#Sorry it looks so crusty still learning how this site works

[lucidzuchini]

Shadow Study of Man with Celestial Globe by Nicolaes Eliasz Pickenoy (1624)

[oonajaeadira]

Long Fall Into Oblivion (Ezra x reader)

(header by sirtadcooper - check out the whole beautiful set here.)

Rating: Mature. 

Pairing: Ezra (post-Prospect film) x f!reader

Warnings: Non-explicit sex. Some swears maybe (think there’s a f*ck in there somewhere, my GOODNESS). A lot of gooey, syrupy, soft fluffety fluff. Author attempts at writing Ezra dialogue. A lot of chewy prose.

A/N: I can’t believe I’m posting this, but here goes. I love Ezra. He is a man of questionable morality and an insufferable tongue and I really shouldn’t. But I really do. I just wanted to give him a try. I’ve softened him up here, putting a few years on him so maybe he’s fluffed up some since the events in the film. Also I just ignored the fade or assumed that aurelac mining was still happening because scarcity/demand. Doesn’t matter. Just wanted to go exploring.

Summary: You take a job as an aurelac prospecting trainee and Ezra shows you the ropes. You’re gonna fall in love with him. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

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MASTERLIST

________________

Bakhroma is one of the smallest gas giants in the sector, but as you stand on the surface of the Green Moon, it dominates the entire horizon, pulling your focus, threatening to engulf everything around it. You almost feel sorry for the lush moon as you walk through its undergrowth, so gentle and full of beauty, destined many years after you’re gone to give its life to her.

A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?

There’s a painful, sour ache in your heart as you walk back to the camp in twilight, watching the back of Ezra’s helmet bob along in front of you. You’d spent two days digging that claim only to find the weakest aurelac nest you’ve seen yet, only three viable nodes. You’d dug through one of them by accident and completely melted another like an incompetent fool. Kevva’s ass, you were such a disappointment. Three months in the Green and you still can’t cut a blister out properly. Not even once.

Ezra’s shoulders are wide and tense, his one hand splayed out as he walks, running over the tops of the tall ferns, catching one every now and then only to rip the top away, twirl it between his gloved fingers and toss it impatiently aside.

The other two members of your team headed out on a sling this morning, another two will be arriving in a few days. And you wonder if Ez regrets just not cutting his losses and leaving with them, or at least sending you back in exchange for another kip.

You think about shifting through the comm channels, hoping that he’s chattering away in one of them, switched without your knowledge, but it’s a lost cause. You can hear him breathing on the channel between you. It’s not often Ezra has nothing to say.

________________

You thought your father was leaving you an inheritance. It’s not the reason you took care of him through his illness, but you’d dropped everything to be back home with him through his final months. In a way, it was a blessing, a reason to quit the Dasha factory and the terrible working conditions there, come back home and focus on your dad, relive good memories, just spend time. The reconnection lifted your heart, but his death sank it low again. When you learned he had nothing to leave you but a small house and some old vehicles, you sold what you could and traded in the rest.

Then you had nothing. No family, no job, little savings, questionable future. It almost broke your spirit. But the last few months with your father rekindled your love of him as he told you about his years in the Fringe, mining and prospecting. And your heart had said, “what the hell, let’s try that.” So you listened.

It took some time to track down the right inroads, but you were able to find some ads for prospecting teams, in particular those who were willing to take on members in training for a re-distributed cut. With all provisions included--other than suit and gear, which your father’s inheritance neatly covered--it seemed like just as good of a deal as any, and an adventure to boot.

But the reality was, every team you met with was full of hardened men, and while you were not a soft Central woman, you also weren’t overly versed in weaponry and didn’t know if you could defend yourself out in the Fringe against attack if things got crusty.

You were just about ready to admit defeat when you walked into yet another conference bunker and found your match. The first thing you noticed was that he was standing when you arrived, waiting for you politely rather than manspread at the table. Second were his eyes. Deep, brown, and sad. Maybe sad was the wrong word, certainly it seemed by the lines in his face, possibly by the missing arm, that he’d seen enough sadness, but toward you, it read more as concern. You wouldn’t know it until later when he confessed his feelings about this first meeting, but he was worried you wouldn’t choose him. Ezra had a hell of a time hiring partners. He may have been one of the longest-working aurelac diggers out there, but young kippers saw his greying beard and seasoned diggers saw his lacking arm and they all tended to turn around and walk out before he even said hello. So he’d tried to put himself out there as a trainer, show that he had something more to offer.

It didn’t hurt his feelings when you admitted to him later that those qualities were exactly why you chose him. He seemed the opposite of threatening. And his eyes were bright when he smiled at you. With his thrumming baritone and his Fringe twang and his mixed deck of mosaic words, he had a way of speaking that felt like a fluffy blanket curling around you, your brain vibrating with comfort at every new monologue. He was eccentric and perhaps a little jarringly rough in his humor at times, but there was something about him that you trusted immediately, even though you’d come to learn later you probably shouldn’t have if you were being overly cautious.

Not that your judgement ever came to detriment. Not that he ever proved you wrong that way. Not when it came to you. But the man was dangerous when he had to be in a way you hadn’t initially picked up on.

________________

You hadn’t been out in the Green two weeks before you looked up from the bottom of a dig hole to see Ezra standing over you with a thrower.

“You get down and you stay down, understand?”

“Ez? What--”

“I said stay down! Do not make me waste words on mere repetition!” The fuzzy blanket of his voice replaced suddenly by a snarling, snapping brush wolf, a quick change hitting you like a slap in the ear.

There’d been pops and whizzes as shots rang through and you did as your trainer said, face down, the view of your visor giving you nothing but dirt. Your helmet was a chorus of quick breathing from both of you and sweat rolled down your neck as you begged the eyes of Kevva to look down upon your partner. When the crossfire faded, you’d heard Ezra stalk away. Then there were a couple more shots. Then more footsteps returning.

“You are permitted to stand, trinket. All is well as it can be for us. But not so much for our dearly departed friends.” These words were as soothing as much as his previous ones had burned, and he simply went back to working at the dig at hand as if he’d just come back from taking a leak. It wasn’t until you left the site that evening that you tramped past two rotting raiders, gaudily outfitted with broken face shields, left to let the Green take them.

Ezra whistled as he stepped over them, stopping only to harvest their filters and munition rods, which he tossed your way to stow in your pack, and then continued lazily down the path toward camp. Just another day on the job. 

He may be a little peculiar and not someone to trifle with, he may have just killed two people without remorse or further comment, but his lack of reassuring words told you that this was just part of the deal. You wear the suit, you use the air scrubber in the tent, you follow the landing pod instructions as written, and you defend yourself against those who wish to harm you. Survival by any and all means is paramount, mundane, and something he has no qualms with on any level.

There was something deep down inside of you that instinctually pulled you to follow him, not just down the literal path before you, but whatever path Ezra chose to wander.

________________

Before you’d left the station with him, he’d taken you to a thrower range to gauge your skill which was decent in theory, but dismal compared with what he could do. No matter, he still patiently taught you how to properly clean and charge a weapon and the best way to breathe and pull the trigger; “like you’re taking hold of a man’s...well... Just go easy and firm.” He suggested you should come and practice every day before lift off and then hope to Kevva that you didn’t have to rely too heavily on it.

“If I find myself in a coffin of my own suit, then feel free to defend yourself as a final means of preservation. Otherwise, when it comes down to shots fired, best to let me do the dirty work. Might as well keep the blood where the blood has been.”

You’d been a little nervous about sharing a freighter pod alone with him, but Ezra was...well, not so much a gentleman as just a comfortable soul. 

He always waited until you were hungry to eat, thinking it rude to eat alone in front of you. He never moved around the pod while you were sleeping, content to keep still with a book in his cot. And if you couldn’t sleep, he was always willing to read to you from whatever impossibly dense old world classic he was digging through for the umpteenth time, letting his voice come up from the deeps and pull you gently under. If you asked permission to turn on the radio, he’d ask you “why Isn’t it on yet, woman,” quietly tolerating your taste in harsh and gleeful babblecore pshcyopop. In the later days of the journey, he’d even come to dance with you from time to time, although both of you were dismal at it and ended up with you in a fit of giggles. It was a sure-fire way to cure a case of the pouts you carried through from the morning fitness sessions when he beat you at pushups. Again.

When it came to privacy in the tight space, he had a habit of turning away without having to be asked or stopping his stream of talk when you went to change clothes, just happily chattering away until you called the all clear. Although he was not squeamish about his own state of undress, should you happen to catch it by accident. While he was respectful of your privacy, he seemed to need none of his own, but neither did he flaunt anything. You might look up from studying the flight manual to notice he was changing into a fresh pair of compression pants, tugging them on haphazardly with one hand, more concerned with telling you the overwhelmingly disgusting manufacturing process of Bits Bars than his own ass hanging out where you might see it. At least he always changed facing away from you which was a kindness.

Until it wasn’t.

After you realized you’d fallen quietly in love with him--a sudden, soft moment on the Green--then you’d admit only privately to yourself that you wouldn’t mind if you accidentally saw a little more than the occasional shirtless attire he might wear around the tent.

But in the pod, the only part of him that had caught your curiosity was his stump, and you’d known Ezra intensely enough over the past couple of weeks where you knew he wouldn’t take offense. Especially if you asked him the right way.

“Will you tell me a story, Ezra?”

“I feel that it is my duty to do so whether you ask me to or not. Shall I choose, or is there something in particular you would like to hear?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, propped up against his cot, going through his kit, cleaning his gear. You waited until he noticed your lack of answer and looked up to meet your eyes. When he saw that you had put your manual down and were focusing all your quiet attention on him, he stopped his busy work. 

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute. When he knows you seriously need something from him, that becomes his immediate main priority and all else can wait. It’s only gotten more intense since that day, but there is a trust that resides between you when you look into his eyes, gathering your words as he waits patiently every time to hear whatever you’re going to request of him. There’s always hope there in his big browns, always something specific he’s waiting for you to ask, and every day you get a little bit closer to understanding what it might be. But until then, any question is a welcome one, any query is met with his wish to provide.

“Will you tell me how you lost your arm?”

At first you thought you may have gone too far, that maybe you insulted him, as his eyebrows peaked together and he looked down at his hand. But then, “That is a tale that may cause you some consternation, trinket. The Green is dangerous and unforgiving, and there were times I may not have been a man worthy of fair opinion.”

“My father was a prospector, you know. I’ve heard stories. Have you ever killed anyone?”

He clicked his tongue and screwed up an eye, causing the thin white scar on his cheek to twist. Then he sighed and returned to your locked gaze. “To be honest, I have. Though I have never done so with pleasure, I have killed in defense and out of desperation, and it was out of dispatching a man in this way that I came to lose the second favorite of all my appendages.”

“Second favorite?”

“Well, it depends what you classify as a limb.” He huffed a small laugh, a spark in his eye, trying to diffuse the harsh subject in his own way.

His leaning into baseness never bothered you. There was something earthy about it, gritty and rough, but never lewd. You rewarded his crassness with a smile. “Do you plan on killing me out in the Green?”

“I would hope my murdering days are behind me, and if they are not, you would see me aim a thrower at everyone but you in the course of my spree. You are under my tutelage, and for that, I owe you a duty of care. That is my word by Kevva.”

“Then tell me the story. I like your stories. I promise not to judge now-Ezra by then-Ezra.”

A dimple formed on his cheek, a punctuation mark framing the approaching anecdote on his lips. “Then I will declare myself absolved of any sin heretofore and regale you with a clean and grateful heart.”

________________

You can see the tent through the trees and you realize with some horror that it’s just you and Ezra for the next few nights. If he’s angry with you, and this is how he is when he’s upset, the silence will be unbearable.

Even that little girl he helped out here years ago was probably more capable than you. You feel so lost in this moment, and it’s only made worse by his silence. You fumble with your communicator and hit the mute just in time to choke on a sob.

This isn’t like you. You’re not one to cry when things get rough. You hardly shed a tear when your father died. But the thought of that just brings another sob and as acting as your own psychologist you realize that you are experiencing some displaced sorrow, the odd need to please the leading male in your life, the one that’s walking ahead of you, away from you. If he’d just turn around and throw you his worn weary smile, if he’d just start up a conversation you’d know that there was hope for you, you’d know you didn’t give up everything to be here in a job you couldn’t hack.

You gotta stop this. Or it’s going to be an uncomfortable night.

Shake it off.

Once you enter the tent, the usual dance happens. Ezra reaches up to turn on the air scrubber and you unhook his filter tube from his helmet. When he turns to you, you pull open the zipper cover on his suit and start his zip for him before lifting his helmet up and off. He can pull the zip the rest of the way, but you generally pull the left collar down for him so he can get his arm out. He’s on his own from there as you turn to fuss with your own gear. 

________________

You remember it starting easily enough. He was telling you a story about the breeding habits of the Tokovian Musk Owl and you could see he was having trouble with his suit zipper, yanking at it and trying to look down at it even though it was under his chin and his helmet. Without another hand to keep the fabric taut, the zip didn’t want to release, so you simply batted his hand away and started it for him. He didn’t even stop his yammering, just threw in a “thank you” somewhere in between “could hear them screeching” and “for a fuck.” He’d right out asked you the day before if you wouldn’t mind disengaging the filter tube just because it was delicate and he didn’t want to mangle the expensive part trying to pop it out one-handed day after day. And while he could manage the helmet fine enough, his prominent nose thanked you for a smoother removal for sure. 

It wasn’t the only routine dance you’d concocted. 

There was the harness dance.

While dig days were excruciating, you always looked forward to helping him attach the harness for his prosthesis--a kind of rigid pole attached to a shovel so you didn’t have to do all the hard digging alone. There were a couple of straps that came around his torso with multiple latches and you’d come to really enjoy wrapping your arms around him to fit the straps on. Sure, you could do the job just as easily from behind, but if you embraced him at the front, he’d usually raise his arm and let it come to rest around your shoulders while you worked. If you let yourself dream, it would be easy to imagine that he might be pressing you into him just a little bit.

And there was the harvesting dance.

On a dig, you were the one to mix the fazer and Ezra did the pour. He fished the sack, you cut the cord. You sliced the outer casing and held it open while he did the extraction. And with the flesh-covered stone, he told you every time to “hold it like you love it” so he could cut away the slippery blister before cleaning the gemstone.

It was a beautiful harmony. And the only way it worked. Because once on every dig he urged you to do a solo extraction, and on every dig, you pierced the blister and lost that stone. And on every dig, he squeezed your shoulder and told you it was a wondrous try, that he was proud of you, and there would always be another turn. There was no sarcasm, no pity, just a warm smile and ceaseless optimism even though you just lost both of you thousands in pay.

These were the first touches, these shoulder squeezes that ran down your arm on the let-go. Sometimes he would just reach out and grab onto you like a pole to help himself up, or he might stumble off balance on uneven ground and without the counterweight of his right arm he’d throw his hand out onto you to steady himself. He wasn’t beyond lightly touching the small of your back to encourage you down a path or to take your next try at a gem pull. 

This was all part of something you’ve secretly named the left-handed-lover’s dance. Basically, that you keep on his left whenever you can in case he needs your help or has the inclination to reach for you. It started out as just trying to be a good partner. Then it became a passing hope that it was more than just a friendly bond. But you were both here to do a job. He was here to teach you to be an independent prospector and you were here to assist and learn. That was evident at the end of the day; once you were both in the tent and out of the suits he never touched you, never so much as bumped into you or grazed your hand in passing an item or clapped you on the arm after a good joke. 

But out in the field all zipped in and helmets on, there was nothing more natural than his gentle hand guiding you or reaching for your assistance, including the day you realized you loved him.

________________

Before you can turn away to strip off your own coverings, Ezra catches your arm, spinning your face into the light. You try to shake him off, not wanting him to catch your eyes puffy from crying and your cheeks still streaked with tears, but his grip is not so gentle now and he yanks you back around to his stormy glare, chin up, brows low. His intensity paralyzes you, rendering you unable to continue your struggle when he catches your eyes with his.

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute.

His gaze travels back and forth between your eyes, waiting for an explanation, a minute so stringent it breaks you down, dissolves you into the tears you’d tried so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I really am trying... I don’t know why I’m such a scuffer at this and I know it would only be right to release you from the contract and tell you to send me back but I don’t want you to, I really wanna stay, I really wanna learn and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your words have an immediate effect, softening him, pulling his glare into concern and wonder, his lips parting just the tiniest bit in surprise.

“This is the reason for your heavy mood? You think I am provoked by your proficiency in the field?” 

“I crusted up good today and it seems like you’re not happy about it. Just...know that it means so much to me that...I don’t wanna let you down.”

“Oh, trinket, no.” An incredulous huff jumps out of him and his grip on your arm loosens, becomes a splayed warm support behind your shoulder, moving in soothing patterns and you’re instantly relieved that your assumptions were wrong. “You have done no harm in my book. It is not an easy thing to deliver a gem of this ilk into the world unscathed. Your opportunities have been few and scattered and it takes many sticks before a lover becomes a lothario.” He knows the crass humor will make you laugh, knows what to say to lighten your heart, to get you to soften, and bring you into his intimate, conspiratorial mood. “To be perfectly honest, I am selfish to an unrighteous degree, for every gem you burn keeps me in value to you. A worthy sacrifice to guarantee you mightn’t be so quick in your need to fly away from me until your training’s complete.”

This causes a hitch in your breath as you see the welcome turn the conversation he’s taking and you follow the path he’s making for you. “I don’t want to leave you, Ez.”

A smile creeps up one side of his mouth. “Well then I am a happy man. A bargain is struck! Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

A moment hangs between you as he rubs his thumb in slow circles on your shoulder. There’s that look in his eye again, the one where he’s waiting for you to ask the question he wants to hear from you. So close now.

Still, you’re unsure. “I guess I’m lucky I found the one person who wants an incompetent partner.”

“No, I do not, nor is it what I have and I must express my objection to your self-debasement. This work is not for the shiny, and you have not once complained about taking on the meat of the digging or the crawl of my schedule.”  His hand comes to your helmet shield and he rakes his thumb across it as if he ached to wipe away one of your staleing tears. “Those bright eyes of yours got a penchant for spotting deposits more skillfully than I could ever manage and that’s not something that can be taught; that’s talent, girl. The blistering?” He shrugs. “Even I can’t manage that without the steady help of your fine hands. You may think that your blunders in education are causing us some financial ruin, but our fortunes are creamy. I assure you, we can afford it.”

That look is still there. He’s waiting. “There’s some ‘us’ and ‘we’ in there, Ez.” Your hands drift to his sides, taking fistfuls of his compression suit top, willing him closer.

The edges of his eyes take on the crinkle you’ve come to find so much comfort in. “So there is.”

You’re almost there. You know what he wants. “Why were you so quiet on the walk back?” 

“Because for the next few days we are alone here and I have a mind full of questions I do not know how to ask you.”

“Then let me go first.” A yearning happiness settles in his brown eyes; finally. Finally you’ve found out what it is he needs you to request of him. “If I take this helmet off, are you going to kiss me, Ez?”

His eyes close in contentment and he nods, “Yes. Yes, little jewel. Yes I am, that and more. I hope I have inferred correctly that it is your wish that I do so, because I am in free fall. I feel my orbit ending and my pull to you is complete.”

_______________

“A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?”

Speculating days were some of your favorite times, just wading through the brush and looking for the telltale signs and shoots of an underlying deposit. Sometimes you came upon nests of strange groundling insects or flowers that only grew in secret. There were treasures underfoot on this poisonous moon, but if you remembered to look up as well, you might find some dangerous beauties there too. 

On that day--the one where you finally understood your heart--you’d looked up to find that you were on a cliffside overlooking a valley, the canopy a million different hues of green, the gas giant looming over half the sky in a big pink and orange semi-circle. There was a fallen log that served as a perfect seat for the perfect view and you knew Ezra wouldn’t mind if you stole a few moments to sit and to take it in. It’s just the kind of thing he’d appreciate. And you were proven right when he came up behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder to steady himself as he swung one leg then the other over the log, finding a perch next to you, spouting pretty words through the channel link--soft and low--about moons and orbits and obilvions.

“That glowing beauty is Bakhroma. She is quiet and fierce, made up of the unfathomable and the unknowable, always within sight, but out of reach and untouchable unless one would trade the honor with great sacrifice. She reflects the light that is given to her with a patience that is heretofore untold. And the Green Moon upon which we ride follows where she goes like a lovesick fool, spinning around her in a heady kind of adoration, full of secret treasures buried deep down that will ultimately one day belong to her, falling incrementally over eons until he finally loses himself in her, all his glories gladly forfeit to her welcome and inevitable embrace. Alone but together, seemingly eternal, pulled as one by the laws of a mysterious universe.”

The void that came after those words was filled with the beating of your heart, and you were sure he could hear it through the channel.

When he’d landed there beside you, you’d registered how his hand slid off your shoulder, diagonally down across your back, coming to rest at your waist, his arm draped lightly around you. Natural. Easy. Everything was warm--the colors of the sky, the care with which he kept you close as if to better hear the honey sweetness in his prose, the fire burning in your lungs and neck.

Ezra probably didn’t know that you spoke a little Vayok.

Bakh being the Vayok word for adornment. Ornament, Gem. Roma was a modifier, a diminutive. Small. Dear.

Bakhroma. Sentimental bauble. A little jewel.

In other words, a trinket.

All you wanted to do was sit down to take in the view of an entire world for a few moments, but by the time Ezra took your hand and helped you to your feet, all you saw was him.

________________

The helmet is barely off before his lips are sealed to yours in a press of greed. Even if he can’t form words when he kisses you, he can’t help but express his deep relief in a heartbreaking moan. It’s a fight to release yourself from the suit when he keeps pulling you against him and every time you try to get some space between you to work the zipper, he chuckles into your mouth, enjoying the tease and the struggle. It’s simultaneously frustrating and thrilling and you give in for a few moments just to give him what he seems to want so desperately right now.

Ezra kisses like a man starved for air, long, hard, and full of need, peeling his lips away only to come back for another breath of you until his initial want is slaked and he slows, allows for more time between his taking, his mouth starting to mumble against yours, praising you with pet names, telling you how perfect you are to him, how long he’s “fought against my more dubious natures to respect your womanly virtues and take them only when you could see in me a man worth bestowing them on.”

You’re able to use his weakness for monologuing to turn around in his vice-like embrace, finally freeing yourself of the suit and he takes the opportunity to drawl more pretty words in your ear, warning you that “I’m afraid I have been enamored of you overly long and may be extra eager in my attentions. So you just say the word if you need a slow down, gentle one, and I will do my best to comply. Although I will admit it will be a difficult endeavor indeed as I feel I am entering your atmosphere and nothing might quell this burn but finding some drowning place to land.”

Your first impression of him was of a man whose age and temperament and body would not be able to overpower you.

Your first impression was wrong.

Of course, it helps that you are willing.

It doesn’t take long for him to strip you down, and then himself. To kiss you down onto the floor. To find exactly where you like to be touched most and how long it takes for you to break from it. He has so many words for you, so many praises to sing about every part of you that is round or soft or wet, comparing you to things that are sweet and plush or celestial and holy. And when you take his favorite limb in hand--as wondrous as the rest of his body--and guide it to its fit, he plunders and harvests all you have to give him, filing you with himself, for as long as you call for it, as long as you let him. He loves you like he speaks to you: rough and drawn out, full of beautiful tangents and meandering plotlines, but in the end it is beautiful and fulfilling; you may be just a little bit confused how you got to the ending, but you’re completely in awe.

When you lay breathing heavy, staring but not seeing the ceiling of the tent, your consciousness seemingly lifted to see through it to the stars, to the glowing face of Bakhroma, you run hands through rough-chopped hair on a head laying on your chest. He’s listening to your heartbeat, waiting for it to slow down so he can start again. The air is thick--even the air scrubber can’t keep up with all your humidity--and there’s a halo around each bulb of the string lights just barely illuminating the darkness.

“How long, Ez?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you been waiting for that.”

“Most likely since the day you walked into my interview. I am a man of simple wants and you had all the right parts for my preferences.”

“For real, Ez.”

He tipped his head up to find you. “What you ask has many true answers, and I stand by the first. I have no qualms telling you of my weakness for a pretty succulence and a kind smile the likes of which you possess. But if you are asking when I knew I would have it, well, that may have been the first day you danced. Or when you asked me to read you to sleep. Or when I understood I wouldn’t let those bastard raiders get near enough to take their turn at your qualities when I had not had them myself. Or when you finally saw me as a viable person to drape your affections on; maybe it was that day too.”

“When I finally saw you as....”

“I have read many tomes and verses but none so full of beautiful passages as your face that day on the cliff. There is a difference of knowing and being. I knew the feel of your pull that day, but found I’d been in orbit all along.”

How he can live this way, twist everything into a tossed away poem...it should be exhausting. Yet you feed off it. You breathe it like air.

After another long cycle of frenzied entanglement and violent euphoria, you ask Ezra if he’d like to move to a cot, maybe get some sleep. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to walk to the dig tomorrow morning,” you confess.

“No need to worry about tomorrow,” he says, wapping his arm around you and dragging you back to him, grumbling into your ear. “We are the only prospectors in this sector and the aurelac will wait. Until our new compatriots arrive, we are officially on hiatus. Recreational mining only. Restricted to the confines of this tent. By order of your supervisor. In the interest of more precious treasures. And I intend to strike it rich.”

“Well. I’m here to assist. And learn.”

“When it comes to this dig, trinket, you are more than competent. I am no longer your trainer. Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

The new contract is struck, signed and sealed in kissing and in touch and a long, slow fall into inevitable oblivion.

[missluthorwillseeyounow]

Wed By Candlelight (The Portrait of the Secret Bride)

Supercorp/The Corpse Bride AU

Kara inherits the old ancestral house in Argo when she turns twenty-eight. 

She’s never been there before, never even heard about it -- until she learns about the provision in Alura’s will two weeks after she announces her engagement to Mon-El, and the crusty old executor of her mother’s estate tells Kara that the house is hers, should she want it.

But only if she gets married there, like Alura and all the women in her mother’s family were.

Two weeks into planning the wedding at the elegant old house, surrounded by family and friends who are rushing about to get everything ready for her special day, Kara’s still not sure she made the right decision. 

She’s always been curious about her mother’s family. Even when Alura was still alive, before she was adopted by the Danvers family, Kara never heard much about the Inze family. She knows vaguely that they were well-to-do, but since they moved to Metropolis when Kara was a baby, she never had much of a connection to Argo. Even less when her parents died, and she’d had to move to Midvale.

It’s a beautiful house, Kara thinks. Elegant furnishings, exquisite moldings, and vast open windows to let in the light. It’s warm and open and inviting. She couldn’t have found a more perfect venue for her wedding, even in National City. No wonder the women in her mother’s family always chose to get married here.

But apparently, this wasn’t the only tradition her mother had neglected to share before her death. The antique necklace now hiding in Kara’s pocket is apparently another heirloom Kara has never heard of -- passed down from bride to bride in the Inze family in a generations-old tradition that started almost two hundred years ago. Eliza had suggested that she make it her “something old” at her wedding. 

The wedding that she isn’t even sure about.

It’s not that she doesn’t love Mon-El. They’ve been together for years. It’s just that.... things aren’t always so peachy between them. And marriage, well, marriage is so permanent. At least it is for Kara.

And for her parents too. It’s been so long, and while it hurts a little to think about them, one thing she always remembers about Alura and Zor El is that they were so in love. They filled their home, and Kara’s life with their love for each other, and their love for her. Married for fifteen years, and they were devoted to each other until their last breath.

Is that what she and Mon-El really have?

And all of these new things that have been shoved at her since finding out about her mother’s family. Looking through this house that is somehow disconnected, yet a part of her, seeing the legacy that her family left behind.... It feels a little  like she's cheapening it by going through with a marriage to someone she can only get along with for short periods of time before everything inevitably devolves into an argument.

Kara goes for a walk to clear her head. She’s been doing this a lot lately, and a small part of her feels that if she walks far enough, she can leave this whole mess behind.

There’s a trail she’s been following for the past week that she’s found she likes a lot. It’s deserted and a little overgrown, but there’s a sort of tranquility to it as she walks slowly, dried leaves crunching under her boots.

She’d found the graveyard last week, and she’s been going there every day. It's really old, the tombstones are nearly crumbling with age, and there's something..... melancholic about the place. Something sad.

But Kara doesn’t mind. She feels a strange sort of calm here. It's quiet here, no one's fussing over Kara about venues and flowers and seating charts that she really couldn't care less about.

She walks over to her favorite grave, an old tombstone she’d found when she first got there, covered with vines and leaves until Kara had brushed them off and found the name ‘Lena Luthor’ carved into the crumbling, weathered stone. 

She’s visited the site ever since, feeling that vague sense of melancholy again. This person had died almost two hundred years ago. Whoever this Lena Luthor was, she was the same age when she died as Kara is now. For some reason, that makes her inexplicably sad.

Today, she comes bearing a few flowers from the arrangement Eliza had been draping over the church pews. Kara had been planning to place them at the old grave, to brighten things up a bit. 

But before she can approach the familiar tombstone, she hears a quiet sobbing sound. She sees a pale figure kneeling beside the grave, and at first, Kara thinks she's a mourner. Though why another person would be there mourning someone who had passed two hundred years ago, Kara doesn't know --disregarding the fact that that's what she’s been doing every day for the past week.

“Hello?” Kara keeps her voice quiet to avoid spooking this other mourner. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll leave you to it, but I just wanted to make sure -- are you okay?”

The sobbing stops as Kara comes closer, and the pale figure rises. And Kara's jaw drops, as the light reveals that the pale figure is actually a woman -- a very stunning, ethereally beautiful woman.... who is dressed in a bloodstained wedding dress.

What the fuck?

And not just a little bit of blood. The whole front of the dress has been dyed red with blood. And Kara can see where her dress has been slashed open to expose torn, jagged flesh, and Kara gags a little bit.

Before Kara can cry out -- in confusion? Fear? Panic? Before she can even think to make sure that the other woman is okay -- there's no way she is, not with that much blood on her dress -- the other woman turns, and her eyes fix on Kara's, piercing her where she stands. 

A slender hand reaches out, fingers trembling, and pearl-like tears slip down her pale cheeks. 

"Kara...?”  Her voice is soft and tremulous, and Kara is frozen, watching her trembling, bloody hand reach out to touch her face. 

It never does. Kara can see those fingers brushing her face, but she feels nothing. As if the woman in front of her isn’t real. “You’ve come back to me....”

The shock of it breaks the spell. Kara stumbles in her haste to back away from those bloody, outstretched fingers. The other woman steps forward, murmuring her name again, and Kara finally manages to make her legs work. She scrambles to her feet and runs away, nearly missing the trail in her fright.

In her haste, she drops the white flowers she’d brought and crushes them into the dirt with her boot.

_________

When Kara gets back to the house, she tells no one about what happened.

That was... that was just a crazy hallucination, brought on by all the stress of wedding planning and inheritance laws and every crazy little thing she’s been through the past two weeks.

When Mon-El asks where she’s been, she responds with a tight smile that she’s just been out walking. When Alex asks why she’s so pale, she reassures her she’s fine, and accepts the cup of tea she offers before retreating to her room.

That’s the first night Kara dreams of her.

In her dreams, she is still beautiful and otherworldly, but her dress is pristine. Her pale skin is smooth and unmarred, painted amber in the thin light cast by their solitary candle.

In her dreams, Kara knows her name, whispers it into the skin of her shoulder as she slowly unlaces her corset. This is her favorite time of the night, when her lady’s mother is in bed, and Kara has Lena all to herself. When the marionette strings holding Lena up are cut and she falls, eager and pliant, into Kara’s arms.  Lena’s rigid spine melts like candlewax under the heat of her fingers, and she sighs so prettily as her chemise falls to the floor, unheeded.

“I’m sorry about today.” Lena turns around at her vanity, facing Kara. Her eyes are mournful and tired, and Kara’s heart aches for her. “The things Lillian said--”

“That is how one is supposed to talk to the maid.” She makes a half-hearted attempt at mimicking Lillian, but it falls flat, and Lena merely grips her collar with angry fingers. “I’m used to it. You, on the other hand, should stop antagonizing her when she does, or she’ll end up starving you until Christmas.”

“I don’t care! She went too far.” Lena protests in a heated whisper as she pulls Kara closer by her collar, their foreheads touching. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

Kara savors the warmth of her lady’s breath against her cheek, and her hand comes up to mold against Lena’s neck and jaw. “Nor should you.”

Their lips come together in a fierce kiss, tender and hungry, softness yielding to desperation. Lena tastes bittersweet and oh, how Kara loves the taste of her. Kara loves her, and she wants to yell at the unfairness of a world that would ever hurt her lady. She wants to scream and cry and rage at how unfair it is that the only love Lena has ever received is in this cold, damp room lit only by the last of the candles Kara can light for her. Kara loves her so much, she aches with it, with the need to show her just how much. 

Her hands slip over smooth, quivering skin, and as she pulls away from the kiss, Kara breathes the promise into Lena’s open mouth. “One day, I’ll take you away from here. I’ll build you a beautiful house filled with light and warmth, just like you always wanted. And I’ll fill it with books and flowers, just for you.”

“As long as I’m with you.” Lena sobs breathlessly into her mouth, her fingers digging into Kara’s back, “I only want it if it’s with you.”

And Kara wakes in the wide bed of her ancestral home, breathing heavily, with the phantom sting of a lover’s fingernails on her back. 

Beside her, Mon-El snores lightly, completely oblivious.

_________

It’s not the last time Kara dreams of her.

Sometimes, Kara dreams of being a child, running along the fading, derelict halls of what she somehow knows is Luthor Manor, and being whipped viciously by Lillian until her lady intervened and got herself denied meals for the next two days for her trouble. 

She dreams of drawing pictures in the dusty floor for her lady’s amusement, her small clumsy fingers honing their talent first in dust, then the little bit of charcoal she can pilfer, and then -- when Lena secretly spends what little money she’s able to save on a gift for her -- oils and paints, all hidden from Lillian under a loose floorboard in their room.

Kara dreams of a once-great house crumbling down around their ears, of standing dutifully beside Lena and Lillian as the debt collectors took beloved artifacts from the house, one by one -- priceless paintings and sculptures, generations-old; Lena’s precious books and the cherished ornate microscope that had been a gift from her brother -- until they were left with nothing but the shame of an empty house and an empty name.

Kara dreams of her own trembling, yearning fingers helping her lady undress each night after the pompous, oppressive suitors had left and the two of them were alone in Lena’s room, shedding each layer of clothing. Her polite and careful hands unraveling, unlacing and unfurling with a secret pleasure, like peeling away the petals of a flower to reveal the tender, fragile flesh underneath that only Kara was allowed to see, but was forbidden to touch.

She dreams of the first kiss shared in that cold, dim room -- when the single candle Lillian had spared for them fizzled out into smoke, and the dark had made her brave enough to trace the invisible outline of her sleeping lady’s lips. Only Lena hadn’t been sleeping, and Kara’s own name was pressed into her impertinent fingertips in an tremulous whisper, and terrified but aching, she had replaced her hand with her own lips instead.

After the fifth night of waking up from dreams that make her heart pound and her whole body ache, Kara can’t pretend anymore. 

These dreams clearly mean something, and the woman in them -- the same woman she had seen bloodied in the graveyard -- is clearly significant.

She slips away from the wedding preparations without being noticed and begins to investigate. A search for the name ‘Lena Luthor’ yields no information on the woman herself, but it does lead Kara to an old family tree that she finds in the old town records.

The Luthors, she discovers, were an old family that used to be very powerful in Argo several hundred years ago. Except their money, it seems, had run out a few generations before, and the last of the line she sees are two names: Alexander and Lena Luthor.

The family tree doesn’t list anymore information on Lena that wasn’t on her gravestone, but it certainly has more information on Alexander “Lex” Luthor. It lists that had been married and had had a child, though both his wife and infant had died during childbirth. 

However, when Kara digs deeper into the story, she finds an old article in an old newspaper that speculates that Lex Luthor had killed his wife and their baby. The article further states that Lex had fled under suspicion of murder, and that all the properties he had inherited as the sole male heir of the dwindling Luthor fortune were seized during the investigation until he could be found.

Kara spends all day in the library, poring over old articles and books, trying to find any more information on the Luthors. Her reporter’s curiosity is piqued by this mystery, and it’s awakened that old instinct to try and dig for the truth. She tries not to think how this has consumed more of her passion and attention than her own wedding, which is a week away.

Instead, she just burrows deeper, trying to find the location of the old Luthor Manor. Unfortunately, she discovers that it was torn down a few years after Lena’s death, and that a new family had built their home on its grounds.

It takes her several tries and the aid of a very helpful librarian, but Kara is finally able to find some records of the sale of the estate, and a current map of Argo to compare with the old map of the town so she can find where the old Luthor Manor was.

Her jaw drops and she has to sit back and exhale slowly when she sees current location. No way. This is too bizarre. But in a weird way, it makes sense.

Kara’s ancestral home has stood for almost two hundred years on the ruins of the old Luthor Manor.

She checks the records of the sale again, and it’s all crystal clear on the page. Luthor Manor and the land it stood on was bought by the artist Kara Inze-Dey nearly two hundred years ago. The old house had been torn down, and a new one built in its place. The same house that stands in that spot to this day. 

The very same one Kara is to be married in and inherit.

Kara returns the books and the maps in a state of muddled shock. How has she gotten so swept up in this? Three weeks ago, she’d never even heard of this house, and now she’s tangled in this mess and having dreams of a long-dead woman who may or may not have appeared to her as a bloody ghost few days ago? Not to mention, her great-great something grandmother was actually a prolific artist and she didn’t even know it? What is going on?

Maybe it’s time to go back home. Put this obsession away, and focus on the important stuff, which is preparing for her wedding. She feels a little guilty. She hasn’t had a proper conversation with her fiancee for a week. She hasn’t shown up to fittings or tastings or any of that. She hasn’t even thanked Eliza and Alex and her friends for all the work they’re putting into preparing the house for the wedding.

When Kara returns to the house, multiple people descend upon her -- the wedding planner, her assistants, people asking her to please make a decision on where she wants the centerpieces, or when Mon-El’s mother is arriving, or whether it should be the white or the pink petals in the flower girl’s basket.

Luckily, Alex, bless her, seems to sense her panic immediately, and she pulls her aside to a quiet corner, and asks her what’s wrong. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been distracted lately. You’re barely ever here. It seems like you’re doing everything you can to avoid getting involved in this wedding. Kara, if something’s wrong, you know you can talk to me, right?”

And Kara would appreciate her sister’s genuine concern, and might even be tempted to answer her truthfully, but at that same second, she spies a familiar figure underneath the arch of white flowers on the gazebo outside.

“I’m fine, Alex,” she musters a reassuring smile. “I promise, I’ve just got a lot on my mind lately. Everything’s fine, I promise.”

With a quick hug to reassure her sister, Kara hurries away to the follow the pale figure outside the window. She approaches cautiously, half-expecting her to be a hallucination.

Lena turns to her, and after all those dreams, those green eyes and that small sad smile is so familiar that Kara can feel her fear and confusion fall away to be replaced by a vague familiarity.

"I'm sorry,” The soft voice is familiar too. “I didn't mean to frighten you last time. And I don't mean to frighten you now. It's just.... you look so much like someone I used to know, and I couldn't help it, I had to see you again...."

She looks so sad and beautiful and delicate that Kara's heart just goes out to her. Kara waves her hand and scoffs. "Nah, you didn't frighten me. I'm not scared of you. You just.... startled me, that's all."

Lena chuckles softly, and there’s something almost affectionate in the sound. She reaches out to touch one of the flowers on the arch, her fingertips not-quite brushing the white petals. "Plumerias were always my favorite....She always remembered."

"Who's ‘she’?" Kara asks quietly, even though she thinks she knows the answer. She doesn't really need to whisper, there's no one around, but it feels right in the moment. Like if she speaks any louder, the other woman will disappear.

Tears begin to shine in those luminous eyes. "Kara. My Kara."

Kara swallows.

"She looked just like you, you know..." Lena smiles at her, her fingers reaching toward her instead of the flowers this time. Kara doesn’t mean to, but steps back reflexively, and a flash of hurt spasms across Lena's face before disappearing into another sad smile, this time with a trace of bitterness in it. Her hand drops to her side instead. "I'm sorry. It's just..... I've been waiting for so long, I...."

"What do you mean, 'waiting'?" Kara asks, unable to suppress her curiosity. "What have you been waiting for?"

"For my Kara to come for me."

"You - Why..." Kara doesn't know what to say to that. "How long have you been waiting?"

"I..." Lena trails off, seemingly confused. "I don't know. I just..... a long time."

"You're Lena Luthor, right? That was your grave I've been visiting."

"No - I - yes, I suppose it is." Lena nods, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "Yes, I am Lena Luthor. Or... I was. But... I don't even remember that being a grave. I don't remember anything, except... I was waiting for Kara there. I've been waiting for so long..."

“Why were you waiting there?” Kara presses.

“We were.... We were going to run away together.” Lena murmurs, her voice barely a whisper. “I was finally going to leave that place, with her. Always with her... She said she would come back for me there.... but she never did.... I don’t know, I--”

“Kara? There you are!” Mon-El’s voice cuts harshly across Lena’s soft whispers, and Kara turns to him, startled. “Where have you been?”

“I--” Kara whirls around to see that Lena has disappeared and the gazebo is empty. “I was just--”

“Did you forget? My Mom’s coming over tonight. She should be here any minute. I made reservations at that restaurant in town, and you know she hates when we’re late. C’mon.”

Kara allows herself to be led away, but she casts one last look at the spot where Lena was just a few moments ago.

There’s nothing there.

[pethfics]

ZUTARA WEEK 2017, Day 2: UNDERWATER

Title: Teardrop of the Moon

Read on FF.NET

NOTE: Set post-series, when all is well and Kataang is not a thing. A short, lighthearted piece for a pretty interesting prompt. It was tempting to go the mermaid AU route but I didn't have enough creative ideas for that so I settled on this one instead. And it turned out better than I expected.

Enjoy!

@zutaraweek​

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When Katara decided to take short underwater excursion during the group's visit to the North Pole, she was surprised when Zuko was the only one who volunteered to join her.

The others made some excuse or other but the waterbender did not really mind. She had her duties as well but she simply wanted a short break to explore the depths of the North, where she knew there were ruins of an earlier civilization.

Zuko proved to be more competent swimmer than Katara had anticipated. They took a few, warm-up dives before taking the real plunge and she was impressed at how easily he moved through the water, even despite the low temperature. For his part, he remembered the last time he had swum in those cold, dark depths and he was grateful that he was now doing so in far happier circumstances.

"Not bad for a firebender," Katara said with a smile when they first surfaced for air.

"Thanks," Zuko replied before explaining further, "Everyone in the Fire Navy had to undergo rigorous training to test our endurance and adaptability to different environment. Being royalty did not exempt me from any of the training. On the contrary, I had to work harder than most so that I could set a good example to our soldiers."

"And I'm sure you did," Katara remarked, "I don't think anyone who knows you can doubt how hard you work."

He nodded appreciatively.

When they were ready, they both finally dived deep into the sea, Katara guiding them with a glowing orb of water. As they swam, she couldn't help but notice how at home her companion seemed in her element. There was a certain compatibility there, the implications of which she did not yet want to explore.

Instead, she focused her attention on the submerged ruins of an ancient Moon Temple and when they reached the site, they both marveled at the unique architecture, intact and elaborate as ever, surviving the passage of time. Pillars and towers, statues of the past waterbender Avatars and other symbolic carvings remained visible, remnants of a glorious culture.

Zuko found himself fascinated by what he saw, and Katara noticed that he seemed almost as appreciative as she was. She had come to learn that he was more open-minded than most and that he had a real curiosity for the different cultures of the Four Nations.

Zuko's banishment had afforded him the unique advantage of traveling across the world and though for the most part his efforts had been focused on capturing the Avatar, he had sometimes also been interested in the unique and diverse cultures he encountered, an interest his uncle had encouraged at every opportunity.

The firebender lingered by every statue or corner of the temple, easily swimming from one corner to the next, as they continued to explore the ruins. They would surface for air every now and then before diving back to continue their expedition.

At length, Katara decided that they had had enough exploring for one day and it was high time to return to their friends. The resurfaced and sat on the icy shores for a few minutes, reflecting on what they had seen.

"All in all a day well-spent, I think," she said with satisfaction, "and I appreciate your company."

"Thank you for inviting me in the first place," Zuko replied before pulling something out of his pocket, "I found a little something for you."

"Me?" Katara said curiously.

The firebender approached her, took her hand gently, and placed a beautiful pearl on it. Katara's eyes widened in wonder as she gazed at the magnificent jewel.

"Where did you find this?" she asked in awe.

"In an old, crusty oyster not far from the temple," Zuko explained shyly, "I read somewhere that pearls were called 'teardrops of the moon.' So I thought it would suit you."

"Thank you," was all Katara managed to say.

"I don't know anything about jewelry or anything like that," the firebender admitted, "But I think this would make a good pendant on a necklace like the one you have now, the one I found so long ago."

"The one you refused to give back to me," Katara reminded him but when he looked grave.

"I'm sorry," he said somberly.

Katara laughed and said that she was only teasing. "That was a lifetime ago," she said, "Everything's different now."

The waterbender blushed when she remembered her grandmother's necklace and to her relief, Zuko was not looking at her. He probably didn't know the significance of that necklace and for now, and Katara wondered if he would have still given her the pearl had he known. But she did not want to dwell on that now.

She gazed once more at the beautiful pearl in her hand, and she remembered reading somewhere that pearls were a symbol of hope. She could not imagine a more perfect gift.

[blumenwrites]

Erejean Week 2k17-Apocalypse

so usually I don’t join in for these ship weeks but the erejean tag is so dead nowadays and I haven’t written nearly enough for these two a03 link should be up later when the site is working again :(( nevertheless I actually???? met???? a deadline???? wild

Out of the many things Eren missed one of them was the birds. Growing up in the countryside had meant that every morning he would wake to their screeching as they prattled about the trees right next to Eren's window. Even in the evening they would carry on shrieking as if they weren't already being annoying enough. Once, a bird had miraculously flow into his room (to this day he still had no clue how since all the windows were sealed shut) and he had yell at it and direct it towards the open window with pool noodles before it took the hint. At least there aren't any pigeons Jean had said and added besides aren't birds chirping supposed to be sweet? before moving on to complain about how he didn't appreciate Shiganshina for the great place it was and why city life was objectively The Worst. Although he still didn't quite see the charm in those flappy fucks, whilst lying in bed with only the static air to keep him company he had to admit that maybe there was a novelty in the twittering and tweeting of sparrows in the morning.

Eren shifted his head when he heard the door open to reveal Jean walking over towards the bed with a plate of scrambled eggs and a crooked grin.

“Get back in bed,” Eren groaned through a slow yawn, holding open the duvet in invitation and really, how was Jean to resist? He placed the plate on the bedside table and pulled Eren by the waist closer to place a kiss on his forehead. Eren mourned the loss of Jean's stubble from last night but appreciated the scent of lemon soap lingering on his throat and chin. He ran a hand through Jean's thick hair and hummed.

“You need to cut your hair,” Eren mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

“Hm, only if you do it for me,” Jean replied. “Come on, Eren, you need to get up,” he coaxed as he played with the straps of Eren's tank-top that needed washing. Later. Everything could wait until later.

“No,” Eren whined as if he were a petulant child, burying his head into Jean's shoulder.

“I milked the cows for you but the stables aren't gonna clean themselves.”

“You're not selling this very well.”

“Eren. Get up.”

Eren burrowed himself under the sheets, encasing himself in a protective cocoon. That was until Jean cruelling ripped the covers away, exposing him to the comparatively frigid temperature of the room.

“Ugh, fine! By the way, I'm breaking up with you,” Eren scowled, ripping off his pajamas to change into his usual flannel shirt and jeans.

“Love you too,” Jean beamed and god, Eren hated how cheesy it felt to say it, but it felt like stepping into the sun for the first time after a long winter.

Staggering into their shared bathroom, Eren frowned at the flecks of shaving foam that Jean hadn't cleaned off the mirror and the toothpaste growing crusty in the sink. He never was particularly fussy about cleanliness but then he had met Levi and ever since even seeing a speck of dust made him recoil. Unfortunately, Levi's wrath hadn't had the same effect on Jean, meaning their bedroom floor was normally scattered with yesterday's clothes before Eren could pick them up, leading to a lot of raised eyebrows and muffled laughter from their friends.

Although Eren missed commercial toothpaste their own-brand baking soda concoction did the job well enough. It wouldn't be uncommon for them to just forego a typical cleanliness regime but basic hygiene was one of the few things keeping Eren on the borderline of sanity. Plus, morning breath was something no one wanted to deal with.

Eren finished his plate that Jean had prepared and made a mental note to thank him once his fury at that morning's betrayal had simmered down. He trudged down the aching stairs and cursed the sun that blinded him the moment he stepped outside. It was an irritatingly bright, cheerful day and Eren just wanted to crawl back to bed.

“Afternoon, Eren,” Armin greeted with a wide smile.

“I've just woken up, therefore, it's morning,” Eren grumbled, feeling far too much like an old man for someone who was only twenty-five. “Do you need any help?” Eren nudged his head towards the weeds Armin was pulling up.

“Don't worry, I've got this for now. Some of the carrots are already prepared for harvest though so if you could get around to that later that'd be great.”

“Okay, I'll do it soon.”

They departed with mutual waves and continued to their respective jobs. When Eren wandered into the stables he spotted Jean brushing off the amounting dust on Julius' flank, face sour but his shoulders relaxed. Eren picked up a stray comb and began picking out straw from his mane.

“This little shit, honestly, I swear he was rolling in his hay for the fun of it. And he knocked over his water on purpose too,” Jean grumbled, brows creasing in a way that never ceased to make Eren snigger.

“I understand where he's coming from. Pissing you off is incredibly fun,” Eren laughed as he tugged at a particularly intricate knot.

“I hate you both,” Jean scowled like a wet cat. Eren blew a kiss that was not received kindly.

Even so, they worked comfortably in silence for the rest of the afternoon, tending to the stables, checking the water supply, harvesting early food, and salting the meat for storage. When the sundial indicated that it was nearing seven, Eren and Jean walked down together towards the perimeter to greet a tired looking Mikasa and Annie. Eren's nose twitched at the scent of decay and ash.

“One zombie in the morning neared the fence and we burned the body as protocol,” Annie explained as Mikasa swung off her crossbow to hand it to Eren. “Other than that, no activity like normal. There's six arrows and two rounds left for the rifle.”

“Anything else to report?” Jean prompted whilst positioning himself on his usual branch of the thick oak tree that was probably older than earth itself.

“No. As always, be careful,” Mikasa said before turning to join the others for dinner. Eren would be bitter he was missing roast night but he had already made Mikasa take his shift the night before so it was only fair.

Staying on watch was a painfully dreary job that included a whole lot of doing nothing but they had learned to appreciate the quiet after months of running from shack to shack with danger waiting to pounce around every corner. Making it to Armin's grandfather's farmhouse had been a massive risk and yes, they complained and about the back-breaking upkeep but everyday Eren was grateful for their safe haven in what would otherwise be hell on earth.

“Eren, look!” Jean stage-whispered, jerking his head over the fence. Eren searched the green but empty terrain beyond and located what Jean was staring at. What looked to be a small ball of fluff that could easily fit within one's hand was sniffing around, padding around to twitch its nose at the strands of overgrown grass.

“Wow, when was the last time we saw an animal outside the gates?” Eren mused aloud. Even without the buzzing of the electric wired fence and the scavenged barricade of rusted materials and pikes to ward off predators, most animals had been infected or eaten at this point.

“It must have been a year ago with the dear Connie spotted,” Jean answered. Eren had felt guilty for having to shoot it but it had provided a week's worth of food for the entire group. Besides, even if they had let it go, eventually it would have been bitten but this, a small, harmless rabbit, this they could appreciate.

“Mikasa and I used to have a rabbit when we were younger,” Eren reminisced, the sudden memory of begging his mother to allow him to get a pet gracing a smile to his lips.

“What was its name?” Jean asked, beaming at Eren in a way he never would've imagined anyone to look at him. The sun caught the flecks of gold in his eyes and Eren was momentarily stunned.

“She was called Flopsy,” Eren replied, turning his head slightly to hide his blush. Jean snorted, causing Eren to chuck a pebble at him.

“I'm sorry, I just didn't expect you to be so predictable. What else, did you have a black and white dog called Oreo?” Jean snickered.

“God, I want Oreos again,” Eren groaned. They shared a moment of silence for all the junk food that was no longer a ten-minute walk away. At least they would never have to relive that month on canned runner beans again. Now even looking at peas made him flinch.

“I think Sasha was mentioning that she was working on a doughnut recipe,” Jean offered in reassurance.

“If this ever blows over the first thing I'm doing is going to McDonalds and ordering six Big Macs, five Oreo McFlurry's, and three chocolate milkshakes to go with it.”

“Eren, don't; we haven't eaten yet.”

“What would you go for?”

“I'd go to Krispy Kreme and eat an entire Premium Dozen for myself and no one could stop me.”

“Same. Sometimes it's just the pointless shit I miss, you know? Family and security in knowing I have the next day in front of me aside sometimes I just miss ordering Dominos at 11 p.m. for my hangover the next day.”

“Yeah.”

The sun was beginning to sink and the rabbit had gone. Eren glanced at Jean and smiled softly with a gentle sigh, taking his offered palm in his, stroking his fingers along the callouses and scrapes.

“When society gets its shit back together again we're gonna go on one of those food tours around America and eat twice our weight in greasy food,” Jean promised with a grin that made Eren's heartbeat stutter.

Eren squeezed his palm and leaned against his bony yet comforting shoulder.

“I'd like that.”