

But then he’d met him, undersized and stick-limbed, living in that house with people paid to be invisible. A kid with too much on his shoulders and too many eyes to watch him stumble under it. He’s come a long way from there.

So when Zen squirms in his chair, red already starting to lick up his neck, Mitsuhide doesn’t enjoy it. On the contrary, Zen’s discomfort is his discomfort, a failure of him to keep the watchful eye on him that Izana asked him to.

But it also doesn’t stop him from adding, “Shirayuki believes that waiting in line is part of the amusement park experience.”

Obi looks as though he’s just been told it’s his birthday and Christmas, all rolled into one. “Of course she does.” His mouth sharpens to a wicked grin. “So you’ll be lowering yourself to the peasant’s lines today, huh, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, swatting him away. “No one’s being lowered anywhere. We won’t be running into any of them so long as we get there early and hit the coasters in the right order.”

Obi coughs. Or at least, makes it sound like he is. “Uh-huh.”

“Where is Shirayuki anyway?” Zen glares at the empty doorway, brows heaving like thunderclouds over the bridge of his nose. “I thought you said you’d get her.”

“I did.” Obi twitches his shoulders; as good as a shrug, from him. “She’s getting ready.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes.” Zen’s glare changes target to him, thunder rolling in the tone of his voice. “Shirayuki doesn’t take this long to get ready.”

When Mitsuhide glances up, chewing around another stab of egg, kale, and chicken, Obi’s eyebrows are already there to meet him. His head tilts, just the barest degree; this is your show, big guy.

Mitsuhide coughs, trying to clear his throat of leaf bits. “Girls,” he starts, the ground sinking beneath him with each word, “like to look nice. Especially when they are on, uh, dates.”

“This isn’t a date,” Zen informs him, more than a little put out. “Obi’s going.”

The sound Obi makes can only be termed as distressed. “I didn’t want to.”

For exactly this reason, is what he doesn’t say. Doesn’t even show it on his face, though it has to be lurking beneath it, considering how he--

Well, considering nothing Mitsuhide knows for sure. But certainly a few things he reasonably suspects.

“Chief.” Obi flips the chair next to him, straddling it. “You know, I really thought it couldn’t be true. I really wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But to hear you now--” he leans in, one narrow brow raising the same time his voice drops-- “you really do chicken out when it comes to getting chummy with Doc.”

Mitsuhide nearly chokes on his chicken.

Zen’s red all over, like someone pulled him from a boiling pot and put him on a plate. “You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” he says, so easy. “Doc told me.”

“She said that?” His skin’s so flushed Mitsuhide’s half afraid he’ll pass out, but instead he just collapses against the ladderback, head buried in his arms. “Shirayuki?”

“Pretty much.” Obi sighs, hands braced on the table. “I mean, is it so hard to say she looks nice when she dresses up? Or that you like her hair, or--” he stumbles, shaking his head-- “no, not the hair. Too loaded. But you know, one of her floaty little numbers. Her freckles. Something.”

“I have!”

Obi lifts a dubiously narrow eyebrow. “Like when?”

“Ah...” Whatever the answer is, it’s not helping his blood flow problem. Mitsuhide nearly opens his mouth, searching for a good way to make himself a target-- “The Big E.”

Well, there goes that plan.

Obi’s inquisition crumples into confusion. “What? When did you--”

Every word ekes into the air with the utmost resistance. “When she was wearing your hoodie.”

“When she was wearing my--?” Gold eyes round to coins. “Chief.”

For a solid minute, that’s the only reaction-- wide-eyed disbelief, earned from two sides. But Obi coughs, mouth twitching, and it’s a snort, a smirk, and--

And then Obi launches himself away from the table, both hands still gripping the edge as he falls apart utterly. The chair’s back keeps him from putting his head between his knees, but spiritually he’s there, tears tracking down his cheeks as his laughs wheeze out of him

One hand finally slaps the table, like he’s asking for a time out. Zen frowns down at him, red finally fading to a painful pink. “It’s not that funny.”

“It is,” Obi squeaks, and Mitsuhide has to shove his last bite of omelette into his mouth to stifle his own noises. It’s no good-- Zen whips around and gives him the same glare he’s been saving for Obi.

“If you don’t cut it out,” he says loftily, “I’m going to let a freshman stay in your room.”

Well, that brings Obi up. “Fine,” he coughs, voice still ragged from laughing. “But still. My hoodie.”

“The sleeves hung over her hands! It was cute.” Zen huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine, if I’m so bad, why don’t you two show me how it’s done?”

There’s a pause, long and loaded; enough that Mitsuhide glances up from his plate to see just what tomfoolery he should brace himself to break up--

Only to find Zen staring at him.

Intellectually, Mitsuhide is aware that Zen is a Wisteria. He met him through Izana, after all; he’s been over to the manor, he’s even met their prodigal mother on one of her rare stopovers between vacations. But when he thinks of the name, it’s Izana who springs to mind, the gears churning behind his eyes.

It’s not often that Zen reminds him of his brother; Cookie’s always said that Izana takes after their mother with that long and lean model build, while Zen has always been Kain’s child. But now, now--

He sees it, and it sends a shiver right through him.

With a quirk of his lips, Zen says, so like Izana that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t know any different, “You first, Mitsuhide.”

Obi’s mouth curves into a leer. “Yeah, Big Guy. Show us the skills that got you Ms Kiki.”

This probably isn’t the time to tell them that it wasn’t him who got her; Mitsuhide hadn’t been trying to do anything more than be the friend she needed, to be a person she could confide in, could trust. People like that were thin on the ground for girls like her; heiress tended to make men see dollar signs instead of personality. But Kiki--

Well, she had other ideas. Ones he’d only cottoned onto when she climbed on top of him and shoved him against the couch cushions with her mouth.

“D-Don’t look at me!” he manages, trying to busy himself with anything. But there’s only a plate to be put in the sink, and a pan to be wiped. Not enough to fake a decent amount of responsibility. “I’m not--”

“Aw, c’mon, Big Man. Don’t leave us hanging.” Obi leans back, grin so wide it practically splits his face. “Lemme paint the scene. You’re single, Doc is adorable, and she’s waiting there--” he gestures to Zen, who flutters his eyelashes in precisely the way Shirayuki doesn’t-- “for you to make your move. Go!”

He could point out he’s not single, and that he doesn’t have any plans to change that anytime soon-- but that only ends in one way: a two-pronged mockery with additional ridicule provided by the impending arrival of his better half. He could also point out that of all the people in this room, he’s the only one who hasn’t wanted to date Shirayuki, but-- well, the problems with that one were obvious.

Instead, Mitsuhide takes in a deep breath, learns on the counter, and says, “Why, Shirayuki! You’re looking beautiful this morning. Those shorts really flatter your legs.”

There is a long silence, and then to everlasting embarrassment, they burst out laughing.

“Her shorts?” Zen’s hand is pressed to his chest, like he needs support to keep upright. “That’s all you can think of? Her shorts?”

“Well, Obi said not to do her hair,” he protests. “Complimenting her dress seemed like low hanging fruit. I was trying to be unique.”

Obi doesn’t even bother to remain horizontal, sprawling himself over the long forgotten maps. “So you went for her legs?”

“There’s nothing wrong with legs!”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Zen sputters out in an effort to keep his mouth straight. “Definitely a very neutral place to comment on.”

“Definitely not known for being attached to things like asses.” Obi’s mouth twitches, as much a sign for danger as thunder rolling in the distance. “Or puss--”

“I was not trying to comment on that.” He’d felt bad for Zen earlier, but the sentiment doesn’t seem mutual. “It’s not typical, sure, but Kiki never seems to mind when I compliment--”

“Kiki?” Zen squawks. “Kiki?”

“Well, I think we’re all learning a little too much about Big Guy today,” Obi wheezes. “Mainly that it’s Ms Kiki that chased him, and not the other way around.”

“Yeah.” Zen shakes his head, long and slow and solemn, like a doctor about to give a terminal diagnosis. “No game at all.”

Mitsuhide’s not a competitive man. Sure, he was forward on the ice, the kind of player that got sent to the box before the end of the first half and slid right into the captain spot when it was vacant. Aggression is part of the game, competition laced in every turn of his skate and lift of his stick, but that’s a different situation, a different language--

But it’s that part of him that surges beneath his skin right now, that makes him want to saunter over and put both hands on that rickety, painted wood until it creaks. That makes him want to take a full minute to bend down, showing off every centimeter of his one-ninety plus, and ask real low if either of them has made a girl beg on their cock lately, but--

He puts it in its place. That sort of talk always sounded better en français anyway.

Zen waves his hand, slipping his pamphlets out from under Obi. “Anyway, enough messing around. Are you still making omelettes, Mitsuhide?”

“Ohh, omelettes?” Obi spins to him with wide eyes. “Can I get mine with fancy ham?”

Mitsuhide blinks. “Wait, aren’t you going to do your take?”

“Nah.”

Zen shrugs. “Joke’s over.”

“So I just did that for no reason--?”

“I wouldn’t say no reason,” Zen wheedles. “It was very educational.”

Obi grins. “Mainly about how Big Guy likes legs--”

“Oh,” drawls a voice that makes his body go cold and hot at the same time. When he turns, it’s Kiki leaning against the jamb, a single elegant brow raised, excusing amusement and menace in equal measure. “Am I to take it that the show is over?”

“K-kiki,” he stammers.“How long--?”

“Hm.” She saunters over to the counter, slipping onto a stool with a casual grace that still leaves his mouth dry.“Long enough. I have to admit, I was looking forward to seeing a display of Obi’s fabled moves.”

“Ms Kiki,” Obi simpers, pressing a hand to his chest.“I’d be happy to give you a personal demonstration anytime.”

Both her brows raise. “Did I say I was desperate?”

He’s saved from Obi’s answer by Shirayuki padding into the kitchen, flushed and breathless. “Oh, you were right Kiki! Everyone is already ready. Sorry to make you wait.”

There’s a hesitation in the air, and Mitsuhide can’t figure it out, not until he sees-- she’s wearing shorts.

Shirayuki blinks. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kiki hums, sending him a gaze so wicked it should be illegal outside the bedroom. “Do you have anything to say to her, Mitsuhide?”

“No!” It comes out a little too harsh, a little too loud. “I mean, I, uh...like your sandals!”

“Sandals,” Obi snickers, a sound that’s only covered by Zen’s hushed, “Shut up.”

“Oh!” She blinks down. “Thank you. I got them at Payless. I, um, don’t think they make them in your size.”

“No,” he manages mildly. “I don’t imagine they would.”

“You do look real cute, Doc,” Obi chimes in, slinking out of his seat to circle around her. “Did you dress up for today?”

Zen makes a noise, somewhere between a choke and a gasp, but even with the pink brushing her cheeks, Shirayuki’s too used to his antics to do much more than sigh.

“Of course I did, Obi.” Her fists perch high on her hips, cocked as she talks to him. “It’s the last time we’re all going to be going out together, isn’t it? What could be more special than that?”

Mitsuhide may not be a competitive man, and especially isn’t a malicious one, but when Obi’s jaw goes slack, the tips of his ears darkening just the slightest bit, well-- he does indulge in the slightest bit of schadenfreude.

“Well,” Zen says, a little sharp. “Let’s get going.”

“Aw!” Obi whips around. “What about fancy ham?”

“I don’t think you need--”

“Oh, I haven’t had breakfast either!” Shirayuki adds, eyes wide. “Do we have time?”

Zen hesitates, and then with a sigh, relents. “We’ll stop at Dunkies.”

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Hi there! I have a really self indulgent request, May I ask for a reader who has bad anxiety and uses those fidget toys to calm down? Honestly it's kind of embarrassing but squishies and those toys really help me, but I feel kind of silly for an adult to play with them 😅 For Zhongli and Childe?

Absolutely! I feel this request so much as someone that struggles with anxiety myself. I went more of a headcannon/prose style with this one, so I hope that’s okay! It also got a bit long, so Childe’s half is under the cut.

Zhongli is already so in tune with you as a person, and he loves staring at your hands, so watching you play with the things around you makes him think.

He assumes it is some form of stress relief as you always seem to visibly relax when left to your own devices. But Zhongli also notices that toys you often use are not entirely suitable. Not because they’re toys, but because they don’t seem to fit quite right in your hand. One is far too big. The other, too small. And he often catches you playing with things like your hair or fingers when one isn’t available.

He also notices that you do not take them places which he finds rather odd. If you need the help, then why not keep them on hand? This confuses Zhongli, as it seems very straight forward. The idea that you might be embarrassed by it doesn't even cross his mind. He just wants you to be happy.

So, Zhongli decides to take things into his own hands.

It’s a particularly stressful day when you come home to your shared apartment, ready to collapse at any moment. You weren’t surprised to find the rooms empty, as Zhongli usually worked much later than you. In fact, you were almost relieved. Some quiet time certainly wouldn’t hurt, as you were plagued by anxiety from an awful day.

But when you went to your room, you couldn’t find either of the stress toys you’d practically squeezed into oblivion. A moment of panic settled in. Where had you put them? You didn’t know why you would move them… and when you checked the living room and the kitchen, you didn’t find them there either. Had you actually lost them somehow? Impossible. You never took them outside. Zhongli always put them away if you fell asleep with one in your hand or forgot it somewhere. But you checked all your bags, every room you could think of, and all the potential boxes they could have ended up in with no luck. Defeated, you sunk onto the couch, pulling at your fingers without thinking.

The front door opened and you lurched to your feet. “Zhongli!” You said. “Have you seen my…” Your voice trailed off when you saw what he was holding. “What is that?” You said, genuinely surprised as he held it out to you. The item was about as big as your palm and painted a vibrant brown and yellow. It took you a moment to realize it was a replica of the small stone or that he sometimes summoned, complete with the same winding loops. It almost seemed to glow in the sunlight, but you thought that should be impossible since you were pretty certain it wasn’t made of anything super shiny.

“I have something for you,” He continued to hold it out to you and you took it, surprised at how light it felt. Yet, it was sturdy, soft, and felt amazing when you pressed your fingers into it. It stretched beautifully, and snapped back the moment you relieved any pressure. “You always seemed so entranced by my own,” Zhongli confessed. “So I figured this would be a suitable substitute.”

“So you had one made for me?”

“That’s right.”

“Zhongli…” You said, squeezing it again. You felt a small amount of tears fall from the corners of your eyes.

His head tilted, perplexed. “Is there something wrong?”

You shook your head. “These are happy tears. Promise.” You laughed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “Seeing you smile is all the thanks I need.”

Childe will tease you about it. Not maliciously and not in front of others, but all’s fair in love and war behind closed doors. Though if you ask him to stop, he will. He doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. He just wants to push your buttons.

And yet, Childe is also very intuitive. He recognizes when you stop using them and how on edge you look. He almost sensed it when you gave your stress toys longing glances as you tried to avoid them. He confronted you about it, but you just shook your head and promised him that it was nothing to worry about.

Childe knows better. So, he does some investigating and realizes very quickly that the single toy you had had was torn in the worst possible place.

Like Zhongli, Childe takes things into his own hands.

Childe knew many a toy seller in Snezhnaya, but it was almost impossible to find an adequate one in Liyue. The granny nearby was capable and her goods were of high quality, but she didn’t provide Childe with exactly what he wanted. And that wasn’t her fault. She just didn’t have the necessary tools or deft hands to complete the special project. Her son was nearly there, but still Childe felt he would have to look elsewhere to find the right person for the job.

He got lucky when he found Mr. Ru, a specialty shop owner in the most obscure part of Liyue that almost nobody came to. Apparently he made his living off of providing curios to people who sought the unusual. Childe didn’t know how that could possibly be a successful business model. Except said business was clearly booming as the man was steeped in gold and dressed like a prince. “I can get you what you want, “ The man said. “But it’ll cost you.”

“I can handle that,” Childe said lazily as he leaned on the counter with his usual grin.

The man raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even going to bargain with me?”

“Are you not going to give me a fair price?”

“My prices are more than fair…”

“Then I shouldn’t have to waste my time.”

The man hesitated, then sighed. “100,000 mora.”

“50,000 and you’ve got yourself a deal.” Childe almost laughed when the man glared at him. “It may be a waste of my time, but I’m no fool.”

The man grumbled under his breath, but didn’t bother arguing. “I’ll have it done in three days.”

Three days later, you were home alone and a bit sadder than usual. You hadn’t had the time to replace the toy you’d accidentally broken, and the anxiety was starting to get to you. It was difficult, you thought, getting through the day without something to relieve your stress. Certainly not impossible, and you had other ways of dealing with it, but nothing felt quite right. You had half a mind to go to the granny down the street, but knew already she wouldn’t have anything for you.

The door opened and you looked up. “Childe?” You said, then your throat went dry when you saw what was in his hand. A small, blue whale that shimmered in the sunlight. It was one of the cutest things you’d ever seen, and only slightly larger than his own hand. He beamed when he noticed your expression and sauntered over to you as he held it out.

“A gift for my lovely partner,” He said with a wink. You took the whale, surprised at how smooth it felt under your touch. You gave it a tentative squeeze, then laughed. It felt perfect in your hand. Not too large but not too small. It even felt surprisingly durable. “And if that breaks, then I’ll have some special words for the owner.”

“No need to go that far,” You said.

But Childe just smiled. “Anything for you.”

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To Be Alone With You

Chapter 4 of Saviin’ika

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Pairing: Paz Vizla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: While your Mandalorian continues to work hard to gain your trust as well as your heart, he decides to take you somewhere else just as beautiful as the cave. In return for his act of kindness, you think it’s your turn to give him a present of his own.

Rating: T for the usual stuff! Nothing smutty, just some unresolved sexual tension.

Word Count: 9,000 (I’m so sorry omg, this is literally 99% fluff and then one line at the end that indicates an actual plot coming on, lord help me, I have a problem.)

Warnings: Again, there really aren’t any in this chapter. There are little hints of abuse and growing up in a toxic environment, but nothing too descriptive. Also there’s a tiny bit of sexual tension every now and then (if you squint), but mostly fluff and hurt/comfort.

A/N: It only took until the end of the fourth chapter to finally get to the plot jfc lol. Thank you all for reading and the continuous support and kind words! I hope you enjoy this chapter <3

“What’s going through that pretty head of yours? You’re always thinking and never talking, little nurse.”

You jump a little at the sound of your blue Mandalorian’s deep baritone, blinking owlishly when you realize that your companion has been talking for quite some time now, though you’d been too consumed by your frantic thoughts to register what he was saying. You find it happening more often lately, especially when you’re sitting so close to the heavy-infantry warrior; your thoughts move at a pace that you simply cannot handle and you loathe that you’re suddenly overthinking everything in regards to the strange, intimate relationship you’ve formed with him.

Per usual, he seems as calm and collected as ever, making you even more flustered when his bold nature shines through and overpowers his bashful tone. The little touches and flirty comments seem to come so naturally to him, while you struggle to return the playful sentiments, usually answering him in the form of a shy smile or flushed cheeks that you’re certain he must see through his black visor. It seems to only spur him on more and you think he must realize what he does to you--how he makes you feel.

“I’m just thinking about...” You cringe a little, because what are you going to say to him?

Sorry, I’m just thinking about you and how much I long for your touch? That I would let you play with my hair every night for the rest of my days if you wished for it? Sorry that I’ve never felt more at home than when you hold me?

It all sounds so foolish and ridiculous and you know you can’t say any of it out loud.

“I-It’s nothing,” You answer lamely, nervously tightening the cape he had let you borrow around your torso; the material was heavier than you’d expected and the comforting weight of it had surprised you when he draped it around your shoulders after a particularly cold gust of wind had left you shivering earlier. Even though the thick material had easily warmed you up from the inside out--along with the sweet gesture--the Mandalorian hadn’t hesitated to wrap a massive arm around your shoulders and pull you closer into his side.

“I’m just daydreaming, I suppose.”

Your blue Mandalorian sighs a little, easily catching your bluff and not seeming all too thrilled that you’re struggling with your emotions,“Saviin’ika...”

You reluctantly look up at your companion, though you focus on the chin of his helmet, rather than where you think his eyes are,“I’m just thinking about the last few days; I’m not... I’m not used to this. I’m not used to people actually...” You quickly look away from him when you feel your eyes burn and your chest heave a little,“I’m just surprised you keep coming back for me--thought you would have left by now.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, realizing how pathetic the words sound as you speak them in a breathy, shaky whisper and a trembling bottom lip.

A hooked index finger tenderly taps just underneath your chin to bring your gaze further up his visor and the softness in his usually gruff voice definitely doesn’t fall on deaf ears,“Your companionship isn’t tiresome or a burden to me. I... I enjoy spending time with you more than you could imagine. I hope one day you can truly believe that.”

You smile feebly and force a tiny, meek nod, reminding yourself that nobody has stuck around this long and that your Mandalorian must not be jesting or patronizing you in any way shape or form.

Another week has passed since he first brought you to the cave and much to your utter astonishment and delight, the Mandalorian had made it a mission to visit you every day since, whether it be to simply walk you to your abode or to take you to the cave so you can relax your feet in the hot springs. After the second time when he takes you to the cave and asks if he can take out your braids again, you think he must genuinely look forward to your company, rather simply resigning to tolerate it.

The thought of him enjoying something so simple as taking out your braids leaves you breathless and you can’t help but to despise him because nobody should have this kind of impact on your heart by simply stroking your hair.

It still doesn’t completely rid the self-deprecating thoughts from clawing at the back of your mind, tearing open deep wounds that leave you feeling raw and vulnerable. You feel far too exposed to the fearless warrior and oftentimes find yourself closing in on yourself to prevent him from getting inside your mind.

Today, however, your thoughts are relatively calm and you chalk it up to a surprisingly short and uneventful shift at the infirmary, a rare occurrence that leaves you feeling unusually content and energized. Deciding to make the most of the extra energy, you had made your way to the marketplace to get more ration bars and look at the prices on fresh fruit, though you had been slightly disappointed to find the usual vendor had been sold out of their stock.

Feeling only slightly dejected, you had made your way back to the infirmary where you thought the Mandalorian might be waiting for you in his usual spot and you hadn’t even realized your disappointment from earlier had immediately disappeared upon spotting the familiar glimmer of moonlight beaming down on a dark blue helmet.

You don’t even realize he has that effect on you.

He had been waiting for you and you wondered if there were nights where he arrived at the infirmary hours before the end of your shift and he simply doesn’t mind the long wait.

Though he had been a little confused and surprised that you had gotten out of work earlier than usual, you think it must have put him in a better mood as well, noting that your smile actually met your eyes for once. After greeting you with a gentle headbutt of his Beskar-clad forehead against your bare one--something you assumed was a typical Mandalorian greeting they did with everyone--your companion had seemed content to guide you away from the village and far away from your broken home.

Noting that the night sky was incredibly clear and the full moon seemed brighter and larger than usual, he had chosen to take you to a region of the barren lands where flora grew and ponds had somehow naturally formed over time. It’s located in a rocky crater on a steep cliff side, but tame waterfalls of all shapes and sizes surround the two of you and you don’t think you’ve ever seen so much water in all of your years of living on the bleak planet.

You wonder how the Mandalorian seems to know of all these beautiful spots on a planet like Nevarro, though you’re certain previous years experience of traveling so much and providing for his tribe would give him a pretty decent mental map of the area surrounding his home.

Instead of asking, you had simply resigned to letting the Mandalorian guide you to a cozy spot, gathering a decent-sized log that you two could sit up against and you had watched with curious eyes as he easily set a small fire within the span of a few seconds.

You’re utterly content to curl against his side and watch the stars and moon that make for a lovely setting, along with the sound of the Mandalorian’s sweet baritone that speaks of his time spent traveling through the cosmos and different planets he’s visited in the past. You stare up at him with awe shimmering fiercely in your eyes when he describes the white ball of ice that’s Hoth, or how unbearably hot and deadly the Tatooine deserts had taken a toll on even him.

Then he speaks of mountain-sized trees and flowers even more massive than him and...

Maker, you hang onto every single word he uses to describe the planet of Felucia and how even he had been surprised by how vibrant and flourishing every living organism had been.

"Saviin'ika."

You don’t know what the syrupy-sweet word means in his sacred language, but you know it’s some sort of nickname he’s deemed you worthy of and your cheeks feel unbearably flushed every single time he utters it. You sometimes find yourself repeating it quietly when you’re alone, thinking the foreign word sounds prettier rolling off the tip of his tongue and through his crackly modulator.

But tonight...

"Mesh'la... Mesh’la... Mesh’la"

He seems to only utter the pretty word during intimate moments when he's comforting you or when you reluctantly confess your fears and secrets to him, but tonight… well, he says the word four times within the span of an hour and it certainly has you feeling curious as to what he could possibly be calling you. He mostly breathes out the word in the form of a sigh when he chances a cursory glance down at your wide-eyed features as he describes different flowers and plants, as though he’s just as infatuated with you as you are by his whimsical stories.

“Maybe one day I will have the chance to take you there, mesh’la.”

The way he says it so naturally, as though he’s replacing your other nickname with a new one has you feeling achingly curious, like a moth to a flame, though you trust the Mandalorian not to burn you. You think your more affected by the way he breathes out the foreign word in such an adoring tone than the thought of seeing such a wondrous sight of flowers towering over the massive warrior.

Normally you don’t care much of what others think of you, but something about the fondness and devotion that he somehow manages to convey through a modulated voice and a two-syllable word has your mind racing at what he could possibly be implying.

A large fingertip suddenly grazes the purple and blue flowers you had strategically placed in the thick braid wrapped around your crown the previous morning and you find it hard to focus on the constellations that shimmer and flicker vividly in the night sky, your attention fixed solely on the Mandalorian that sits impossibly close at your side. You can smell his clean, spicy scent that subtly seeps through the cracks of his thick blue armor and you think that Mandalorians in general must have good hygiene, what with how much they must sweat underneath all of that armor. It’s an attractive trait that not many men seem to be capable of--or rather, are simply too lazy to take care of themselves--and you wonder if the comforting scent will linger on your own clothes after being wrapped up in his cape for so long.

“You’re quiet tonight,” He observes with a hum, still seeming entranced by your elegant braids that are a little frizzy from the short flight earlier,“Is something wrong, mesh’la?”

You hesitate a little, but you trust him enough to know he will not make fun of you, “I want to know more about Mandalorian culture, but I do not want to offend you or your people.”

He cocks his head as he continues to smooth unruly baby hairs from your forehead,“What is it you want to know? You already know about our helmets, so I’m certain nothing you ask could offend me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and shiver when you feel the blunt tips of his nails lightly scratch around where your braid tugs at your scalp, "Is your language sacred? Are outsiders not allowed to learn it?"

His hand hesitates against your tender scalp and you wonder what’s running through his mind as you force yourself to avoid his intense gaze, though you find yourself drawn to it at the same time. You wonder if he’s regarding your beloved flowers with admiration or curiosity, though something tells you that it’s both as he idly plucks a pretty violet from its unlikely home in your thick braid. You find it impressive that such a fearless warrior can possess such tenderness towards something as delicate as a little flower and you suddenly wish it was your cheek or your neck he was caressing, rather than one of your beloved violets.

"Others are allowed to learn it," He finally answers as he observes the vibrant flower closely, "There are even books written in the language. Why do you ask?"

You let out a little huff as he gently twirls the stem of the flower between the rough pads of his thumb and index finger; you can tell he’s purposely ignoring your pointed gaze, "You call me all these names in your language, but I have no idea what they mean. You are not insulting me, are you, Mandalorian?"

"I would never dream of insulting you, little nurse," He grunts, sounding a little bashful as he most likely tries to think of all the ways he can dance around this topic, "Saviin'ika means violet. I only call you that because of the flowers you always put in your hair."

Something about the terseness of his voice makes you think there's more to it, but you shyly drop your tone and your head when you speak up again, barely peering up at him through your lashes, "And mesh'la? You’ve been calling me that since the night you first brought me to the cave."

He freezes, still staring down at the flower he stole from your braid and you can't stop yourself from grinning like a sly loth cat when you realize you've caught the Mandalorian red-handed. When he stubbornly refuses to give you an answer, you decide to take matters into your own hands and force yourself to stop smiling at this new discovery, not wanting him to feel embarrassed over something you think to be sweet.

"Please, look at me," You murmur and he is quick to obey, his visor landing either on your flushed face or the slight shift in your throat as you swallow thickly, "I-Is it a compliment?"

"It…" He clears his throat a little and you remain impossibly patient as the Mandalorian collects his thoughts, "It is what I think of when I see you, or what you must think when you look up at the stars."

You think of all the words you would typically use to describe the sky on a clear night like this one and can't possibly fathom someone seeing you the same way. You can’t imagine him looking at you and seeing supernovas and the vibrant swirls of galaxies in your own eyes; you find it hard to believe that anyone could perceive you as ethereal or fascinating. The Mandalorian must be jesting with you, trying to make you feel better about how hard you are on yourself, though you’ve never known him to be a liar.

Could someone truly believe you to be celestial like the stars that beckon you and cause an achy, longing feeling in your chest at night?

You shake your head a little, "Please do not make fun of me, Mandalorian. I could take it from anyone else, but not from you."

"I would never," He repeats, his voice dropping lower and more gruff, though you hear something more desperate in his tone, "I would never lie when I tell you how pretty I think you are and I would break the bones of anyone who would think it funny to insult you."

“You cannot solve everything with violence, silly man.”

He scoffs, forgetting entirely about the flower he’d robbed you of,“For you?sure I can.”

You move your hand to tuck a stray curl behind the curve of your ear, cheeks burning something fierce as he dutifully envelopes your hand in his much larger one, using the other to assume the task of taming your long hair and finishing it off by placing the flower he’d borrowed behind your ear. A soft exhale deflates your chest when you feel the rough pad of his index finger grazing the shell of your cartilage and you find yourself focusing on the geometric shape in the center of his cuirass instead. Your hand falls out of his and you tuck it next to your other between your thighs in a feeble attempt to keep the warm and from wringing together in a nervous fashion.

"You said that word means what I think when I look up at the stars, but what if I find the stars or these waterfalls to be more than pretty or beautiful? What if I could not think of a word to properly describe what I feel when I see the sky on a night like this one? Or how the moonlight looks when it reflects off your visor and armor?"

His fingers swiftly move to the bottom of your earlobe and you think he must be amused by how hot the flesh is there, no doubt burning his own rough skin. You may have caused him to grow slightly flustered, but he certainly has you beat in this lovely competition where you think there would not be any losers, only two blushing souls that don’t know how to properly display their feelings. If your last comment about the moonlight affected him at all, he certainly doesn’t let it show in his strong, steady hands or his deep baritone.

“Then I guess Mandalorians need a better word to describe someone or something that is more than beautiful--for what you see when you look at the stars and when I look at you. Perhaps someone should make revisions to the language and use you as inspiration to come up with something more fitting, mesh’la.”

You’re not sure why the emotionless gaze of his shiny visor makes you feel intoxicated and lightheaded, but you find yourself growing flushed whenever the Mandalorian lowers his helmet and cocks it to the side to get a better look at your face. He huffs out a small chuckle when you press your palms to your burning cheeks and you’re sure that your heart is about to leap right out of your chest and straight into your Mandalorian’s warm palm. You’re certain you would trust him not to crush it in a tight fist, especially after witnessing the utter caution he had displayed to not accidentally rip the petals or bruise the stem of something that he was well aware of that was so precious to you.

You think that perhaps the Mandalorian already holds your heart in his hand and while the startling thought should absolutely terrify you, it fills you with a tender warmth.

As if it’s not enough that you feel like you’re about to combust, the Mandalorian seals the deal as he gently pries your hands from your cheeks and replaces them with his own; the stark contrast in size and warmth makes you feel as though you’ve stolen his jetpack and are floating high in the night sky. He urges you to tilt your head to the side and upwards to peer up at his emotionless visor and you shiver when one of his hands slowly slides down the side of your exposed neck. Something about the way the moonlight and glittering stars that hang high above you and how it emphasizes the dull color of his blue-gray armor has you squirming around a little bit.

"Is your skin always this warm, or is it because of what I said?"

If you weren't so flustered, you would have laughed at the question; you are certain he is being sly and cocky with you and you pray that you won’t spontaneously combust into flames, "Don't tease me, Mandalorian, you know what you're doing to me. I think you’ve known since that night you carried me home and played with my hair."

You hate that your voice comes out as a shaky sigh--a dreamy little noise that has the blue warrior grunting and bringing your face closer to him. It seems to be something he absolutely adores, having you this close to him and you think it must be something he takes advantage of because he hasn’t experienced it before. You wonder how often he has the chance to take off his thick leather gloves to feel the warmth of another and selfishly, you hope that you are the only one he’s touched like this in a while.

"Do I? I don't think I know what I do to you, would you care to explain, mesh'la?" Judging by his light tone, you think he must be grinning underneath that blue bucket and when you anxiously bring your lower lip between your teeth, he’s swift to untuck it with the rough pad of his thumb, "Or should I keep teasing you? I can play with your hair again, if that’s what you really want?”

Your cheeks puff out against his palms and you squirm a little, though he keeps you firmly in place, still stroking the valley just underneath your lip, "You can do whatever you wish, Mandalorian, I would prefer to not see the weight of your ego crush you though."

A loud laugh drifts past his crackly modulator and you think the sound is lovelier than the loud waterfalls that surround the two of you, "I am pretty strong, I think I could handle the weight."

You shake your head at the confidence he exudes, though your cheeks still burn as you banter playfully with him and let him continue to tenderly hold you head however he pleases, “Men like you are all bark and no bite.”

“I can assure you that my bite is just as strong as my bark, mesh’la--or would you prefer to feel it firsthand?”

“Kriff,” You roll your eyes at him and though you try your hardest to appear exasperated with him, you can’t stop the smile that stretches your lips,“You’re insufferable when you get this cocky.”

“Something makes me think you like it,” His voice drops into a cool, deep rasp and you’re extremely aware of the way his thumb dips to the hollow of your throat before skimming along your collarbone, lightly pushing his cape out of the way,“You would tell me to stop if you were ever uncomfortable, wouldn’t you?”

You quickly steel your nerves as he continues to explore your shoulders the skin exposed just above the collar of your dress,“I mean, I haven’t stabbed you yet with the vibroblade you gave me, so I would say you’re good so far, Mandalorian.”

Risking a curious glance up at your aloof companion, your cheeks and earlobes instantly feel like burning coals when you realize his visor is pointed directly at your face and though you would never wish to intentionally disrespect his creed, you yearn to know how his eyes look whenever he decides to gaze upon you. Are his eyes just as expressive as he insists yours are? Do the corners crinkle whenever he laughs or smiles at your silly antics or when you sass him? Do they shimmer with sadness or shame whenever he discovers a new bruise, cut, or scar on your abused skin?

You think of dark eyes, glimmering ferociously with wrath and pain, rather than pity, because you refuse to believe the Mandalorian pities you.

You ponder all these questions deeply as you stare into the abyss of his visor, though you think the way the moonlight reflects off of it is just as lovely of a sight that you’re certain his eyes are. Though you long to see him all hours of the day, you think that the subtle glow of the moonlight bathing his dull blue armor in a soft, pearlescent shimmer makes for a better, more comfortable setting, rather than bleak gray skies that make the world around you so dreary.

A soft sigh leaves you and your chest deflates when his thumb grazes your brow; he almost seems fixated on a certain spot as he continues to stroke the soft little hairs at the end of the tail.

"You have a little scar here,” He observes with a small hum and he sounds thoughtful as his thumb ventures downwards to your cheekbone; you’re afraid that if you move in the slightest, he’ll pull his hand away, so you stay perfectly still as he traces the map of your face like he’s the best explorer in the galaxy.

“I got it as a child,” You inform him, lips twitching into a tiny smile when his thumb skims past the bridge of your nose, tickling the tip a little, “We used to have a tree in our backyard that I would always climb even though my mother told me not to. She was always so worried about me getting hurt, but you know how children are--they never listen and always go against their parents’ wishes. I loved climbing that tree though. It always made me feel like I was on top of the world and could do anything.”

You must have a fond or wistful expression etched on your face, because the Mandalorian breathes out a funny noise when you continue with your story, “I don’t remember how old I was, maybe seven or eight? But I had climbed as high as I could in that tree--higher than ever before--and I was so proud of myself. I remember how pretty the sunset looked from that high up and how the stars seemed a little closer, just like right now on top of this cliff. It was so peaceful and then--” Your cheeks nearly hurt from how much you’re smiling, because even though you had gotten hurt at the time, looking back on it now, it’s more amusing than anything, “A bird landed right next to me and scared me half to death.”

You’re not sure how it’s possible to feel judgment from an emotionless mask, but the Mandalorian manages to exude such energy as he shakes his helmet a little, “You… You fell out of a tree?”

“Yup,” You giggle a little when he continues to shake his head, “Face first into a rock. My parents were so upset with me and I remember forcing myself not to cry when my mother stitched up the wound because I didn’t want her to point out that I had been hurt because I disobeyed them.”

“Did you climb the tree after that?”

The nostalgia suddenly leaves you feeling a little melancholic and you shift your attention down to your hands that are tucked politely between your thighs. You hope he doesn’t sense your sadness, though you think he must, what with the way the pressure against your jaw line lightens and how he tenderly grazes a thumb to the corner of your lips.

“My father cut it down the next day.”

His fingers twitch against your flushed skin and though you know it upsets him whenever you mention anything having to do with your father and how you are nothing more than a prisoner in a world so bleak and unforgiving, you find solace and comfort in confessing your fears and sad thoughts to the Mandalorian. You’ve never owned the luxury of being able to openly display your vulnerability in front of another, but with him, you feel as though you can bare your soul and perhaps one day, the rest of your scars etched in your skin and your heart.

“Then maybe one day, I will cut him down as well.”

His terse words sound like a promise and you feel a little sick at how the thought of your father’s demise fills you with hope.

“He is my father,” You remind both the Mandalorian and yourself, still refusing to meet his Beskar gaze, “He is family.”

“No, mesh’la,” He drops his helmet and you shiver from the cold press of metal against your forehead; his hand drops to your waist and lightly squeezes it, “He is a monster that deserves to feel shame for what he’s done to his own blood. I would make him suffer, just as you have your entire life because of him. I would make him feel your pain.”

You close your eyes as the metal warms underneath your skin and you hesitantly bring a hand up to touch his blue cheek, “I would not ask you of that, Mandalorian--to do such a thing.”

He grunts and pulls you in a little closer, “Why’s that?”

“Because I do not want to believe you are capable of doing what he has done to me.”

His hand instantly freezes on your cheek upon hearing your quiet sentiment and you fear that you've said something bad or offensive, though you think it's not that. Perhaps having such a notorious reputation of his people being brutes or savages has him believing it to be true, though you don't think being ruthless or fearless should automatically equate to being recognized as a cruel human being.

You’ve seen his kindness firsthand and you’re certain that his anger and need for vengeance comes from a good place in his soft heart.

With a sad smile, you carefully sling your legs over one of his padded thighs and fold yourself closer against his side, shivering a little when a cold breeze wafts past the two of you; he’s dutiful to tug his cape tighter around you and you think you could stay like that for however long the Maker will let you live.

His fingers are splayed wide against your side, his thumb rubbing haphazard shapes against your bruised ribs, though the pressure is deliberately light and more of a tickle than anything else. You turn your head until it's situated comfortably between the inside of his bicep and his cuirass, just above where you hope his heart is beating just as frantically as yours.

"I would feel ashamed for you to see me that way," You swear you hear his natural voice underneath the lip of his helmet and you shudder when his hand lazily slides to the base of your spine, "But if I ever saw him and he… if he ever hurt you to the point where you could not be healed, I would not hesitate to act so cruelly and I would not let anyone stop me," Goosebumps rise on your covered arms and you're not sure if it's from his promise or the way his fingers drag tortuously slow up your back, "I understand you do not wish for more violence and I respect that, but I do not know how much longer I could let this go on."

You let out a deep exhale when his hand promptly lands on your hip and gives it a firm squeeze, "You worry far too much for me, Mandalorian."

"I do not worry nearly enough for you, saviin'ika," He sighs when you move your head to peer up at him through the thick abundance of your lashes, "If I did, he would have been a dead man that day you stitched me up and he talked to you that way. I would burn that whole fucking village to the ground if… if you were taken away from me. I would do anything for you.”

“I--” You feel speechless at how raw he’s being with you, confessing what you think is a fear that he’s veiled with a threatening promise, “You haven’t known me that long and you…?”

His free hand moves to the hollow at the base of your throat and your breath hitches when he feels your erratic pulse thrumming underneath his rough fingertips, “I know your heart, mesh’la--I knew what kind of person you were from the moment you offered me that salve and didn’t expect anything in return. I know that…” He makes a funny noise upon noticing the way you shiver when he slowly drags his hand up the column of your neck, “I know that I think about you more than I think about anyone else and that every time I try to sleep, all I can think of is your smile and those flowers you always put in your braids. Sometimes I swear I can smell them in your hair, but I must be imagining it for my own selfish purposes--it’s too sweet of a scent.”

When you speak, it’s a breathy whisper that barely reaches the bottom of his shiny visor, fogging it up a little, “Mandalorian…”

“You were scared of me that night--after you stitched me up and I followed you out of the infirmary,” He remembers and even though it was only over a month ago, you feel as though you’ve know him for far longer; that night feels like it took place lifetimes ago, “Before I told you that I wanted to walk you home, you thought I was going to hurt you and I never cared about scaring others before, but you--”

You struggle to blink away the tears in your eyes as he spills his heart out to you, something that you’re certain can’t be an easy feat when he’s spent so much of his life covered in metal that disguises what he’s truly feeling, but you remain silent as he continues.

“I made you cry and I didn’t like it, that I made you feel that way when I could tell it was something you were used to feeling so much--that kind of fear and dread,” He sighs, a grave sounding noise, and shakes his helmet at the memory, as if it’s something that constantly haunts him, “I don’t want you to feel sad when you’re with me; I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I want you to feel safe and... and cared for.”

“The only reason I feared you at first is because I was a naive fool that chose to listen to the rumors about your people,” You remind him, not happy with how distraught he sounds as he recalls your unfortunate first meeting and how badly you he had caused you such fear with his mere presence, “I knew what kind of man you were the moment you gave me your vibroblade to protect myself with.”

He steadily holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head backwards so you’re forced to look directly into his visor where you think his eyes fondly peer down at you, “And what kind of man is that, little nurse?”

You are very much aware of the close proximity between you two, your legs still draped over his thigh and his heavy arm wrapped firmly around your waist to prevent you from escaping, though you think you would never attempt such a feat.

Not when he’s warming you from the inside out.

“An honorable man who’s deathly loyal to the ones he cares for and deems worthy of his affections.”

He thoughtfully gazes at you for a few moments, thumb steadily swiping and exploring the soft angles and valleys of your jaw line,“Do you think I deem you worthy of my affections?”

“I am not sure if I would deserve something so precious,” You admit in a breathy whisper,“But maybe someday I will allow myself to believe myself worthy of such a thing.”

He grunts and shakes his helm,“You are worth so much more, mesh’la, so much more.”

He sounds like he’s being genuine and utterly serious, so you give him a shy smile and nod a little, not trusting your voice at the moment.

You think he must not experience skin contact often, what with the way his rough fingers always trace your cheeks or jaw line when you two are alone, but you find that you don't mind his curious hands one bit and you think him to be endearing. Any time his bare fingers graze your skin, you think it to be similar to a child’s curiosity, as though he’s experiencing something astounding for the first time ever and you pray that he never tires of the sensation, especially when you crave it so badly.

Maker, do you crave the rough warmth of his fingers against any part of you.

“For a big grouchy Mandalorian, you’re not too terrible with words.”

You're sitting so close to him that you hear an amused snort from underneath his helmet and your smirk instantly turns into a grin when he retorts with a tug of your earlobe, though it's not enough to cause any discomfort. After getting to know him a little better in the last week, you find it endearing that the Mandalorian seems more confident when it comes to touching you, no longer treating you like some sort of fragile ornament. When he occasionally touches your neck, his fingers are no longer a ghost of a touch, and as though it’s instinct to constantly comfort you, he uses a firmer pressure to melt the knots and aches away, rather than hesitant, light touches he had been giving you during your first few initial meetings.

Now, he seems to constantly seek close contact, whether he’s wearing gloves or not, and you certainly won’t deny him such a small request.

It’s not like you absolutely crave it--a comforting squeeze of your nape or the way he holds you close when he's using his jetpack and carrying you to the cave. You think of the way he barely nudges you with his shoulder or when he playfully tugs your earlobe whenever you jest around with him, or how determined his hands are when they map out the slopes and valleys of your face and neck.

Then there's the way he always touches your hair so fondly--always with a bare hand and you think that perhaps he's afraid that his gloves are too dirty and he's afraid of somehow soiling your usually unruly mane. Perhaps he just prefers to feel the soft locks against his skin and it's because of that presumption alone that you find yourself carefully combing out the knots in your hair more often, though you think it wouldn't matter to the warrior if your hair was a tangled mess all the time.

It's definitely not something you constantly daydream about when you find yourself miserable at work, or when you're unable to give into exhaustion at the end of the day. At first, you attempt to not think about the heavy-infantry warrior and the effect his mere presence has on you, but at some point about halfway through the week, you decided to simply give up and allow yourself a small semblance of hope and warmth.

"You have to be at the infirmary soon," He eventually sighs when the sun begins to barely rise over the horizon and you swear you hear guilt laced within his deep baritone; you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed, "I didn't mean to keep you up all night, saviin’ika. You could have been sleeping instead."

You smile fondly at the Mandalorian and tightly squeeze his hand, "I haven't been sleeping all that well lately, so I would much prefer to spend my time with you, rather than tossing and turning in my bed all night. Besides, it's been a while since I've seen the sunrise."

“Nevarro’s sunrises and sunsets aren’t that exciting or something to look forward to.”

You huff, "All sunrises are exciting, Mandalorian."

He hums and pulls you closer into an affectionate embrace; you think that without all the armor, it would be far easier to melt against him and stay trapped within the safety of his arms forever. You find that the times he chooses to hold you close is the only time you forget about your broken home and the two souls that haunt it--one full of despair and longing and the other filled with violence and rage.

You think of the Mandalorian, someone who comes from a tribe of fearless warriors that are astonishingly loyal to one another, and you understand why the nature of your situation upsets him so much. The little ones, foundling or blood, are the key to the Mandalorian existence and are all cherished and respected amongst all the adults, so of course any of his people would be horrified at the thought of intentionally hurting a child.

It’s for that reason that you constantly remind your Mandalorian that you are not a child, but an adult that has no control over their situation.

That being said, you selfishly allow yourself to think of a better life whenever he holds you or caresses your cheeks and hair--a life where you are far away from Nevarro and all of the cruel people that cause it to fester so terribly. You greedily think of a life with your blue Mandalorian on one of the many beautiful planets that he had previously described to you in great detail and it nearly forces tears into your eyes.

Only when your chest aches is when you remind yourself that it’s a foolish dream--a childish one that most likely won’t ever come to fruition.

You’re not sure how long the Mandalorian will choose to brighten up your bleak days, though having him here with you in this moment is enough to give you hope. He's already shown you that not everything on this planet is terrible and perhaps your future isn't as set in stone as you initially thought.

"I should take you back," He sounds disgruntled as the sun starts to turn the dark blue sky into shades of dull pinks and oranges, though there's a thin layer of fog that distorts what would have been a lovely view, "That way you can at least get a little sleep before work."

"You're one to talk," You petulantly argue, though he seems to know you well enough to understand you're being lighthearted with him, "I'm starting to think you don't ever sleep."

He scoffs a little and playfully squeezes your hip, "I nap sometimes.”

You frown as you reluctantly pull yourself away from the warmth of his embrace, already feeling colder as you slowly stand and try to shake the pins and needles from your feet. Holding out a hand for the Mandalorian to take, you grunt a little as you struggle to help him up, though he ends up doing most of the work, no doubt amused by your dramatic noises. You think the armor must add at least over twenty pounds and that’s not even including his heavy weapons and equipment, which must weigh twice as much.

You take one last look at the sunrise and the beautiful waterfalls as the Mandalorian straps his jetpack to his back; even though the waterfalls aren't nearly as massive about the ones you've read about in books, you think them to be no less breathtaking.

It's far more beautiful than anything your own mind could hope to conjure and as you observe the way the lengthy streams of water that cascades wildly off the edge of the slightly larger cliff twenty or so feet behind you and your companion, you wish you could burn the image into your mind for the rest of your days.

"Mesh'la," The Mandalorian's soft baritone pulls you from your wistful thoughts and you turn to him with a small smile, tucking his cape around your head in a protective manner so your flowers won’t get lost mid-flight, "You ready?"

"Yes, thank you for taking me here," Your smile grows when he offers you a hand that is now unfortunately clad in leather once again, his weapons and equipment all in place as well,“Perhaps we can come back someday.”

He easily tugs you into an embrace that is only slightly awkward because of the Beskar shell that protects him from a world that seems to despise his kind. Without the armor, you think that he’d give the most comforting hugs, what with his massive stature and big arms, though you’re willing to take what you can get from him.

“I would bring you back here or to the cave any night you wish.”

You huff and firmly wrap your arms around his neck as he takes off without giving you any warning, a small squeak leaving you and you’re certain he’s amused by the way his shoulders shake a little. His other hand comes up to the back of your head to keep his cape in place and you think he must be as protective of your flowers--if not more--than you are.

“Any night? Those are dangerous words, Mandalorian.”

He chuckles a little and rolls his helmet to the side when your fingers unconsciously dig into his nape, just underneath the lip of his helmet where fabric is bunched up,“You could ask me to take you to the cave every single night and I would happily do it if it meant I got to hold you like this all the time.”

You’re grateful that you can hide your flushed face against the crook of his neck, though you decide to muster up enough courage in an attempt to cause a reaction from him,“You don’t need the jetpack in order to hold me like this.”

His metal cheek bumps a little against your bare one as he struggles to get a good look at the bashful expression etched on your face and you shyly shift in his arms so you can lift your head and peer at him. You imagine a man flustered underneath all that armor, smiling so large that his cheeks hurt or perhaps his skin burning just as hotly as yours had earlier when he had been hellbent on making you accept your beauty and worth.

You wonder if the Mandalorian would be as open and flirty with you if his heart was buried so deep underneath layers or padding and Beskar, where he was easily able to conceal his fears or insecurities and you think it must be easy for him.

“Yeah?” The Mandalorian interrupts your thoughts when he lightly nudges the hollow of his blue cheek against yours again, though it somehow seems much more tender this time, as if he’s calmed himself,“And what if I want more? I can be a selfish man sometimes, saviin’ika.”

You conceal your smile against the lighter blue patch in the hollowed metal, trying your hardest not to giggle like a child with a crush on someone that you know you can’t have. The gritty nature of his low baritone makes something warm expand in the pit of your stomach and you know it’s no longer because of the weightless feeling of flying high in the sky with your Mandalorian, but rather the promise of his words.

You think he sounds just as longing as you feel for something you convinced yourself long ago that you were undeserving of and you wonder if he’s dreamed about this as long as you have.

“Then perhaps that makes two of us,” You whisper, continuing when you hear him grunt a little,“I know you think me to selfless and pure, but I have wants and dreams as well, Mandalorian.”

He doesn’t say anything at the small drop in your tone, but the way he squeezes your hip tells you everything you need to know as he expertly makes his way back to the village that is barely starting to come alive in the early hours. He lands on the outskirts of the village, taking great care to make sure you don’t collapse, as your legs always feel so numb and wobbly after he carries you, and dread courses through your veins when you eventually see the infirmary in the distance.

“Saviin’ika,” The blue warrior gently grabs your wrists, keeping you from taking another step forward, though his grip is light and tender, leather thumbs grazing the insides of your wrists,“I cannot go any further, but I had a really nice night. I... I want to keep seeing you.”

You cock your head at how he suddenly sounds a little tense and shy, but you give him a small smile and nod a little; the moment feels a tiny bit awkward, like two souls that don’t know how to properly say goodbye after such a lovely date, “I had a nice night as well. I expect you to keep that promise of taking me to the cave or the waterfalls whenever I wish, Mandalorian.”

He chuckles at your playful, yet demanding tone, reluctantly accepting the cape that you briefly thought about stealing from him just so you wouldn’t forget his scent, “Of course, mesh’la. I would not be able to deny you anything at this point, I think, nor would I want to.”

“You spoil me,” You blush, sheepishly turning your gaze away from him,“Yet I do nothing for you.”

He scoffs, shaking his helm at you and he sounds exasperated when he speaks,“You give me far more than you know. I... I’ll see you later?”

The cockiness in his deep baritone is gone and suddenly replaced with something more bashful and endearing, almost as though he’s intimidated by you.

“I’ll be here, as usual.”

“Is that a promise?”

“I would never lie to you,” You answer with a fond grin, watching as the warrior turns to take his leave; in your usual fashion, you’re quick to stop him, a playful expression etched along your features, “Mandalorian, wait!”

He faces you once more and his body seems to straighten up a little when he sees you plucking sapphire and violet wildflowers from your braids with the same grace he’d display upon fighting an enemy.

The blue Mandalorian cocks his head to the side, no doubt confused as you bundle the pretty flowers together before making your way over to him with a nervous energy surrounding you. You pray to the Maker that he doesn’t perceive you as ridiculous or childish as you grab his hand and pull it towards you with purpose and excitement. He gives absolutely no struggle when you flip the appendage over and unfurl his fingers from the loose fist he seems to constantly have them hooked into when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“What are you--?”

His voice almost sounds panicked as you place the tiny bouquet in his palm and push it back towards him with a huge grin stretched across your lips, cheeks burning as he shifts his attention multiple times from the flowers to you. It’s such a simple gesture, but you can tell it’s thrown the normally unbothered Mandalorian completely off his axis and you find him utterly endearing as he shakes his head and attempts to give them back to you.

“These are your flowers, saviin’ika. I would not take something so precious from you.”

“I have so many in my office and at home, Mandalorian,” You gently push his hand away once more and step a little closer to him, never removing your hand from his, “Besides, it is the least I can do for all you have done for me--always taking me away from the village and being so kind to me. The blue flowers are Lobelias and they have healing properties for respiratory ailments, should anything happen to anyone in your tribe and you are not able to bring them to me. The violets are good for soothing salves and are very anti-inflammatory; I’m sure they would be helpful for bruising or swelling.

He stares intensely at you and shakes his helmet a little,“You don’t have to... are you sure?”

“I know you said it is your duty to provide for your tribe and it seems as though you are lacking nurses and medical supplies; it would be an honor if you accepted my flowers, though I fear it is not as effective as bacta,” You grow a little shy when he remains deathly silent and you fear that you’ve offended him somehow, “Besides, you said earlier that sometimes you think you can sometimes smell them from under your helmet, so now you can find out for yourself when you are alone and able to take your helmet off.”

His tone is one you’ve never heard and it has you reaching up to touch his blue cheek as he speaks in a strained tone, foregoing all nicknames he’s bestowed upon you to utter your real name, though you think you much prefer how fond he sounds when he calls you ‘saviin’ika’.

“I think I would much prefer to smell them while they’re still in your hair.”

You think he’s just trying to cover up the shift in his attitude with a flirty comment and his personality must be rubbing off on you, because you are quick and coy to reply.

“Then perhaps one day you will.”

“Th-Thank you,” His baritone is a coarse rasp and you beam at him a little brighter because you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so grateful for something so simple; he lowers his helm and firmly presses his forehead to yours, though he keeps it there for several longing moments, a leather palm cupping your nape to keep you in place, “I will tell the others what you did--that you wished to help us. I think they would appreciate knowing that there are others that care.”

“I am glad. I cannot imagine being hated just for the armor you wear or your reputation,” You murmur, dropping your hand and watching as he gingerly tucks the bundle of flowers into the large pouch attached to his hip, taking great caution so he doesn’t crush the petals; your cheeks hurt from smiling so much as he pulls out tiny daggers and other belongings from the pouch so they won’t bring any harm to his newest, most fragile possessions, “The nodes are attached to flowers as well, so if you wish to plant them, they will be easy to re-grow.”

He huffs out a small chuckle, “Our kind are forced to live in sewers. We don’t get any sunlight underground, little nurse. Besides, I am not nearly as talented of a gardener as you.”

“They would grow just as well with artificial light, Mandalorian, and they are extremely easy to take care of,” You say, matter-of-factly, with a sly smile and quirked brows as he cocks his helmet to closely regard you, “Though I would not mind giving you more, regardless of what you do with the ones I have given you.”

“That would… it would be nice,” He admits quietly and you grin at your companion, earning you an exasperated shake of the helmet from him, “You are far too kind."

“After everything you have done for me--the hope and happiness you have filled me with--it is the least I can do. I would give you every flower I’ve ever grown if you asked.”

He hesitates as he reaches back into the pouch to retrieve one of your many beloved violets, stepping closer to tuck it securely behind the cartilage of your ear with great care,“It would be unfair and cruel to leave you with not a single flower in your hair, mesh’la. I would not allow anyone to rob you of your only possessions, especially not myself.”

You’re beaming up at him like a love-struck fool and he must be distracted as much as you are, because neither one of you sense the furious gaze that’s fixated on the two of you from down the street.

He leaves you with his usual parting words,“Take care of yourself, little nurse.”

“You as well, Mandalorian.”

Despite your promise, the Mandalorian does not see you later that night.

Saviin’ika= Little violet

Mesh’la= Beautiful

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach​ @macabrefaerie​ @acynicalcat​

For the love of God, if I missed anyone, please send me an angry message and I will quickly add you :( I have a notebook where I keep track of everything, but I’m still terrified I’m going to forget someone and I absolutely do not want that bc I love you all so much <3

Anyways, I know this chapter was literally 99% fluff/hurt/comfort with a freaking cliffhanger (I am so sorry) But I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! The support and love you all have given me so far has been so encouraging and I’ve been having so much fun writing this soft ass story!!

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|| Homesick || Kuroo Tetsurou X Reader

✘ Wordcount: 4,5k

✘ Genre: Angst, fluff. smut

✘ Warnings: NSFW

Author Note: What is it about my need to write angst lately? Anyway, Enjoy! (criticism is always welcome)

This started out as a 500 words drabble, but it got out of hand.

Kuroo had no idea how he would get through this fucking course without breaking down at some point. The worksheets and load of work he had to pull through would get him a few early gray hairs, his psyche suffering tremendously, but oh well... that’s what college was about.

The only thing he looked forward to was getting home, where you were probably waiting for him with a warm smile and a heart-melting “welcome”. Those were the time where he could feel all of his stress and negativity dissipate into thin air.

The sound of the lock opening brought a flutter in his stomach, him already anticipating the sweet relief of finding you there upon opening the door.

The cold and dark room was the only thing to receive him.

Oh, right... you were not there anymore.

You had left a long time now, exhausted by his constant neglect. Could he blame you though? Of course not.

If he was honest, in fact, he wouldn’t have put up with his sorry ass for half of the time you did. But seeing the empty shoe rack by the door, and the hangers stripped from that hideous scarf you insisted on wearing, he could not fight the tears that threatened to fall. What was he supposed to do now?

The click of the switch brought light into his house, which he no longer called home. Kuroo ran a hand through his messier than usual hair, and sighing heavily he left his bag on the floor, not caring about his spilled books.

He didn’t feel like doing his project anymore, and talking to your mutual friends would only bring him more despair, as Bokuto seemed to only know how to talk about you.

The creaking of the mattress when he heavily fell on it used to bring him joy, because it was often accompanied by your soft giggle, followed by the usual“Tough day, huh?”

You had no idea.

You had no idea just how tough his days had been since you left, depriving his apartment from the spark it used to have.

It was unfair for him to feel this sour about the situation. Break-ups sucked, and he had every right to feel hurt about it, but he recognized his actions had lead to the outcome. You tear-streaked face would hunt him for eternity.

“I can’t handle this anymore Kuroo...” Your whispered words, so tiny and fragile, but so powerful at the same time, breaking his heart in a million pieces.

The words died in his mouth, so he just steeped aside, letting you go without even trying to make you stay.

All theI love you’sand promises he never got to make, all the late night snacks and pillow talks you would never share.

Now they were nothing but a wish, an illusion that dissipated into thin air.

The first week you were gone, he was resentful and shady over social media, like he was only a teenager who’s crush rejected. But, as Kenma had put it in simple words. He was just a sore loser.

You had tried your best, but the fights started to rise, In volume, in frequency, in anger. And they were about the stupidest things ever, like him not feeling like getting up on his sparse free moments to go out with you, him refusing to eat with you at the table. Once you were gone, he regretted letting all of his frustration and stress out on you.

Half of his helplessness came from a selfish place if he really thought about it. You were his mini vacation, his heaven on earth, and he had destroyed it, even noticing his mistake until it was too late and the sheets were cold, just like the half-finished cup of tea you had left at the counter, and he still didn’t have the courage to put away.

Akaashi’s couch was soft and comfortable, hugging your body as if it was a cloud.

But it wasn’t Kuroo’s bed. The warmth the boy irradiated as he sleeps was missing. The way he would sometimes mumble nonsense or when his hand would reach for yours in the middle of the night, simply because.

Those were the things you missed the most. At those times at night you couldn’t help but think. Were you over reacting?

You knew he was stressed about school, maybe you shouldn’t have been as harsh, but thinking about letting him go over you like if you were nothing but the shoe mat in the front door, made a bitter taste settle in the back of your mouth and a resentment you never wanted to have towards him bloom.

If you didn’t walk away when you did you would have ended up hating him, or hating him in the tough moments at least, because when everything was going good, Kuroo made you feel like you were floating, and oh so loved.

But he tended to lock himself inside his head, submerging in a spiral of unhealthy habits of insomnia and a full gallon of caffeine to keep going. Shutting you out completely, brushing your attempts at spend time with him off.

Sighing, you rolled on the couch by the tenth time that hour, restless and sad. Akaashi’s apartment was pitch black. The only thing cutting through all the blackness was your phone, displaying a picture of you and Kuroo, smiling at the museum, in front of a painting of Marie Curie. That one was taken in summer vacations, when he still hadn’t started his courses and could spend some time with you while being awake.

Maybe it was unfair of you to disappear from his life out of nowhere, just picking everything up and running to hide behind your friend, not able to confront Kuroo and see his reaction at your abandonment for more than ten seconds.

You turned again, the blanket wrapped around your shoulders slipping to your waist. You didn’t even bother to readjust it.

“You know, I Can hear your sorrow all the way from my room.” Akaashi’s voice startled you, Looking up you noticed his silhouette in the living room entrance. Sighing, he uncrossed his arms and started towards the kitchen. “I’m going to make tea.”

Two heartbeats later, a steaming cup was in your hands, your friend sitting next to you, sipping his green tea in silence.

“Okay...” He said once he finished the cup, leaving it in the table. His voice calm and collected. “What is it? You obviously need to talk.” You kept silence, focusing on the pale color of your drink. It didn’t taste like Kuroo’s tea at all. This one was missing something... You sipped again, still unsure about speaking up about what was bothering you.

“ I know it’s about Kuroo, and I know you need help to figure your feeling out... But understand I Can’t help you if you don’t speak to me... I’ve been patient for the two weeks and a half you’ve been crashing in my couch.” He turned to you, resting his elbow in the back of it, his face supported by his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, i love having you here and all. But it’s obvious you don’t. Judging by the way you’re stabbing daggers at the tea...”

“Sorry, I just...” You didn’t know what to say. That you missed Tetsuro’s bed or his tea? That you could not get the way he sings in the shower to cheesy 80’s songs out of your head? Or the way your hand always felt empty without his in it? “I miss him...” That seemed to sum it up pretty well.

“I thought you couldn’t handle the relationship anymore...” He prompted

You shook your head, setting your still full cup in the table.

“I couldn’t... but I don’t know” You were bad at communicating, maybe that was one of the reasons you chose to escape rather than talk.

“Do you think you could have handle things different with him when it started getting rough?” Akaashi’s words were intense, just like the look he was giving you, his clever gaze analyzing up every single reaction you made.

Yeah, in fact, you thought about that.

Maybe that was why you were so restless, the guilt o knowing you could have done more for the two of you, but choose to do nothing weighted on your conscious

“You know, if you want to go back with him, that doesn’t make you any less strong (Y/N)... Sometimes we just don’t handle our emotions in the right way. And it seems to me that the both of you made a few mistakes... Maybe you should talk to Kuroo. Who knows? This time it could go better...” Akaashi got up and went to his room, throwing a “Try to rest” Over his shoulder.

What were you going to do? The shame of your actions overshadowed all logic and reason.

What if Kuroo told you to fuck off? He could hate you for all you knew.

You hadn’t made up your mind the next morning, still teetering on the edge to throwing your pride to the garbage and just beg him to take you back or just leave everything as it was. Time cured everything, right?

Coincidentally with this debate you were having between logic and feelings, your college sent you an email regarding a few missing papers you needed to hand over in the office. Bad -or good-thing was, you left that folder at Kuroo’s place thinking you wouldn’t need it anymore.

Seems like you would have to see him, you wanted it or not.

Three knocks on his door woke Kuroo up that Saturday morning.

He considered the possibility of just not getting up, too tired by his restless nights to function properly, but by the time whoever was outside the door knocked again he was walking to the door, throwing a random hoodie that was lying around his naked torso to look somewhat presentable. He didn’t want to look like a perv in case it was his landlady, a sweet grandma that was always nice and used to bring you cookies from time to time. Kuroo remembered tenderly those times where the lady and you would spend hours in the corridor sharing recipes and exchanging goodies.

He missed those days.

Kuroo opened the door and froze in the middle of zipping the hoodie up.

Was he dreaming? It wouldn’t be the first time, Those weeks without you were a torture, and your memories usually haunted his dreams, you in the arms of someone else were a popular theme in his subconscious.

And now, you were there, right in front of him, close enough to extend his hand and brush the skin on your cheek. He was dumbfounded, not able to emit a word.

He thought you were no longer going to speak to him, sending Akaashi or Bokuto to pick up the remainder of your stuff.

“Um... Hi” You hesitated, trying to look at anything but his exposed mid drift, but failing completely. “Sorry to bother, but I forgot a few important papers the last time I was here.” you tried to say as nonchalantly as possible

“Oh... “ He said, stepping aside, letting you into the apartment you used to share. “Sure... Do you remember where it was?”

You took a step in and the rush of longing took you by surprised.

You missed that tiny and uncomfortable couch so much, and the horrible square pattern blanked Kuroo bought ant kept in the chair next to it. The curtains that would slap you in the face if the windows behind the sofa was open, everything there felt like home, and you knew you were the one to go away in the first place, but still.

Akaashi was right, you didn’t even try to talk to him before running away, too traumatized by past experiences to even try to make it work. Th tears choked you and threaten to fall.

It was too late. Asking to try again would be so selfish, after the mess you caused yourself.

“(Y/N)?” Tetsurō‘s gentle tone broke you out of your trance.

“Huh? Oh yeah, It’s probably in the bedroom...” Was it even appropriate for you to go inside his bedroom still? Kuroo must’ve noticed your hesitation because he signal with his hand for you to go first.. The flash of sadness in his eyes almost going unnoticed by you.

Everything was just as you left it inside the room. The same glass of water on the nightstand, your drawers only halfway closed cause you were in a rush when you left, afraid that you back out of your dumb and rushed plan to break up with him all of the sudden, thinking that way would be better, just like ripping a band-aid.

In the bookcase against the wall you spotted the red folder you came looking for. Once it was in your grasp, you really didn’t have an excuse to delay your exit from Kuroo’s house... that used to be your home, and that you wanted so bad to call it home once again.

Turning back to him, who was standing at the door you hugged the folder to your chest.

“So... this was it. Thank u Tets...” You noticed your mistake and tried to correct it “Kuroo... I better leave now.” You advanced towards the door, but his sulked figure blocked the way. “Kuroo?”

You looked up at him, and the tears in his hazel orbs stunned you. His lips trembled slightly and with a frustrated groan he rubbed his eyes harshly.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, keeping them covered. A broken sigh shaking his shoulders, “I hate this... I hate it so much...”

Your heart clenched, and you regretted not sending Akaashi in your place. He obviously wasn’t okay with you there.

“Oh um... Sorry, I’ll just leave now.” You attempted to sidestep him to get out of the room, but in heart beat his long arms wrapped around you and pulled you into his chest.

The sobs of the boy you loved made his chest vibrate under your skin, and the pain he was feeling you could feel it too. You didn0t hesitate, and as if it was a second nature to you, you squeezed him harder, kissing the soft bare skin of his chest, as you felt your chest collapse into itself.

Could someone die from sadness and love at the same time? Because that was how you were feeling.

“I’m sorry... I know it’s too late and all... But I really am sorry...” He started, his words coming out strangled by the tears, but you shushed him as the tears slipped over your cheeks, leaving wet trails on them.

“Shh... I’m sorry too.” You chocked on a I love that you refused to let slip past your lips. He could be trying to move on, and this was just a minor setback, you would not be that selfish and just throw your feeling into him.

Still presses against his body, you sighed

You missed so badly the feeling of his arms around you, and the way your body fit into his in all the right places, his hands burying themselves in your hair as he brought you closer to him.

Kuroo Tetsurō was your home. The home you lost the key to, locking yourself out of it in a careless action.

“(Y/N)?... I’m sorry...” You opened your mouth to say it was okay when he spoke again. “I love you so much... and I’m so sorry I pushed you away...” The air was sucker punched out of your lungs. And now it was your body, the one being rocked by uncontrollable sobs.

You loved him too, but were too busy weeping to respond to his declaration.

Kuroo held you in his arms, while the both of you cried.

It was almost therapeutic, finally being able to apologize about his mistakes.

Something muffled came out of your mouth and he didn’t catch it, since the got lost against his skin, your warm breath tickling him.

“What baby?” He asked, and wanted to kick himself for it. He was not respecting your decision of separating with his actions and words, but he couldn’t help the overwhelming waves of emotions that watched over him.

“I want to come back home...” Kuroo stayed silent, processing what you just said. “I’m sorry for not trying to make us work Tetsu... But I miss you like crazy, and I was scared and I don’t know what I was thinking... I’m just so sorry...”

His response was simple. He hugged you closer, picking you up like he had done so many times in that same room.

He sat at the end of the bed, with you sitting on his lap, your head tucked in the crook of his neck while his hands caressed your scalp.

Once the sobs retreated, you lifted your head and looked at him in the eyes. Your eyelashes were shimmering with the remaining wetness the tears left behind, your nose was red as well as your cheeks.

Your eyes scanned his face and Kuroo held his breath when you leaned in, your lips softly brushing his, almost as if you feared rejection.

He could never say no to you.

He applied a little more pressure and he finally tasted your lips again. God, how he missed the feeling of your lips against his. Your breath tickled his mouth each time you pulled away to take a breath in between kisses.

Kuroo’s hands went to your back as the kiss rose in intensity. Your hands grabbed his shoulders, your fingers pressing his arm.

Kuroo could feel his erection grow, pressing against his gym shorts, and he was sure you could feel it too by the way your face was getting hotter to the touch.

You readjusted on top of him, your hips straddling his, and the friction from the movement tore a moan from his throat. Embarrassed, he tried to kiss you again to hide his blush, but you pulled away and looked him dead serious in the eyes. He started to feel nervous and was about to apologize, when all of the sudden you moved again, grinding against him. He let out another whiny moan and an entertained glint flashed across your eyes.

Your fingers found the zipper of the hoodie, and the cold skin of your knuckles brushing him as you undid it, exposing his abs. You admired them for a second before kissing him again, breathing in his scent. Slipping the hoodie from his shoulders, a shiver traveled his spine when your fingers brushed the sensitive spot in his clavicle. And an amused smile twitched in the corner of your lips, as you brought your face down to meet your lips with his skin.

Your scorching mouth against his neck made his head spin, and when your teeth made an appearence, he could not help the clench of his stomach, the nibbles you left on his skin sending a tingling to his toes. He sucked in a sharp breath when to licked behind his ear all of the sudden, and the low chuckle on his ear snapped him out of the daze you had him in.

Grabbing your hip and back, he pressed you harder against him, and a gasp left your lips. Smiling smugly, he flipped both of you over.

Kuroo smile above you, as he teasingly trailed his fingers against your sides, until he came to a stop on the edges of your pants, looking at you once again to confirm you were still okay.

Your smirk was the only confirmation he needed.

He unbuttoned your jeans and he took them off, throwing the garment somewhere behind him. His mouth came down to your lips once again as his hand slipped inside your underwear that was a dripping mess because of him.

Pride swelled his chest at the thought he was the one making you feel like this, craving his touch just as much as he craved yours.

When his fingers brushed your clit, a strangled moan came out of you, and oh how much he missed the sounds you made when he touched you like that.

He kissed you like there was no tomorrow, his mouth claiming yours, teeth pulling your lips and soft words whispered into them as his finger kept stimulating you, a fog settling over your mind.

“I love you so fucking much...” His mouth went to your chin, and kept going down, trailing your skin, an electric shock struck you from head to toe when he kissed that one spot in your hip he knew drove you crazy. “So fucking beautiful...” He praised.

He kept going down, his lips ghosting over your inner thighs and his breath brushing over your cunt and making you whine out his name.

“Kuroo...” You said. Your hand digging into his hair as your eyes flutter closed.

“What is it, baby?” He asked, and you could even hear the mock in his tone. You were going to respond, when his teeth nibbled the sensitive skin, careful not to hurt you.

Pulling aside your underwear, his mouth found your pulsating sex. And a shock wave of ecstasy filled your body. It didn’t take too long for him to have you at the edge, your toes curling and your hand clutching his hair. Heaving breaths rose your chest and with one last flick of Kuroo’s tongue an orgasm hit you full force, his name coming out of your lips.

“Tetsu...” A series of spasms rocked your body, and your legs clenching around his head, and Kuroo Chuckled at your reaction, amazed at the intensity of your pleasure.

Once you came out of your high, Kuroo settled next to you in bed, his erection still present and bothering him a little, but he was content with making you feel good. He needed nothing else. He could take care of his arousal later.

Rolling over you sat on top of him, leaning down you kissed his neck as you dragged your hands down his abs, feeling the smooth muscles underneath your fingertips, and you noticed just how much you had missed the intimacy you both shared. Your hands kept traveling until you found the elastic of his pants and pulled them down, brushing his swelling member as you pulled the garment down, stripping Kuroo of his last garment.

With his pants out of the way, you could feel the heat from his cock against your wet pussy. He helped you take out your shirt and kissed the exposed skin in between your breasts.

You rubbed on him once more, and the friction ignited the fire in your stomach. You circled Kuroo’s neck with your arms, and leaned you damped forehead on his chest, soft moans coming out of your mouth.

Lifting your hips slightly you aligned Kuroo’s dick with your entrance and in one swift motion you were filled to the rim with him.

“Shit (Y/n)!�� He threw his head back, fingers digging at your hips, as you slowly adjusted to him. “God, I love you so much, I love you so fucking much baby...” Kuroo hissed. Kissing your temple, he then guided your hips up and down, feeling every inch of you tightening around him.

Your moans were shushed by his mouth, while your hips kept moving, feeling the way his member pushed at your walls, tightening the knot in the pit of your stomach.

Switching up the pace, Kuroo sat up and picked you up. Laying you on your back you admire the sight of him, his smooth skin and tall frame, his muscular legs and abs, his gentle hands, and his eyes that were so full of love.

You turned around, lifting your ass up and inviting him in. An almost animalistic growl left his throat at the sight.

“Please Tetsu...” You looked at him, with your eyes full of lust and a glint of mischief in them. “I want you inside of me”

In less than a heartbeat he was inside of you once more, his hips colliding mercilessly with your ass, the lewd sounds of skin against skin mixed with the whimpers that involuntarily came out of your throat as he pounded your pussy like he wanted to.

“Fuck, I missed so much being inside of you.” He grunted, biting his lip.

Kuroo picked up his pace, and you reached for his hand. Intertwining your fingers, he kissed your knuckles, leaning to bite your neck playfully right after.

You could almost feel his abdomen twitching with the need to release his load inside of you. Your chest was flushed against the bed, as Kuroo’s rhythmic movements hit every right spot.

“Tetsu...” You whispered. “Please cum inside of me... I need you.” You begged, aching to be filled by him once more. Your words caused something on him, as if you had stepped on the gas .

The thrust of his hips got more intense and fast, hammering your pussy like it was the sole purpose of his existence. Your thoughts were jumbled and the only coherent thing on your mind was his name, so that all you said.

“Fuck” He moaned, his erratic pace almost matching the beating of your heart. “Oh god baby.... shit.”

With two last powerful you felt him filling you with his cum, releasing three weeks of frustration and desire.

Kuroo tried to pull out of you, but you prevented it, grabbing his wrist and pulling him down to rest on top of you, his bare and sweat covered chest against your back.

A content sigh left his lips and he kissed your shoulder, and your heart could have exploded right then and there.

“So... Now what?” He said, asking the question you were too afraid to voice.

You didn’t know how to precede. Did he wanted to try again? Or was this only a fling of the moment and nothing more?

“Hey.” He called your attention, shifting slightly so he could be lying half of his body on the mattress. You turned your head to him and came nose to nose with him. Kuroo placed a chaste kiss on your lips. “Quit over-thinking and be honest... I won’t get mad if this is really over and you regret this thing we just shared.” His face showed a vulnerability uncharacteristic of him and your heart clenched.

“What do you want?” You turned the question around, a nervous flutter in your stomach.

Without hesitation in his voice or in his eyes, he answered

“You.” He pecked your lips, pressing your foreheads together. You observed his beautiful eyes as he reassured you. “That’s all I ever wanted... You’re my home (Y/n), this house feels empty without you... My life feels empty if you’re not sharing it with me. So... what do you say baby, do you want to give us another chance?” He asked.

“I’m happy to be home Tetsu...”

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Here’s a little something inspired by a twitter post by @lampmeeting. Thank you for letting me use your setting and allowing explore this idea :)

Summary: Magnus comes to his apartment after a long day from work and realizes he forgot Toki was coming to see him.

Pair: Toki and Magnus

Rating: T for language

He forgot Toki was due to arrive today. Well, that wasn’t entirely true: Magnus pretty much had the date engrained in every facet of his being, with the memo saved on both calendar and the company phone. But somewhere between being asked to pick up Dennis’ shift, spending a solid half hour trying to help sort a fight between two live-ins, being snubbed by the supervisor for appearing less than favorable around clients and forgetting to clock out at lunch (again), and having the misfortune of being the only one on duty with the knowledge to replace a flat tire, it must have slipped his mind. Then, to top it all off, Magnus very stupidly accepted staying behind to help clean the cafeteria’s storeroom. He did it despite already being in a mood, sore from kneeling and installing a new wheel for the company van, because he thought it might amount to some small, positive thing. His supervisor redacting their previous statement about him, or some co-worker offering a smile instead of their usual candor regarding him and his temperament. It didn’t, and instead of clocking out at half past three like he planned, didn’t reach the floor to his apartment until five in the evening, where he found Toki already situated, phone at hand and a few klokateers at his side.

Toki lifted his head, eyes aglow with immediate interest the moment Magnus shut the door behind him. “Hiya Magnus!”

Unprepared, and quite shocked to see the younger man sitting amongst his furniture, Magnus spent a good second taking in the scene. There was Toki, smiling at him. Klokateers nodding and offering their silent warnings before slipping past and offering the two their privacy. His lower back twinging with icy stings. The clock on the microwave indicating the hour. The reminder on his calendar that Toki would be arriving around half past four. Toki approaching and snatching him by the hand. The weight of his work boots tripling, and the insane pang his arches endured with every step.

“Toki, you’re here?” he muttered amid his mental decay, and still pondered and repeated as Toki dragged him to the couch. He fell into the stiff cushion, good eye still fixed on the younger man’s form, hoping that this was all a terrible mistake, and Toki hadn’t just spent half an hour waiting for him.

A friendly peck on the cheek proved otherwise.

“You’re here,” Magnus muttered, palm resting against the freshly planted kiss. Shit, you’re here.”

“Yeps,” Toki replied joyfully, which only served to eat at Magnus’ already steeping guilt. He grabbed a collection of reusable bags, hoisting them and placing them on top of his laps for Magnus to view. “Broughts a lot of things this times. And now you ams here, so we can haves…”

Magnus raised his heavy head when he noticed Toki suddenly go silent. A quick glance provided a hint something was amiss, and when Magnus stopped trying to free his knotted shoelace, saw Toki wearing the oddest of looks.

“Something wrong?”

“Ams ok?”

Magnus dropped his leg. “What?”

“Looks a little tireds,” Toki answered with a small, worried pout. Again, it only made Magnus painfully aware of how late he was, and he regretted bothering to stay behind in the first place. Toki, how on earth did he forget Toki was visiting him today? And now the guy was staring at him like he was expecting Magnus to break down and admit he accidentally set the kitchen on fire. Well, it almost felt like it. Magnus would have rather that happen than half the other crap that occurred today. That would have been a decent enough excuse for being late. There was no way he was going to bring up what actually occurred. No point in wasting Toki’s precious time. The guy traveled thousands of miles to be here. It was Magnus’ turn to play good host.

With that in mind, Magnus pasted on a smile. He sucked in a sharp breath and swallowed the pain rooted in his lower back and legs, and said, “Well, I hung around work longer than normal.”

“Oh, ams dat why you ams so late?”

Ouch. Well, ok.

Pulling in his bottom lip for a bite, Magnus gave a slight nod. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“No, ams ok,” Toki insisted, perking his shoulder up and lifting the ends of his pout into a hopeful smile. “I dids say you should tries to make more friends here.”

“You did say that,” Magnus replied, trying to sound more relieved than annoyed by his current prospects.

If only Toki knew how half the staff reacted whenever he moseyed into a room, or how impatient and passive-aggressive his supervisor turned when he performed an action that was deemed subpar, or “not friendly enough,” whatever the hell that meant. As far as friends go, Magnus had several twenty-somethings bothering him over the smallest thing, and never picking up when he wanted space, or–

“So, why don’t you tells Toki abouts your day?”

Magnus tugged at a shoestring, eye wincing at the dull sting that quaked in his arch. Was it a blister, or just plain exhaustion? Then arrived the question, and when Magnus broke from his strain of thought, found Toki now inching closer with his round blue eyes locked on him.

With the same, tight smile, Magnus shook his head and waggled a finger at the encroaching Toki. “Nah, give me a moment. I’ll be ready to head out in a second.”

He returned to his work boots and tugged at the heel, wriggling it free as best he could without reawakening another sharp pang. Magnus yanked off the first, withholding a sigh he had building inside of him from the anticipation. He wiggled his free foot from its sock. Thankfully, no blisters, but a day on his feet in heavy work boots had left its effect. Hopefully Toki was in a limo mood today, and not a walking and exploring one.

“Wants some helps?”

Magnus was busy working the second boot when a hand entered his vision, sliding over his own. Soft, large and warm. Toki’s hands. Magnus’s eyes widened at the sight of Toki fingers sliding over his, reaching for the laces and somehow undoing the knot with graceful ease. Magnus uttered a single complaint, a noise that suggested shame for being caught in a moment of weakness, but quickly gave in to watch Toki near him, yank off the second boot and then bring his hands to cup and hold Magnus by the heel. Another, gentler yank, and cold air washed over his afflicted foot. A finger glided down the sole, and Magnus flinched. It wasn’t the tickle, but the irritating flash of pain that racked up the foot, raced up his leg and added to the collective pain settled in his lower back.

Toki’s eyes fixed on his reaction. “Oh, wowee. Magnus, what did you and your pals do all days? Runs around in circles?”

“Something like that,” Magnus said, eye wincing right as Toki began squeezing his arch. He bit his tongue, keeping as straight a face as he could. Was this happening? Was Toki aware of what he was doing?

“Oh? Tell Tokis?”

Another controlled squeeze suggested so. Magnus had had the pleasure of dealing with a playful Toki. A grabby Toki. This was not the same. This was two thumbs firmly pressed into sore muscles, massaging circles and breaking down tight knots built up from stress and overwork. This was another glimpse at a more mature Toki that Magnus had difficulty accepting, yet wanted to know better. Worst, this was yet another damn instance where he had messed up, and now Toki was forced to adjust. Well, not this time.

“In a bit. You said you wanted to catch a flick, right?” Magnus asked, then tried to retract his foot from Toki’s grip. “Let me put on a pair and we can talk on the way to my car. Or your limo.”

“Cans waits,” Toki declared, then gave Magnus’ foot another squeeze. This time, Magnus couldn’t stop a small shime from slipping past. The ache was pulsed up his ankle and leg, to his back. Feeling the building pressure, Magnus sank into the furniture. Let outstretched, Toki ran his hands up Magnus’ leg, taking ruddy work pants into his large hands. “Your foots ams swollen.”

“I know, man.”

Swollen feet was just the half of it. He had spent his entire day going from one part of the rehabilitation home, a good hour working in a garage without air conditioner, and another one hauling boxes of nonperishables from one shelf to another. He reeked, smelled like sweat, dust and tomato paste, and was willing to bet he looked as wretched as he felt. He should have stayed behind. He should have taken a shower, and been there at the door to greet Toki after a long flight.

“Magnus?” Toki said as he massaged the sensitive arch. The relief that spilled from the contact had Magnus gripping the pillow. He sighed, feeling the day’s events stretch out before him. Why did he push back his lunch break and take that shift? Why did he argue with the residents over petty shit like who had the right to the remote, or this week’s latest gossip magazine? Why did he try, when it always amounted to him being scolded for raising his voice, for snapping back, or getting frustrated?

Eyes on the ceiling, Magnus answered: “Yeah?”

“How was your day?”

And if he missed his original lunch break, then wouldn’t it make sense to just not get upset over him forgetting to clock out for a late lunch? It wasn’t like he was purposefully trying to break the rules. He was trying to be a team player, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with missing his lunch, or helped clean the storeroom. And how was it none of these kids knew how to change a flat?

“Magnus?”

A sigh. “I’ll be real with you, dude: it’s not as exciting as you think.”

“So? Cames to sees you.”

It sounded so small, so sad, that Magnus tore from his silent tribulations to check on Toki. The massage continued, still solid and firm, but Toki’s head hung a little low. Honey brown hair partly concealed a growing frown. Reclined in his seat, the pain in Magnus’ back had started to dull, but a new pain bubbled up his throat as he watched Toki’s bottom lip start to push out. The poor kid was just trying to create small talk, and here he was doing everything in his power to avoid a conversation.

If only he had anything worth talking about.

Magnus pulled himself into a seated position, letting his feet drop to the floor. The pain returned, but Magnus didn’t mind. Feet now hanging, he reached and took Toki’s now freed hands into his.

“You came to have fun,” he stated, watching Toki’s brows and slightly parted mouth go crooked.

“No. Toki cames to be with you,” he insisted, then rubbed his thumbs into Magnus’ tired palms. That, too, was a relief. “Ams not doing that rights now?”

Such kind words. Magnus found little reason to accuse Toki of being deceitful, but refused to accept that after a long flight, Toki was perfectly fine with spending and evening cooped up inside of a drafty apartment, rubbing his feet while he bitched and moaned about his stupid day.

He let out a heavy, staggered sigh. “Toki, you can’t tell me you’re fine with sitting and listening to me complain about my shitty day.”

So, stupid. Why the hell did he stay behind to help with the storeroom? He could be out right now, out with Toki at some loud club. How long had Toki waited for him? He’d been so selfish, thinking only about himself, that he failed to ask when he finally arrived. He owed Toki a nice evening. Toki came to have fun, to explore the rest of Phoenix and get lost in the canyons.

A hand lifted him by the chin. In front of him, Magnus watched Toki’s face inch close, until there was nothing for him to do but meet the younger man in the eyes.

“Cant’s have fun if you ams in pains,” Toki replied softly. His thumb rolled across Magnus’ bristly chin, coaxing a reaction. Hesitantly, Magnus drew forward, closing the gap. A pain nestled in his chest as he brought his lips to meet Toki. Another hand, wrapped around his lower waist and back, melted it away. “Remembers, we ams boyfriends now,” Toki said as they parted, “So… let’s Toki helps. I’ll fix your foots, and you can tell me abouts your day, okays?”

The word hung high, alien and sounding so juvenile compared to what Manus had grown accustomed to. But upon hearing it, he couldn’t help but chuckle, letting his face burn a little with surprise that Toki would excitedly point it out, use it as a weapon against him to show that he cared.

“Fine,” he answered stiffly and, after allowing himself a second to relax, added, “yeah.”

Toki fidgeted, excited by the agreement. Already, Magnus’ legs were in the process of gliding back up to the cushions when Toki grabbed and lifted his left by the heel. Caught off-guard, Magnus slipped and fell back into the stiff cushions. The rough bounce awakened every sore part of his body, and with it, today’s memories. Tender fingers rolled over his tired muscles, and while Magnus stared up at the slow moving ceiling fan, felt the entire weight of the day start to crush him.

Above, Toki’s voice rang clear. “So, where does you wanna start?”

Magnus blinked. A warm sting burned at the edge of his eyes.

“…my supervisor’s a dick.”

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See You Soon...

For @aerith-week Today’s theme is Yellow Flowers. I hope you guys like it

Word Count: 1858

Read on ao3

The day was normal for everyone else in the Sector 7 slums. People got out of bed to start the day, the smell of brewed coffee wafted from the cafe, and children begged for a few minutes more before complying to the calls that awoke them. The cats made their usual rounds through the nooks and crannies of the fallen walls and rotten wood. But for Aerith this was not just some normal day. Yet, to the world around her, she went about her business as usual. Going down to the orphanage with a fresh bouquet of flowers in her wicker basket. It was a Saturday so she helped the children make pancakes with a fresh blueberry compote from their garden. It was a pleasant morning with the kids. Aerith enjoyed breakfast with the kids, and as she washed the dishes a group of children came to her.

“Hey Aerith! We’re planning a big play with all of the kids in the Sector! Do you wanna help us tonight?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t tonight. I have plans.” The disappointment was evident on their faces. She dried her hands and knelt down to their level. “You know that I would drop all my plans for you guys but this is something that I can���t reschedule. I’m sure you’ll do great even without me there. I’ll be cheering you on in spirit.”

That seemed to do it for the kids because they all cheered in excitement, hugged Aerith, and left. She finished the rest of the dishes and said her goodbyes to Ms. Folia before leaving.

Next stop was the cafe. They always appreciated the help and business seemed to get better when people saw Aerith was working. An hour or two past, all the while Aerith chatted with anyone who stopped by, and delivered coffee and food to the patrons. Not once during this time did the smile falter from her lips. It was a nice change in the atmosphere when Aerith was present. It was like her presence made things better no matter where she was in the slums. It finally came down to hang up the apron but another worker stopped to ask a question.

“Hey, Aerith? Thanks a bunch for the help you know that we appreciate it but, do you think you can stop by again this evening? A birthday is being held here and we could use the help. I hear the people from other sectors are stopping by.”

“A birthday huh.” Only in that moment did the smile fade. Aerith’s back was turned so the employee didn’t catch what she had mumbled.

“Come again?”

“It’s nothing. Sorry, but I have plans this evening and they can’t be rescheduled.” A feeble grin replaced the once vibrant one as she left the compact back area of the cafe.

The flower girl made her way to the outskirts of the slums to gather herbs for the doctor, and she seemed to only get them to grow in this specific spot.

Aerith plucked the delicate leaves from the plant as she scolded herself. “There’s no need to act this way. Yup, it’s all normal. Birthdays happen all the time. Every. Single. Day-Damn it! Son of a-” With each spoken word her frustration grew, and that frustration caused her to break one of stalks. “Sorry little one” She whispered to the plant in her hand, then glanced at the rest of them, “These herbs are hard to come by.” Picking off the rest of the leaves from that stalk, she put everything in her basket and started to walk to the clinic in the slums.

Head down stuck in thought from the corner of her eye, she noticed a familiar plant growing. “Well, whatta you know.” A tiny sprout of the same medicinal herb grew along the path. A seed must have fallen during one of her trips to and fro. “When one living thing dies, another is reborn. I guess all that’s true.” But still, to imagine a life coming in today of all days, it almost made Aerith bitter.

She continued to walk, making a mental note to move the sprout with its family tomorrow morning. Trying to take things on the chin, Aerith walked with a half-hearted smile on her face. It wasn’t until she reached the clinic that she perked up as best she could. The doctor greeted her at the door.

“Ah Aerith, it’s good to see you. I see you brought the herbs again as well.”

“Yup, I told you I would! Brought a basket full this time so you wouldn’t run out too fast.”

“You truly are a Godssend Aerith.” They talked for a bit longer. She reminded him once again about the proper drying techniques and how long to let them steep to bring out their full potential. But at some point during this exchange, the Doctor noticed that Aerith’s normal spark was missing. “Something bothering you today?”

A much more honest smile replaced the mask she was wearing. Then a sigh and a breathy laugh followed, “Has it been that obvious?”

He chuckled, “If you’re worried about others noticing, then you’re fine. But I, however, have been checking up on you since you were a little girl.” When Aerith didn’t speak for a minute he got concerned, then she confessed.

“It’s just that, I’ve been turning a lot of people down today. I dunno, guess I just feel bad. But tonight, I want to take some time to myself...Go to the church.”

“The church? Oh, yes, I remember.” The emptied wicker basket was returned to Aerith’s hands. The doctor held them for a moment. “Don’t feel bad sweetheart, if they knew, I know they would understand. The sun is setting. You should head over now before it gets too dark. Don’t worry about Elmyra. I’ll let her know you left.”

Aerith did just that, however she did stop by the house to pick some flowers before making her way to the church: past the clinic and the children holding their play, past the cafe with the people celebrating life, and past all the other people of the sector who asked for her to stay a while. One person even yelled out, “Hey Aerith! Whatcha going out so late for? Going to see someone special?”

“Yeah, something like that.” She called back. There was a chorus of “Ooooos” as she left to the main road, a wicker basket of yellow flowers tight in her grip.

Aerith reached her first destination of the night, the Sector 7 Station platform. It was a Saturday evening. The plate above gave allowed rays of deep oranges, reds, and light purples, and it wasn’t busy at all. Most people were either home or had already made it to their destination for the night. Aerith knelt down near the station landing. Her warm hands felt the cold concrete.

This was where her mother died.

As a child, she didn’t think much of it, I’m not sad, Mama just returned to the planet, she had told Elmyra once. But as she got older, that acceptance of her death became harder to swallow. There were moments when she did see her, but they were cursory: A brief dream, a hallucination in the crowd, but never anything permanent. It is that lack of permanency that every year since she was a teenager, Aerith would bring the yellow flowers to this spot in the train station. They were a symbol of reunion after all. And yes, they are very popular among lovers, but reunion can come from any type of relationship. So, why couldn’t it represent the reunion between a mother and daughter?

Aerith continued walking to the church. In that patch of dirt sticking out of the floorboards, were the same yellow flowers. She sat among the blooms. Elmyra had told her as a child that the dirt had been barren until she showed up. Aerith took it as a sign that her mother was still here in some way. One life is gone, another is reborn. Along with cut golden floral, the basket held two up rooted flowers from the garden at her house. Aerith replanted them with the others and sat in the middle of them.

“I miss you Mom. I know that sounds selfish after everything Elymra has done for me but-” Her soft voice echoed within the desolate building. “You told me, all those years ago that you wanted me to have a better life. You escaped because of me. You must have been so scared and yet...your fear didn’t matter if it meant I would be safe.” She gave a sarcastic laugh and continued. “And here I am, trapped again underneath the plate, and still under Shinra surveillance. All because I’m too scared to leave.” She shook her head, “This-this couldn’t have been the life you wanted for me, but I guess anything is better than being Shinra’s lab rat...dog.” Aerith felt a tear fall. She carefully laid down in the flowers and took in their scent, their comfort, and their symbol. “Reunion. I bet you chose these flowers because you knew what they meant. We’ll meet again Mom. I don’t know why but, I have this feeling I’ll see you again, soon. It’s as if-,” She paused. As if what? To tell the truth, Aerith didn’t even know. But something was telling her that this peace she was feeling, that this life, wouldn’t last and that she would see her Mother again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear that from your daughter.” There was silence as the light from the moon and plate beamed through the cracks in the and hole in the roof–an unbalanced mix of man-made and nature. “How about this instead: You wanted a better life, one free from Shinra. One day, I’ll leave the wall! That prospect horrifies me, but I’ll do it for you. Just like you did for me.” Having found joy in this moment she got up and grabbed her basket. “I promise, I’ll make it out of here. No more running.” Aerith looked up through the hole in the church ceiling and at the blinking lights of the steel sky above. “Do you think I’ll miss it once I leave?” With that, she walked out the door, turning back just briefly to say goodbye one last time.

The station came into view once again on her way home, and she stopped to look out into the night and at the wall of Midgard. It was a new challenge that she must overcome. One that made her heart race. Was it with fear or excitement, she couldn’t tell which. Come what way Aerith would leave.

“Needin’ to go somewhere miss?” The train worker asked from the platform above.

“Yes. But, it’s not a place where the train can take me.” Footstep followed footstep, and her basket hung lazily from her arm. Yellow flowers glimmered in the night. “I know I’ll see you soon Mom, but not before I see what’s beyond the wall for both of us.”

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ObiKabu for kinktober #15 would be interesting.

Kinktober Prompt 15 - Impact Play(From this list of prompts)

This one is more rated M...

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His skin is the first thing to draw the eye, genetically unique and begging for adornment. Adornment is something Kabuto can easily give.

The true challenge is the pride in the older man's eyes, his stance, the line of his spine. It would require building up, breaking down. Exploration, study, and a trained hand.

Working over a submissive is quite like a complex dissection at times - taking a specimen apart using the very building blocks of systemic response and release. Only these specimens, both precious and conscious, have the benefit of learning who they are, who they could be, who they would be under his control.

Kabuto is well accustomed to bestowing such gifts on deserving targets.

From the moment he sets eyes on Obito, the decision is made, the plan formed, right down to the implements, namely a sweetly crafted leather martinet gifted to him by his first master.

Learning from the best has had its benefits. Namely exposure to Leather culture steeped in tradition and protocol, most of which he’s adopted as part of his chosen play style. The rest is all his own, and that’s what leads him here, with an especially wondrous specimen all too willing to be tied and plied with pain and the prospect of pleasure.

“I bet no one’s ever used that on you before.”

Kabuto pauses. There’s no need to allow anyone to see him ruffled by such a statement, and really, it’s a silly one.

“I was mentored by a leatherman, and thus spent a lot of time in that community. I’ve bottomed before.”

“Yeah, but did you enjoy it?” Obito’s lips quirk in a slightly cocky smile.

It’s annoying. It’s entrancing. It feels a hell of a lot like a challenge.

“I don’t see where that’s of consequence. It was educational, as it was meant to be. I take it you think you can do better?” Kabuto loops jute rope around Obito’s chest, threading the ends through the bight.

The taller man stoops slightly so that his mouth is close to Kabuto’s ear. “I know I can.”

Definitely a challenge. One that Kabuto would be apt to ignore were it not for the hairs standing on end along the back of his neck and the curiosity that runs rampant at a single thought.

“Then I suggest you put your money where your mouth is. Prove it.” He smirks, letting the rope fall. “I presume you know what you’re doing, yes?”

Somehow their positions are reversed against the wall and Kabuto’s not quite sure how it’s happened. All he knows is that Obito is very warm and very close, with fingers poised at his chin - staring him squarely in the eye.

“I know what I’m doing, cutie. Take your clothes off and I won’t ask you to call me Master.”

“I would have undressed anyway,” Kabuto grumbles, unbuttoning his shirt and laying it aside, followed by his pants. “And you’ve not earned the title so that’s a moot point.”

“Well now you get to undress for me. Same limits as we discussed, or do you have anything more I should avoid?” Obito’s right hand spans Kabuto’s throat, tracing the fluttering pulse there and noting its urgent beat.

“No, my list was comprehensive. I’ll safeword if I need to.” Kabuto peers up at him, rendering a dare of his own. “Shall we begin? Show me what you were so confident about.”

“Oho, aren’t you demanding? I will. One thing first,” Obito traces his jaw then deftly removes Kabuto’s glasses, setting them aside. “Now turn around and put your hands up on the cross.” He gestures to the St. Andrews cross nearby.

Effectively blinded, Kabuto reaches up to hold onto the rich mahogany with a slight sigh. The relief, however, is short lived as leather falls run the length of his spine, then pure warmth presses flush against his back.

“If you safeword or take your hands down, I’m going to stop. Understood?”

“I understand,” Kabuto replies.

It takes active effort on his part to suppress the shiver that lingers somewhere around his spine, but when a hot exhale rushes across the nape of his neck, his ear, his reactions are rendered involuntary. He can practically hear Obito smile.

“I’m not going to expect you to count, but I am going to expect you to feel every. Last. Bit.” That teasing voice turns darker, almost purring, as if the man has become another person entirely. “And maybe, just maybe you won’t keep those sharp teeth gritted the whole time.”

At once, there is cool air at Kabuto’s back and the first strokes fall, criss crossed lashes laid one at a time across his shoulder blades, their warm points of impact radiating outward. The sensation steals his breath for all that the strokes are light.

He’d nearly forgotten what a good flogging feels like. The martinet’s falls are shorter than is usually optimal, but they are lavish and well tooled - and they bring Obito closer in proximity. Besides that, Obito wields it well.

Kabuto does own twin bullhide floggers that would be even more appropriate for the task, but as additional strikes are laid with almost mathematical precision several times over, he forgets all detail of the implements - too focused on the here, and the now. Obito seems to read his reactions in an instant, switching the pace, increasing it, laying incendiary stripes down the muscles of his back and his hips with near flawless technique.

Each fall leaves a mark, even if invisible, stealing away a piece of his sanity, his resolve. It’s as if the dark stranger is weaving a spell wrought in pain and slow-burning pleasure, turning Kabuto’s very nature against him. He had no intention of truly surrendering to his chosen submissive, merely enduring this little challenge, and yet he hears Obito laugh softly in response to something.

It takes him a moment to realize it’s because he’s uttered a sound.

“Kabuto - it’s alright if you like it. Let me hear you.” Obito’s broad hand runs the length of Kabuto’s spine and hot lips brush the skin of his neck just below his ear. “I want to.”

The unexpected softness leaves him reeling just before Obito draws away and lays another series of deft strokes across his buttocks and thighs, the martinet whipping through the air so swiftly that Kabuto can hear the tell-tale sound in anticipation.

Like it? Is that what’s happening? He could yank his hands away from the polished wood, call red and stop the scene in its tracks. Could, but doesn’t. The way that his mental capacity is drifting slowly from his grasp is alarming to say the least.

As leather makes contact with skin, another sound, a gasping sort of cry, gets bitten off in his hearing. The husky voice behind him still urging him on confirms that he is in fact the one guilty of the utterance, and the slight humiliation makes him feel as if he’s teetering on the edge of something.

He just might fall.

It’s strange. Nearly discomfiting. A soft haze lingers short of his inner sight, blurring the edges of sensation and emotion - a bit too far to reach. This is just as well when he’s not so sure he wants to relinquish a logical headspace. Yet as the scene meets its pinnacle, it seems it’s no longer his choice; everything becomes gently fuzzed over, less sharp… better than he imagined.

So, this must be subspace.

Obito’s hands, now free of the implement, trace the fiery heat glowing upon Kabuto’s skin, as if to soothe, never losing contact as they glide up his shoulders and slowly toward his wrists. His chest meets Kabuto’s back as he guides both hands away from the posts and secures Kabuto in a solid embrace. And just like that, the scene is over.

“Such a good boy.” Obito’s whisper is nearly tender, an unexpected anchor. “Thank you, Kabuto.”

Being called anyone’s boy should rankle and twinge, but somehow it doesn’t. Perhaps in combination with the play session, this is something to be documented in full, perhaps tested once more for the sake of confirmation. Being thanked, on the other hand, feels just right, and as he leans back against Obito, he turns to give him an imperious look.

“You’re welcome. I admit your technique was satisfactory - you didn’t lie. But next time - I get to do as I like with you.”

A smug grin crosses Obito’s lips as he leans in closer, brushing lips against Kabuto’s cheek. He can feel his new play partner’s breath stutter in his lungs. “Something tells me we'll see about that.”

AO3 Collection

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A Visit to the Bakery

Summary:Minnie goes out to buy some bread and meets someone very special in the process.

Word Count: 2905

Read on A03:

Minnie rose with the dawn. It was how she had lived her entire life no matter the circumstances. Living on the street, she’d been sure to wake first each morning to go scouting for food and supplies for the other street rats. She would wake Sophie and they’d head out together, searching for whatever measly scraps they could to survive another day. When she and Sophie were taken by pirates and later on during her time with Lilly and the Delta pirates, Minnie had been expected to pull her weight each and every second of every day. There was never any rest, no time for reflection on the hell her life had become, no peace.

Now she awoke in her own bed, feeling the sun’s rays warm her face as she shuffled out from under her covers. She had a bed of her own for the first time in her life and a roof over her head. She even had her brother back by her side. Tenn was sleeping peacefully in his own bed, a calm smile on his face. She’d let him sleep a bit longer before waking him and asking if he’d like to go to the market with her. Minnie’s eyes drifted over to third bed in the room, now empty. She missed having Sophie around each and every day, but to know that she was living her life doing what brought her the most joy gave Minnie a deeper sense of happiness than she’d felt in the last several years.

Rising to make the morning tea, Minnie tucked her bedsheets back in place, moving around softly for fear of waking Tenn up. He had always been an extremely light sleeper. Minnie approached the cupboard in search of the kettle. One of the pans slid against another as she pulled them out, causing Tenn to stir in his sleep. His chin raised, revealing the beginning of the scar that ran from the base of his chin to the top of his cheekbone. It still haunted her that she’d giving him that mark, taking off a piece of his ear in the process. Tenn had told her countless times that it didn’t matter to him, that the scar had no effect on his own life or happiness, but it still served as a constant reminder of the person Minnie had let herself become.

It was strange living in this cottage, carrying out a peaceful existence by the sea, when their very benefactors were those she had hurt the most. Minnie wondered where they were now. They’d visited a few months ago, so it was probably nowhere nearby. Sophie was likely up by now as well, sketching the sunrise or helping with the morning chores. Minnie hoped the others were doing well too: Mitch, Violet, Willy. The last time she’d seen them, Willy had sprouted up to nearly her height. She’d wanted to say something to him about how much he’d grown, but she saw the fear in his eyes when he looked her way. As much as she might wish them well, Minnie understood why the other street rats no longer trusted her. She’d harmed them too much for things to ever be the way they used to be between them.

She still had her siblings though: Tenn in body and Sophie in spirit. Knowing her sister loved her despite all she had done gave Minnie hope whenever the despair and self-loathing became too much to bear. Taking a seat at the table, Minnie pulled her hurdy gurdy into her lap, playing a short tune as she waited for the water to come to a boil. Sophie had picked the instrument up for Minnie on a whim one day at the market. Minnie hadn’t know what to do with it at the time, but over the months her fingers had began to master the dexterity needed to pluck at its strings and direct the crank embedded in its side at the same time. The tune she played was soft, haunting. It was a ballad she’d heard long ago and had been trying to remember.

The whistle of the teapot went off, bright and cheery. Minnie set aside the hurdy gurdy, rushing to take the kettle off the heat to quiet it. Tenn was already stirring too much though; he was truly awake now. After a few moments he entered the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of one of his eyes.

“Morning,” His voice had grown deeper over the years as he’d grown, but his voice held the same comforting cadence it always had.

“Good morning. Sorry I woke you,” Minnie placed tea leaves to steep within the water then went searching through the cupboards for something suitable for breakfast. “We should have enough for today, but it’s looking like we’ll need to do another market run soon. Would you be interested in coming with me?” Minnie popped her head out of the cupboard to catch Tenn glancing wistfully out the window. “If you don’t, it’s fine,”

“Oh, I can go with you, Minnie” Tenn’s tone was sincere, but Minnie knew him too well to not recognize when he was hiding something.

“You already have other plans, don’t you?”

“It’s just… the sky is so clear today. Was hoping to finish that painting I set aside weeks ago. I haven’t seen that same hue in forever,”

“You should go for it then,” Minnie pulled some bread and cheese from the cupboard, cutting them into slices. “I know how much it’s been eating away at you not being able to finish it. Besides, we could use more pieces to sell anyway,” They did their selling on different days than their shopping. They’d head down in the next couple days to set up their stall and sell their crafts and wares.

“Thanks, Minnie. You always know just what I’m thinking,”

“That’s a big sister’s job, silly. Now let’s eat,”

---

After a pleasant breakfast Minnie bid Tenn farewell and headed out with the large wicker basket to restock their food. Walking down the path from their cottage, she could feel the sea breeze brush at her bangs. The smell was as salty and rich as ever. Despite all the horrors she’d suffered in her life on sea, Minnie still found herself fond of the smell. There was always the promise of something new in the air when living by the shore. She was glad they’d been able to find an isolated plot as well. Even in a quiet port town, Minnie often found the presence of so many strangers overwhelming. Years of bodily and emotional trauma had left her with a limited amount of energy each day. Most times Minnie fell short of what she wanted to accomplish each day because of the chronic fatigue. She preferred the peace and familiarity of her newfound home to the streets of Halverport, but the shopping needed to get done.

Walking familiar streets, Minnie followed her regular route to get everything that was needed. Most of the sellers were familiar with her now, but Minnie still noticed the stares of passerby as they caught sight of her scarred face. She couldn’t blame them. The burn marks were severe, far worse than you’d expect to see on a young woman attending the market. Minnie had accepted them long ago as an everlasting symbol of her betrayal. She’d earned them in the same fire that took most of Violet’s sight. It was only right for her to bear the weight of that guilt in physical form, not simply within. Still, the stares wore her down. They were the only reason Minnie occasionally considered growing her hair out to better hide those scars. Instead she kept her head low and focused on the task at hand.

She’d almost found everything she needed when Minnie found herself stuck on the last item on her list: bread. She’d planned to drop by the normal stall she frequented where the sweet old lady that ran it always slipped an extra roll or two into the basket for her and Tenn. However, the woman was nowhere to be seen today. Minnie hoped she was alright. She didn’t want to travel all the way back up to the cottage with no bread, so she’d have to venture further and find another seller. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Minnie made her way further into the village, hoping the search wouldn’t be long.

Luckily, she was able to spot a bakery only a few streets over from where she usually shopped. Minnie stepped inside hesitantly, hoping the prices wouldn’t be too high and she could at least get enough for her and Tenn until selling day rolled round again. The shop was quiet as she entered, likely having just opened given the early hour. Was there anyone in here at all? Where was the seller?

“Hello?” Minnie called, her throat feeling dry and her voice rather rough.

A girl immediately emerged from the back room, brushing flour off of her hands. She looked to be about Minnie’s age, with warm brown eyes and hair that was pulled to the side in a bun decorated by a single flower. Her face was still covered in flour, but she seemed unaware as she smiled at Minnie. “Well, look at you! A new face come to frequent my bakery! Don’t get a lot of those around here,”

“The woman I usually buy from wasn’t there and-” Minnie cut herself off. This girl didn’t need to hear the entire story, just her order. “I’ll take three loaves of bread please,”

“Alright, what kind? Rye? Wheat? Pumpernickel? Sourdough? Baguettes?” the girl prattled on for a minute before her face fell slightly, recognizing that she was overwhelming Minnie with the list. “Oops, I got ahead of myself, didn’t I? You probably just want some brown bread, am I right?”

Minnie nodded silently. “If you don’t mind,”

“Of course not! Anything for a customer. You know what…” the girl looked around for a moment at her empty store then lifted the part of the counter that could be raised to step through, motioning for Minnie to follow. “Since you’re an early bird, why don’t you come on into the back room and pick out the loaves you like best?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun! I’ll even throw in some free samples!” The girl was smiling so brightly at Minnie she couldn’t find it in herself to say no. Awkwardly she stepped forward, following her to the back room. “I should probably introduce myself,” the girl called back as she led the way. “My name’s Renata. Yours?”

“Minerva,”

“That’s a pretty name. It suits you,”

“T-thanks,” Minnie found herself distracted as they entered the back room. There were dozens of racks everywhere full of all sorts of breads, sweets and other delicacies.

Renata looked around the room with a proud smile. “Magnificent, isn’t it? Back when my parents ran the place we used to be able to fill up the entire room, but I think I get by alright,”

Oh. Were her parents dead then? Was it expected to say something in condolence to her? Before Minnie could think on the matter further, a warm roll was thrust into her hands.

“Here. Something to munch on while you look around,”

Minnie slowly bit in. The warmth of the bread immediately filled her mouth, filling her with a sort of comfort deep inside. Minnie found a smile crossing her lips, mirroring Renata’s own smile in some small way.

“Good, right? Secret family recipe,” Renata lifted a finger to her lips, winking playfully at Minnie.

Minnie swallowed too fast and choked a bit on her mouthful of bread.

“Are you OK? I’ll get some water,” Renata rushed to get a cup, offering it to Minnie before she’d had time to regain her composure. All she could do was nod and accept it gratefully.

“So, Minnie, tell me about yourself. You can’t have grown up around here, so what brings you to Halverport? Do you live here?”

“Up in the hills along the shore,” Minnie answered. The roll had already been consumed. She meant to start looking for the loaves she needed, but Renata had already placed something new within her hand, this time a sticky bun.

“I love it up there!” Renata exclaimed. She gave an encouraging nod when Minnie looked unsure about the bun. “Sometimes I climb up that way to bother all the seagulls. I didn’t know there was anyone living up that way,”

“Not many do,” Minnie took a bite of the bun and her eyes widened in surprise. It was utterly delicious, even more so than the bread. Renata grinned as she saw Minnie take another excited bite.

“The buns are my favorite. The secret is cinnamon, but a healthy dose of sugar also helps,”

That must be it. Minnie had hardly ever had any sugar in her life. Being given something so sweet and syrupy out of the blue was an unexpected gift. Or was it a gift? Minnie eyed Renata with caution. What did this girl want? Minnie clearly didn’t have the look of someone with money. Did she want a favor then? The bun was already gone, decimated in the throes of Minnie’s excitement. “I can pay for that,” Minnie offered.

Renata waved a hand dismissively. “Like I said, they’re free samples. It’s nice having company in the kitchen again. I should probably get you that bread though, huh?” Renata grinned sheepishly and Minnie found herself regretting that she’d gotten her back on task.

They headed over to the regular loaves. Renata motioned at them grandly. “Take your pick,” she said, stepping to the side.

Minnie certainly wasn’t a bread connoisseur. She picked up a loaf or two, tapping on it then placing it back. Was that the way to test bread? She caught Renata smirking and immediately felt her face burn in embarrassment.

“Want me to pick the best ones out?” Renata offered.

“Please,”

As Renata leaned forward, rummaging through the bread racks, Minnie caught a whiff of something that reminded her of the sticky bun from minutes ago. It couldn’t be the bread though; they were a good distance away from the sweets section. What was that special ingredient Renata had spoken of? Cinnamon. The answer came back to Minnie all of a sudden. She looked over at Renata who was busy critiquing the loaves intently. She smells like cinnamon .

“Here we go!” Renata declared, holding forth three loaves of brown bread in her hands. “The best of the day,”

“I’ll take them,” Minnie began to transfer them over to her basket. She was taken by surprise when Renata used her now free hands to grab hold of Minnie’s and pull her back over to where the sweets lay.

“I’m gonna give you a few more goodies for the road. Gotta make sure you come back for repeat business. And I won’t take no for an answer,” Without waiting to hear Minnie’s protests, Renata began stuffing treats into the top of her basket. She stopped for a moment, looking up at Minnie. “Is it just you at home or do you have family?”

“Just my brother at home,”

“Then I’ll have to pack extra for him!” Renata picked up a loaf and displayed it proudly. “I’ve been told my banana bread’s the best in town. It’s cuz of the cinnamon again…” her voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper. “But don’t tell anyone, k?”

“O-OK,” Minnie couldn’t help but feel flustered as she smiled back at Renata. She’d just come here for some loaves of bread. What was even going on? “I should probably get going. My brother will be wondering where I am,”

Renata’s face fell at the news. “Oh… ok. I’ll see you out then,” Quietly she made her way to the front, Minnie following closely behind. Had she insulted Renata by saying she had to leave?

Minnie looked back worriedly once she’d stepped through the divide between the front and back of the store. She found Renata smiling just as brightly as ever though.

“Come back anytime, OK? I want to hear what your brother thinks of my famous banana bread,”

“Will do,” Minnie felt the tension leaving her gut knowing she hadn’t overstepped after all. “Thank you for all the free samples,”

“It was my pleasure,” Renata reached up to itch her nose and looked at her hand in surprise when she saw all the flour on it. “Gosh, have I had this much flour on my face the entire time? I must’ve looked like a clown!”

“No, I thought you looked nice,” Minnie froze at her words. What was she even saying?

The sentiment seemed to be appreciated by Renata though. She smiled brightly at Minnie’s words. “Really? I’ve have to be wearing more next time you come by then too,”

“Alright then,” Minnie wasn’t sure why she was agreeing, but who cared at this point? Nothing seemed to faze Renata anyway. With a final wave, Minnie exited the store. Her feet felt light under her feet as she started the walk home. Usually a grocery run like this would have completely wiped her out for the rest of the day, but Minnie felt a renewed sense of energy now. She wanted to play music or paint… something. She was feeling inspired.

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Welcome to The Underground (original story)

Hey everyone, E here! Still alive. haha it’s been a while. So I wanted to do this for a long time and I decided just to go for it. You know, get back into the swing of things and work on my own projects so I apologize if it’s a little off or not up to my usual work.

So I’ll let the story do the talking but basically it’s heavily inspired by dnd because screw it I might as well embrace the madness, Crypt of the Nercodancer (My favorite game) and Hollow Knight (great game)

It takes place in a vast underground kingdom in a fantasy style setting.

I hope you all enjoy it, we’ll see if I keep this up because I really did go all out on the world building and had fun and I hope you all have a great week! E out, bye!

We love you Abi. Don’t ever forget it.

“Mom?”

Abigail winced uncomfortably as the muscles in her body painfully ached.

“Why does everything pain? Why so much pain?” Abigail croaked, resisting the urge to move any further than she had to.

Abigail opened her eyes but instead of the blazing sun high above the mossy, wetlands of the Loss Swamp like she was expecting, it was a swirling darkness and towering smooth stony walls on every side.

A single ray of sunshine cut through the dark but small, leafy movement scurried to cover it, swarming the glimmer of light until it was completely engulfed in shadows once more.

“Okay that explains the cold air during summer.” Abigail whispered to herself, closing her gray eyes in preparation “One second then up you go Abi. One.”

No motion.

“I said one Abi” She scolded herself.

She bit her lip, ignoring the dull ache of her arms as she turned to one side on the cold jagged floor.

“Oh god let’s not do that again” she murmured to herself, taking a deep heavy breath to steady herself.

Abigail propped one elbow against the ground, then the other and slowly rose to her feet. The pain faded away and was replaced with an uneasy but manageable soreness she was more accustomed to working on her farm.

She could do this.

Whatever this was.

She stood to her full average height which wasn’t very tall but still better than kissing the floor. She stretched the stiffness out of her body, cracking the bones in her neck and fingers while glancing upwards.

“A cave entrance. The moss probably covered it up. And this is why invasive flora sucks.”

Abigail pursed her lips, wondering how exactly she was going to climb back up to the surface as she untangled her wet long reddish brown hair. As she was crossing a swamp, she hadn’t packed any climbing gear and who knows how deep the cave system really went.

Abigail paused her thoughts as the sound of rustling reached her ears. The scratching of fabric against leather was so oddly familiar...

Her bag!

She whipped around to the source of the noise and regretted at once as her neck muscles ached dully.

“Hey!” Abigail’s voice cracked “Oww, oww, neck. What are you doing!?”

The silhouette of the figure jumped up in surprise, shooting up to their feet, one hand raised in surrender while the other clutched a familiar dark red travel pack.

“You’re alive?” A male’s voice said with hint of confusion “That’s...that’s surprising.”

“Why?” Abigail snarled “Is that why you covered a hole with a rapid growing moss? What kind of sick trap are you running mister?”

“Moss?” The figure shook his head “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And, I checked your pulse. You were as dead as a doorknob.”

“Well obviously you didn’t do it right!”

The man shifted his weight uncomfortably “I mean it has been a while since I had to check a corpse. At least 4 years. I guess I lost my touch. I am really ashamed of myself. Seriously, I….”

Abigail tuned him out as she plucked her trusty dagger from her belt. She gripped it tightly, eyeing the shadowy figure carefully though it was hard to know where he began and the darkness of the cave ended.

“Okay.” He finished rambling “Obviously I was here to shift through a corpse’s bag and...”

“And you lost your chance!” Abigail yelled, lunging forward with murderous intent.

“Oh shit!” The figure cried out, stumbling backwards in surprise.

Abigail huffed angrily as her blade caught empty air.

“Hey!” She cried out as the person disappeared into the dark “COME BACK HERE!”

Abigail chased after him, wildly groping the thick shifting darkness, her blade scratching stone but not much else. It must’ve been seconds but to her it was an eternity when she found the soft light and a silhouette shrinking deeper into the cave.

Abigail gripped her blade tightly as she bumbled her way to the source of light, prepared for an ambush at the end of the tunnel.

She let out a battle cry, jumping around the corner hoping to catch anyone unaware.

“Wow.” She murmured softly as she took in the awe of the sight before her.

The tunnel had open up to a massive cavern: Mushrooms hung from every inch of the ceiling, gleaming with a greenish light that illuminated the cave brightly. The ground was a rolling hill with gravel, loose and uneven much like dirt. Rows of tilted and uneven stone slabs stretched out before her. Tombstones she guessed based on the faded wording and flowers scattered about.

“This is beautiful. I wonder if the mushrooms catch the moisture in the air to...FOCUS ABI!” She shook herself out of her stupor.

She caught sight of the figure retreating further and further away towards a small hut on the far side of the cavern: He wore an elegant jacket and dress pants though the embodied golden lines were faded. Slung around his back was a lute and in one hand, Abigail’s travel bag as the other flailed wildly.

“Revenge!” Abigail cried, brandishing the knife as she resumed the pursuit.

Well, tried to. She nearly lost her footing from the switch from solid stone to loose gravel. Her knife scraped against a weathered tombstone as she caught herself on it.

“Sorry about that.” She read “Lancer Dupoint. What kind of name is...”

The figure stopped just short of the door, leaning on his knees while he tried to catch his breath “Would you please stop!”

“Never!”

“Look!” the figure shouted “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were still alive. People fall down there and die all the time, it wasn’t anything personal.”

Abigail huffed “If it’s not personal, why do you still have my bag?”

The man looked confused for a moment before he glanced to the bag still in his grip.

“Oh….”

“Oh is right!” Abigail snarled, flinging her knife with all her might.

The man held up the bag to protect himself but the dagger sunk harmlessly an inch away from his face, embedding itself in the wooden door of the hut.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!” he screamed “You could’ve killed me!”

“Did I hit you!?” Abigail replied, scrunching up in fear.

“No! You got the door!”

“Holy shit I got the door?! I never hit anything before! Did it stick?”

“Did it stick? DID IT STICK!? YEAH ABOUT AN INCH FROM MY FACE!”

“Sorry! I never thought I’d make it that far. It’s like what 40 yards?”

“You are crazy lady! Who just throws knives!?”

“I’m sorry I was really mad at you!”

The man let out a crazed chuckle “Mad? don’t throw knives at all! Even when you’re mad!”

“You robbed me!” Abigail raised a finger in accusing manner.

“Not on purpose. I thought you died.”

The shouting stopped as the wooden door creaked loudly on its hinges.

“Oliver, is there a reason you are currently shouting outside my house?” an older man asked, staring curiously back and forth between the two.

Abigail walked slowly over the loose gravel underneath her foot and finally got a good look at the two strangers.

The younger, named Oliver, was maybe about 2 years older than her. He had brown eyes with black hair, a splash of freckles across his cheeks. He was lanky but not much taller with ill fitting performer’s clothes. Old, long since their prime but clearly one of an entertainer given their quality.

The older gentleman had graying hair that was once blonde with a thick beard, his blue eyes kind yet understanding. Abigail couldn’t place his age: Either was 45 or 60 though the way his body hunched and the slowness of his motions hinted at the latter. He wore a simple robe and boots clearly made of a thick material.

“Hello my dear” The older man spoke gently “I am Roland, the groundskeeper of the West End Cemetery and this” he playfully nudged the younger man “Is Oliver.”

“Hello….” Oliver mumbled uneasily.

“He helps me tend the graves for some extra coin. Not as spry as I used to be you know? And you, my dear?”

“Abigail!” she cheerfully beamed “Abigail Greenfield. I fell through a hole in the Loss Swamp and fell down here where I found that one!” Oliver whistled innocently “Was robbing me!”

“Not robbing” Oliver interrupted “Liberating a departed soul of their worldly possessions.”

Abigail expected a scolding or a disappointed scowl from Roland but none came, only a nod of agreement.

“I see. I’m sure Oliver meant no harm.”

“None whatsoever. She’s the one that came at me with a knife!”

“You were a strange man going through her things as she was passed out. You would’ve maintained the element of surprise too.”

Oliver opened his mouth to argue before he nodding in agreement “Okay fair.”

“Anyway, would you like to come in Abigail? I am sure you have many questions.”

“Nah, just one. How do I get back up to the swamp?”

Roland and Oliver shared a look.

--------------------

“I can’t leave?” Abigail repeated after them, the shock of the statement slowly settling over her, the warm tea in her hands remaining untouched.

“Afraid not my dear.” Roland patted her arm sympathetically.

“T-That can’t be right. This is a vast underground cavern system, t-there must be away back to the surface.”

Oliver gave a casual shrug “Look, I’ve lived down here my whole life. If there was a way out, I would’ve heard about it by now. Anyone who could’ve gotten out probably already did. Mages, clerics, magic folk with that kind of power. All zipped off. Wall are too smooth and steep to climb. Everyone else lives here in the Underground. Or the Fifth nations. Or dwarf land.”

“Dwarf land? Dwarves! They must have an entrance to...wait did you just say Fifth Nations? Like….”

“That’s what they named themselves, I’m just repeating it.” Oliver answered.

“Anyway” Abigail continued “The dwarves must have a way up! They do business with a capital and that’s like 100 miles away from my hometown and across from the swamp. Wait, how big is the Underground?”

“Vast.” Roland sipped his tea “I’d say 75 miles give or take but many roads twist and curl in on itself. Travel to the Dwarf kingdom will be slow at best.”

“And nonexistent at realism” Oliver chimed in “The Underground has many roads but the deepest most of them go is the second level and without armed escort, you’re probably not going to survive.”

“Second level? Like floors?”

Roland cleared his throat “Let me explain life here: The Underground is a vast alliance of city states. We’ve been around for hundreds of years, trapped down here but making the best of it. Most of the citizens are are 5th or even 7th generation of descendants of people who fell though once in a while someone from the surface comes tumbling down.”

“Like me! I was crossing the Loss swamp. I was walking over some mossy covered ground when it suddenly gave out. I guess the mossy is an invasive species not native to the swamp.” Roland gave an impressed nod. Oliver was just confused.

“Anyway” Oliver coughed “There’s 4 levels to the Underground. Most cities are built on the first level. It’s closest to any natural sunlight and water, so most creatures avoid it like the plague. There’s a road or two up on this floor but if you wanna get anywhere, you gotta travel through the second layer. It’s further down, closer to the empty void of the cave’s darkness but it was easier to carve paths through. Much more dangerous. Like more creepy crawlers and things that generally want to eat you.”

��Also bandits.” Roland added.

“Right, those fuckers. Armed escort is heavily recommended. There’s a couple of outposts that offer safe haven and patrols with the odd city or two but not much more than that.”

“And the third level?” Abigail asked curiously.

Oliver snorted “hell if I know, that’s like noooo down there. I’ve never met anyone who ever went to the third level and lived. And I am still pretty sure the fourth level is just a myth.”

“Why were you in the swamp Abigail?”

Abigail bit her lips nervously.

“You don’t have to tell us.” Roland smiled softly.

“Thank you. Umm I….I don’t know what to do now.”

“Same” Oliver rolled his eyes “I guess you live here now. West End is a small town, pretty quiet. You’ll find something here to do.”

“I want to go to the dwarf kingdom.”

Oliver rubbed his eyes tiredly “That’s nice, so you do know what you want to do. I hope you get there. It’s allllll the way on the East side of the kingdom, past the Underground and the Fifth Nation and this is a little village at the other end.”

Abigail turned to Roland, ignoring Oliver’s comment “So I take it West End isn’t gonna have a lot of travel out of here?”

The wind picked up for a moment outside and the hut groaned uneasily though Roland paid it no mind.

Roland scratched his beard thoughtfully “Well, you are right. This is a small village. Not much resources for you here. The capital, Haven’s Nest, is the next city over. You’ll have much better luck there though travel would be problematic.”

Oliver chimed in “You gotta go through a second floor path. Means you are going to need somebody who knows how to fight.”

Abigail pursed her lips, wracking her mind at possible solutions “Is there a mercenary group here?”

Oliver scratched his chin for a moment before snapping his finger “Yeah, the Swift Slivers. They’re a small group, loyal though and take fair pay but I doubt you have any….”

“My bag had at least 30 gold.”

“30 gold?” Oliver rose an eyebrow before realization hit “Wait! Surface gold?!”

“Umm.” Abigail’s eyes darted back and forth, unsure where he was going with this “Yeeeees?”

“That’s worth a fortune down here! Actually no, don’t pull that out unless you want to get robbed.”

“Right, sure.” Abigail was not sure what was going on anymore.

“Oliver.” Roland began slowly “Isn’t there a music competition you were saving up for in Haven’s Nest?”

“Yeeeeees.” Oliver narrowed his eyes suspiciously “But I still need to save up for the entry fee and paying the mercs to escort me.”

“I think you earned you pay for the month Oliver. I will cover the mercenary fee.”

“If?” Oliver rolled his eyes.

“You agree to take Abigail to the capital.”

It was harder to tell who was more opposed to the idea: The farm girl or the bard.

“Are you kidding me!? He robbed me!”

“She came at me with a knife! Even after I said I was sorry!”

“How can I trust him, he was looting my ‘corpse’!”

“She’s clearly crazy and I don’t feel safe traveling with her.”

Roland raised a hand, stopping the two arguments without a word.

“Abigail. You are new to this land. You have very little options and I can promise despite….first impressions, Oliver will not put you in danger.”

Roland turned to Oliver with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You want to go compete. This is the only way you’re going to get to the competition in time. All you have to do is take her to the capital where you were planning on going anyway. Are you really going to pass up a free ride?”

“Fine” The two huffed in unison “We’ll behave.”

“Good” Roland beamed, sliding a pouch of coins into Oliver’s hand.

Oliver glanced curiously at the older gentleman “Are you okay. Sir?”

Roland chuckled playfully “Yes quite. I just feel this is the best path forward for you both. Two people in need. A common destination. Two birds, one pouch.”

Oliver was uneasy about that answer but before he could continue with his questioning, Abigail spoke.

“Can I have my bag back?”

Oliver lost his train of his thought as he handed back the bag he had accidentally taken, glancing distastefully at his companion.

At least she was prepared for travel: Long sleeved red tunic, blue bandana to keep her hair in check and black leggings tucked into hiking boots.

Roland let out a tired yawn, rubbing at his eyes sleepily “Now, if you excuse me, I think I need to sleep.”

“But it’s the afternoon.” Oliver muttered, something about the old man’s behavior not sitting well with him. He had never taken a nap during the day.

“I am quite old Oliver and if you hurry, you may be able to start traveling today.”

He was trying to get rid of them, Oliver was sure of that at least but the why eluded him.

Abigail simply nodded “Thank you Roland, for everything.”

“Goodbye Abigail. Oliver.”

Oliver frowned but shook the hand all the same “Old man.”

--------------------

Roland waved cheerfully at the retreating figures of the unhappy pair. It wasn’t ideal and there was no guarantee that they weren’t going to kill each other but at least they were safe.

Roland took a deep, calming breath as he closed the door.

“You should’ve knocked, old friend.”

Roland turned around to find a cloaked figure sitting lazily in his chair, his golden yellow eyes peering through the shroud of his hood.

“Ello Roland. Long time.”

“Long time” Roland sighed “Tea? Milk?”

“Milk” The figure murmured with a grin “Sounds lovely.”

Roland grimaced, making his way to the kitchen to serve his uninvited guest.

“Nice house.” The figure called out, eyeing the small hut with approval “Cozy. Quiet. Isolated.”

“That’s why I picked it.” Roland answered, pouring the milk into a glass “Nice retirement plan.”

“Agreed.” The figure chuckled “Never thought you’d retire. The most powerful wizard in all the Underground. Toiling graves.”

“Well.” Roland poured a drink for himself “Not all of us want to die pursing endless hobbies.”

Roland made his way back to his guest, handing him his drink and taking a seat across from him.

“You got one ready out there?” The figure gestured to the window.

“Yeah. It’s by the gate. Very nice.”

“Perks of a gravekeeper.”

“Mhm.”

The silence was tense as they finished their drinks slowly. They stared at one another, the moment close at hand.

The figure stood up, drawing a blade hidden beneath his cloak “Would you like to take a read of your book before we start?”

Roland shook his head “I always hoped you would’ve died in this vain pursuit. I suppose I’ll have to kill you myself.”

The figure gave a toothy grin, his eyes gleaming with humor “I am blessed by my lady. You may try but I assure you I won’t be stopped.”

Roland remained silent, his finger tracing symbols in the air. Blue magical runes fill the appear before him as the figure closes the distance.

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Kurtbastian - A Dalton Boy Slowing Things Down (Rated NC17)

Summary:After Kurt's Christmas party, after Sebastian drops, he has a difficult time drifting off to a peaceful sleep. So Kurt opts to wake him up and share a peaceful morning. (1710 words)

Notes: Okay, so this actually sends us back to right after the Christmas tree incident. This was a vignette I wrote for right after 'A Dalton Boy Learns the Truth' but it got corrupted on another computer. I managed to recover it an finish it so, yeah. Here you are. It's one of the softer love scenes in the series.

Read on AO3.

Sebastian eventually settles into a cozy, happy place lying beside Kurt in bed – that floaty, blurry-edged, cloud-like space that usually follows a particularly strenuous scene. But unlike other times, Sebastian finds it difficult to fend off stressful dreams. According to what he hears Kurt murmur in his ear the times he startles himself awake, Sebastian dropped pretty hard, pretty fast. Every thought that fills his mind after he finally drifts off to a solid sleep is steeped in melancholy and ‘sad’, even over things he’d once been excited about.

Things he’d been looking forward to.

He’d never before seen graduating high school and leaving Westerville as an ending. Even though he isn’t entirely grounded in what he wants to do with the rest of his life, he saw it as a beginning. Even if he doesn’t leap straight into college, the possibilities are endless. He recognizes that he has a certain amount of privilege, and he loves it. He’s one lucky fuck. He could travel the world, volunteer overseas, go to a trade school and slum it learning something mundane like refrigerator repair or aluminum siding installation.

His dad would probably hate that. He wouldn’t say it outright, but he’d allude to it in every conversation they’d have. His dad isn’t an asshole where class systems are concerned. He owns enough properties that he respects blue collar workers, appreciates the services they provide.

He’s just never pictured his son becoming one.

His father can’t really complain if he does. Trade work is a good living. And seeing where the economy is headed, it might even be better in the long run than getting a degree in business. Every day Sebastian reads articles claiming trade school’s where it’s at for his generation.

Besides, he could see Kurt digging it.

His dad’s a mechanic. Sebastian has heard them talk shop over the phone, watched him give Elliott’s bike a once over when he complained it was making a funny noise. It was hotter than hell watching Kurt get his hands dirty changing the oil in his Navigator.

Maybe watching Sebastian get his own hands dirty would have the same effect on Kurt.

Sebastian could go to New York and try his luck on the Broadway stage, or Hollywood and try to break into network television. If he gets off his ass tomorrow and starts a YouTube channel, he could land himself a role on a CW television show. That happens a lot, doesn’t it? To people with a lot less talent than him? His parents might not be over-the-moon about that idea either, but it’s his life. They keep saying so. How he lives it is up to him.

Which is obvious when he considers his current circumstances.

At the start of his senior year, there wasn’t a single thing keeping him tethered to Westerville. He’d come back to visit his parents, of course, but once he graduated Dalton, he’d have no unfinished business in Ohio. He could close this chapter of his life, consider it over and done.

All that changed the night he showed up at Pavarotti’s Prison.

The night he became Kurt’s pet.

Now when he graduates, he’ll be leaving something extraordinary behind - Kurt Hummel, and the claim he’s staked on Sebastian’s heart.

And even though that thought has begun to pull him apart, it’s also caused ideas to form. He may not know what he wants to do, but he knows where he wants to be, and why.

And oddly, he feels like that’s giving him direction.

Warmth on his chest starts pulling him awake. Centered between his pecs and over his heart, a pressure has begun to grow, accompanied by a comforting sensation he can’t put his finger on. In this half-dream state, he knows where he is, who he’s with. He knows he’s with Kurt, cuddled against him, cradled in his arms. But the more aware he becomes of his surroundings, he realizes they’ve flipped positions.

Kurt’s head is on Sebastian’s chest instead of the other way around.

Normally when Kurt wakes Sebastian, it’s with rough sex - Sebastian tied and gagged, being ridden hard like a dildo.

For hours sometimes.

Kurt can never seem to get enough.

But this time, when Sebastian starts to wake, it’s to barely there kisses on his neck and the tiniest licks around the hollow of his throat.

“Are you okay, preppy?” Kurt whispers against his sub’s skin when he hears his breathing change, feels him waking up. “After last night?”

“I think so, Master,” Sebastian says, wincing at his own gravelly voice.

“Is this alright?” Kurt asks to Sebastian’s surprise because Kurt never asks. He takes. That’s rule number one – in Kurt’s house, everything belongs to him, and he takes without asking. But here he was, asking if Sebastian is okay.

Asking Sebastian if he wants this.

If he can handle it.

If he’s willing to try.

“Yes, Master,” Sebastian says. “It’s alright.”

“Good. Because I need you inside me,” Kurt decides, fiddling with his hands where Sebastian can’t see, then moving him around, turning him on his side and positioning his sub behind him. A bottle lid pops, something rips, cold and wet covers Sebastian’s cock applied by soft, strong hands. “You don’t even have to wake up if you don’t want to.”

Sebastian chuckles, but those chuckles turn to moans when hot and tight starts inching its way down his erection. “H-how strong do you think I am, Master?”

“Pretty fucking strong. Here …” Kurt puts his hand on Sebastian’s hip and rocks him back and forth ever so slightly, “just like that. D-don’t go any faster than that.”

“Yes, Master,” Sebastian mumbles into Kurt’s shoulder, gnawing gently the way Kurt showed him. Kurt sinks into him, and Sebastian can’t remember having sex in a more intimate way than this with anyone.

He follows Kurt’s orders, sliding slowly back and forth, a hint of thrust that puts the head of his cock right where Kurt wants him and keeps him there. It takes control to stay this way, to not flip Kurt onto his stomach and pound him into the mattress, which is something that he, luckily, enjoys.

But no.

Not this time.

Kurt wants slowly.

So Sebastian will give him slowly.

It’s relaxing having sex this way. He can see himself lasting forever at this speed and in this position. How wonderful would that be? Rolling into Kurt’s body for the rest of the morning, on and on until the afternoon. The phone would ring, people would stop by, knock on the window, bark at him to let them in. But they’d ignore the world and all their problems and fuck the day away.

Kurt’s nails bite into Sebastian’s hips and he starts to speed up. He doesn’t do it consciously. Kurt is just so sexy, and he feels so good around him, Sebastian can’t help himself. It creeps up on him, Kurt’s body coaxing him with the subtle flexing of his muscles, breathy gasps from his lips, and his smell - everything he’s put on his skin or in his body in the past few hours - a lethal combination of cloves, cologne, whiskey, lubricant, and soap. For a moment, Kurt is on that same page with him, chanting, “Yes, yes, yes …” as he tugs Sebastian forward, urges him on. But like a locomotive overshooting its stop, he slams on the brakes.

“No! No no …” Kurt slides down Sebastian’s cock till his ass meets his sub’s groin and stops him. “You’re not cumming. Not yet. And neither am I. Take a breath. A deep breath ... not yet …” he continues sotto voce “… it can’t … just … not yet ...”

“Alright,” Sebastian pants. “I understand … Master …”

Kurt nods, bringing Sebastian’s hand to his lips and kissing his fingers, counting against his skin as he tries to settle his orgasm down.

“O-okay.” Kurt scoots forward, nudging Sebastian’s hips toward him. “Keep going.”

Sebastian’s hands move as his hips moves. He can’t stop them, and Kurt doesn’t say no. He grabs Kurt’s hip, holds on tight, but it’s not enough. He wraps his arms around him – one around his waist, one around his torso, and hugs. Flush against each other with only his hips parting from his body in brief, steady intervals, it’s almost close enough.

“Oh …” Kurt moans, “oh, preppy … oh God …”

Sebastian wraps a hand around Kurt’s cock and holds him, surrenders to letting his Master use him to work his way to an orgasm. Outside Kurt’s bedroom window with one shutter open, snow begins to fall. It piles up on the sills, sticks to the glass, catching moonlight from outside and twinkling like stars. It’s a magical sight, but less so than the man in Sebastian’s arms.

The warmth from before, the one in his chest, becomes lava hot. It cascades through his body. He has no control over it, and that’s the best part. Being with Kurt, he rarely has control. Kurt owns the control. Kurt decides when Sebastian cums, if Sebastian cums, and how. It’s torture and release, the not knowing along with the not needing to decide. But that’s where trust comes into the equation.

And Sebastian trusts Kurt to take care of him - in every way possible.

The heat rushes through his body the same time a similar heat spills over his hand. A shuddering Kurt turns his head and captures Sebastian’s mouth. Kissing Sebastian is Kurt’s favorite way to ride out an orgasm. This position requires Sebastian to strain his abs, prop himself awkwardly onto one elbow and contort so that Kurt can kiss him comfortably for as long as he pleases.

But Sebastian would stay this way forever if it meant Kurt would be thoroughly satisfied.

“Okay,” Kurt whispers. “Okay … okay … oh God …” He snuggles back against Sebastian’s chest, grabs his arms and wraps them around himself. And to Sebastian, there isn’t a better feeling in the world. “We have to do that about a hundred more times before you leave for your folks’.”

Sebastian runs his cheek against Kurt’s hair, keeping deeper thoughts to himself. “I’m game if you are.”

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My family's beloved 16-year-old Siamese cat, Webley, died in my arms last year. He'd been a sleek fat kitty before he got ill, but he'd lost weight and lost weight till he was little more than a bedraggled shadow. At the end he could barely lift his head, and then the vet gave him the shot and he couldn't lift his head at all. I was scratching his ears as I'd so often done before, and suddenly they dropped, and whatever I was petting wasn't Webley anymore. It's one of the worst memories of my life.

I've been thinking about Webley a lot while listening to the new Fire-Toolz album, Rainbow Bridge, which comes out May 8 on local label Hausu Mountain. Angel Marcloid, a Chicago musician who records as Fire-Toolz (as well as under several other names), made Rainbow Bridge about her 16-year-old cat, Breakfast, also a Siamese, who died in December 2018. The album is an idiosyncratic collage of guttural death-metal roars, electronic bleeps, and vaporwave ambience. Bleak, sweet, and quietly unflinching, it slides back and forth between two emotional poles: one boils with rage and grief, while the other is steeped in a comforting lyricism as gentle as a cat rubbing its chin against your hand. "It's been a while, but I think about her every day," Marcloid says. "I still have moments where I feel her close and I just cry a whole bunch. I've got her ashes two feet from me right now. I have a tattoo of her on my chest. So yeah, I'm happy to honor her in my music."

From as early as she can remember, Marcloid says, music made her feel things "that are just so abstract and visceral and hard to put your finger on." She was born near Annapolis in 1984 to a music-loving family; her parents constantly played CDs of hair metal, the Beatles, and her all-time favorite band, Rush. Marcloid started making little drum sets out of pots and pans almost as soon as she could walk.

Her first public performance was when she was seven. Her parents knew a local bar band, and she sat in with them to play drums on a cover of the Black Crowes' "Hard to Handle."

"This is a smoky bar, women showing their boobs and stuff—it was not an environment for kids!" Marcloid says. "But I sat down with the drum kit and we played the songs, and they were just amazed. They were looking back at me while we were playing, like, 'Holy shit! This kid's actually keeping time!' I'll never forget walking off that stage, and all these drunk, smelly adults cheering me on, and a couple of people just gave me money. 'You're awesome, kid! Here's 20 dollars!'"

Marcloid soon taught herself to play guitar and bass too, and her musical interests expanded. As a child she had a formative late-night exposure to Morbid Angel's 1993 video for "Rapture" via MTV's Headbangers Ball, and soon she was also listening to jazz and electronica. She performed in several short-lived bands, and in the late 2000s she launched her own label, also called Rainbow Bridge. Through it Marcloid released cassettes and CDs by other musicians, as well as a blizzard of her own music under various names—including ambient acoustic music as the Human Excuse, punky dream pop with the trio Shadow Government, and electroacoustic noise as Water Bullet.

Marcloid came to Chicago in 2012 to move in with a girlfriend, who owned several cats and had just adopted Breakfast. Like most Siamese, Marcloid says, Breakfast "has always been a little strange." She was neurotic and disliked the other cats, and she never really warmed up to Marcloid's partner. In fact she only had one clear favorite. "She took to me immediately," Marcloid says, "and always wanted to be on me and just wanted to spend all her time with me." When Marcloid and her partner split up, there was no question who Breakfast would go with. The kitty ended up spending most of her life in Marcloid's bedroom to avoid other cats. "The rest of the house was just scary for her. There were too many other cat smells," Marcloid says.

"On the one hand, it may seem weird or maybe even borderline cruel to keep a cat in a single bedroom for their entire lives. But that's what she wanted; she was happy."

Marcloid has featured Breakfast in tracks throughout her oeuvre. "Spirit Spit" from the 2017 album Drip Mental (Hausu Mountain), for example, is a short wordless suite in which Marcloid imagines the usually shy Breakfast grown adventurous enough to go exploring in the house during a storm. The track opens with Breakfast engaging in some Siamese vocalizing and squawking, with thunder in the background. The rest of the narrative unfolds through auditory cues. "She comes down to the basement and turns on her ancient computer, which dials in to AOL," Marcloid explains. "Then she puts on a Telepath CD, which is a vaporwave artist that I absolutely love. You can hear the CD drive opening, you can hear the Telepath song start. And then she types some stuff and is meowing. And then she turns off the computer and goes back upstairs."

In 2018 Breakfast began to go into kidney failure. She was constantly peeing in Marcloid's room, and she wasn't eating. Eventually she was so uncomfortable and miserable Marcloid had to euthanize her. "And that was just so fucking traumatic for me, and so emotional," Marcloid says. "It really energized the search for truth and meaning that I had already begun years ago."

Marcloid began making Rainbow Bridge during Breakfast's illness. The title isn't just a callback to her record label (which she folded around five years ago) but also a reference to contemporary folk mythology about a rainbow bridge that, in Marcloid's words, "our pets either cross when they die to go to the other side, or they go there and they wait for us." The cover art, by Marcloid and Jeremy Coubrough, shows a Siamese cat sitting in a green field with her back to the viewer, looking at the prismatic steps of a bridge that leads upward into a kind of bloated growth of exploding colors.

The chaos of different hues fits the Fire-Toolz aesthetic. As Hausu Mountain cofounder Doug Kaplan puts it, "There's just nobody else that sounds like this, and there will never be another. Each track goes a billion different places but has a strong sense of oneness." Marcloid's other projects often follow particular rules or fit into particular genres; Mindspring Memories, for example, is mostly slowed-down and otherwise manipulated smooth-jazz samples. A recent album under the name Path to Lobster Believers is tape-collage improvisation. But with Fire-Toolz, Marcloid says, "Anything goes. It's a no-rules catchall; everything reports to it. It's the top of the pyramid."

The violent shifts in tone and genre on a Fire-Toolz track often feel exuberant and playful. On Rainbow Bridge, though, they create splatters of emotion: nostalgia, confusion, loss, hope. The opening track, "Gnosis .•o°Ozing," starts out as ranting death metal, with Marcloid screaming distorted, virtually indecipherable lyrics: "Arms wrapped in neon like a warning / A rainbow bridge unfurling / And now I lay listening to nothing / I feel my organs locking up."

By the second verse, she's superimposed smooth-jazz keyboard flourishes atop the noise, so that it sounds like the metal is battling easy listening, anger struggling with happier memories. "Layers in grief not unlike stages of passing / There are many / Not too many / Not so much."

The video for the song "Rainbow ∞ Bridge," created by Marcloid with Armpitrubber (aka Christine Janokowicz), provides an intense visual analogue for the music's smeared palette. This song too starts with a death-metal feel, pairing double kick drum with Marcloid's throat-tearing vocals. "Please don't be mad that I cut your cord / Fear lodged in my gums / Pressing into my face with fingerlike force / Breakfast!" she yells, as images of the kitty strobe and dissolve into colors, lights, emojis, a door opening, SpongeBob screaming. Tinkly new-age keyboard ambience plays over purple clouds and the on-screen words "Heaven! They say I can sit and soak you up." A guitar solo fit for a classic-rock ballad cuts through the shifting landscape, and then the song briefly fades into ambience as Breakfast romps across the screen and dissolves. It's a vision of a loved one disintegrating, perhaps into nothing, perhaps into memory or heaven, while pain and happiness alternate in spasms of glitches.

"Heaven has no location," Marcloid howls near the end of the track. That's a statement of spiritual hope; heaven is everywhere, Marcloid believes. "It's not any particular place. It's something that is all-encompassing," she says. "I think that it's everywhere and everything. It's the flow of life." You can hear that hope on tracks such as "⌈Mego⌉ ≜ Maitrī," which is all gentle surging keyboards and pattering electronica, encouraging you to gently drift into an ether of soft fur and purring.

A heaven without location can also simply be a heaven that doesn't exist, though, and that fear and doubt is also part of Rainbow Bridge. On the jittery "Microtubules," a throbbing beat loops around and around as Marcloid asks, "Were you afraid of crossing?" It's an unsettling question: of course she'd worry about a cat who never wanted to leave the bedroom going off on a long journey alone.

"When Breakfast was sick, anxiety was a huge, huge part of it," Marcloid says. "And even after she passed, and I knew that there was nothing to be done, there was still so much anxiety. I became frustrated because I wanted to know where she was, if she was anywhere. I just want the truth. I don't even care what it is, even if the truth is we're all just dead, and that when my body stops working, it's completely over."

Marcloid finished Rainbow Bridge months ago, and of course she didn't know it would be released at a time when anxiety, uncertainty, fear, and isolation would be so pervasive. In the context of a pandemic, the album seems even more relevant, not just because of its grief but also because of its prescient reminder of the importance of pets: during the stay-at-home order, animal adoptions have broken records as humans turn to cats and dogs to keep them company, and keep them sane, in isolation.

Marcloid adopted another cat herself after Breakfast died, and she now has three. "It's incredibly comforting to have them during a time like this," she says. "They're a solid rock for me to lean on. Especially lately, because they just don't fight with themselves. They're just such simpler creatures, and they're so much more connected to reality than any human could possibly be because of how complex our lives are. When they're in pain, they'll react—they won't like it, but they don't conceptualize and theorize about it. They don't get into this existential dread. They're just in pain, and they just want the pain to go away. That's all it is. It's that simple. We are just hopeless cases in comparison."

Marcloid's music, for all its genre shifts and chaotic oddness, can also reach for that kind of simplicity of thought and emotion. The six-minute instrumental "Angel (of Deth)" is elegiac, oceanic Muzak—a soundtrack to play while the waves roll in, or while watching a kitty sleep. At its conclusion the track breaks up into electronic blips and warbles, as though the world were coming apart and something else were wavering into existence behind the static.

"It's a mystery because we don't know," Marcloid says. "So I have to love and honor that mystery. I don't even know what God is, or if God exists, but whatever it is, that's what I love." Marcloid's tribute suggests that cats may know more about love than we do. They trust you even at the end, to help them die. Rainbow Bridge is not just a eulogy but an expression of hope that they'll lend you a paw in turn when your time comes. It's a comfort to think that when you start up those stairs, there will be a small someone to show you the way.

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Darkness of the Dawn

[[ aka, borderlands au luxu/xigbar’s tragic origin story, aka luxu/xigbar is never allowed to have a backstory without a shitton of baggage that goes with it and also i basically replaced the watcher’s role with luxu because they didn’t do more with them and because i can :))) ]]

~~~

“Luxu---I am going to tell you a secret I have never told anyone else.”

His Master’s voice abruptly cut through the white noise, breaking the reverie that had settled over the picturesque scene. For all Luxu could tell of the unaccounted-for passage of time, the two of them could have been standing there for a few minutes---to even a few hours. And for Luxu, he would have gladly stood there for days upon days for his Master to address him---just waiting for his Master’s initiation of the dialogue, admiring the placid blue lake-view sprawled out before them, dappled in a radiant ocher sunset, in never-ending contented patience.

“And you must never tell anyone else---understand?”

The graveness of his Master’s tone was most perturbing, for the wise Eridian Sage was known for his predominantly teasing, playful attitude, almost edging on manic behavior on occasion. So when he slipped into these serious phases---showed that side of him that truly marked his position as a wise scholar, a philosophical authority, and nearly-omniscient oracle that had written out the mysterious Book of Prophecies---that was the cue to hush, and listen.

And as such, upon this turn of attitude, Luxu’s response wavered slightly in tone,“Y---Yes,” then, more convincing once he’d gotten proper control of his throat,“of course, Master. You can trust me entirely.”

Thus, his Master began his slow pacing, all along the steep cliff side overlooking the expanse of crystalline water, and Luxu---ever-compliant---followed along as he spoke:

“It is time you knew the truth. Things are going to be... changing, Luxu. Very soon. Sooner than is probably pleasant,” and his meandering was slow, hands clasped behind his back, a movement back-and-forth so close the edge it made Luxu anxious.“And as my most trusted Apprentice, you will be a key figure in ensuring that everything---everything, everything---goes exactly as it must.”

Luxu had already been unnerved by his Master’s pacing, but at this revelation, could feel his gut clench anew, like he had swallowed a large stone---nervousness overtaking him in a fresh wave. Such an intense proclamation of responsibility---and Luxu, barely out of his youngling phase, still so uncertain of the universe around him, having primarily lived vicariously through texts his Master provided him and meager interactions with what little of the population that chose to speak to him, instead of absorbing any extensive real-world experience.

When his Master paused, Luxu took this as his turn to interject, drawing closer, until he was within arms’ distance---and yet, at this moment, feeling so much further away, “So... what is going to happen, and---whatmust I do?”

His Master suddenly stopped his movements, facing towards the lake, disappearing far into the horizon, towards the distant mist that glowed burning orange in otherworldly vibrancy---as though the water had been set aflame as the sun appeared to sink deeper into it. Luxu only wished that he could see his Master’s expression---beyond the hood that covered his head, beyond the mask that covered his face. Never before had he seen what lay underneath, and now, more than ever, he wished for just a glimpse---perhaps just a single glance at his visage would dispel the yearning for respite from this terrible conversation.

“...Luxu,” the name from his Master weighted with foreboding,“...soon enough, this place, this planet---this, what we have made our first home, in the hopes of expanding our progeny---will one day have a second name. Future generations of future species will concoct a translation, one name that they will misinterpret as another in their language, its true meaning lost to them:

“Nekrotafeyo.”

As the word came out of his Master’s mouth, Luxu felt an increasing trepidation, and---despite his hesitation---asked,“And it... means?”

“...Graveyard.”

Luxu grew silent, then his Master clinched in place his awful point, “Yes---all of this---everything we know, that lay out before us, everything that we’ve built---will come to its end, left as nothing but a wasteland filled with crumbling ruins.”

Turning his back away from the scenery upon which he had been staring so fondly---the resplendent, enthralling brilliant dusk, smoldering into a purplish hue, as though denying the comfort of the sight in light of this news, in order to linger on the impending tragedy---Luxu raised his gaze upwards, towards the towers that reached into the sky, extending proud and tall like the arms of his Master’s followers at a sermon in the throes of holy reverence. To think---soon, as his Master had described so vaguely---these monuments---testaments to their proud civilization, their masterful craft in establishing their dominance over the universe, the loudest statement possible of ‘we exist!’---would soon be nothing more than... tombstones.

“However... this is where you come in, Luxu.”

He had been silent in his approach, and Luxu felt the long-fingered hand of his Master land on his shoulder---a gesture meant to be of comfort, and yet the Apprentice could only feel it minimally, its warmth at the very edge of his mental awareness.

“Luxu---you will survive. You will live on.”

At these words, Luxu knew he should feel somesemblance of relief---that he would avoid such a catastrophic fate that the remainder of the Eridians were doomed to suffer---and yet, he was just cognizant enough, just keenenough, to know that there was a priceto this fact. That, as he felt his slight shoulders shrug in discomfort---his Master’s touch suddenly becoming farmore intrusive as all of this sunk in---there was more harrowing information to come.

“...Just me? Even you... even you will be gone?”

A soft response, the barest flicker of sympathy, “Every single Eridian, yes---even me.”

Another ensuing silence, and Luxu could feel the weight of everything---everything, everything---toppling down on him. A black hole inside, sucking out every light of hopefulness he had ever felt. Every single moment, culminating to this very one---so very bleak, so very wretched.

“But,” his Master went on, and finally the unintentionally cruel presence of his hand was lifted,“the good news is that, one day, you will see my return. I will come for you---at least, after some time has passed.”

With a palpable disquiet,“...How long?”

There came a breath from behind the mask, and Luxu watched the movement of his Master’s form---wanted to picture behind the porcelain veil some sort of commiseration, some condolenceas the time mounted between the question and the answer.

Pleading for the truth now,“How long?”

“Just---” and, suddenly, his Master’s voiceupturned in mood, “well, just think of this as a vacation! An extendedone, filled with lotsof adventure! Lots of sight-seeing!”

Usually, such an abrupt, jovial switch in his Master’s tone was a signal for relief---that all worries should melt and be replaced with utmost optimism---but in this case, it only worsened the sinking feeling. The dread. The fear. The heartache, even. Perhaps it was selfish, but the main source of his pain now---even more acute than the concept of the death of the entire planet---was that he would be separated from his Master. He had never known a life without him---and now, in a matter of several minutes of conversation, all of his preconceived notions of safety and protection had been entirely stripped away from him.

“...So, what do I do now?”

A brief, yet brutal pause, then, “You will have to be...” another pause, to search for the right term, “...rebuilt,in order to endure what is to come. You will need the physical means to carry on through the ensuing generations, because as it is, your body is too frail to stand the test of time that is before you,” and again, that hand on his shoulder, increasing that throbbing emptiness in Luxu’s chest.

“I promise you, the pain will not last long.”

~~~

His Master had been wrong about the pain.

Very wrong.

~~~

“You know of the Sirens, correct?”

The voice of his Master was distant now---an echo, at this juncture. Mental movement between points in time often felt like a dream---an absence of thought, and suddenly, he was somewhere else. Right now, it appeared he was in some sort of stony, high-ceilinged chamber, illuminated by a series of red lights, and appeared to still be under some sort of construction. He could not conceive its purpose---nor was the notion at the forefront of his mind.

“I know thus far you have not gotten the chance to meet any of them---the one living here included---but believe me, you are going to meet many moreof them on your journey. Though we have surveyed that only a set amount can exist at a single time---” then, a tilt of his Master’s head, “---there... willbe exceptions to this. As you know, therealwaysare to the norm,” then a broad gesture towards Luxu.“Somewhat like you!”

Luxu did not respond to the joke at his expense, whether or not it was meant to console him. Instead, his ruminations swam through him like agitated anglers---how long had he been like this---hurting like this? The rending agony still remained from the procedure---still fresh, still sharp---within his newly-constructed joints, down into his heftily-reinforced bones, and through his now-heightened, sensitive nerve-endings.

And how long must he suffer the harsh stares when traversing within public spaces? Younglings told to avert their eyes, gazes filled with ever-tensing apprehension as he passed them by---and, at times, bordering on complete disdain at his... unseemlyappearance. A disgraceful mishmashed monstrosity of two different entities---Guardian and Eridian---deigned to be neitherby their standards.

Even before this, as an Apprentice to his Master, he had not properly belonged---and now, the stigma had only increased, this time in contempt.

He was a freak.

And when Luxu said nothing, his Master continued,“Well, any-way. Your main job is going to be keeping aneye---” this word especially emphasized, Luxu noted,“---on the various goings-on of the universe---and we will get to that bit soon enough, most assuredly---but another thing you are going to have to do is watch theseparticular individuals. And even when you thinkyou should interfere, do not. If you do, it could create paradoxes of untold consequences.

“The only time you may ever act is when you knowyou can act---and you shall know what that means soon enough. But otherwise, everything must unfold as foretold---that is, first and foremost, your Role.”

Still, Luxu’s mouth did not move---made not a single sound---and still his Master went on,“Thankfully, the way your body has been---altered, it will not only extend your lifespan significantly, but it will be what protects you from anysupernaturalpowers the Sirens have. And believe me, you are going to be quite thankful for that. Because trust me, you are going to be in for some... close encounters.”

At long last, Luxu replied,“...Okay.”

“Just...” his Master’s slow approach, a hand on his shoulder---the renewed return of Luxu’s despair, “be ready for the next phase. You will be meeting your first Siren soon enough---and I must prepare you for it. After that...unfortunately, you will have to go alone from here on out.”

~~~

His Master had been correct.

He was prepared. And he was alone.

Above what would be known as the now-completed Pyre of Stars---at least, what his Master told him it would be known as some time in the future, yet again unspecified---he watched the Siren called “Nyriad” with the new Gazing Eye he had been given, replacing what had once been his own right eye. He clutched within the talons of one deformed hand the ultra-weapon that he referred to as “No Name,”---and at his side, hanging from his other claw, the Black Box, heavy with its unbreakable locks and containing a Secret to which only he and his Master were privy.

These were to be considered, he supposed rather bitterly, parting gifts from his Master---and the application of Eye the last testament to the fact that what pain he thought was the maximum of what he could endure... was not.

As he stood witness to the disappearance of what could have once been considered his entire species, his position at the pinnacle of the temple’s arch leading out towards a field of diminishing starlight---captivated by Fate until it appeared every single one of the Eridians had been rendered into nothing but their bloody essence to feed the Eldritch being that was then sealed away---she saw him.

And yet, as he returned her stare---gazed into such stunningly blue eyes---he found himself... feeling nothing. Where once there was empathy, there was apathy---where once was a concern to be loved and to belong, there was complete and utter detachment. Cruelly forced upon him---perhaps, he had pondered, for the better.

Therefore, as she surveyed him surveying her, he did nothing.

For from now until the end of the unknown, he had accepted thatthis would be his all-consuming Role, at the behest of his absent Master---the Fate to which he would have to adhere himself:

Waiting.

Watching.

Dawn was approaching, and in the wake of the genocide, he turned his back on the first Siren he had ever met, and, dragging the Black Box behind him with No Name in tow, tread heavily on towards the rising sun---and to wherever else his feet were destined to take him.

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Modern Romanticism

for @little-narnian-notes

Word count: 2423

Summary: Modern!au. You meet Susan at university and your emotions snowball.

The university is beautiful. A roving campus steeped in centuries of history and knowledge. A gorgeous lawn you can imagine yourself studying on in the warmer months and a name and plaque for everything.

Downside? The fact you think you’ve made a grave mistake with your classes for the semester. You can just feel the thousands of dollars gurgling down the drain in the pursuit of intellectual enlightenment. Still, you plough on in the hopes that the next set of classes is better now you know what you don’t want.

You stifle a yawn and frown at yourself. You’ve held off from coffee for this long, but it’s getting to crunch time and there’s no more room for being strong and exercising self-restraint. You need caffeine.

Standing in line at the little cafe down the road, you rub at your eyes as you examine the menu. It’s a fairly average place - cream walls with old mass-produced paintings and stiff wooden chairs with rocky tables that you wouldn’t dream of resting your drink on. The usual or drink of the day, you ponder.

“One medium latte, regular sugar please.”

The voice in front of you sounds nice enough, gently pulling you from your early morning daze. Shifting in your worn jeans, your eyes follow the figure to their bag. The satchel is familiar, with its gold lion badge against warm brown leather. It sits a few rows in front of you in your Wednesday morning and Friday afternoon Intro to Poetics lectures. Someone clears their throat and you leap forward sluggishly to place your own order, coughing out a general apology. You stand aside once you’re done, eyes wandering till they fall on the customer in front of you.

The young woman is devastatingly pretty. Quiet, attentive eyes that seem to fragment light. Feathery lashes that tickle the fainest of freckles, surely earned from summers gone by. A glow to her cheeks and a striking lip colour flawlessly streaked on. If you had some kind of artistic talent, you might have gone on about her for longer. Her order is called and she drops the barista a whisper of a smile with her thanks, leaving you with your inadequate thoughts.

You find out through plenty of coincidence and eavesdropping - a rather bad habit of yours - that her name is Susan. An old school name, but you don’t question it. In fact, it suits her. Sophisticated and timeless.

It’s silly. You’ve never even had a proper conversation with her, why is she suddenly so interesting to you? Now you know she exists, as much as you try to stop yourself, you start seeing her everywhere.

Susan is very keep to herself, despite the many people she knows and enjoys. A spectre that weaves the quad pillars between classes. Long, whispering hair and a glide to her step. It contradicts all of the tidbits that you’ve picked up about her.

Most mornings you see her in the cafe, sometimes with a latte - usually those days entail vibrant makeup, maybe to distract from the long nights - other times with a green tea. You still haven’t introduced yourself during lectures, which you’re fine with - at moment, you’re existing educationally.

When you finally speak, your thoughts by now have gotten away from you and you’ve put this poor girl on a pedestal of beauty and curiosity. The lecturer for poetry - a kind woman who wears flowing tops in kaleidoscope floral, just the type of person you expect to teach such a class - asks for a group brainstorm on romanticism in the 18th century. Your partner in crime, Jonathon is away with the flu, leaving you high and dry on the buddy front. Susan is looking around, till her eyes land on you. She makes a little gesture at you and you nod, pulling your stuff together to move to her.

“Hi, I’m Susan.” She says brightly, holding out her hand.

You utter your own name, firmly gripping your hand. She looks at you, with a glitter to her eyes and a twitch to her pink lips.

“We get coffee around the same time, don’t we?” She drops your usual order.

“That’s about right. I’m surprised you recognised me, seeing as I’m always behind you.”

Both of you laugh at your attempt for humour then get down to it, knowing there’s only a limited amount of time.

Conversation flows easily with her and it’s not a struggle to remember what was said just ten minutes ago when her mind races eloquently and jump starts your own. Between your interpretations of what it all means, to how it’s seen today, ideas bounce back and forth constantly like the ebb and flow of the waves. It’s a little painful when time is called. Still, she smiles at you, the edges of her mouth curling.

You grab her phone number at the end of class, as she assures you that she’ll find you on messenger later. It feels like some sort of victory really.

She messages you the next day, asking if you were up for a party on the Friday. Spontaneous and filled with emojis. Much more like the nuggets of facts you;d heard. You decline though, stating you had too much to catch up on that weekend. Maybe next time, she replies. But, honestly, you’ve never been one for the night life of university. Of the house parties and pub crawls till your eyes fall out and you fall over. You get pictures on her snapchat story of that weekend, her make up sharp and figure flattered in the same kind of red that swirls in her glass. This was more common of her.

Anyway, there’s always still the cafe in the morning. Now you smile when you make eye contact and make brief small talk while you wait. Names pop up here and there, mixed with if only’s and back when’s and you wonder if the people who she’s made these memories with are very far away. You walk in time with one another back to campus and she babbles about what happened on the weekend and about how she wishes her roommate would tone it down on the punk rock for a moment so she can think - or at least share the speaker. She asks you about your days and feelings and that need to look at her blooms again. To take in every single part of her, because there is just so much there to admire.

Nowadays, you meet up to proofread work before handing it in or just to study in general. You excel in Shakespeare and the Elizabethan language - begrudgingly - and she seems to have the hang of everything else. Sitting in the cafe is your new favourite thing, especially in the mornings when the sun isn’t too strong as it filters down the street and into the big glass window the both of you have claimed as your own.

Susan looks at you, warmth rounding her cheeks and pen poised above paper. Her burgundy sweater devours her adoringly but you know from the cut of the fabric that it probably wasn’t hers to start with. “Has anyone told you that you’re quite the romantic?”

You splutter, her lovely aesthetic stationary feeling too pretty for your tactless grip. “P-Pardon me?”

She laughs. It’s not bell-like, but full and soft, like cotton sheets and a cat’s purr. She taps her pen to the spiral-bound notebook pinned under her wrist. You’ve managed to stuff a pie of paper under a table leg so it doesn’t rock and you’re careful not to be the one to kick it.

“Your way with words. It’s long and flowery. But not in a bad way! You just sound like a lovesick teenager about everything. Even coffee if I’m reading this right. There’s a pause and she smiles, turning it from a sharp beam to a glow. "It’s cute.”

Your face feels red and you can’t look her in the eye as you croak out a broken thank you.

It’s just getting to autumn and she’s suddenly gone very quiet. It’s mothers day and you’re both situated in the cafe, comparing notes again on what you suspect to be your own lecturer’s work. Her make up is a bit more subdued and her long hair is tied up off her face in fluffy, slept in waves. She reminds you of your first meeting, the colours de-saturated. She hasn’t done a very good job of hiding her weariness, from the way her nimble fingers tick slowly to the dullness in her eyes.

You clear your throat shyly. “Su, are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.”

She stares at you for a long moment before sighing. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“How come you aren’t at home, though? Didn’t you say that you lived close by?”

If your parents weren’t overseas for their anniversary, you would have made the long trip back home to cook breakfast and dry cupcakes along with binge-watch that murder mystery series you mum adores so much. She nods and shrugs, pulling her hands away from her tea into her lap.

“My parents aren’t very well at the moment. None of my family is. Just before the start of the semester, there was an accident - the train that derailed down by the south tunnel?” You nod for her. “We were all coming back from holiday. I missed the train in favour of one last night at the festival- James was really cute - but the rest of them - my parents, my three siblings, a cousin and a few family friends - went ahead on time. They were all in the front carriage. So at the moment, it’s just me. Everyone else is in hospital. Seriously injured or in a coma.”

You can’t resist the urge to reach out your hand to grip her arm. It jerks her eyes up to make contact with yours.

“How horrible! Su, I’m so sorry. I’m here for you, you know that right?”

She gives a melancholy curl to her lips and nods, twisting her arm to squeeze back. “I know, thank you.”

You make it your mission afterwards to watch over her. Insist on her messaging you when she got home from a night out, even though she was making all her friends do the same to her. Offering a cookie or two in your lectures - warm and just slightly soft in the middle with gooey choc chips, her favourite. Popping up with notions to go out and explore the town. She had been so kind to you before, you felt the need to return the favour.

This is when things went down hill.

You thought you had her on your mind before, not it was borderline obsessive. Not just her well-being, but just her. Did she like what you wrote? Did she know it might have been about her? Susan’s rapid existence had snowballed violently into a full-blown crush. You try your best not to stare at her too much, pressing crescents into your palms to quell the urge to hug her out on the university’s front lawn. She talked more about her family now that her burden was off her chest. How Edmund would read poetry with her, no matter how little patience he had for it. That Peter would we livid she was wearing on of his favourite sweaters out so quickly. Eustace would be prodding Lucy’s innocent buttons, with his best friend Jill holding no loyalties except to women. She hugs you when you part now, her rosy, floral scent surrounding you in a pleasant haze and her silky hair brushing elegantly against your cheek. Oh, if you had a truly creative cell in your body, you would have written great stories of her by now.

Together you sit in her living room, on a well-loved but slightly bowed sofa, some tv series you wanted to binge on playing softly on the screen. Legs innocently tangled and in your most comfy pyjamas, while she whines just a little for the bag of snakes on your other side. She’s devoured the chocolate pretzels you brought around, knowing she would enjoy them. Your insides are coiled tight and your heart thudding out of your chest warmly. You kick the bag aside and turn to face her, still almost shoulder to shoulder. You can’t not say something. Now with how soft she looks and the comfort and perfect familiarity seeping into your bloodstream.

“Let’s go out sometime.”

She blinks at you, argument cut short. “W-What?”

“We should go out sometime. Just us. Like on…on a…a date.”

The tension spikes and thickens like whipping cream. She stares at you, beautiful glowing eyes flashing with the screen. The blanket smells like her, floral but not too strong with a hint of something else underneath. Her freckles stand out under the artificial light and you wonder for half a breath what you must look like to her.

“I really like you, Su.” You take a breath and a moment to gather your thoughts. You don’t want to sound like rom-com, even if you both like them. “You’ve become really important to me since we met and I’d like to try this with you. Know I can make you happy, especially now and be there for you. Hope you feel something. So, can we?”

You lay your hands out on the blanket between you with bated breath, so much so you might turn blue, but you wouldn’t mind. There is a pensive moment where her eyes examine you before she bridges the gap to twine her cool fingers with yours. Her cheeks bloom red and you grin at her, so bright that you can’t see through your lashes.

“I - of course. You’ve been with me in a way most of my other friends haven’t. I’ve - I’ve thought about you a lot. So, yeah. Let’s give this a go.”

The sigh that passes your lips is heavy and your face floods back with colour. Her next action leaves your breath caught in your throat again as one hand slide up your arm to cup a cheek. Eyes bore into you and her narrow nose is a breath away from yours.

“Can I…kiss you?” She murmurs. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about since we sat down, really.”

You laugh breathlessly. “If you want.”

When her lips press against yours, all your thoughts finally settle so it’s just…Susan.

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World Eater [Prologue]

First try at a multiverse fic. Posted over on Sufficient Velocity forums, but I’m not actually planning to post on FFN or AO3 until I get along far enough in the story. I have way too many plot bunnies running around already. orz

Title: World Eater Category: Multiverse (Multi-fandom) Summary: Rebirth in another world, and what it consists of: Second chances, defying destiny, shattering the chains of fate. Or at least, that’s how the story usually goes… but for Alice, things happen to be a little different. [OC, AU, Multiverse]

Warnings: Violence, gore, possibly disturbing content in the future? Again, I'm not too sure where this is headed yet, but I’ll post warnings here if/when they come up.

[Next]

. 0.0: Prologue​

.

It begins with a question, and the question is this: “Do you want to live?” … It’s a simple question. The question is simple, and its answer is equally so. “Yes.”

Yes, she says. Yes, she wants to live. Why wouldn’t she? It was a freak accident. She had died young, so young, and it’s hardly fair that life was so cruelly snatched away from her, for no real fault of her own. Did she ask for this? Did she ever ask for any of this? No. No one ever wants to die. But she dies. Quietly, quietly. Quietly, but surely. … Hers is a death that no one will notice and no one will miss, because she is nothing. Quietly, quietly, she will pass ever so quietly and gently into the good night. Yet out of the darkness, there is a voice asks her if she wants to live. She says yes. Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she? Who doesn’t want to live? And so, here she sits. In an unrecognizable room lit only by dim candlelight, upon an ink-black chair behind an equally ink-black table, she sits facing an unfamiliar figure –someone who is her judge, jury, and executioner. But it’s alright. She has nothing left to lose. Nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “There will be conditions for this, you understand,” the masked man warns her. The words that fall from his lips are cautionary, but his voice is nothing if not sweet and lilting, so alluring and inviting and so very completely at odds with the ghastly skull of some great unrecognizable beast that sits atop his face, obscuring his eyes. Angel, devil, god. It doesn’t matter. “Nothing for nothing. Everything that is worth anything always comes with a price, sweetheart. That’s the way of the world.” Everything has a price. And some prices are too steep, too heavy to ever be paid. Yes, she understands what he’s saying. But she also thinks that, for the chance to escape death –nothing would be too high of a price to pay. I don’t want to die please don’t let me die please no. “Is that so? I see.” Gloved fingertips tap idly against themselves as the man folds his hands together and leans back in his seat. The half-mask covering the top half of his face makes it hard to discern his expression, but she thinks she can glean something akin to satisfaction from him in the slow curve of his lips. “Excellent, excellent. Then we have ourselves an accord, my dear Alice.” An agreement. A deal. We have ourselves an accord. Yes. Nothing is too high of a price to pay. “Mm, I do like seeing assertiveness in a confident young woman. No point in being wishy-washy when you know exactly what it is you want, right?” The man leans forward with a small huff of laughter, elbows rested against the tabletop. There is a vague sense of foreboding that crawls down her spine at his words, but she remains resolute. It’s either this or death, and she’ll take the former over the latter. “Clever. You’re a smart girl, aren’t you, Alice?” (Smart, perhaps. But not wise. Death is death, and if she were truly wise, she would’ve chosen to remain dead. But she is not.) “… May I ask what the price is?” What is the price to live? “Ah, the price,” he sighs. A soft intersperse of silence falls between them. “It’s quite simple, really. In exchange for another chance at living, I’ll have you help me with a little task.” Task? “See, I’m a regulator, and the World is currently in flux,” he explains. “This puts me in a bit of a bind. So many imbalances and aberrations running amok amongst all the parallel realities… Rules exist for a reason. There must be balance. Otherwise, we’re all just stuck on a slow march towards inevitable destruction. And we can’t have that now, can we?” Her only response to all of this is a slow, slow blink, because Okay, this sounds kind of serious and all, but if you’re expecting me, a plain vanilla human, to be able to do anything about this then you’ve got another thing coming– (She desperately wants to live, yes, and she’s willing to pay any price for it –any price that is within her abilities. She’s young, but she's not stupid.) Something of her innermost thoughts must come across on her face, because the man smiles. “Terrible, isn’t it? Just terrible.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “Oh, have a little more faith, sweetheart. I’d ask of you the difficult, the challenging, the improbable, but never the impossible. Tell me, does the term ‘transmigration’ mean anything to you?” … Rebirth? The man lets out a soft hum. “Something like that, yes. ‘Transmigration’ refers to the movement of the soul into another body after death. Reincarnation, in a manner of speaking. Distressingly enough, it’s currently happening on a massive scale between a large number of worlds with a disturbingly high frequency. There is an error I’m looking into right now which is the cause of that… but I’m afraid it’s not quite enough, at this rate. This is quite problematic, you see.” She tilts her head, “How so?” “Because it causes imbalance, of course. And imbalance always, always invites destruction.” The masked man makes an idle gesture with his hands. “Every world has its own path to follow, its own timeline to adhere to, and for that reason every being that exists within each world has a purpose from the moment of its conception. You might be familiar with some of the worlds I’m referring to –stories, I believe you know them as, but I assure you that they are all very much real. Now, what do you think happens to a story when a foreign element suddenly enters it? What happens when you forcibly insert into a story something that did not originally exist?” It takes several long seconds for her to realize that he is actually expecting an answer. “… The story changes?” “Yes, the story changes, of course it does. But what are the consequences?” A hint of impatience, the first real sign of agitation. It only lasts for a single heartbeat, before the man quickly recollects himself. “The world falls astray from its intended path, and perhaps it’s alright, because it’s only a minor alteration in a single thread in the tapestry, just a single loose thread. Nothing much to worry about, right?” A single moment of silence. Shadows swirl restlessly and leap across the tabletop, gnarled strands of darkness choking each other to death. “Now imagine what happens when all the threads in the tapestry spring loose.” The girl winces at the too-placid tone that the last line is delivered in. “That’s… not good?” “No, it’s not,” the masked man agrees calmly. “So here’s the deal: I’ll show you the path that a world is meant to take, and let you live in the place of one of the world’s key denizens. But you must ensure that in each world, certain significant events that are meant to happen must occur.” A note of finality. An order. “Al… Alright…” she pauses haltingly. “So basically, then, you want me to… make sure key events in a world will occur, regardless of… interference from… other people who’ve reincarnated into the world? Because it causes imbalance?” “That’s the gist of it.” It sounds crazy, she thinks. Ridiculous. Mad, even. It sounds just like the beginning of some badly-written fanfiction about saving the world, and the girl isn’t quite sure what to make of it. And really, why her? Of all people to offer another chance at living, in exchange for saving the world, why choose her? She's well aware that there's nothing that's special about her, nothing that makes her worth more than anyone else. Why, then, would someone like her be given a second chance at life? It's suspicious, and downright ludicrous. But… “… In exchange, I won’t die?” “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But didn’t you hear what I just said? As you complete the tasks I assign you, you will have the opportunity to live again.” She closes her eyes. (Who knew that this was what would await her after death?) “There’s a pretty big mess with the whole infestation of transmigrated souls from across different worlds, so I’ll give you the ability to be able to tell between regular and transmigrated souls on sight. That’s all I have to offer you in terms of unique skills, though. Anything more would only be... detrimental.” ... Huh, she hadn’t even thought to ask for any special abilities. It was average of the whole 'die-and-be-reborn-in-another-world-via-ROB' trope in web novels, yes, but it just hadn't really... occurred to her? Or rather, it was more like... Getting another chance to live was already much more than she’d ever expected, so she hadn’t thought to ask for anything beyond that. Well, it's a bit of a moot point to think of it now, anyways. Invincibility and laser eyes would certainly be useful, but clearly there are limits to omnipotence. She's not blind. Evidently, she’s gone and gotten herself signed up for something dangerous, but… as long as she has another chance to live… Is it really so wrong to think this way? ... I just don’t want to die. ... It’s not everything, but it’s enough. It's enough, she repeats to herself. It must be. The Masked Man smiles. “Do your best and try not to die before completing your tasks, sweetheart. Who knows? It might be a little more permanent this time around.”

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K-12 Words

K

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1.1

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mark wealthy row feeling across attention ran map students inside design art mouth ring skill hot during shelter full till log (book) blossom discard bring quickly scientists party town covered wise early cram grain harm goal pause inform heal clue fame freeze badge pimple dim missionary diet dumb rod march agree stick government bulb mall ban greed skiing poison stove image grew fact material dangerous flow gap ago stack explain didn’t strong voice true drawing surface gift corner cloud since king dawn pulled dozen friends greedy burning upon knew insect decimal nervous pay foot weak smooth aware steady serve lost nonetheless beach front atlas questions less cost slight motor banner wire area carefully separate equation local minutes fast table plan fine waves fair sing dive suppose boat thousands shape among toward gas factory birds wait understand sure ship report captain human game history reflect special brave bounce though else can’t matter square syllables perhaps bill felt suddenly test direction center farmers ready anything divided general energy subject Europe moon region return believe dance members picked simple cells paint mind love cause rain exercise eggs train blue wish drop developed window difference distance heart site sum summer wall forest probably

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capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

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evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

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exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

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stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

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feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

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install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

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warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

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Deandra Crowe

TRUE NAME: Yes, but she’s never been privy to what it is. FACECLAIM: Gugu Mbatha-Raw NICKNAMES AND ALIASES: Dee DATE OF BIRTH: 4/9/1987 ACTUAL AGE: 30 GENDER: Female KIND OR CALLING: Changeling - Spring Court OCCUPATION: Veterinary Technician

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: There’s a scar on Deandra’s forehead from her car accident, a permanent reminder of the two deaths that hang over her head. A normal human would have been killed by the piece of glass that lodged itself in her head, but Deandra was lucky. She has a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and a birthmark near her left ankle.

PERSONALITY:

Shy - Deandra loves people, from a distance. As a child, Deandra was busy with her training and neglected to make friends. The social skills that everyone seemed so blessed with failed to come easily to her. She wants to interact with people, but she’s always felt more comfortable on her own or in small interactions.

Insecure - While Alex’s fairytale helped with the pain of being abandoned, the emotional scars of that moment never quite healed. Rather than having the confidence to greet the world and its myriad problems, Deandra struggles to have confidence. Every interaction comes with a layer of self doubt that prevents her from making the kinds of connections she’s always longed for. Every decision she makes is plagued with second guesses and what ifs.

Compassionate - Deandra has always had a large heart. She donates to a variety of charities each and every week. Her apartment is home to any animal that may be struggling to get through the night. Her compassion has been misconstrued by some of her colleagues as a great weakness of her, but she believes that it allows her to do job to the best of her ability.

Naive - Even though she was exposed to an entire world outside of the human realm thanks to Alex’s careful parenting, Dee remained sheltered to the way of humans. After her disastrous relationships, Deandra was scared to try again. She assumes that people have the best of intentions, because she generally tries to act with her best intentions at heart. When people fail to do so, she writes them off as an outlier.

Environmentally Conscious - Deandra is a devout composter and refuses to buy clothes from a store. Instead, she frequents thrift stores and makes her own clothes. She carefully monitors her water usage and is constantly looking for ways to minimize her impact on the planet.

Calm - One element that has allowed people to understand Deandra’s gifts with animals is her calming presence. In the midst of chaos, Deandra is a well of patience. While her doubts and insecurities rage inside her head, she is able to present a calm demeanor. Part of it is a gift from the fae, yes, but some of it is entirely unique to Deandra.

HISTORY:

When Deandra was born she was carried from the land of the Fae by a flock of crows. Or so the story goes. The crows carried her to a field where a wise fae found her. The fae, Alex, took Deandra’s True Name, giving her a new name and a family. Alex explained to Deandra that she had been born from the fertile womb of a fairy goddess. But the goddess was not an inherently good person. No, this goddess was cruel and unforgiving, casting out Deandra from her land. But fate has a way of making things right. Alex had once been cast out by the fae and they would act as Deandra’s fairy godparent.

Alex taught Deandra about the gifts that are bestowed upon each of the fae. Deandra was born with the gift of calming animals. As a small child, animals would flock to her. Alex taught Deandra how to harness this power, turning it on and off as needed. Deandra felt any affinity for strays, like her they had been abandoned by someone who should have loved them. She couldn’t bear to keep any creature as a pet, because that implied a sense of ownership that wasn’t fair to her. At the age of 10, Deandra gave a report on the importance of veterinary techs at her school’s career fair. From the moment she started researching the profession, she knew that it was for her.

At 14, Deandra’s powers started to spiral out of her control. Hormones mixing with fae abilities led to a shaky grip on her abilities and a tempestuous relationship with the only home she had ever known. Alex was always there for her, living up to the fairy godparents of so many stories. But, Deandra did not make it easy. While out practicing her driving, her powers surged. Two animals died as they raced towards the car to get to her. It was the most traumatic moment of Deandra’s young life. Alex and Deandra held a funeral for the animals but it did little to ease her guilt. Her smile grew a little dimmer that day and that one piece of it that was lost, was lost forever.

Her first boyfriend, Marcus, did not share Deandra’s passion for animals. But she was young, a mere 15, and he was handsome. Young love, however, is not as beautiful as fairy tales make it out to be. And poor, young, flawed Marcus made a mistake. He cheated on Deandra. Alex was not content to simply pick up the pieces of Deandra’s heart. They headed to Marcus’s home in a storm of rage, with Deandra chasing after them. She never got to see what her godparent did to Marcus, but his family packed up and moved far away the next day. “A parent’s job,” Alex frequently said, “is to protect their young from harm.” Deandra knew that she should be frightened, scared of this strange power that her caregiver possessed, but instead she felt touched by the depth of Alex’s affection.

When Deandra was a senior in high school, she applied for the position of administrative assistant at a nearby vet clinic. She was turned down, but told to try again in the summer. She did so and was rewarded with the start of her veterinary career. At her job, she was always allowed to care for animals and provide them with a shelter as they dealt with trying times. Her greatest joy was watching the animal head back out into the wild or back into their owner’s house, free and happy once more.

For her twenty-second birthday, Deandra treated herself to an education. She spent two years gaining her credits before starting on licensure. She passed each test with flying colors, dedicated to providing the best possible care she could. When she received her license, Alex and Deandra celebrated by making a feast of desserts together. It was the perfect way to celebrate accomplishing her dreams. Deandra has worked for the past few years as the best vet tech at her facility.

FAMILY:

Alex Moretti - Who needs a team of family when you’re gifted with your very own fairy godparent? Alex is a war weary old fae, older than Deandra will ever know. With one exception, they have always been peaceful in front of Deandra. There is no one, living or dead, that Deandra feels closer to. Alex is everything to her. When she was younger Dee helped Alex out around their shop, The Rabbit’s Hat - she respects the Hat and all the hard work and love it represents, but is devoted to her own path.

SEXUALITY AND RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Bisexual, single OTHER TIES:

Marcus - Deandra’s first boyfriend made a serious impression on her. He was her first love and his life was impacted by Alex in ways that Deandra can’t comprehend.

WANTED CONNECTIONS: More changelings! Friends of any kind! Coworkers! Potential love interests! All of the fun interactions. LIKES: Sunshine, Flouncy Dresses, Rainstorms, Lana Del Rey, Skittles DISLIKES: Reality competition shows, Dry heat, Classical Music, Laundry HOBBIES: Baking, Crafting headpieces (flowercrowns, bows, headbands, etc), Boardgames SKILLS: Baking - from Pate A Choux to Genoise, Deandra has spent years teaching herself how to prepare high quality baked goods.

Crafting - Deandra has never encountered a craft project that she didn’t like. She can get lost for hours in any craft store, just exploring the possibilities.

Nail Painting - During a brief spell as a groomer, Deandra learned a great deal about painting canine nails. She has since harnessed this ability to create intricate designs on her own nails.

MEDICAL CONDITIONS:Any exposure to meat makes Deandra incredibly ill because she’s been a vegetarian her entire life, and she has had a bought with kidney stones, but they have all passed. She is also slightly anemic, but keeps in close contact with her doctor about it. CURRENT FINANCIAL STATUS: Deandra’s job pays well enough and she’s able to supplement her income by occasionally selling her headpieces to local shops and on Etsy. PLACES: Centennial Park, the perfect picnic spot! Deandra started frequenting the park as a way to walk dogs for the vet and fell in love with the location. Deandra has a soft spot for well-steeped teas and The Crossroads carries her favorites. Deandra has an active card at the Church Street Library and uses it to check out books on baking techniques from around the world. PETS: Deandra is not comfortable with the idea of claiming ownership of an animal, but she doesn’t begrudge anyone else their pets.

KNOWN MAGIC: Deandra is able to calm even the most rabid of animals. Alex has been a lifelong teacher in helping Deandra master her abilities, but things don’t always go according to plan. Surges in hormones and emotions can lead her abilities to act up. Lately, though, her powers have seem to be more sporadic than usual.

RUMORS: Deandra doesn’t know how to make friends.

There’s something strange about Deandra’s relationship with Alex.

WRITING SAMPLE:

The bird found her, as birds usually did. A whisper of feathers against her ankle. She bent down to pick it up, careful not to hurt it. “Hello, little one,” she said softly, her voice barely audible above the noise on Broadway street. It was lucky to have survived so long, winding around the crush of humans on the sidewalk. A further inspection identified the problem, an injured wing. “It’ll all be alright,” she said, summoning a Lyft with a few gentle taps on her iPhone.

The hospital was closed. It was a Sunday afterall, and they weren’t the most lucrative of operations. There was a larger animal hospital farther away that was always open but Deandra had found their care lacking long ago. Fortunately, she opened every weekday morning and had her own set of keys. The bird cooed as it jumped up and down her palm, soothing itself with touch. “Settle down, love. I’m sorry for the poor lighting but all will be right soon enough.” She turned on the harsh fluorescent lights and carried the bird to one of the facility’s five exam rooms.

“Now,” she said, placing the bird down on the cold table, “What on earth did you do to yourself.” She pulled down a larger light, hanging over the bed. With a flick of a switch, the bird was illuminated. “There, that’s better.” Carefully, she reached out and caressed the bird’s soft coat of down feathers. “You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunning.” As her fingers played across the delicate feathers, she felt a nub where there shouldn’t be a nub. “Oh, I see.” Somehow, this clever bird had managed to dislocate it’s shoulder, making it hard for it to life. “Not the smartest move, my feathered friend, but we’ve all been there before.” She lifted the wing, gently, and reading to put it back into place.

“I dislocated my arm once too, you know.” As she talked, she began to set the wing back to where it should be. “I was outside, wandering around our front yard and a wild dog wandered near me.” The bird yelped, clearly in pain. “Give it just a second longer and everything will feel much better. I promise.” With one final motion, the wing was in place. “There. Now the dog, it was friendly and massive. I was only six. I grabbed onto its neck, intent to hug it, and it took off running after a car. My arm followed it, but my body did not.” She chuckled to herself before continuing, “Alex was beside herself. But I was okay. And you will be too.” Her fingers traveled along its feathers again, feeling for any other injuries. The turquoise feathers shone against the harsh examination light, but no imperfections stuck out. “Well, I think you’re okay, but I’m a simple tech, not a doctor. I think we should leave you here overnight for observation. The doctors are used to me bringing in new animals to examine. I just want to make sure you’re alright.” She held her palm out, allowing the bird to hop up onto it. “Let’s get you a home for the night.”

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