#i was staring at an empty canvas trying to will a commission to life and instead did doodles to get in the groove and this happened

[riverfish-jpg]

uhHH ANOTHER WIP?

[samodivaa]

You Are Art

Request : College!Bucky x Artist!Reader where Bucky is a nude model partner for life drawing.

Warnings - smut, soft sex Words - 2.3k AN - Me personally, would draw Soldat. ;o

All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique—because one eye sees, the other feels. And the human form that you need to draw will include a physiological precondition that is indispensable—intoxication, lust. If you can say your feelings for him in words, there would be no reason to paint him—you wouldn't have asked him to be your model.

Bucky grows pale as death, he gazes into your eyes with a strange, wild, reproachful look as his lips tremble and vainly endeavors to form some words, then his mouth twisted into an incongruous smile. “Should I…undress now?” His face gave evidence of suffering. You are considerably amazed. “Yeah if you are comfortable? Does something worry you?” “I have scars” Bucky says all this perfectly seriously, and without the slightest appearance of joking, indeed, he seems strangely gloomy.

“There is no need to-”you say, seriously and with deference. 

Never judge a work of art by its defects―Washington Allston “I want to, I promised you”

He interrupts suddenly, with a look of weariness, focusing on his lungs, on his ability to take a deep breath, to soothe with oxygen as the word rolls off his tongue. He is a handsome man, rather stout, with a very polite and dignified manner. He is always well dressed, and his clothes are always exquisite. Your conscience very soon informs you that is the proper narrative to tell. You met in the first semester, he is a business major looking to commission an artist for his project. You admit, that among the many silly and thoughtless actions of your life, the memory of that encounter comes prominently forward and reminds you that it lay long like a stone on your heart—ever since that, you stayed friends—it makes sense, doesn't it? For him to return the favor. There are a few seconds of dead silence before he goes to your small coach to undress. You eyes are flashing in a most unmistakable way, lips were all quiver as you observe his back muscles flexing. You try to speak, to reassure him, but can’t form words, a great weight seems to lie upon your breast, suffocating you. He’s quite tall with broad shoulders and an athletic physique that even his leather jacket cannot hide. You lick your lips, trying to quench the mental thirst for him—his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs. There is a frightened feeling, which makes him scowl and feel ashamed while removing his jacket and shirt until he is fully naked.

As you sit, your eyes turn to the blank canvas, squinting at it in the dwindling light, trying to concentrate. Then you gaze out the window, study the way snow clings to the spruce beside the building, and wonder how you will manage on your own once you have received your degree. With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he finally turns to face you. “So you just want me to sit here?” he whispers at last, drawing his breath with an effort, his nerves are terribly overstrained by now. He is sober, but the excitement of this chaotic situation—the strangest day of his life—has affected him so much that he was in a dazed, wild condition, which almost resembles drunkenness “Okay I will just sit here”

Bucky sits on the bar stool that is next to your canvas and his eyes fall upon yours, stop short, grow white as a sheet, and stares motionless, it is clear that his heart was beating painfully. He is gazing intently, but timidly, for a few seconds. Suddenly, as though bereft of his senses, he moves a bit, putting his hands on his tights. He knows that he won’t get hard—worry empties any dirty thoughts he might have. You are mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes—you can drown in those eyes and it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. His beautiful features offer themselves to your gaze as you trail through them, annoyed at how attractive he looks—putting your mind into a darker cloud of irritation. In spite of this scornful reflection of his current mental state, he is looking cheerful as though he is suddenly set free from the terrible burden of worry and he gazes round. “Just don’t move I need to start with the sketch” You crack your fingers nervously before picking up the piece of charcoal—you stare at him, mentally measuring the propositions which helps you with the composition and scale. As an artist, you dip your brush in your own soul, you paint him with love—but you love him beyond words, beyond paint. And you hope Bucky will feel that once he sees the finished art. “Just tell me when you need a break” “Yeah, okay” he answers firmly, after a brief pause. Your voice is positively reflecting a sort of radiance on his face. You think, staring at him deliberately, that it is just another life painting, simply that's his body, his face, that are his eyes, his nose, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy. And your only concern is to capture his beauty. “It is turning out amazing” you continue, pursuing the whirling ideas that chases each other in your brain “You are art, Bucky” He feels a hammering in his head and a faint smile shows on his face. His eyes are riveted upon yours, at first reluctantly and, as it is, resentfully, and then more and more intently.

Why isn't he saying anything? Did you need to say that out loud? The one time you try to implement that you like him and… So you torture yourself, fretting with questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions are not new, but suddenly confronting you, they are old familiar aches—it grips and rends your heart—maybe he just sees you as a friend.

It tortures your heart and mind, clamoring insistently for an answer, but you don’t dare turn your eyes to him for several moments. Bucky’s heart is beating violently, and his brain is in turmoil. At that moment something seems to sting him; in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling comes over him. He suffers passively, realizing that his cock is getting hard, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. 

“Can we take a break now?”

“Of course” you are bewildered, and stare at him open-eyed. You spot it, you can’t miss such a big dick. He gets up and goes to sit on the couch, covering his private parts with his jacket. His thoughts stray aimlessly…he finds it hard to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longs to forget himself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life anew.

“Things like that happen all the time, no need to be embarrassed. It is nature” Bucky ponders and rubs his forehead, strange to say, after long musing, a spontaneous and by chance, a fantastic idea comes to his mind—to be honest with you. “It is not because of nature” he says all at once, calmly, he has reached a final determination. That answer agitates you, but you keep uneasily seeking for some sinister significance. You get up, slowly moving closer to him, standing in front of his sitting form. Bucky looks at you, your yellow dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, full of colorful stains, close to the waist. You stare straight at him. For one instant, the look on your face, in your eyes, has him puzzled— then he recognizes it. Curiosity—you are shocked, stunned, or thrown into a maidenly fluster. You are curious, you want to hear more, searching his eyes, but couldn't read his thoughts beyond the fact that he is considering you, considering what to tell you. “It is because of you” He stills, but his confident smile doesn't waver.

There is no going back as he removes his jacket, inviting you to madness, to sit on his legs. The sight literally steals your breath. His defined body, his creaminess of his forehead and cheeks, and the determined line of his jaw, the soft vulnerability of his lips, slightly parted. You see the scars on his legs, but your gaze is more drawn to the long block stranding out from his pelvis.

The gorgeous curves of your body somehow delineated beneath taut fabric, his eyes wonder shamelessly to your pink lips simply begging to be kissed. Their shape is etched in his mind, he wants the taste to be imprinted on his senses. "Here? You want me to sit here, on your lap?" The word, weak though it is, accurately reflects your disbelief. Your legs feels suddenly heavy, drowsiness comes upon them.

"Right here. Right now.” 

At this time, the setting, his words and the whole picture are so truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly—it leaves a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system. You straddle him, knees dug into the couch beneath you, the solid columns of his thighs hard against your soft limbs. Bucky adjusts his hold as his hands slide about your waist, beneath your dress. You gasp desperately, clenching your hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking deep.

Then he lifts one hand, sliding one finger beneath your chin. 

Your sensitive skin comes alive to his touch. He tips your face up so that your eyes lock on his with heavy lids, watching flaring passion light your eyes. Sparks of pure innocence and want flashes in the depths as he gently kneads, then sends his fingers of his other hand to glide over your silken back. Desire heightens, needs escalates—and he is in no rush, you are too important to rush—conquering your senses and body is not all that he wants. He wants you forever and even though he doesn’t have the talent of art, he has the one of love.

He takes possession of your lips, your mouth. His hard lips move on your, and you soften, not just your lips, but every muscle. Slow heat washes through your body. When he pulls back, you swallow, and drag in a desperately needed breath. It is all pleasure, simple love—you become softer—he becomes harder, needy. The touch of his eyes, the touch of his hands. Art. As he is savoring you again, the softness of your mouth is his to enjoy, you feel his desire, the hard, throbbing length pressing against your panties. The softness of your thighs pressing firmly on both sides of his legs as you slowly grind against his cock and you can feel him attempting to buck his hips up to meet yours. The tension, pouring off him in waves, eases, just a little. He sighs, and rests his forehead on yours. Your innocence is addictive, entrancing.

Bucky shivers, eyes shut tight―he lets a low, wickedly teasing laugh. “I love you”

His lips brushes your in an inexpressibly tender caress. You kiss him, sliding your hands up, framing his face, so you can let him know―let him feel―your response to his words.

“Are you okay with doing it like this?”he murmurs, his tone deep. You gaze at his eyes, slowly nodding. "Good" The word is a feral purr then his hand slid lower, to lightly caress, with just the barest touch, the sensitive skin, moving the panties aside and rubbing his fingers along your folds, stroking and sliding slowly into you. Sweet pleasure washes through you, making you moan softly. His thumb presses your clit, moving in slow circles as two fingers slide deeper, finding the spot that makes you tremble. There it is.

“I want you inside me, please” The smile on his face, curving those fascinating lips―you are flushed yet so bold with words. He withdraws his fingers. You lift your hips as he tugs and shifts them until he is aligned, but you don’t wait as you sink on his cock to the hilt. A muffled groan escapes your lips as his length stretches your walls and you move your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, rocking slowly onto his cock, the head of it hitting your deepest places. Bucky’s hands travel to massage your breast, eliciting unexpected loud moans from you. His eyes locked on your face. “Don’t slow don’t, keep on riding me”

He states, his voice very low, it sends a most peculiar thrill through you, he grabs at your hips, impatiently thrusts up hard into your core, urging you to continue. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes around the small studio as you keep the moderate pace.

“I will come, Bucky” You keep on hitting your cervix as your trusts become harder, your nubile breasts swing with the force of your body rocking. An impossible pleasure goes through you, cumming violently, your throbbing walls milking his cock as he keeps on trusting through your orgasm, moaning before filling you up with his cum. 

“I think that sex is a form of art” You kiss him long and soft, and when you pull yourself away, you touch his mouth with your fingers. “I suggest you not to think more, Bucky”

[husbandohunter]

Moments of Despair #2 [Genshin Impact/Albedo x Reader]

Synopsis: "The alchemist who relished in his gifts only to fall from grace."

(A series of works where the boys deal with the passing of their beloved).

Diluc’s despair

Warnings: angst, tragedy, major character death and psychological horror (correct me if otherwise)

(A/n): I decided to take a slightly different approach this time. Regardless, it’s still killing my heart TwT.

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

Out of the many wonders of Teyvat, one thing Albedo loved most was how you were so different from him. 

Difference ties to the unknown, one that must be discovered. He was drawn to you the first time he had laid his eyes upon your form standing at the heights of Mondstadt's cathedral. The Sisters scolded you from below, but all you did was reply with a wink amidst their chaos before soaring into the skies and letting the wind carry your glider. Reckless they said. For him, your recklessness was intriguing. 

As the sun's light blinded his vision, everything he saw seemed like a glass barrier. For the ground was where he thrived and chalk was his core, it became the basis of Albedo's very existence. Even the geo Archon granted him a Vision of the same element to affirm his identity. The earth will forever be attached to his feet as he will keep on his stride until every last truth of Teyvat have all been realized. You, on the other hand, hailed from a place where he couldn't quite reach. What lies beyond this glass ceiling? Albedo found himself gradually holding onto a string of curiosities, a string he could touch but was not able to feel. 

'Interesting,' he thought quietly, while the breeze slip between the fingers of his outstretched hand. 

He was a character of logic, possessing sharp eyes that could pierce through the depths of the most complex formulas and a mind to predict their outcomes-  as long as alchemy was still related. All impossibilities thrown in his way only paved a path for him to become the well known genius he was now. Whether it was alchemy or  investigations with the Knights of Favonius, Albedo never failed to deliver the answers. But despite it all, he always found himself endlessly contemplating over things that were considered intangible. He wonders why you smile when there was nothing to laugh about. How could you tell between the complexities of the human heart? Albedo can't seem to put a finger on it. 

'Why? What drives you? What are you thinking?' 

The Chief Alchemist couldn't resist being fascinated by your unpredictability. It reels him in similar to a fish being baited out of the waters. However, unlike those creatures, Albedo only tightened his grip on the strings as if they were a lifeline, determined to find out what they truly felt like to the touch. 

"I can't really say it's much of an answer," you hummed, clasping both hands behind your back before declaring with a grin, "To put it simply, you just gotta follow your heart."

'Follow your heart...' What does it mean to follow your heart? 

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," he replied in a thoughtful manner. The statement never really resonated with him and it certainly weren't the words his Master taught when he was in the early stages of being created, "But it does suit you very much." 

"Really? But still bring your head with you," a playful laugh escapes and you add while pointing a finger, "At least, it's what everyone tells me these days." 

"Hm," Albedo then affirms with a nod, "I can definitely see why they would tell you that." 

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" 

The days go by and his repetitious march towards the truth remains the same. However, there was never a dull moment when you were at his side. Perhaps that was the reason why Albedo became so attracted to your aura. The way you'd follow around his experiments, eyes so full of enthusiasm at every step of the activity. Sometimes the events can get a little too out of hand in which he needs to step in and save you from getting stuck in slime condensates...constantly. Albedo grew fond of your childlike excitement even when you weren't entirely sure what was going on. He normally distanced himself from socializing as it never sparked his interest. Frankly, he was too much of a genius for mundane conversations. Your presence was rather refreshing in this case. You were an oddball, just like him, and for once the alchemist felt like he didn't need to place that glass barrier between the two worlds. 

"You seem to be in a very good mood today Mister Albedo." 

He was a man of subtle expressions yet anyone could notice the small gleam in his eyes whenever he saw you walking in the hallway. Sucrose often remarked with a giggle after she noticed her teacher holding his documents upside down. But who could blame him? Joy, fun, laughter. He was able to experience those emotions all because of you; his beloved. You were the colour to his canvas and the meaning to his flower. You were a force of nature. Like a warm breeze gracing upon the terrestrial lands, you move him. 

Thump- thump- thump- 

Strings around his world began to weave one whole picture while they also tugged inside his chest. God had finally blown the breath of life into mankind's body, it was only a matter of time before Albedo came to follow his heart too. 

-------- 

"Alright, just one more detail aaaaand done!" 

You gave a small tap using the tip of your pencil and leaned back to examine your artwork. 

Masterpiece! 

On days when Katheryne had no commissions assigned to the guild, Albedo would accompany you to the Whispering Woods and conduct his sketches there instead. He was aware of the discomfort Dragonspine brought as the temperature wasn't ideal for anyone except for him. You eventually learned that your lover was not only intelligently different from the rest but physically too. Albedo, aside from the Cavalry Captain, was mysterious in his own way. He was hard to read yet never came off as intimidating, no one knew of his origins nor they knew how he came to Mondstadt. You wondered why someone like him would have wanted to get involved with your shenanigans. Rosaria often gave warnings regarding the alchemist's 'hidden intentions' in which you'd roll your eyes in response. The Albedo you knew was far from that. He was a big brother to Klee, a man passionate about his work, he was the one golden star among the many silvers in your sky. He was your lover. 

My Albedo. 

Brushing a hand upon the drawing you made of him, you glided down the lines of his cheek before resting your finger on the mark by his neck. You gazed at it with fondness. Truly a masterpiece indeed. 

"You do realize I'm still here?" 

The paper nearly flies out of your grasp and you snatched it back to your chest, "HUH A-ALBEDO, WHEN DID YOU APPEAR???" 

"I was with you the whole time," he states. The corner of his lip tug upward ever so slightly, "You said you wanted to sketch me." 

"A-Ahahaha, so I did," you reply while scratching your head bashfully. 'I thought I was looking at a sculpture!!'  You rushed to cover your face with the sheet. It wasn't that you forgot he was there, rather, you forgot he was still a living and breathing specimen who just witnessed your little serenade. As Lisa had once said, Albedo was easy on the eyes. His graceful features made him seem almost like an oil painting that could only be found in  halls of the most prestigious households. You made sure to capture everything, every detail, every curve just like he had done with your portraits. Only now you noticed the sun already began its descent below the lakeside, dusting the landscape with hints of bright orange as it marked the day's end. If only time could slow down. But duty calls upon your next journey and there was no telling when you'd return. At the very least, a simple portrait would suffice to fill in the temporary gap of his absence. 

"Can I see it?" 

You glanced his direction while keeping the drawing close to your nose, "Are you sure about that? It might not be up to your expectations." 

"I'm sure," Albedo affirms with a straight countenance, "I can already tell you've put a great amount of effort, otherwise you wouldn't have taken this long." 

"Yeeaahh I kinda lost track of time. I guess it's only fair that you get to see the finished product," you say and shoved the drawing in front of him, "Tada! I present to you, my masterpiece!" 

Albedo takes it out of your grasp and you watched the way his eyes expanded upon sight. 

"Well? Whaddya think?" 

Words could not describe the mixture of emotions that erupted within him. Was it distinguishable or abstract? Albedo spent his time pondering between the two answers as he examined the drawing closely. Despite the lines being slightly jagged and the unevenness in the placement of his eyes, he managed to make the shape of the entire image you were trying to convey. Perhaps it was all thanks to his well trained artistic vision which gave him the ability to do so. Or maybe he was simply biased. But there wasn't a shred of doubt that this was indeed your craftsmanship. 

"You even added flowers in the background," he pointed out with amusement. 

"It's the thing you make when using your elemental burst, I couldn't fit your hand in the picture so I decided to put it somewhere empty," you informed, "Out of everything, that one took me the longest." 

"And the rabbits?" 

"They resemble Klee's bombs!" 

He lets out a chuckle, "I see." 

Albedo kept his attention downward until he was mindlessly staring at the paper in hand. This was a memory made to be carried as you moved on to your next journey and it saddens him that he could not accompany you. If only time slowed down. Albedo wanted to hold onto the memory forever, because he knew once he gave it back, he wouldn't be able to see you for an uncertain amount of time. 

"Do you really have to go?" 

His voice was barely above a whisper. Guilt crept into your heart and you gingerly layed your fingers on his gloved ones, bringing down the paper that blocked his face. A pair of teal orbs held a reflection of your image as the sun's rays casted from the side. You returned it with a reassuring grin, hoping to soothe his worries somehow, "I just need to pay a visit to my father since he's been very sick lately. I'll be fine, so don't worry too much okay?" 

Albedo turns over his palm and gave your hand a squeeze, "How long will it take?" 

"I'm not sure but it will be a while. Snezhnaya is pretty far so..." you trailed off, "But my time in Mondstadt, with Klee and with you, I will never forget! I won't even if I tried." 

When you were met with no answer, a breeze came in to fill the melancholic silence. He too will not forget and he would ensure that it was the same for you. Slowly, Albedo brought your hand up, past the center of his heart all the way to cupping his cheek. He allowed himself to indulge in your warmth, tangling the strands of his hair with your fingers while closing his eyes. Sweet flowers. You always carried the smell of sweet flowers. 

"Albedo?" You gawked, "What's the matter?" 

"...There are certain aspects where drawings can't imitate,"  he says, grip tightening ever so slightly, "How I feel against your skin, the shape of my jaw, your warmth radiating with my own. These are the things I want you to remember." 

Breath leaves your slightly parted mouth. It was unfair how straightforward Albedo could be when showing his affection. Doing as he pleases without anyone's approval to the point it would even catch you off guard since he often absorbed himself in the arts of alchemy. But during times when Albedo did choose to express his feelings, you knew they came from a place of pure genuinity. The thought made it hard for you to tear away from him, "Did you ever find out what the strings felt like then?" 

Albedo returns his gaze, long golden lashes hovering them as he smiles softly, "...I have." 

As he began to reveal his stories, the dusk sky continued to flare across the landscape with colours of passion. Red, it was the thread that had led him to you, the same string that weaved him together as a whole. Albedo lays a kiss atop of your pinky, there was a reason why Mondstadtians called him the Chalk Prince. You didn't know the intention behind his sudden affection but he knew. It was a promise, one to ensure that the thread would also have you return safely back into his arms. 

Oh how he hated the colour red. 

"Al...bedo..." 

With speed he never knew he had, Albedo scoops you into his embrace and held you close. How did everything happen so fast? He curses his mind as it proceeds to scan your injuries, drawing a conclusion where he wished to be wrong for once: 

You were beyond help. 

"Ah..haha..." you managed to laugh through bitter tears, "You don't have to say it. I know." 

His breath hitches, trying to make sense of the feeling that was slowly tearing him apart from the inside. It's not real. Of course it wasn't, it couldn't be. What other possible answer was there to explain the numbness stinging his fingers? The reason for his shaking? Everything felt so cold. Your body hardly registered to his to touch, you were losing so much blood. You were losing. He was going to lose you. 

"No," Albedo shakes his head, "We still have time. I'll go find help." 

Please, hold on. 

He forced himself to think. The ruin hunter ran off shortly after it had ambushed you, by now the Knights would eventually noticed and apprehended it on sight. They couldn't be too far. All he needed was to carry you back to safety and everyone can go home. Albedo darted his eyes all over the place, breaths becoming shallower with each passing second. Where? Where to go? Which route was best to not overexert your wounds? Think. Think. Think. Why couldn't he think? 

"A..." You watched him in your helpless state. Every part of you throbbed with pain but it pains you even more to see the renowned genius who stood atop the pedestal of elegance and grace so utterly, undoubtedly lost. This was not the goodbye you wanted, though death already had you tight in their grasps. Not yet. Using the last particle of your strength, you tried to stay alive as long as possible. Just a little bit more time. 

Albedo freezes when a trembling hand extends itself to cup around his cheek. Every single thought he had in mind vanished and was replaced by a loud ring resonating in his ears. Dreadfully, mechanically, he turns his attention to where you lay. 

"Don't cry," you whisper, "I love you, don't cry- okay?" 

Albedo grimaces, shutting his eyes closed as he allows the pent up sadness to flow out of him completely, "I can't," he said in a shaky voice, "Please. Stay." 

"I'm sorry," Your vision blurs and he hugs you even more. Drawing your final breath, you relay your most cherished words through a broken smile, "But no matter w-where I go...I won't for..ge.." 

The moment your hand fell, Albedo finally understood the difference between death and loss. 

It was...suffocating. Having the air trapped in his throat, begging to release yet it hurts to speak. The never ending stabs that pulsed within his veins rushed forth like the scraping  blizzard of Dragonspine until his whole body lost all its senses. The world was shattering. He could no longer feel your weight. He could no longer feel. 

(Y/n). 

Albedo glances at his blood stained fingers where the thread had been severed, wide eyes drowning in sorrow. What a horrible feeling. Was this a warning sent by the gods? For stepping into the boundaries of knowing too much? Ah the curse of knowledge man must bear when eating the temptatious fruit. It was the result of choosing to love you. With life, death is inevitable and with love, it will eventually bring pain. Everything had a price to pay and as an alchemist, Albedo knew that better than anyone. 

"...Meaningless..." 

But he refused to accept it. 

Cradling your corpse, he leans in and places a kiss on your forehead, lips quivering as they lingered for a second too long before gathering the strength to stand back on his feet. Nothing will stop the alchemist from reuniting with you. If the laws wished to take you away from him then he will use everything in his power to fight against those laws. 

"This is not goodbye..." Albedo said to the sleeping girl, "And it will never be." 

When the sun sinks below the plains and the stars lose their light, the sky had been replaced with a palette of darkness. It was time to go home. 

------ 

"Have you all heard about the rumours?" 

A group of knights gather in the corner as they whisper about. Sucrose stops on her tracks and hides behind a wall, clutching the book close to her chest in an attempt to stay hidden. 

"Another criminal disappeared from the dungeons? Crazy..." 

"More like creepy. I was told that place might be haunted by some dead prisoner's ghost. Even the Church is hopping onto this case." 

"Well I hope it doesn't get any worse. So many of us started going on night patrols..." 

Their voices faded out of range as the anemo user backtracks her steps carefully. Several months passed since the news of mysterious kidnappings have been announced to the public. Rumours of their whereabouts swirled around the city and much to her discomfort, Sucrose happened to catch every single one of them. There couldn't possibly be evil spirits lurking in the Favonious Headquarters right? She silently shrieks at the thought, shaking her head furiously to stop her mind from going too deep. No, I have to find him. Without wasting another minute, the anemo user sprinted towards the stairs all the way up to the second floor before stopping directly in front of her teacher's office. Despite the adrenaline that occured at the same time, she made sure to knock. 

No answer. 

"Strange, he told me he would be here today..." Sucrose muttered to herself. But suddenly she heard the sound of objects shifting from the otherside, signaling that there was indeed someone occupying the room. Without realizing, she held her breath out of anticipation. 

"Come in." 

The door creaks as she opens them, giving her enough space to slip between the gap, "Mister Albedo?" 

"You're early today," The Chief Alchemist noted from his desk, "Is there something the matter?" 

"Y-You mean you don't know? There was just another case about a person disappearing from the dungeons," Her tone became more frantic as she rambled to herself, "The kidnapper never leaves a trace and no one knows how they were able to get out. Even when we ask the guards what happened, they can't seem to remember as if...as if someone casted a spell on them!" 

"A spell?" He inquires, "I suppose that could be a possibility." 

"I think so too. I-It's the only explanation that makes sense! I mean...ghosts don't exist after all," Sucrose nervously looks down at her shoes while giving her book a squeeze, "But why? Who could be capable of such advanced techniques? No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to understand their intentions." 

"...Yes. It is a very strange occurrence indeed." 

Noticing her teacher's withdrawn attitude, Sucrose couldn't help but feel flustered at her own behaviour, "Ah my apologies Mister Albedo, I didn't mean to go off track. Have there been any progress on the investigations so far?" 

Albedo briefly glanced at the various documents splayed across his table. His reputation as an incredibly intelligent individual had reached far and wide through Mondstadt. This led to the authorities requesting his assistance regarding the recent matters, despite him specializing in the alchemical field, he was also the Captain of their Investigation Team. Although, Albedo detested partaking in things he deemed irrelevant to his research; 

"I'm afraid I would need more evidence to draw a conclusion." 

"Eh? You still need more?" 

He could not deny that the given authoritative position had provided much benefits to his own accord. 

"My expertise lies in the subject of alchemy," Albedo reasoned and proceeds to intertwine his fingers in front of his mouth, "Humans on the other hand, are very unpredictable in nature. Even the essence of their existence is hard to obtain." 

"Essence of their existence?" Sucrose repeated softly. She wanted to ask what he meant but the blank expression was evident  enough to signal his impatience. At least, that was what she thought, "Nevermind! I have something that might help," taking out a slip from her textbook, she handed it to him, "It's the report Captain Kaeya gave me. He said that the culprit might be a traitor coming from the Knights of Favonius." 

He narrows his eyes. 

"I-I think he might be right! Just think about it, we haven't found anything at all for the past few months but when we do, I sometimes feel like we're just running in circles...oh what if it's becau-" 

"Sucrose." 

"Y-Yes?!" 

Albedo calmly looks at the flustered girl, not realizing how sharp his tone was, "You're overthinking again. Perhaps it's best that you take this day off." 

"But I came here to help," she insisted, "I know it hurts to lose someone you love! Don't you understand that we're all worried about you? And Klee, she..." 

"..." 

"Please Mister Albedo, if there's anything I could do-" 

"No need," he cuts her off once again, "Your stress levels are too high. We can't go any further if you continue to act like this." 

"Oh," her ruby eyes casted to the side, "I understand..." 

"Good. Now, if you would excuse me," Albedo bid her farewell and watched as the door clicked behind her, observing every detail until he was sure that the absolute silence had returned. He picks up Kaeya's document. Such remarkable handwriting. But of course, appearances are only meant to be displayed on the surface for the Captain was a sly man, wearing a mask to shield what lies underneath. Just like his letter, they were full of innuendos and condensed meanings, orchestrated together until the truth spoke loudly to Albedo himself. 

"So, that's what he thinks." 

Perhaps the alchemist should have been a little more discreet. 

-------- 

There was a certain place in Dragonspine that no one dared to enter. But those who have, they never return. 

"Hm, no response. Now as for the next step..." 

And he was the reason why. 

Taking the sword out of the transmutation circle, Albedo turned to the snowy hill nearby and activated his alchemy. A small portion of it dissipates, revealing a trench that went so deep underground that even warmth couldn't outplay the sheer cold. It was the perfect hiding place for the evidence to lay out of sight and an environment where only he could handle. The alchemist tossed the leftover along with the others before exiting quietly, summoning back the ice to bury his victims once again. Another day, another experiment, another stain goes to his title. The path he walked upon was one littered with corpses and the sins he committed. But despite the bones crunching beneath his feet and the weight of the dead hanging on his shoulders, the alchemist was numb to it all. Like an entity floating in space with nothing to hold, he became unable to feel. 

"I'm back," When reaching the center of Starglow Cavern, Albedo puts his hand on the icicle and caressed it's hard cold surface, "Did you sleep well?" 

The girl did not respond. Her eyes were closed and her skin was as young as ever. She was frozen in time. 

"You must have." 

Albedo felt the sword beginning to shake in his grasp as it resonated with his energy. Dust particles emitted from the hilt and slowly made their climb to the side of his arm. Still, Albedo's attention did not waver, "To this day, I've been thinking about what you told me the first time we met." 

"..." 

"Follow your heart. I couldn't understand it at first but after being around your presence, I believe I can finally recognize what that term means." 

He closes his eyes as he envisioned your lively form running across the landscape. Albedo, Albedo! The sound of his name was mixed with your laughter while Klee came into the scene and caught the dandelions with you. A content smile formed on his countenance as he watched from afar, even if it was just a memory, "It's everything. The breakfast we ate together, to the nights spent camping outside, and the silly moments we shared, they bring all these colours that I never knew existed." 

"..." 

Albedo curls his fingers against the ice as he continues to lament, "Perhaps that's why I began noticing the strings around me. The closer I was to answer, the more I felt it was necessary to discover what they are. All this time, you were the answer I was searching for," Moist begins to build up in his eyes but they freeze up once reaching the corners. How cruel. Despite what he went through, he wasn't even granted the liberty to cry, "Because with you, I'm able to feel them." 

He wonders what you would think if you saw him right now. Albedo peers at his reflection casted on the crystalline surface, the frame of his face had been decorated with streaks of purple and red, spreading out like tree branches as they both fought for dominance. The teal coloured orbs you once adored were beginning to transform to a colour that reminded him of his darkest days. This was Albedo's true nature- a monster, a being that wasn't human, the essence in which you never had the chance to see. 

"I know I may not be the same as I was before," he added, "But if that is what it takes to follow your heart, will you let me feel the strings again?" 

Would you still love me the same? 

"..." 

"If so, then please understand my actions," Albedo takes a step back as he held out the sword in front of him. At last, the preparations have finally been completed. He plunges the blade to the ground with full force and the surrounding area begins to shake under the power accumulated through many, intentional sacrifices. To revive the dead was a forbidden art as it came with heavy consequences. If it weren't for Albedo's talent and quick wit, the process would have consumed him long before executing the last stage. He winces, the pain was excruciating. It was hard for him to ignore the sound of his skin cracking below his ears and all the way to his nose as they fall off in the shape of small rock-like chunks. Everything hurt so much that even death sounded like a sweet dream but Albedo couldn't afford to give up. He had already come this far, his hands completely washed with sin and his reputation already broken beyond repair, Albedo had nowhere else to go. This was his last destination. 

"Soon-" he pants between choked breaths. Soon your eyes will open. He could drown in your embrace, one that was warm and not cold. Soon he will be able revive those cherished memories from a frozen past. It was all he could think of right now. Your existence was the reason why a part of him felt whole and your death made him realize how painful it was to tear away those pieces. Albedo refused to let go of those pieces, they had already become a part of him. And if this path ended up tearing him even more, then so be it. 

"I should have stopped you the moment you were born." 

The intruder snapped him awake and he swung around to where they stood. But before Albedo could make out who it was, they lunged past him with incredible speed, kicking the sword off the ground while severing his two arms once and for all. They flew to the side, blood dyed purple trickling from the edges of his joint as he struggled to stay upright. 

"Dains...leif..." 

Dainsleif watched the alchemist fall onto his back as the light around him slowly faded away. He turned his gaze to where the objective was and noticed a girl encased within the ice. The man sighs out of relief when she shows no signs of life, he came just in time, "So this is how it ends." 

Albedo weakly stared at the blonde man. He attempted to say something but the blood caught in his mouth prevented him from that. 

"Save your breath, you won't be having any," Dainsleif remarks in a cold manner and glared at his bloodied form, "The renowned Chief Alchemist of Mondstadt and an important member of Ordo Favonious. Hmph, what an interesting turn of events. Out of everyone, I never thought you were the type to act so foolish." 

Foolish...what a foreign name to be called as. He never heard anyone tell him he was foolish. 

"Truly a pity," With a flick of a wrist, Dainsleif brought his sword to Albedo's neck. It was unbelievable how he had the endurance to go through all that pain while still breathing at this point but what is there to be expected from a monster? "Remember that all actions have consequences." 

The alchemist watched as his life flashed before him, the weight of his sins had finally caught up. He had always seen the world as a platform for his objectives and results were merely a natural cause after attempting many experiments. But death as a consequences was an unbearble realization upon his final moments. He abandoned his title, his pupil and his dearest sister. In the end, he was still unable to fulfill his duty. 

"I just..." Albedo mumbled, his words slurring together, "wanted..." 

As the ashes turn to ashes and dust becomes dust, chalk returns to the earth, forever yearning a place that can never be reached.

[shiversdownyerspine]

14. Isolation

A long chapter, just for y'all. :>

We gonna get a lil sad, a lil sweet, and a lil weird and dirty. >:D

18+

You fold your grocery list and tuck it safely away. The brothers doubt that they'd experience any significant injury, but you won't be discouraged. It's good to be prepared, just in case.

The Commission did provide its field agents with training and adjustments once they had been employed, but the improved healing wasn't as...thorough?..as yours. Some first aid wouldn't hurt.

You'd decided once the brothers leave for the mission you'd get the shopping done. Otto and Oscar had almost seemed to sulk, but Axel had agreed with you that this would be more convenient. There wasn't all that much to grab and everything would be ready and waiting when they returned. Scooting from between Axel and Oscar you remind them that if there are complications they are free to return to you to restrategize, and you certainly wouldn't mind a surprise visit.

Oscar playfully pulls you back against him. "Aw, you're going to miss us?"

Squirming with a laugh you tease him, "Maybe a little."

The youngest Swede releases you with a pout, feigning hurt as you apologetically rub his back. With a grin you wander over to the pantry to double check the cat food supply as Otto heads to their guestroom to retrieve their guns. Tugging the bag you estimate there's a good couple months left before it's gone, so no need to worry. Though you will be grabbing a couple cans of wet food for the kittens as a treat.

Otto returns with bag in tow as you head out to the garden to consider what to plant for fall...carrots, onions, maybe cauliflower? Kneeling you reach for your sugar pumpkins, happy to see that they're coming along nicely and should be ready around Halloween time. Lingering among the plants you take a moment to relax and think, breathing in the cool air. Autumn is practically on your doorstep, and the gray skies and yellowing leaves herald its arrival. Winter won't be long now, and you will once again be keeping an eye out for a space heater.

Long ago you'd found an old used one available in town, much to your delight. It had lasted a single day before the thing let out this awful high pitched noise and died right there on your floor. You count yourself lucky that it didn't burst into flames. For a moment you had considered keeping it to try to fix it, but it didn't come with a manual and you didn't want to risk it burning down your home, so you decided to do away with it. Hopefully you'd find another space heater, but the town is old and you've yet to get lucky.

In the meantime, you have Axel, Otto, and Oscar to help you with the cold. Your cheeks flush; the touches they've been giving you have been working, though some nights your condition successfully rears its stubborn head. You have a feeling you'll have to start knocking on their door when Winter creeps a little closer.

You've yet to see what they've done with the guestroom, if they've put up any knickknacks from home or from their travels. Certainly you're curious but you won't invade their privacy. Maybe they'd prefer your room? The sofa? You don't mind sharing your bed, you trust them.

The creek of the door interrupts your thoughts, and you lift your head to see Axel motion you inside. Dusting your hands and knees off, you head in after him. Coats and jackets donned with packs strapped to the younger's shoulders, it looks like they're ready to go.

With your own canvas bags in tow, you walk along the dirt path with the Swedes to the abandoned bus stop. The vine tangled little shack is being overtaken by nature and is tucked back against trees and bushes, making it easy to miss. The windows are long gone but the door still remains, stubbornly resisting the wear and tear of time.

Before you get the chance to say goodbye, Oscar is pulling you into a hug and kissing you on the cheek. You wrap your arms around him in return. "Be careful, don't get into too much trouble."

"Only a little, here and there. Danger is..ah...spice of life." Oscar squeezes you again as Otto's hand rubs your upper back before lifting to stroke your hair. The two release you as their older brother clears his throat. Faces blank and eyes hard, they stride through the overgrowth into the little shack to wait for Axel.

The blue-clad man gazes down at you with scrutinizing eyes as the sounds of the forest ebb and wane. He steps forward and reaches into one of his coat pockets to retrieve a familiar item wrapped up in a familiar old cloth that you'd forgotten about. Your fingers curl around the 'gift'.

Grasping what you know is your paring knife, Axel's voice is a bit gruff when he declares, "For protection."

Touched, you step forward to reach for his empty hand and give it a little squeeze, smiling when his thumb sweeps over your knuckles. "Thank you."

His opposite hand cups the back of your neck as he leans down to press his lips to the top of your head, nose buried in your hair. The moment is interrupted by Oscar barking out one of the windows, "Pussa henne igen!"

Axel gives an exasperated sigh but takes a second to breathe you in, squeezing your fingers one more time before releasing you to join his brothers.

The three are gone with a flash of light and you're left standing alone. After a melancholy moment or two of eyeing the empty bus stop, you're turning your attention to your knife and unwrapping it to check the blade. But as the cloth falls away, it's the wooden handle that draws your curiosity.

A little symbol has been carved into the wood, but you don't know what it is or what it means. But for some strange reason you still feel a lump in your throat and a prickling in your eyes the longer you look at it. You remind yourself to ask about it when they return.

Your shopping trip was uneventful and you had successfully gotten everything on the list. The trek back to your home was lovely, though when you walked by the bus stop you had lingered a moment. When you entered your home and put away the groceries, the emptiness of your house was disquieting.

Efforts are made to distract yourself hour after hour after hour with relative success. The day fades into night and you curl up in bed to read your well-loved book of fairytale collections until sleep finds you.

The morning is quiet, but the cats keep you company. After lunch you take the opportunity to plant some of the carrot seeds you purchased. Towards the evening as you're figuring out what to make for dinner, you realize you can still smell Axel in the kitchen. It's bittersweet and you wonder at how deeply you miss your cooking buddy. After dinner when you're doing a load of laundry, you discover one of Otto's shirts in the dryer. As you're folding the garment, his scent grasps your heart and squeezes. The entire time you're wandering around your home, something in particular is gnawing at you, something is missing...Oscar's sneak attacks.

You drop on the sofa with a huff, shaking your head at how quickly you miss the three men. It's absurd, you're used to being alone...but at the same time it makes sense. You've gotten used to their company. As have the cats. Rubbing your temples, you watch a little television before heading to bed.

The next day is much of the same; distract yourself, do chores, care for the animals, read books, go for walks, tend to the garden and the forest, miss the Swedes. It doesn't take long for you to start worrying about them as well, if they're okay. Your home doesn't feel right and eventually, you don't feel right.

You feel...twitchy. And restless. And tingly?

The fourth day is a little easier, as is the fifth, but you still feel off.

On the sixth day your cats are crowding the living room windows. Not all that strange considering you live by a forest, who knows how many birds and little critters visit your home. Besides, more important things have your attention this morning; specifically, you feel the urge to bake.

When the front door opens you're in the kitchen messing around with baking sheets so you don't hear it. Maybe you'd have felt the cool air drifting in if your oven wasn't on. But you recognize Oscar's spicy scent a second before he pulls you back into his chest and nuzzles into your nape. He lets you twist around in his hold to hug him as the sound of his brother's boots grace your ears.

You wiggle out of Oscar's arms to pull Otto and Axel down for hugs as well, Otto with your left arm and Axel with your right. It's hard to tell whose hand is rubbing your back and whose is cupping the back of your neck but you don't mind. Noticing they still have their coats and packs, you welcome them back before telling them to make themselves comfortable.

The two brothers head for their guestroom and Oscar follows them after giving you one last hug...and scratching the chins of the cats desperate for the men's attention.

Your house returns to normal, but a little later you find you still don't feel quite right. Your condition doesn't really feel like this, so maybe you're just still feeling the absence of the Swedes? Only thing you can do is give it time...and pop on a cozy sweater, just in case.

The strange antsy feeling gets a little stronger one evening as Otto and Oscar play a game outside in your garden with a vicious looking knife. Leaning back against the side door to your kitchen, you watch as they throw the knife into the dirt at their feet, trying to see who can land it the closest. Apparently the game was called Mumblety-peg.

"Is this what siblings do? Assert...dominance over the other?"

Axel snorts, "For fun."

"...I see." Your next comment is cut off when the knife punctures Otto's upper thigh, courtesy of Oscar.

Immediately you're tugging Otto inside to sit at the kitchen table, the world fuzzing and voices fading as Otto removes the knife with a firm tug. Blood is staining and you're staring, focused and utterly silent before turning to Oscar. "You should have been more careful."

Oscar shrugs, "Not serious. Don't be...tråkmåns?..stick. Stick in the mud."

You know they have better strength, better stamina, and better healing. But while you were missing the three men, you had also been worrying about them...

Axel doesn't have a chance to reprimand his brother again before you're bristling and baring your teeth, "Well do excuse me for caring about you three. The first aid kit is in my bathroom. Get it now. Please."

Oscar blinks, surprise mingling with guilt and maybe a sprinkling of arousal at your feistiness. He follows your order, slinking down the hallway as he remembers the awful sinking feeling in his belly the one time they discovered a bullet buried in Axel's back that they had to dig out.

The eldest Swede watches the exchange silently, approving of this stern, no-nonsense side of you. Not to mention the 'please' you added at the end was cute. Even though you had reacted a little strongly to Oscar's shenanigans, it shows you care for them a great deal. You had worried for their safety while they had been gone. As you check Otto's wound, the large man admires the fire in you that is quietly sizzling down. You're deep in thought, forcing yourself to acknowledge that the Swedes are technically your mission so if anything should happen to them you would be notified. Sometimes it's hard to hear your voice of reason when it's warring with the paranoia and lack of trust in your employers.

Still, Oscar should be a little more careful. The youngest Swede returns with the kit and you apologize for snapping, that you know they heal more than civilians.

Feeling sheepish at having reacted the way that you did, you try your best to explain, "It wouldn't even take me an hour to heal from a wound like this. With my ability...if a wound lingers it's proof that it's severe. That something is deeply wrong. So...I just..reacted when I saw the bleeding. Before I could think."

You admit to them that you panicked a little...and yes, missing them may have had something to do with your reaction as well. Oscar apologizes to you, and when you raise an eyebrow, he apologizes to Otto as well.

That night when Otto pulls you down on the sofa with him to sleep, eyeing your sweater with a little concern, you decide it couldn't hurt. You've been feeling strange for quite a while, so maybe a dose of body heat is just the thing you need. Making sure the man was alright with the way you were positioned on top of him, minding his injury, you settle in with a deep contented sigh.

But you did not sleep through the night. In fact, you woke several hours later to darkness and that strange restless sensation that had been plaguing you for days now.

Otto's hand has slipped down a bit, fingers caressing the bare skin of your back that your sweater has revealed in your sleep. Your lips part with soundless pleasure at the gentle calloused warmth of his fingers, eyes fluttering when a tingle crawls up your spine...and down your arms and legs? Your brow furrows in confusion as your toes and fingers prickle and heat builds under your stomach before reaching a gentle simmer and lingering until...!

Startled, you shakily pull yourself up and stumble on your feet. You feel like you're wading through molasses, your head wrapped in fog as instinct leads you towards the safety and privacy of your bedroom. Entering your room, you whimper as you feel another wet rush that soaks your panties. Desperate, you lurch into your bathroom and rip off your clothes to find your inner thighs damp. With a trembling hand, you gingerly swipe your fingers through the fluid, not quite daring enough yet to touch the direct source. Clear and slightly sticky...hm.

You blink and look closer at the apex of your thighs...you're a bit swollen and flushed...and with a careful ticklish caress, find yourself to be somewhat sensitive as well. You're baffled, this looks to be simple arousal...well, deep arousal all things considered. As if to mock you, another shallow surge slicks your thighs and trickles down your legs. No, the small puddle your body is supplying isn't normal, your fuzzy head and lethargic body isn't normal, but you're not normal so maybe it's just...new? Something that's been delayed because of your long-term isolation? You've always lacked a menstrual cycle, so what are the odds this has some strange connection with it and your ability?

Without delay you hop in the shower, fiddling with the knobs as you begin to put the puzzle pieces together. The hot water that cascades over your skin is soothing, fighting back the earlier panic. Feeling quizzical, you once again gently slide your fingers down, pushing lightly over your clit as your eyes flutter shut with a soft sigh, touch lingering.

And suddenly it's not your hand, it's a much bigger palm cupping you possessively before fingers thicker than your own tease between your swollen lips and oh so slowly, a fingertip pushes inside, sliding to the first knuckle- A rush of juices from your cunt jerks you back to reality as you gasp, practically hyperventilating as you tear your hand away from your aching body to grasp at the tiled shower walls. ...Oh.

Maybe you missed your men more than you realized.

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

Pussa henne igen - Kiss her again!

tråkmåns - Stick in the mud.

[lovelyasfcuk]

Voyager

A Mandalorian Story | Din Djarin x F!Reader

IV: The Lawless

Summary: With a simple plan gone awry, Din must get himself and the child to safety, forced off planet. He must come to terms with a new reality, as his perspectives continue to be challenged and walls being broken down.

Warnings: Violence. Anxiety. Injury. Mentions of blood. Pining.

A/N: This chapter is a little longer, because I am so very much in love with the reader and where we are going!

From behind the stall, you carefully lifted the canvas flap, peering side to side for any threat. Creeping along the back wall and turning the sharp corner, you found a black speeder bike, carrying a sleek black helmet at its handlebar. An outdated commission, by the look of it, and displaying loyalties to the old empire. Readjusting the knapsack around your chest, you mounted the bike, hastily firing the ignition.

Din realized your disappearance from the stall and quickly searched through the scope, checking every face in the commotion below. Suddenly, a blaster fire shot passed him from where he was now crouched.

Din zeroed in on the individuals with their blasters aimed, and squeezing the trigger, their forms vaporized in a flash. One after the other, but even with him having the high ground, many others were joining the action.

A small group of mercenaries had started ascending the hill on its flank, during the battle that had ensued. Taking cover from behind the stalking trees, they took aim at the Mandalorian and opened fire. In a swift move, Din grabbed the child, tucking him protectively against his body and rolled behind a rock face nearby.

Bolts framed the boulder, as he waited for an opportunity to take his own shot. Hunters and any criminal who had heard the rumors in the port, willing to take a chance for their own gain, were called to attention by the scuffle. More and more began making their way out of the port, toward the gunfire echoing against the ancient ruins.

Din soon confirmed in his mind that you had fled the scene, along with any chance of supplies and the credits. Anger and frustration flared in his chest at the thought, instead he tried to refocus his efforts on escaping to the Crest.

With the growing number approaching, returning on foot was not an option. Their only hope would be the jetpack, but he would have to minimize gunfire to protect the child.

Pinned behind the boulder, he took the first opportunity he could, quickly aiming the blaster and firing, taking out a Trandoshan. He took cover again, safely tucking the child behind his body.

Again, he primed himself to take another opportunity and as he tried to take aim, a bolt hit Din causing him to fall back to the damp soil. A strangled cry cracked through the modulator as he rolled behind the boulder, breathing heavy against the rock.

A deafening roar grabbed the duo’s attention, as a speeder bike sped up the hill, lifting higher than its natural hover as it made the top. Din quickly aimed his blaster at the rider, watching it skid to a halt - an imperial scout, he thought. The rider quickly pressed a button on the side of their helmet, visor snapping up.

“Get on!” you called out; your voice altered by the helmet’s speaker. You quickly pulled your dual blasters, opening fire on the mercenaries to cover the Mandalorian as he mounted the bike behind you.

Din sheltered the child between your bodies, wrapping one arm around you and clutching the bike with the other. Once secured, you peeled the bike out of the hilltop and down into the forest out of the line of fire.

You rode at top speed, masterfully banking rock formations, keeping away from any carved path and out of sight within the darkness. You both knew you would be followed, many catching up sooner than you would hope. Din scanned through the blur, blaster in hand and finger hovering over the trigger.

The journey back to the Razor Crest would be quicker and you silently prayed you had put enough distance between you three and the assailants. Just then, three speeder bikes sped forward, flanking on each side. You pulled the bike, weaving swiftly between the towering trees, trying to keep eyes on the approaching bikes.

Din took aim and shot, knocking a rider off his bike, before it collided into a trunk and erupting in a plume of fire and smoke. You caught sight of a part of the forest, too dense for this chase. 

“Hold on!” you yelled, as Din quickly locked his grip on your body and the child, bracing himself. 

Hitting the breaks, the bike skid to a halt, throwing it in the opposite direction and gained as much speed as you could. Both riders slid to a halt, avoiding the trees and after a moment, continued in the same path.

Panting as the panic grew, you saw the clearing up ahead, the sun’s rays glowing through the leaves. Your muscles tensed as you approached, slowing the bike as you entered, until it glided up to the Crest. Din hit the button on his gauntlet, activating the loading ramp and threw his leg off the bike, lifting the child with him.

You scanned the clearing; it was empty. Your heads both snapped up at the distant sound of humming, growing louder by the second. You pulled Din’s knapsack from around your body and handed it to him in haste,

“This is just about everything. It should get you to your next few destinations. I’m sorry, I wish I could have done more.”

Din took the bag in his fist only to be interrupted by entry of the speeder bikes. You pulled your blasters from your holster and took aim, opening fire. A land speeder arrived, five passengers disembarking and joining the gun fight, advancing on foot.

“What are you doing? Get out of here!” you yelled as the Mandalorian slung the knapsack around his chest and drew a blaster.

“There are too many. You won’t make it out of here alive.” He replied, the fire growing louder. 

More bolts began darting into the clearing from different sides of the forest – you were surrounded. Din began retreating toward the Crest’s ramp, shooting down as many as he could within range.

“Let’s go!” He called out to you.

Knowing the fight was already lost, panic began building in your chest, tightening with every shallow breath you took. The roaring blaster fire and shouts from the attackers, blended with the louder thoughts within your mind.

You narrowed your eyes and squared your jaw, as you returned your blasters to her holster. Without another thought, you held your arms out; hands outstretched with tension. Eyes snapping shut, you took a deep breath and cried out.

Din stilled at the rumble around them and the abrupt end of gunfire. An unseen blast had thrust the mob from the clearing, the trees and ferns blown back by the force. He looked to you – your outstretched arms becoming limp and your chest heaving, gasping for air - you met his stare with caution.

“Go. Go now.” you barked, throwing your leg off the bike and marched to his still form, still clutching his blaster in hand.

The Mandalorian paused, trying registering what he had witnessed. Your helmet’s visor still retracted; he searched your eyes. They gave you away almost instantly, where your body created a more convincing disguise.

He knew the feeling well, as he saw it for most of his life in those around him – fear.

“You can’t stay here. You have been marked. More will come and you know it.” He told you confidently.

Your jaw still set, you focused up at him from under furrowed brows.

“Leaving now is your only hope for escaping with your life.” He concluded, quickly scanning the clearing’s edge, knowing there was only borrowed time.

You both turned at a sudden grumbling off in the distance. Your sight met once more in silent agreement and you hurriedly stalked past Din toward the Crest.

-------

The navigation screen sputtered as Din tried to key in the next destination. He tapped the dashboard above it twice with this gloved finger, attempting to clear the screen. A faulty command flashed in error. He sighed, taking control of the steering, redirecting the Crest in the flight path he used for their arrival and set autopilot.

In the cargo hold, you sat against the ship’s wall, thoughtfully gazing at the trooper’s helmet in your hands. Din snapped you out of your contemplation as he made his way down the deck ladder with the child tucked between his arm and chest.

You met the gaze of Din’s helmet and looked back at the stolen one, “You can drop me at your next destination.”

Din cocked his head at the chill in your tone. “I’m…sorry…about having to leave.” He finally spoke, unsure of what to say.

“It was likely for the best.” you replied in a sigh, “Nothing is ever permanent.”

Din paused, watching you trace your fingertips across the sleek lines of the helmet, knowing your thoughts were far beyond the conversation. He approached and sat on the cargo next to you, setting the child down at his hip. You stilled momentarily, not used to the proximity.

“What happened in the clearing…” He began.

Your body tensed at the question, bracing for an invisible impact.

“He can do that as well,” Din continued, tipping his head down at the child. Your wide eyes lifted off the helmet in your hands and met the large brown eyes watching you, gazing at each other for a moment.

“You told me he belongs with his kind, which is the reason for what happened on Nevarro. I was told of a people called Jedi…” He confessed.

Your eyes shifted to Din; his gaze fixed on you. With a sigh, you set the helmet down between you, “I am not a Jedi, if that is your question.” you returned your attention to the child and slowly reached your palm to his tiny claw.

The ever-present electricity was something familiar now, but when your hands touched, it seemed to pulse. The child cooed in contentment and reached out to you.

“The force is strong with you, little one.” you spoke softly, enjoying the calm that fell upon the hold.

“The force?” Din asked incredulously.

“Do you not believe in the force?”

“There isn’t much truth in myth.” He continued with the same skepticism.

“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t make it myth. The great Mandalorians? The Mandalorian creed? Are they not truth?” you asked.

The Mandalorian fell silent and looked down at the child as he held onto your hands. You watched his visor for a sign of opposition - a slight move, a tilt. All you found was stillness, and in his silence, you sensed forlorn.

“You have witnessed his strength. You have been told the Jedi are his people and made it your life’s mission to reunite him. It is the very reason your heart beats after every battle. It is what brought you to him. How is it that you still do not believe in the force?”

There was no defense for your words, penetrating his beskar without hesitation. Din remained still, but his mind hummed with revelation.

The child had climbed into your lap and began idly toying with the pocket flaps on your belt. You watched the steel form next to you unmoving, watching the child, seemingly processing your words. You paused and bit your lip slightly, finding your strength.

“I have searched…most of my life…for answers. This mission you are on - it is a difficult undertaking. You will need all the luck you can get.” you said, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Not luck. A partner. You have knowledge in what he can do and where to continue. With your help, Ic can reunite him with his kind, and maybe, you will find your answers along the way.”

You listened to the confidence in his voice and how intently his gaze was fixed on yours.

You chuckled in response. “What is your name?”

“Din. Din Djarin.”

A delicate smile played on your lips and your eyes softened, as you extended your right hand toward him. Din placed his hand in yours and grasped your fingers, feeling so fragile and small in his. The warmth of your touch seeped through his gloved hand. The feeling, he could only compare to the distant memories of comfort in his childhood.

“Din.” you repeated his name, sending a jolt through his body and feeling his heart stutter. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Your eyes drifted from his visor to your joined hands, his orange tipped gloves encasing yours, when your eye caught a dark shadow.

“You’re hit!” you exclaimed, unable to mask your shock. Beneath his right pauldron, a charred rip was torn within the canvas that covered his bicep, seeped dark with blood.

“A graze.” He returned, dismissing any fuss.

Immediately, you stood and marched across the hold to retrieve the med kit that hung on the wall with the Crest’s supplies. Returning, you set the kit down in your place.

“Allow me?” you asked hesitantly, reaching out your palm.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Please? It’s the very least I could do after saving my life.”

Din hesitated for a moment, but quickly nodded and stretched out his arm toward you. You lifted the stolen helmet, set it down on the grated floor and sat in its place.

Din felt himself tense and tried to focus on anything but the present moment, so he watched you -

You seemed to relax under pressure or in concentration. You absentmindedly tucked your hair behind her ear and squinted. Your hands were steady, sure of yourself. Your movements were fluid, fingers dancing as you worked.

Your features were delicate, yet somehow strong – your cheekbones, the line of your jaw, your chin. A tiny wrinkle sat between your brows. Your eyes were bright and alert, a full fringe of lashes fell upon the light shadow tinged skin under them. He had the feeling you did not have opportunity to smile often. Your lips were full, slightly pursed as you focused, glowing a soft hued pink.

“It looks like they just missed the beskar by a few centimeters.” you commented, breaking the silence. Feeling his glare, you glanced over at his visor. “What?”

“You seem to know what you’re doing.” He spoke in almost a whisper.

“I have been on my own for a while. I have seen a thing or two, in many different systems. Most times bacta was a luxury.” you smirked, reaching for a bacta patch from the med kit. You slid it beneath the open canvas, positioning it over his wound, before gently pressing.

“There. Good as new.” you smiled at him.

At that moment, a rustling filled the serenity, as the child had found his way into the knapsack resting at Din’s feet. He reached down and pulled him out of the bag, only to find him grasping to one of your texts.

“I’ll be taking that, you little sneak.” you chided, gently pulling the text from his claws.

“I guess leaving wasn’t a huge loss.”

“I’ve learned to carry only things invaluable to me. Not every moment is promised.” you said as you gently caressed the cover. “I believe there is a thing or two in these that might give us a clue.”

“First, I need to see about repairs to the Crest. We won’t make it far with the nav out.”

“I might know someone who can remedy that. However, we’ll need to head to Black Spire.”

“That will take some time without hyper speed.” Din replied with a sigh. “I will set the course. In the meantime, you should get some rest. Uh…Thank you.” He said motioning to his arm, then gathered the child into his arms as he made his way to the cockpit, clicking switches disabling the overhead lights within the hold.

The gentle glow of the ambient lighting filled the space. He hesitated at the ladder and turned, “Make yourself…comfortable. Anything you need…”

You raised your hand gently, shaking your head.  “I’ll be just fine. Thank you, Din.” you smiled.

“Sleep well.” The modulated voice gently murmured.

......

Tags: @babybelou @pascalsky

[tybaku]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30691259

Midoriya Izuku finds the incarnation of beauty and divinity sitting at a window of a hole-in-the-wall café just a few blocks away from home.

Or: An artist in search of inspiration unexpectedly finds a new muse.

When Izuku lays eyes on him, it’s like salvation.

It’s a feeling of warmth, like fire licking at the grooves of his teeth and spreading throughout the apples of his cheeks. It’s a pleasant thing, the following lurch in the very pit of his chest, like all the air in his lungs had turned into honey the color of molten gold. It’s electric in the way he can feel it’s lingering buzz in his fingertips just as he’s left in a reverie.

Izuku hasn’t felt this way in weeks.

A thin, reserved smile finds its way onto his bitten lips as he twirls his mechanical pencil between his fingers. If he were an artist of a different medium—say, a photographer—he would capture this very moment for safe keeping, have it frozen in all its sharp and bright clarity and contrast. (But he is not, so he will have to make due with his pencil and paper.)

It’s a gray kind of day today. Storm clouds were rumbling gently in the sky, crooning and purring in the promise of rainfall. It set a somber mood, and a gloomy undertone to the colors of the café Izuku frequented, despite its yellow lights and setup of deep, rich browns, reds, and oranges.

Though it did pair perfectly with the man who sat by the window.

Izuku’s eyes fell, and his pencil danced on the paper of his sketchbook. Curves and corners formed a light, faint base, precise enough to embody a sitting figure. Izuku looks up again, eyes gently observing the piece in front of him.

And damn if that man at the window didn’t resemble something straight out of a Rembrandt. He was soft, pale colors, from fair skin to blond hair, and awfully kind on the eyes, muted and light. He held a dark sort of overtone over his features and the way he breathed, grays and blues amongst warmth.

He’s wearing a scarf in a bright shade of cream low on his neck, and the material gives off the impression of cotton, which is soft and comforting in the current cold of late autumn. His clothes are dark, old, and large, falling off his slim figure. His eyes are downcast, and though Izuku can’t quite tell from this distance, they are deep and dim in hue, and enraptured by the laptop in front of him, a halo of cool light illuminating his high cheeks and sharp jaw.

Simply put, the man at the window was agonizingly gorgeous, and Izuku was determined to capture his beauty on sketch paper.

He’s quietly scribbling his third concept drawing (he quietly berated himself for not bringing any paints today, but then considered the fact he wasn’t even planning to draw at the café anyway, and he could always just start a piece when he got home as long as he had a decent thumbnail) when the man stops, rolls his shoulders back, and rises from his seat.

Surprised, Izuku nearly drops his pencil, not having expected any movement and having forgotten the man at the window wasn’t actually modeling for him, nor made of marble. (He could be though, Izuku thinks. If he let me, I could immortalize him with just my hands.)

The man steps up to the counter and orders a coffee.

Izuku watches him wait as subtly as he can, glasses slipping to the tip of his nose with how often his head moves up and down, and up and down again in order to somewhat perfect the piece in his book.

Faintly, he realizes that he should maybe be a little more inconspicuous about his sightseeing, but he’s too thrilled about finally finding a view that was actually worth looking at. Plus, the man hasn’t yet noticed Izuku’s stare on his stern profile, even if the artist was just as tactful about it as a toddler.

Izuku rolls his own shoulders, a mimic of what the man had done earlier, and continues. When the man returns to his seat, Izuku is on his third sheet of paper.

They’re faint, quick doodles now, thumbnails overlapping thumbnails, because Izuku is rapidly losing his patience, and doesn’t want to spend more than a minute on a sketch. He’s too excited now, and the ideas keep coming in, insistent on making their presence known even as the page becomes more and more crowded, filled to the brim with messy artwork.

The man finally meets his eye, and scowls.

Embarrassed, Izuku ducks his head quickly, pretending to be occupied with his sketchbook. It’s a half-truth really, because he has been busy with it for the past twenty something minutes. Only now there’s a more than healthy flush to his cheeks that can’t be blamed on the chilly weather. He looks up tentatively.

The man has gone back to glaring at his laptop screen and sipping on what Izuku assumes to be his dark brew (with exactly two and a half packets of sugar substitute—Izuku knows this because he had seen him pour and stir them into his mug at the sidebar before he took his seat again).

Izuku lets out a quiet sigh of relief as the heat in his face fades out like a dying candle, and then resumes his sketching calmly. He never really could draw when he knew someone was watching, it made him feel too nervous, and much too exposed. One is meant to create art privately, and wholeheartedly, not under a persistent microscope.

Then again, Izuku probably shouldn’t be out in public if he wanted privacy and be away from prying eyes. Even if they are a deep, rich shade of brown that sat on his skin like hot, burning coal. (Even if they are red and piercing like they must be in another life, in another painting of beauty.)

And it wasn’t as if Izuku came to the little coffeehouse with the intention to create, he had simply wanted to mill about, and see if maybe he could find some inspiration outside his lonely studio apartment, and even his actual art studio. He never thought he would actually strike gold, and have to sit down to milk it for all it was worth.

Unfortunately, there comes a point where all the gold runs out, and Izuku is left with dirty hands and an ache in his chest.

The man packs up his belongings and leaves. The bell above the door sings cheerily. Izuku watches as the man breathes a puff of air like smoke before he shields his mouth from the cold with his scarf. Izuku's eyes fall when the man rounds a corner and disappears from view.

The coffee in the mug Izuku bought out of courtesy has gone cold, since he had been far too busy trying to map out the shapes and shadows of the man at the window. He looks down into it, detested, not being able to help feeling a little upset about the man’s departure.

If I had asked, Izuku thinks rather absently, would he have stayed?

He shakes his head at himself, hair tickling his cheeks, feeling a little ridiculous. That wasn’t something you could just ask of someone you didn’t even know the name of. It wasn’t appropriate by any means, to ask a stranger something so intimate. To stay. And just so you could admire them and the lines of their human body, and preserve them on sketch paper for you to have and hold selfishly.

So really, there wasn’t anything Izuku could’ve done to prevent the inevitable. The loss of a light and warmth so bright it felt holy—the inside of a dying sun, the core of a supernova.

What he does do, however, is take advantage of all that he had basked in and hurry on home with intent of creating a new art piece of paints, making sure to leave a fat tip on the underside of his untouched coffee before leaving the shop with a little spring to his step and a pink blush on his face.

He makes it home in a flurry, hair wildly windswept and cold air in his panting mouth, having broken into a sprint, and then a run, by the time he was only a block away from his apartment, nerves buzzing under his skin. He had taken two steps at a time up the stairs and into his studio, as if he were being chased by a madman. (He was the only madman around really, one who was much too eager to capture what he felt back at the café on a canvas with his oils at home, rather than make the trip to his professional workspace.)

Izuku makes a quick beeline to his art desk (it’s standing where maybe a television stand would be if he had one, right in front of his comfy loveseat, and it’s covered in all sorts of paints because Izuku tends to use it as a glorified paint palette) and sets his sketchbook down on the cleanest spot he could find, immediately crouching down in order to rummage through his art supply bins for his spare oil paints.

He mutters as he does this, about colors and brushes and the man at the window of the café, but it’s nothing short of white noise to his ears, a harmless habit. It helped him focus in fact, his own whispered musings to an empty room, and it helped him relax enough to calm the heart trying to break his rib cage and beat a gaping wound through his chest.

He finally finds the oils, and then the brushes, that he needs to replicate the image in his head that burns in the backs of his eyes. He sets them all down on his art desk, only where it’s dry, and moves about the apartment in search of the final, most important ingredient: a canvas.

He looks down, around, and behind every piece of furniture, grumbling under his breath. After about five minutes, it finally sinks in, and he makes a terrible discovery: there were no clean canvases he could use.

Usually, he would have one or two lying around, for easy commission pieces, and even when the occasional creative mood would randomly strike, but as of late, he hasn’t actually been painting much of anything, whether it be for personal purposes or professional pursuits. And his past self had figured the canvases in his art studio would suffice because of this, so he hadn’t bought any to keep at home.

His past self was a bumbling idiot.

Determined, and not yet ready to detach himself from this bout of sudden inspiration, Izuku rolls up his sleeves, gathers his supplies, and gets to work, canvas or no canvas. He paints and paints until his knuckles ache and his jaw goes sore from clenching in concentration.

He finishes his piece with tired arms and oils not only on his face, but on his plastic frames. He finishes liberated, with relief strung throughout him.

Admittedly, it’s not his best piece, for his living room wall isn’t suited for his oils, but Izuku can’t help but think it’s his most beautiful. It’s the first thumbnail he made of the man at the window of the café, one where he’s looking out the window, blown out right on the wall, his sharp yet soft profile glowing gently with warm, nude colors.

The man at the window takes Izuku’s breath away all over again.

Warm in the face, Izuku lets his eyes wander away, and fall to the wooden floor. The sun is bright and high in the sky now, a telltale sign of noon, beaming hot yellows into the apartment, and beating down onto the back of his clothes. The lighting is wonderful, and perfect for a picture, but a seed of greed is already sprouting in the mouth of Izuku’s stomach.

This sight, this piece, wasn’t one he was willingly to share with anyone just yet, if ever. It feels too deeply personal somehow, and much too intimate to showcase on any of his social medias, much less his professional art blog. Plus, it’s not even a complete piece, or one he can profit off of, since it lies dormant on his wall. There wasn’t a reason to post this anywhere, and there wasn’t a reason why Izuku should even want to. This piece was for his eyes only.

Embarrassed at the mere thought, Izuku brings his stained hands to his face, no doubt smearing more oil paint onto his blushy cheeks. Now what kind of reasoning was that? He didn’t want to share? The man at the window was only his to admire? How selfish! And how embarrassing! Izuku thinks in a flushing stupor, berating himself in belated humiliation. He hadn’t meant to think any of that, honest!

The artist smacks his face once, and then twice, to pull himself back together. Nevermind all that, there was nothing wrong with wanting to keep some of his work to himself in the first place. Just like his personal, and very much private sketchbook where he allowed himself to experiment and make mistakes, this living room piece served as an act of unexpected creativity and originality, a subjective study of an intriguing character.

At the very least, Izuku had fully convinced himself of this in less than a minute, not allowing himself to think about the matter any further lest he wanted to mutter a whole dissertation about it straight through the wall and into his neighbor’s apartment. (The walls here weren’t as thick as they were supposed to be, unfortunately.) (Vaguely, Izuku recalls his apartment lease and its rules, specifically the too-lengthy paragraph under “alterations” and how he was not allowed to “paint, wallpaper, alter, or redecorate without written consent of the landlord.”)

Izuku brings his thumb to his mouth and bites down on the painted nail to keep himself quiet, letting his eyes settle back up to his artwork. It truly was an astonishing piece, if he did say so himself. It was very new, and very different from any of his other work, and it reflected an entirely distinct side of Izuku’s artistic capabilities. It felt real, and warm, and overwhelmingly human; very dissimilar from his usual painting style.

It was nude, and dark, and utterly stunning in all the unexpectedly right ways. A handsome painting crafted by hands that never knew they could portray such divinity.

A fresh flame ignites in Izuku all over again, and his hands go back to feel the blood rising in his face once more. It was becoming increasingly more and more difficult for him to mellow out of this stage of embarrassing elation, since each time he tries to take a look to admire his piece he gets worked all up, and ends up awkward and out of place in his own home. He just—He just needs something more.

Huffing, Izuku removes his glasses and wipes them down with the hem of his shirt. His hands go a little blurry under his gaze, which was a little watery and soft at the edges, far-sightedness at its best. As he removes any paint off his lenses, he allows his mind to wander just a bit, back to his painting, and back to the prospect of sharing.

He nearly drops his glasses moments after, right on the line of a most groundbreaking revelation—a victory caused by something straight out of a storybook or myth, one where stars, planets, suns, minds, and hearts aligned.

Izuku fits his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and quickly fishes his phone out of his pocket, inputting his passcode with no hesitation.

He had some calls to make.

[zeldasayer]

Loving Dyn

Pairing: Mandalorian/Dyn Jarren x Reader

Summary: A fluffy day in the life of Artist Mom, Daddy Dyn (sans helmet) and the little green bean who goes by Baby. Included is a very angsty flashback to the beginning of the relationship and how it turned into a dreamy delicate life. Mentions of sex.

Masterlist

“Miss Y/N?” A small voice squeaks from behind you.

You turn from your painting to meet the voice, a little girl stands in the doorway.

“Yes, Tira?” You hum, turning back to your work.

“Baby was doing tricks again. He fell asleep in the grass and I told no one to pick him up because I didn’t want no one to drop him.” Tira says quietly, eyes to the ground as she pulls on her tunic.

You sigh, putting down your brushes and palette next to the half finished canvas. “Will you please take me to him, Tira?”

The little girl nods, and you follow her out of the cottage and through the streets of your sleepy village. Tira holds the long sleeve of your gauzy white dress that flows behind you as you keep up with the child’s pace.

“Tira,” you say, stoping her and kneeling down to be at her height, you take her hands in yours. “Honey, did you ask Baby to do the tricks? You know Dyn & I don’t want him to be doing-“

“No, I promise Miss Y/N! He just does them!” She says, upset.

“Okay”, you nod, rubbing her arms, “I believe you.”

You stand back up and the little girl leads you to the meadow that separates the village from the forest. Three children crouch around Baby next to a weeping willow, and you’re relieved they are at least in the shade.

“Oh goodness” you sing, pulling your little green boy out of the grass and against your chest, you pause for a beat to hear it’s familiar breath and the childen rush around you. They all speak at once, saying they’re sorry.

“It’s okay, angels” you smile.

“It’s scary when he just goes to sleep like that,” a little white haired boy says, scratching his cheek.

You nod, “It is scary, isn’t it?” You can see your cottage from the tree and you start to walk, “Come on, walk back with me darlings.”

They follow you, chatting amongst themselves, relieved you are not mad.

When you return, you put Baby in his bassinet and pull your hair out of it’s bun and sigh. You push the bassinet into the living space and once he is situated next to your canvas you lightly brush your finger between Baby’s eyes, “What is going on in there?”

You return to your work. Or, try, rather. As you can’t help yourself but peak into the bassinet between every brushstroke.

Hours pass, and it’s not until the cottage is filled with the orange and pink glow of the sunset that your attention is broken by a coo.

“Oh!” You exclaim, putting down your supplies, “There you are! Hi Baby.”

You dip over the basinet and scratch behind his ears.

Suddenly there are arms around you and you yelp. Looking back you smile, it’s only Dyn and Baby gurgles at your surprise.

“Hello, lover.” You smile up at him behind you, dragging your pointer finger down the bridge of his exquisite nose.

When you met Dyn, he had been without his helmet for some time. No longer on the run, he settled on this planet with his boy and took a job teaching self defence classes in town.

He had been walking home through the forest after a class, walking along the stream when he came across a pair of shoes, canteen and a journal on a large, flat rock.

He looked around before out to the water where he saw you walking back towards the shore humming to yourself.

You laughed when you noticed you were being watched and someone had heard you singing to yourself. As you got closer to him, your embarrassment washed away and it was replaced with a pounding heart flutter you could hear in your ears and feel pulse through your cheeks. He was so striking, you had never seen such a strong face. Maybe it was his large angular nose, or the pursed lips under a thick bit of black moustache. Or perhaps it was his olive skin that glistened in the sunshine, chest peaking out behind a half buttoned beige shirt. Or how he stood with his hip popped slightly. But he took your breath away.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes when he noticed you staring at him and you still couldn’t help yourself. Your eyes followed along the line of his beautiful jaw up to the darkest, fiery eyes that stunned you. He was magnificent.

“It’s just so hot,” you laughed, trying to fill up the quiet empty space.

He didnt’t respond. You crossed your arms as you noticed your wet dress was clinging to your body. He’d been silent for so long, you didn’t know what to do so you walked towards your belongings with a meek smile.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “You are very beautiful.”

You looked back at him, now grinning. “Thank you”.

“What is your name?”

“Y/N. What’s yours?”

“Dyn.”

“I’ve never seen you before, Dyn. I swim here every day, in the warm months, at least. I’d remember your face.” Your heart is still racing and you think quickly how you could drown in the sound of his gravelly voice. Dyn smiles, and you can’t believe someone with the strongest face you’ve ever seen could also look like sunshine. What was happening to you?!

“I don’t always walk home”

You nod, sitting down on the rock, pulling your shoes on and collecting your things, “Well, Dyn. Like I said, I swim here every day. Maybe I’ll see you?”

You did. The next day you heard his foot steps approach as you lay on the same rock in the sun, scribbling in your journal.

“Hi”, he said low and soft.

“Hi, Dyn”, you breathed back, closing the notebook and sitting up. You studied him for a moment, took in his face that already seemed so familiar. Had you dreamt of him the night before?

“Would you like to swim with me?”

“Yeah, I would” he answered, dropping his bag to the ground.

You slip your dress off over your head, wearing proper swimming garments this time and Dyn strips down to his bottom under clothes.

Your eyes fall on his battered chest for a moment, resisting the urge to trace your finger tips along the scars painted across his body. You look up into his eyes and smile, taking his hand. “Let’s go then”.

You lead him to the shore and he squeezes your hand, you clasp your free hand around it immediately. His hand in both of yours.

Your connection was instant, but the trust was earned slowly. You mesmerized Dyn and he was fascinated by your free spirit and your need to create. From your commissioned work to your detailed personal journals, he admired your ever-present desire to express yourself. You sang. You danced. You screamed. You were emotional. You were as fresh and alive as a summer rain, but most importantly, you were patient. Because as it turned out, Dyn was quite the opposite. He was guarded. He was quiet. He was calculated. Dyn knew he needed someone who could let him catch up. He had seen the whole galaxy, but hadn’t a clue how to exist in it. He wanted someone to emulate, not push him to discomfort or try to fix him, but to be there while he found his place again.

It was difficult at the beginning, him being a man of few words. There were many nights when Dyn woke in a cold sweat and hard panting. You’d pull him close to you, his bare back against your chest and he’d squeeze your hand. You’d wait until his breathing would return to normal and you’d let the tears pool at the inner corner of your eye. You felt so hopeless in these moments, as Dyn had yet to open up to you in a way that could help you soothe him. You didn’t know why he had these nightmares, and when you asked he just brushed it off as an overactive imagination. When you asked about the small green elephant in the room, he changed the conversation around to how much Baby adored you and how beautiful you looked caring for him. You didn’t know where he came from and you didn’t know where he was going and you were sometimes frightened that maybe once he found his place you’d realize all that you really had was something physical propelled by some apparent trauma. Fucking so he didn’t have to think.

You squeezed your eyes shut and you waited for morning, breaking your own heart.

Things reached a fever pitch one evening when you accidentally came across his blaster when looking for more blankets for Baby. He was hesitant in telling you were it came from and It broke you. You had always been patient with Dyn and his emotional vacancy. Eating what scraps he gave you of what was going on inside with desperation for you ultimately believed you would one day be rewarded. But as you stood here, nose red and lips swollen from crying, you realized you had been loving a brick wall.

“I have never pushed you, Dyn. But please, love, let me in.” You sobbed, standing across from him in the dark living room. “Let me love you, let me be here for you.”

“Why do you want to?!” He yelled, shaking his arms out, his eyes starting to go glassy with tears. His tone startled you. He looked away, and you took his face in your hands to turn him back to you. With his eyes closed, and wetness forming under them, you spoke.

“You deserve love, Dyn. And I want to give you all the love that I have. But you gotta let me in.”

You looked at him for a moment, his eyes still closed and you let your head hang low. You felt nauseous before the next words even left your mouth but you were at your end and they had to be said, “But if you can’t.... I can’t do this anymore.”

You felt Dyn stiffen. He clutched your wrists and it almost hurt.

“I can’t....” You sobbed. “I can’t....”

That night he told you everything. The death of his parents. The Mandalorians. The carnage he’s seen. The job that went south but blessed him with his boy. The confusing, unexplainable need to care for the sweet child. His terror in the possibility of still being found. His all consuming love for you. How he thought, if he kept you in the dark, you would be safe.

You spoke for hours, his beautiful head in your lap as he confessed every dark thought that had you feeling a million miles a part in the same room just a little while ago.

He spoke about how he never thought in his life he’d feel any kind of love for anything the way he loved you. That he knew it the moment he heard you humming in the stream that he wanted to hear that voice for the rest of his life.

He apologized for not opening up to you sooner and he promised with all of his being that he trusted you and he was ready to move on with you and Baby.

He fell asleep as you ran your fingers through his dark locks and you swore he looked... lighter.

You woke the next morning still on the couch and the sound of sizzling food and cooing coming from the kitchen. Rubbing your eyes, you follow the sounds and the smells and were met with the most precious sight.

Baby up on the counter, mixing something in a bowl with a wooden spoon almost as big as him and Dyn next to him, flipping through a recipe book with one hand and the other hovering at Baby’s back to brace him in case he were to fall.

Baby squeals at your presence and Dyn looks up giving you his sunshine smile.

“Pancakes and bacon?” He asked as you came around the counter, slipping yourself under his arm. You nodded.

He kissed your head and stopped to smell your hair before saying, “I love you.”

You understood now, and the next night he woke out of breath and in a sweat, you pulled him close to you. His back pressing against your chest and as Dyn squeezed your hand, you whispered, “I’ll protect you.” That night you felt him melt into the mattress for he knew, for the first time in his life, he is safe.

After this, slowly, every day became made up of the most delicate moments. Rubbing the lapels of the burgundy velvet suits you dressed Dyn in for the parties you were invited to by the purchasers of your art. The slow, very slow, walks through the village as Baby began to insist on walking on his own along with you and Dyn. Baby falling asleep against his chest on the walk home. Laying on the beach at the edge of town, brushing the fruit juices & seeds off your lovers moustache as he insisted on eating them whole with his hands. Teaching art classes to the children of the village, watching Baby squish paints in his hands with his little giggling friends. Dyn teaching you how to shoot by the early morning light in the secluded fields behind your cottage. The nights spent in the city to attend art shows, drunkenly laughing and skipping through the streets holding on to each other as the lights swirled in font of you. The communal meals with the village, resting your head on Dyn’s shoulder as he laughed with the other dads. You cherished every moment watching Baby grow up and every moment you got with Dyn alone. The date nights when the ship didn’t even get off the ground, deciding you’d much rather use your alone time to fuck as loud as you wanted without any fear of being walked in on. Looking down at him, his face between your legs as you perched on the same rock next to the stream in the forest. How he always came up to kiss you, his chin shining with your arousal. The way he always commented on his favourite of your clothing, your lower cut, long gauzy dresses. “You look like Mother Nature. My little woodland nymph.” You loved how every moment became a delicate dance, the way he looked at you when you spoke. How he now grabbed you in his sleep, just to have you close. The evenings reading to him on the couch as Baby rolled around between you.

There came a point when you couldn’t even remember the dark days anymore. It was just you, Dyn and Baby and the hazy beautiful moments of your dreamy little life.

“Guess who was doing “tricks” again today” you say, looking up from Baby who is eating in your lap. Dyn sits across from you, he had been watching you feed the child and he blinks.

“Come on buddy”, he groans, rubbing his eyes. Baby coos back loudly with food in it’s mouth.

“Yeah, I’m talkin’ about you!” Dyn jokes, looking right at Baby.

You laugh, bringing the soup a little closer for the sweet green bean to reach and sip himself.

“I just worry that it hurts him.” You sigh.

“So do I.” Dyn says, crossing his arms. “Are the kids egging him on to do it again?”

“Tira swears he does it on his own.”

Dyn uncrosses his arms and leans forward with them out, “Here give me Baby, you eat.”

You lift Baby out of your lap and across the table and his soup follows.

“Can I come into town with you tomorrow?” You ask Dyn as you dig into your dinner.

“Of course, for what?”

“I need more paints. I don’t know, maybe a new canvas. I’m not happy with that.” You respond, nodding towards the half complete work by he corner windows.

“What are you talking about? It’s stunning,” Dyn throws his head back and exclaims, “STUNNING!”

Baby looks up at his loud father with wide eyes. You grin, “Thank you darling but I think I’m losing sight on what the client wants. This might be too much.”

“I’m so proud of you.” Dyn says in regards to the largest commission you’ve ever received, one for the painting you currently hate. “You’re the finest artist in the galaxy.”

You giggle, until you realize Baby is bouncing in daddy’s lap, three tiny fingers grasped around a cutlery knife.

“Ah! Dyn!” You say, pointing to his lap.

“Not a toy!” Dyn scolds, prying the knife out of his boy’s tiny grip.

Tags: @katira-moon-baby @otherthingsinhead @fahhhhq ❤️

A/N: This was my first ever fic! I hope you enjoyed. Love, Zelda.

[thepilotanon]

of lace and skin.

Summary: Being invited to a gala in his honor of becoming the new Supreme Leader, Kylo Ren commissions for his wife to get her very first formal dress in preparation for their upcoming event.

warning: suggestive themes, mentions of abuse and slavery.

‘A gallery and concert in your honor requires a fitting dress for the occasion,’ she recited carefully in her thoughts, allowing the seamstress to continue with her delicate work with a needle and thread. Watching as her professional fingers work wonders along the trimming of the sleek, black fabric of the edge of the long train, keeping mind to keep her body still as possible, she looked back to her reflection in the tall, multi-folded mirrors in front of her. ‘An event to congratulate the successor to the Supreme Leader, Kylo Ren, the requirement that guests dress accordingly: formal and appropriate.’

The invitation itself was rather fancy beyond what Nova was used to seeing on holopanels and communication grids; it had gold decorating the edges of the physical copy, neatly printed Aurebesh by practiced hands and the official seal of the First Order stamped on the back of it. Nova asked her husband if they could keep the piece of paper as part of her collection to the shelves they shared together, finding the perfect spot next to her shiny rock collection. She was excited to see a concert in person, to hear music and see what people consider art, asking Kylo a billion and one questions of what she should expect, what should she wear and if she should teach herself any specific languages or dialects beforehand. Her husband only swiped her nose with his gloved finger, a behavior that he does when he thinks how amusing she is to him. She was assured by Kylo that all she needed was a dress…

“If anyone deserves to be admired for the night, it will have to be you, Nova,” he had stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It may be in my honor, but it’s my wife who deserves the best of everything for the occassion.”

And so he hired the best designer and seamstress, most well-known on the planet Coruscant and had a history of designing only the most beautiful outfits for politicians, celebrities and the wealthy. Nova had only seen pictures of the dresses she had sent for examples, but it was only when she met the designer face-to-face was the connection between artist and canvas - as Kylo explained - came to light. 

Andressa Divo spoke while she worked, ever since the simple measurements and asking the Supreme Leader’s wife what her preferences were to wear. She took note to be wary of sleeves with Nova, after seeing how she once wore an older top where she originally tore them off (afterwards, all her standard uniforms were custom), and to make sure that whatever material that touched her skin would be comfortable. She especially kept in mind for Nova to wear flat shoes, seeing how the Supreme Leader’s wife refused to take one step when she tried on a pair of heels from Divo’s collection for her to play around with.

After the many appointments and all hours of standing still, Nova was amazed and excited to see it coming all together. The color of dark maroon that reflected red in the light and black trimming that began with the collar around her neck to form-fit down her chest, leaving the back exposed with the intention of Nova to wear her hair up to the event, it dropped from the waist to a long train that contained intricate, detailed designs all done by hand. The trimming, now being applied, was a silky black ribbon that sparkled and amused Nova greatly in the roll, when Divo presented it to her. The ends of the ribbon had lace, too, and Nova spent a long time simply staring at the little details of it, sending Divo numerous comments and praise of the little shapes. Nova got to watch Divo handstitch the details, after requesting to see the designer in her natural state of mind at work. Nova marveled the focus and carefulness the seamstress fell into immediately once she started.

Divo and Nova seemed to have formed a sort of relationship, as the designer asked of stories of Nova’s visits to planets and training stormtroopers, and she gets to watch her work in return, asking questions about designing clothes. It was still professional between them, but whenever Kylo wasn’t present in the empty throne room, the two girls simply had fun.

Now, being dressed and so, so close to being completely finished, Nova was feeling the “effects” that the outfit was giving her. Her hands twitched excitedly to be allowed to grasp the skirts and twirl on her feet, watching her reflection and movement of the dress along with her body, getting to see herself dressed like all those fancy-dressed people she once used to watch from the dirty grounds of arenas or run errands in marketplaces. She felt confident in the dress, like she matched the sparkles of the stars she loved gazing at…

She, by her own thoughts and influence, felt beautiful.

Nova was so excited to show Kylo the finished product, to ask him to give Divo’s name a worthy title of Master of Outfits in All the Galaxy - she knew her husband could make that a real title within the First Order. She couldn’t wait to be completely dressed and primp with her hair and makeup with Divo’s help, be escorted on Kylo’s shuttle and arrive to Kaas City for everyone to see.

“You know, this may as well be my best outfit yet,” Divo said out of the blue, her voice affectionate and joyful. Nova looked in the mirror to see her smiling while she kept sewing at the same time. “Of all the dresses, gowns and suits I’ve made for so many years, this has been the most pleasurable commission I’ve ever had. Most customers don’t let me have this much freedom in working alongside my models, yet you’ve been nothing but an absolute joy to spend time with.”

Nova grinned into the mirror, keeping still. “I feel the same way. I’ve never had a dress done specially for me before, and I honestly thought it was going to be awful. I’ve heard stories from Hux and others, how standing still for so long is terrible and getting poked by needles, but you’ve proven them all wrong! I can’t wait to shove it in Hux’s face.”

Divo chuckled affectionately as she scooted on her knees a bit further down the train of the dress. “Well, most people aren’t as kind as you are, when being a model. I know I would certainly love to design you more outfits and gowns, if the Supreme Leader allows it, in the future.”

“I don’t know how many galleries or concerts my husband will want to go to but, if we do, I will tell him that I will only want to wear the works done by the one and only Andressa Divo,” Nova vowed. It was only after days of constant banter between Kylo and Hux, and then Nova’s piqued interest to go as her husband’s plus one that really made all this possible. Really, it wasn’t until Nova asked her husband what a gallery was like or what made a concert so special that Kylo finally agreed with Hux to attend. “And, I get to keep this one?”

The seamstress’ smile softened, going back to work with her quick sewing. “As I have said before, Madam Nova, when someone commissions me to make them an outfit, they plan on keeping it. I would have had no use of and outfit that’s measured and size to fit your body. All I want from you is to feel happy and comfortable with what you’re wearing.”

“I’ve never had something so fancy to wear before,” Nova told her honestly, just for a brief add-on to let Divo know how much this dress will mean for her. “This will be the first and best fancy gown I own. I’m very excited!”

Nova sensed a swell of joy and pride emitting from Divo, seeing her slightly flustered expression in the reflection of her mirror. “Then, I’m excited for you, too, Madam Nova. We’re almost done, and then we will do some final alterations,” she explained thoroughly. “If you would like, we can show it to the Supreme Leader, and see what he thinks of it.”

“He’ll like it,” Nova said confidently, grinning. “He always tells me that I look good in everything I wear, even if I think it’s plain or getting worn out. It’s funny, since it’s really the same uniform every day, and he says I look pretty...”

“Well, he’s not wrong in the slightest,” Divo responded, making Nova turn her head to look back at her. “You are very pretty, and you make whatever you wear come to life with your smile and positive energy.” Nova could sense the true honesty Divo was telling her, making her chest feel warm with even more self confidence while wearing the dress. “It’s only an honor for someone like you to make one of my creations have life.”

“Thank you!”

Sensing her husband’s Force signature making his way up to where they were, along with Hux’s presence right next to him, a giddiness filled her lungs as she had a huge grin on her face. She tried her very best not to move until Divo gave her permission. The designer seamstress seemed to know very well of her sudden change in body language, as she used very little pincers to snip the remaining thread, brushing a very small speck of dust from the train before standing up. Coming over to Nova, Divo double checked the placement of all of Nova’s collected hair at the top of her head, to ensure complete visual coverage of the dress without any distractions, and shared the same smile as she placed herself at the other side of Nova from the throne room doors.

“Try not to spin around too much, for the moment,” Divo advised softly, igniting Nova to begin bouncing on her toes in excitement. “I could use the Supreme Leader’s assistance to make sure everything looks orderly, then you can twirl to your heart’s content.”

Nova’s smile couldn’t be erased and only seemed to glow like a radiant jewel once the doors hissed open, her and Kylo making immediate eye contact. His eyes told her - as they always do, just for her - that he was excited to see her in the gown. The General standing next to him didn’t seem fazed by the new Commander’s bubbly excitement, but nonetheless walked into the throne room alongside Kylo, who went further ahead in longer strides while Divo helped Nova lift the front of her skirts to meet him half way. Once Kylo made it to his wife, Divo stepped out of the way dutifully, bowing to Kylo, and let Nova hold out the skirts to him.

“Look at how beautiful the dress is!” Nova gushed excitedly, feeling the fabric for the first time in hours between her fingers and jumping on her feet in front of her husband, showing him the sheen of the material from the lights of the mirrors. “It doesn’t feel stuffy, and it looks sparkly in the light, Kylo. I love it so much, Divo does a wonderful job making dresses - she’s amazing!”

“I can see,” Kylo agreed with his wife softly, nodding and held Nova’s wrists with just his fingertips so he wouldn’t directly touch the fabric. His face was completely stoic, but Nova knew that he was thoroughly overjoyed by how the nearly-finished product was coming along. “Just from first look alone, it definitely shows Divo’s talents in the field. It’s impressive.”

“It’s comfortable, too!” Nova told him, sashaying her hips playfully before looking over to Hux. “What do you think, Hux? I bet you’re going to be jealous you won’t look as good as I will at the concert.”

The redheaded man raised a brow but just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t find myself the type to wear long dresses to flunctuate my curves, but whatever pleases you, I suppose.”

Nova stuck her tongue out at him before leaning against Kylo’s chest, looking up to him brightly. Hux began to look the dress over with his own artistic eye, and began walking around to look at all angles of the dress. “I told Divo I want her to design any future dresses and gowns I would need to wear to special events. She’s the only one who can make the perfect outfit for any occasion.”

Kylo saw Nova’s flicker of memories of how her friendship with Divo came to be, and how she really enjoyed being in the company of the designer; how Divo’s thoughts and behavior was genuinely nice and engaging for her to be patient and standing still for long periods of time, having fun conversations. Kylo nodded to his wife when she pressed on to him with the suggestion hidden inside their shared link in the Force.

Kylo spoke to her through their connection, voice softly speaking, ‘If it makes you happy, we shall hire her -’

“This is absolutely revolting! What kind of sorry excuse do you take us for, you low-living rat!” Hux’s voice boomed inside the throne room, catching both Kylo and Nova unexpectedly to turn their heads to see the General red faced and sneering at the designer.

Divo leaned back from the yelling, her eyes round with shock and shoulders tensing up as Hux pointed an accusing finger at her. “You think you could dress the Supreme Leader’s wife in that, and expect us not to notice? It’s one thing if it’s Nova who lets it be, but we will not be a laughing stock of high society and Supreme Council!” Then, with the same finger, he jabbed at Nova’s back with a strained vein popping at his temple. “This is outrageous! A complete eyesore and disrespectful to your leader!”

Kylo stepped beside his wife and looked to the train of the dress, only admiring the handmade details that Divo has obviously worked numerous hours on for his wife’s dress and the delicate material. Then, following the General’s finger, Kylo realized that he wasn’t pointing to the dress itself, but what the dress was not covering…

The open back of the dress, while decorated with sparkling threads at the trim at the diamond shape, exposed the thick, diagonal scar that permanently marked his wife’s entire back. 

“I should have you punished for this behavior, this is absolutely sickening!” Hux continued to degrade the woman, who was resulting to frightened tears and trying not to cry. “Having you come all this way from Coruscant, all expenses paid to have you here to dress the Commander, and this is how you represent your support to the First Order? Such symbolic means to try and have her parade around with that ghastly scar exposed should have you -!”

“General Hux, you’re no longer needed here,” Kylo snapped back, interrupting Hux from taking another step towards the defenseless seamstress. Nova’s hand that remained in his hold gripped his palm tightly, sending the sensations of her irritation towards the General to get him out of the throne room immediately.

As usual, Hux attempted to explain himself for being justified. “Supreme Leader, this isn’t -”

“Hux!” Nova shouted, her head turned to glare at him. A very familiar glint in his wife’s bright eyes, Kylo jerked his chin for the General to get moving before things turned more physical.

Eventually, Hux got the wheels to turn properly in his head as he huffed sharply and marched his way back to the door to take the lift - but not without Nova using her abilities to make him trip before crossing the threshold. They watched him fall into the elevator and Nova forced the doors to close before he could say anything, and it all went quiet…

Until Divo broke out a sob and fell to her knees, her hands shaking.

“S-Supreme Leader, please,” she hiccuped in absolute fear. “I didn’t - I would h-have never meant t-t...to do anything to disrespect you. I-I-I would never - not to Nova, please!”

“Stop crying. You’re not in any trouble,” Kylo stated simply, almost bored of Divo’s breakdown. Nova looked at her husband with a frown and a quick tug on his hand, making him sigh and recollect himself. “General Hux has no authority to punish a seamstress I hired to commission a dress for my wife. His opinion is entirely irrelevant.”

Divo tried to collect herself, her tears having trouble stopping as she nodded and wiped her face with her sleeves. “I-I’m sorry, Supreme Leader… I-I am so, so sorry,” she blubbered, moreso in relief with her shoulders dropping.

Nova tugged on his hand again, demanding his attention again and he dutifully gazed into his wife’s eyes to see what she wanted him to do. Reading her thoughts, Kylo was left a little bit confused when she smiled to him and let go of his gloved hand. “I’m going to undress,” she announced plainly, a smile on her face. It was as if nothing had happened. “Divo has been working hard all cycle, and I’m hungry for some sweets!”

With that said, Nova lifted her skirts and tip toed to the other side of the three-mirror stands to where her regular clothes were folded with the many boxes of fabric and tools that Divo brought along to work, leaving the Supreme Leader and seamstress just less than ten feet from each other. Divo kept her gaze down, trying to keep herself calm and stop her tears, all while Kylo slowly looked away from his undressing wife to the frightened woman.

“I want to know,” Kylo said, after a long while, and Divo jumped a bit, “why you decided for the exposed back style for my wife’s gown.”

Divo sniffled and swallowed thickly, collecting herself to speak in a small voice. “Meeting your wife...seeing all the scars she obtained, and the stories she shared with me,” she began, almost whispering, “inspired me to honor and respect her, Supreme Leader.”

She lifted her chin, but didn’t make eye contact with him. Kylo was used to this and didn’t hold it against her. “Everyone assumes scars are imperfections, but Nova has proven otherwise of how truly brilliant she is. She inspired that she’s more than just the face of the wife of the Supreme Leader; a powerful ally and important figure to the First Order, her scars proved to me that she can make a statement to the galaxy.

“I asked her, after sharing my ideas of what I thought of designing, and she agreed to it. I would have never done anything, if she didn’t want me to, to insult her or you, or the First Order,” she confessed, twisting her hands and keeping her eyes down. “Nova has made me see beauty differently, and I only wanted to honor her and show the galaxy that she was more than a pretty face and just the wife of the Supreme Leader.”

Kylo listened to the seamstress’ claim carefully, expressionless to many who would look at him but he was deeply appreciative for the woman’s honesty about his wife. Either way, it was nearing the end of a very long day and he wanted to go to his quarters and turn in for the night.

“You may leave and return to the guest chambers, Divo,” Kylo ordered to her smoothly. “Make sure you request your dinner and get some rest. I’m positive that my wife would like you to stay healthy as possible during your stay, until the commission is complete.”

Before Divo could ask, already having seen her thoughts, Kylo straightened his back to confirm that the short “conversation” was over between them. “As I have said, you are not in any trouble. You make my wife happy, and she likes the dress; if she requires any changes from here on out, I would expect your professionalism maintains with what we’re paying you.”

“Y-yes, Supreme Leader,” Divo agreed, nodding as she got to her feet. “Thank you, sir…”

The woman left, forever grateful to the tall and rather brooding-looking man and another level of closeness and adoration for his wife, who was still in the midst of undressing from her gown. As soon as the doors hissed shut behind the seamstress, Kylo removed his gloves and tucked them in his hidden pocket while approaching his wife from behind. With gentle touches, Kylo carefully nudged his wife’s smaller hands out of the way from behind her neck and began undoing the little, intricate buttons that were meant to have additional hands to help. Nova sang a soft “thank you” to her husband and held still until he finished the last button; it gave Kylo the chance to really appreciate the small, yet very beautiful details that obviously showed love for the project. 

Kylo had a talent to see the littlest details in clothing, remembering how he would be a small boy and get to watch and sometimes help an important woman in his past to get ready for speeches and dinners...only to be left with the service droid and wait in his bed to near exhaustion for her to return and tuck him in properly. That said, Kylo could tell that Andressa Divo was the most ideal match for designing his wife’s first formal gown. It was obvious that Divo knew what she was meant to do, and even made the very fabric compliment his wife’s body and skin. Even with the large gash that was exposed in the opened backpiece of the outfit, Kylo could tell that the dress worked alongside the scar, as if having it be included in the art itself as an equal.

The scar was part of the art, just like his wife being the center of the masterpiece.

In his opinion, it was a beautiful dress, and the model just made it even more gorgeous wearing it.

Popping the last button, holding the fabric collar in place, Kylo leaned down and pressed a meaningful, loving kiss to the patch of skin behind her neck. Feeling Nova shiver in delight from the affectionate gesture, he hummed with another kiss and slowly slid his hands down her arms and circled his own around her waist. Pulling her back to his chest, Kylo pressed his nose behind her ear and nuzzled there, feeling her giggle while her hands caught the top of her dress before exposing her whole torso to the chilly temperature in the throne room. He refused to let Nova grab her shirt, practically lifting her up and cuddling into her pulse like a child with a stuffed toy, making her smile and squirm in his hold.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” he eventually asked her in a quiet voice, slowly rocking them both in his arms and his mouth constantly kissing her skin. Once Nova had enough of Kylo’s antics, her legs going limp, he set her to her feet and leaned forward with her, holding the top of the dress with his hand sliding to between her breasts, allowing her to grab her top and get dressed in more comfortable clothing. Kylo was careful not to step on the train while Nova shimmied out of the dress and helped her place it aside appropriately.

Dressed in her comfortable sweater and underwear, Nova turned to face her husband with a smile and reach for him. He was unable to refuse her request and let her wrap her arms around his neck as he bent down, lift her up once again and hold her under her ass and bare legs, stroking the skin. Angling his face properly, Nova pulled him into a minute long kiss before resting her cheek against his shoulder. She was making no plans to move from his hold, much less put on pants, and Kylo began his trek through the private corridors hidden away that lead to their quarters.

“Divo and I talked about it, and I made it clear that I’m perfectly fine with the galaxy seeing what I have on my back,” she told him, playing with a strand of his dark hair with her pinky finger. “If you and a designer can look at the one on my back, and not be disgusted with it, I’m willing to give it a shot. Hux’s opinion doesn’t matter to me in the slightest.”

“I just want to be sure. You’ve never been keen on letting people see your scars, my darling,” he reminded her. Of how many times had he had to go to the medbay because his wife refused to cooperate with the nurses to strip her clothes with them around? Or all the times he caught her mentally criticizing herself for not ‘looking like the other women’ she would meet at official dinners or meetings, how they reminded her of the royally dressed women she would see being seated at the arena, right before she would obtain another wound or scar…

“No, I haven’t,” she admitted, “but, I want to make a point to everyone, just as Divo told you. Starting with my back for now, not the scar on my thigh.”

“You already know that you’re more than just my wife to others, Nova. You’ve made an impact to many already, and it will only be a matter of time that the galaxy knows of you and your strength.” 

“Yes, but I don’t want to make just an impact, I want to make an inspiration to those who will who may look at me and wonder where I first started.” Entering their quarters, Kylo made way to their shared bedroom and approached the bed. Turning around, Kylo sat down on the mattress and settled his wife on his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist. “You know, there could be many people in the same spot I was in, years back, a simple no one who benefited one Master at a time with no future. They think there is no meaning to their lives for their own, scarred bodies caked with mud, and then they see me.

“They see me dressed like royalty, matching with everyone who are only above them, own them with collars and torture, all while wearing my scars with pride,” she visualized. “I don’t need to cover my past, because it means nothing to me now: I’m free and I can give them hope that they can, too, become free to be their own person. I can show them that their past doesn’t define them, that no one has to own them or follow a Master’s rule. They can’t stop me, because of who I am to my husband, and it can change people’s minds.”

Lifting her head from its place on his shoulder, Nova stroked his cheek, nearly touching the edge of the scar on his face that he obtained from what felt like so long ago. “It could be a mess, of course. Riots could rise on planets that depend on slavery, those who would want to be free and those who want control. Constant judgement and painful words that can hurt more than any blade piercing skin, but for what? For voices to finally be heard and hope to restore balance in the galaxy, all because we can see beyond the sights of abuse and scarred skin.”

Kylo turned his chin into her palm, closing his eyes and listening to her speak of her idea and soak in every word. “Hope is such a difficult word to be said within the First Order, my love,” he told her softly. His brows furrowed as he recalled discussions and arguments over what the Resistance based themselves on.

Hope. The same word be despised and desired all at the same time.

And Nova knew this, from time spent together and words shared in secret. Of every memory he shared with his wife of growing up with the word hope becoming the first word he would recognize as a small boy; the same word that was spoken through the lips of his mother, his father, uncles and every once-valuable member of his life. How Snoke, Hux, every general and stormtrooper engrained within the minds of planets they seized and prisoners they’ve dealt with to lose it all - to abandon, deny and forget until it was their only thoughts remaining before being disposed of.

A word he can no longer understand for himself.

“Then, it does not need to be said among the First Order,” she stated with a simple shrug. “We will just have to keep showing it, instead, in order to build your goal to be stronger within numbers.”

He was confused by what she meant by ‘keep showing’, and she smiled before kissing the corner of his lips in the lightest touch, then kiss his cheekbone where the scar resided. “We will keep showing them that, even with scars and battle wounds, we’re not giving up for what we believe in for the future, and that you are the right leader. The best leader. That’s what we want, right, Kylo?”

He met her eyes and stared, his hands that were holding her waist slowly slid to under her top and up her back. His big hands spreading to press against her healed skin, he rest his forehead against hers and took a deep breath.

“It never ceases to amaze me how you manage to make me think beyond what any other wise elder or advisor fail to.” Lying back down on the bed, bringing her along and sighing in relief, he held her tight to him. “You’re going to look so beautiful in that gown, I can’t wait to see everyone be in awe and envy of you. It’s going to make the gallery and concert so much more worth spending time and having to socialize at.”

“What if they made a statue of you, for the gallery?” Nova asked him, and he groaned dramatically. This made her grin at the noise, turning to hide her snicker into his chest. “A big, golden statue of my husband, and they put it in the middle of the city - A big one that is as tall as the other buildings.”

“No.”

Nova didn’t hesitate to draw swirls and zig-zags on his chest, being cheeky with her husband. Feeling his hands lightly pat her bottom, in a mocking spank, she propped her chin up to look at him. He looked down his nose to watch her smile, from a silly angle.

“No. No, you are not allowed to try and convince people to make a statue of me,” he told her, his mouth pouting at her when her smile grew into a naughty grin. Kylo tried his best to convince her that he was not finding her idea amusing, lightly spanking her bottom again with a bit more force, and she only snickered. Wiggling her hips against him, trying to entice him to agree with her idea, he knew she felt something within him spike through their connection, and she grinned at him, catching it.

“Nova.”

“Hmm?”

“You are absolutely naughty,” he snorted a chuckle, and she just propped herself on her hands over him, her hips slowly starting to roll as she cheekily gazed down at him. He couldn’t stop from smiling at her.

She hummed a bit, feeling his grip tighten on her naked legs. “That’s a rare word from you, dear husband,” she teased him, making him roll his eyes and continue to grope her flesh just as lovingly. “Will you at least tell me I’m good for not beating Hux up for upsetting Divo?”

“Mmm...you did trip him.”

Nova opened her mouth to smart back at him, and he took her distraction to flip their positions so he was on top of her. Flashing his wife his rare, genuine grins, he slid his hands up her arms and tangling their fingers to pin her to the mattress, resting the weight of his hips against hers. She grinned up at him, squirming under his hold in anticipation and excitement for his attention - and he couldn’t resist but to give in to her wishes. He always ends up submitting to his wife at the end of everything, and he loved doing it for her pleasure.

“But, you are always good to me, and that’s all I care about,” he finished, dipping down to initiate their next activity with a deep kiss.

Always, always, always.

---

Fun Fact: Andressa Divo is inspired by a canon character from the SW universe, who served as an Empire agent.

Please, let me know what you thought of this! I always appreciate hearing from readers, and truly hope you enjoyed playing Kylo’s wife, Nova, in this little blerb!! If you would like to be added to the taglist for Kylo, please feel free to let me know!

[kodzukuroken]

Seasons change, but people... Do too I guess.|Chapter. 3, Change

Genre: Angst, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers

Summary: You and Tsukishima had been friends for years but upon the arrival of a very special invitation, your relationship takes a sudden change. Will your long-harbored crush for your best friend finally come into the light? Or will your relationship be altered for good?

Aka, Reader is an artist who is in love with Tsukki, there's angst, there are laughs, there are three established captain relationships! What could a person want?

Pairings: Tsukishima Kei x Reader (Kuroo Tetsuro x Kenma Kozume, Bokuto Koutarou x Akaashi Keiji, Daichi Sawamura x Sugawara Koshi)

Warnings: Drinking, Swearing, Smut

Read on Ao3 | This will update before Tumblr

This is the 4th chapter (including the prologue). I really love writing this story, there are currently 6 chapters out on AO3, so if you’d like to read past this chapter that’s where you can do it! Enjoy!

It took you about a year to fully get back to some kind of normal after everything that had happened. It was slow at first, after that night at Kenma and Kuroo’s they’d given you a ride back to your place but within minutes of being there, you couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. You’d never realised it before, but Kei was all over that place. His old volleyball sweaters in your closet, photos of the two of you on the fridge and a small plush dinosaur that he’d won you at a carnival in college. Your apartment suddenly felt too big, too empty and after putting all of the things that reminded you of him into boxes, you found yourself not stopping until everything was boxed up. You’d called Kuroo the next day and he’d helped you move everything out, and into your art studio. He seemed concerned at first, the idea of you living in the same place that you worked but the gallery owner and boss didn’t seem to mind as long as you kept it to yourself.

“Otherwise I’ll have all of you starving artists living up there in some kind of commune” he’d said in an annoyed tone that reminded you of Kei.

For the first few months, you were basically a hermit. You spent your time painting and working in the gallery and basically nothing else. If you did have to go out, for groceries or something else you did that as late as possible. You didn’t want to run any risk of accidentally running into Kei again like that night in the summer, or worse run into him and his new girlfriend and she fawned all over him. Luckily, the universe had seemingly given up pushing the two of you together and you managed to get time to heal. Around Christmas time was when inspiration first really struck you again. After everything that had happened and Kei’s discouraging words about your art, you’d found it exceedingly difficult to come up with anything original. You kept up with your commission work and a few other landscape paintings that you knew would sell in the gallery but you could never really seemed to paint anything that meant anything to you. This was until one day in the winter when a friend of yours from the gallery had come to raid your studio for supplies and had found the torn-up canvas with the destroyed painting of you and Kei on it. She’d asked if she could have it, to repair and paint over, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to let it go. You couldn’t understand why at first, you’d managed to put everything else that reminded you of him away why not this too? But as the cogs in your brain began to turn, you realised what you had to do with it.

From then, you found yourself diving into probably the largest project of your life. Several large scale paintings, all some of your best work and all that your boss had deemed “exhibition worthy”. You couldn’t believe it when he’d first said it, you’d always had your work displayed in the gallery, something your boss had been nice enough to do for all the up and coming artists who worked there. However, nobody who worked there had ever even been offered the prospect of an exhibition, those went to more well-known artists the ones who were all the rage on social media or whose work had made it into the best magazines. You didn’t hesitate to agree of course, and before you knew it, almost a year after all the awfulness with Kei you finally felt like you were on a road to a new normal.

“It’s called Change,” you told Kuroo and Kenma one night at dinner. “You guys will be there right? It starts in two weeks.” Kenma nodded furiously, but Kuroo was off somewhere else. It wasn’t until Kenma nudged his husband in the ribs that he even realised you’d been talking to him.

“Huh?” he looked at Kenma who gestured to you.

“(y/n) is asking you to attend the biggest event of her career babe, be present” you giggled lightly.

“Oh sorry (y/n) I guess I was just distracted. We’ll be there, of course, we will, when is it?”

“Two weeks” you repeated “Tetsurõ, are you okay? You’ve been off all night” he laughed, about to undoubtedly come up with some kind of excuse but Kenma nudged his side again, a little harder this time.

“Ow!”

“Just tell her” Kenma shot back.

“Tell me what?” Kuroo was silent for a minute and then decided his husband was right.

“Okay, but promise you won’t be mad?” you rolled your eyes and he continued “I saw Tsukki yesterday.”

“Oh” the sound left your mouth before you could stop it, you hadn’t heard that name in a while.

“I promise (y/n), it’s the first time since everything happened with you guys. I was so mad for what he did to you, but then…”

“Then?” you questioned you hated that you were so intrigued by any of this.

“Well, Bokuto suggested we meet up, just some of the guys from training camp days. I didn’t even think about it at the time but when Bo said it would be at Tsukki’s place I-”

“You were at his place?” god why were you asking? You could already feel the pit forming in your stomach. Kuroo nodded and looked at you with guilty eyes.

“I met her (y/n)” now you were lost for words. Suddenly it felt as though everything you’d done this past year had been for nothing, you still weren’t over it.

“She’s not you,” Kuroo chimed back in “he’s not the same with her as he ever was with you, I can see it. He doesn’t look at her like he did with you, he doesn’t joke with her.” Kuroo paused for a minute and looked around as if he was about to tell some kind of shocking secret.

“(y/n) she’s nice to him, like actually nice. She doesn’t challenge him like you did… he’s bored.”

You shut your eyes tightly trying to push down the bubbling hope in your stomach.

“No,” you said squeezing tighter so that you could see patterns behind your eyelids.

“It’s true!” Kuroo began again but you shook your head.

“Tetsurõ please, don’t do this, I can’t. Not again.”

“Okay, okay,” he said “I’ll drop it” you opened your eyes to see a solemn look on both his and Kenmas faces. Kuroo extended his hand and placed it on yours.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, eyes doe-esque and wide.

“No, of course not. He was your friend too. I just, I can’t do that again. I was in so much pain after that night.” The two nodded and with that, the subject was dropped. Kuroo went on to ask more questions about your exhibit, evidently trying to distract you from what had just happened. But it was too late, the door that you’d taken so long to force closed in your mind was open again and you were thinking about him.

~

Two weeks later when your exhibition began you could not have felt more loved. Kuroo and Kenma came the first night, with a huge bouquet of wildflowers and a bottle of champagne. You’d showed them around and felt giddy at the genuine look of pride on their faces. A few nights later Bokuto and Akaashi stopped by, Bokuto was confused by most of your paintings but no less enthusiastic because of it. He even said that he wanted to buy one particular painting because it “looked like the back of Akaashi’s head”. But you told him that you didn’t plan on parting with them any time soon. Your exhibition got more reception than just your friends though, some of the attendees were really big deals in the art world, you’d even ended being interviewed by a local news station. Overall, the exhibition had gone off without a hitch, attendance was consistent and there were no huge disasters. That was until the last night of your show.

There was only about an hour left until the gallery closed, most people had come and gone for the day. The only people who were left besides yourself were your boss and a few of your coworkers. They’d brought out a bottle of champagne and a few glasses and were toasting in your honour.

“To (y/n)!” your boss said brightly and blush rose in your cheeks as they all cheered. You were half-way through thanking them all for their help when you’d noticed you were no longer alone. You caught a glance of his figure out of the corner your eye first and it wasn’t until you’d turned that your drink caught in your throat and you realized who it was.  Standing there, in the middle of the gallery staring up at your paintings was Kei. The pit from two weeks ago began to reappear in your stomach and you began to feel your heart pounding in your ears. It wasn’t until your co-worker saw who you were looking at that you managed to snap out of it.

“Who’s the tall glass of water in the jacket?” he’d asked, sipping his drink. You hadn’t noticed at first, but Kei was wearing a stylish dark blue jacket with a colour coordinated turtleneck underneath, his glasses were new too. Your stomach churned as you scanned his new look, it wasn’t that he looked bad, god no, quite the opposite. It was that he looked incredible, the clothes fit him perfectly but you’d known that they weren’t ones he’d chosen for himself. All things considered, Kei had always had a pretty good sense of style for someone who didn’t care about fashion, but he’d never tried at it, it was just what he wore. This had thought put into it, this was her handy work.

“Uh, he’s an old friend” you finally replied after what felt like minutes. You held out your glass and he took it from you smiling and turned back to the group.

Your legs were weak as you walked and it wasn’t because of the heeled boots you were wearing. However, their clack on the hardwood floor had alerted Kei of your presence and now he was staring right at you.

“Hey,” you said, surprised at how natural your voice managed to sound given the circumstances. He looked back up at your work,

“Hi.” you were both quiet before he spoke again “I saw a flyer for the show, and before I knew it” he trailed off, the pit in your stomach began to bubble with hope again. You both stood in silence for a while staring at your feet and he at your painting before you couldn’t stand it any more.

“There’s an order yano” you gestured around the room “to all of this.” He met your eyes for the first time that night, god you’d missed his eyes. “Want me to show you?” and in his very Kei way, he answered with silence.

You led him to the painting closest to the door, it was one of the smaller ones in the collection, but still above your average size of painting. It was an abstract painting of a pair of broken glasses, painted perfectly from memory of one of your first times hanging out with Kei. You stood there for a moment, letting him stare and the work, he cocked his head to the side and a little and then looked at you expectantly. You led him to the next one.

The second painting was the view out of a window, looking out onto your old college campus in the fall. The painting was filled with oranges and reds, you liked this one a lot, it almost looked like flames. It was the view from Kei’s dorm room window, the same one you’d sat at years ago.

You led him around a few more paintings, all different scenes from your lives together. One depicted the carnival you’d attended together in your first year of college, another the sunset you’d watched together on the day you’d both graduated. They were all painted from memory, every one of them had sat like postcards in your brain, you’d had to get them out.

Finally, you led him to the end of the room, where the final two paintings stood side by side. The penultimate painting was the one he’d been staring at when you’d noticed his presence. It was a self-portrait. Your abstract figure sat, hunched over on an ornate spiral staircase. Your face was hidden, but the dress was the exact same colour as the one you wore on the night you’d kissed Kei.

The final painting was by far the largest in the set, it was one that had become so familiar to you that it had seemed the show was incomplete without it. There, towering above the two of you, was the painting you’d shown Kei on the night you’d fought. The red paint was still there, splattered over the pair of your faces, but the once shredded canvas had been repaired. You’d spent hours in your studio sewing the canvas back together, and the thick black thread that you’d used to do so stuck out against the bright paint.

You were both silent for a while longer, and when you were sure that he’d had enough to process you spoke again.

“I know this kind of stuff isn’t usually your thing.”

“No, but I think I got it.” There was something so familiar about the way he’d said it, that honesty mixed with smug that you hadn’t heard in so long. You’d really missed it.

“Kei I-” you began, but you were cut off by your boss's hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry to interrupt (y/n) but we should really close up.” Fuck.

“I guess I should go,” he said, but you couldn’t reply. You wanted so badly to protest but you just couldn’t get the words out. He turned to you once more before leaving.

“Goodbye (y/n)” and with that, he disappeared out into the night.

~

When Kei got back to his apartment late that night his head was reeling. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. He’d been standing in the grocery store what felt like forever ago now and had seen the flyer for your show in the window. Without even thinking, he’d dropped his groceries and had walked the few short blocks over to your gallery. He wasn’t shocked to see you there, he’d kind of expected it really but what he didn’t expect was how fucking good you’d look. The last time he’d seen you you’d looked so... broken. Your hair had been a mess and you’d looked completely exhausted, he had still found you endlessly attractive but it was more the kind in which all he wanted to do was take care of you but he’d done the exact opposite of that. But tonight you looked so good that he could barely keep himself breathing. The way your tight black clothes had hugged you so perfectly and the small lift that your shoes had given you just enough height to bring you to eye level with him, you were literally breathtaking. And the way you’d spoken with such ease when you’d seen him as if nothing he had done had ever affected you, as if you were completely over everything he’d done to you just over a year ago.

Your work had been incredible too, it was all so beautiful he could see your thought process in every single brush stroke on the canvas. It made his heart swell in a way art never had. He was even more impressed in the way you’d managed to remember so many aspects of your relationship. The exact shade of black metal of his glasses from all those years ago and that small crack in the window of his dorm room from college. You’d remembered it all so well and it was right there on the canvas. He’d felt as though he was being transported back to all the best moments of his life, all the moments with you. And when you finally led him over to the final painting in your exhibit, his heart had shattered all over again. It was the painting you’d shown him that night, even with all the red paint and damage he could have recognised it anywhere. He thought back to the first time he’d seen it, it was so beautiful, so full of colour and true emotion but he couldn’t enjoy it. He’d felt guilty, guilty for the way he’d treated you that night at the wedding, guilty for finding someone else when he’d been trying all the time to tell you how he really felt. But rather than apologize rather than try to fix things he’d ran, your words that night had hurt him so badly but it wasn’t because they were inaccurate. You’d been right, he’d known that even then, he was running from you, from something he’d wanted for so long but fear had set in and got the better of him. Fear of hurting you, the fear of things not working and ruining seven years of friendship. So instead he decided to do exactly what he’d feared doing in the first place. God, he was a fucking idiot.

It wasn’t until the light in the hallway flipped on that Kei noticed how long he’d been standing in the darkness of his apartment.

“Tsukki?” he looked towards the source. It was his girlfriend standing there, arms crossed and a little blurry-eyed, he’d obviously woken her.

“Where did you go? You’ve been out for hours” she asked, she was in her pyjamas. They were matching, pink and silky. You had never worn matching pyjamas, you’d usually just worn whatever old Karasuno sweatshirt you’d stolen from him and shorts. His chest tightened at the memory.

“ Kei? ” she asked again, a little more annoyed this time.

“Somethingcameupatwork” he muttered quickly and tried to push past her into the bedroom but she put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Work? You’ve used that excuse three times this week Tsukki!” he didn’t answer her, just stood there staring into her eyes. Your eyes were so bright compared to hers, she always seemed to look annoyed even when she was completely content, Kei missed your eyes.

“You’re seriously not going to tell me where you’ve been?” she asked but he just shrugged. He knew he should be better to her, she was a very nice girl but after seeing you tonight it didn’t feel worth it to pretend anymore.

“Fine.” she spat. “I’m done Tsukki, done.” He didn’t try to protest, he just leant against the wall in the hallway until she had changed out of her pyjamas back into whatever clothes she’d arrived in. Then once she’d gathered her things, he watched her walk out the door without another word. He knew what he’d done was shitty,  but he couldn’t really care about that right now. He would apologise tomorrow.

He sat down on the couch and pulled out his phone, he was half-praying that you might have texted him, but then again who knew if you even still had his number in your phone? He pulled up Instagram and typed in your username, he wasn’t much for social media so he hadn’t really checked your profile since the two of you stopped talking. There was only one post he recognised to be something he hadn’t seen, he guessed you might have secluded yourself from social media in order to produce the kind of work he’d seen tonight. There was no way you’d had any distractions. He clicked on the new post, it was a video of you being interviewed by a local news channel and it was captioned “Hey look! I was the news!” with a bunch of those stupid emoticons you loved. He turned up the sound on his phone and listened to you speak.

“Someone once asked me what I did, I was so young at the time, but even then I’d known what to say.” you paused for a minute and he noticed your eyes wander down to your feet just like they had since you were young. “I’d told them I was an artist, that I liked to make things. And that’s what I do, any time that my soul is at odds with reality I take that and make something from it. And that's what this project is, it’s the process of grieving… and moving on.” Kei swore he could have seen the smallest amount of tears raise in your eyes, but the camera wasn’t close enough to see. He listened to the video a few more times, you were talking about him. He was the one who has asked you that all those years ago in the kitchen of that party. He couldn’t believe you still thought about that day when the two of you had first met. Of course, he did too from time to time, but he’d never thought that that conversation had ever had any kind of effect on you. He was so glad that he was wrong.

[kinsbin]

Beach Days

Title: Beach Days Word Count: 2010 Pairing: Alexys/Katriona [si/oc]

Summary: Kat loved the beach, and Alexys loved Kat. Naturally, one has to learn to love the water when they’re dating a Selkie. Still, Alexys could feel doubt creeping in her mind, but Kat knows just how to get rid of it

A/N: Commission for @space-sweetheart of her and one of my fave ocs, Kat! These two are so cute and i’m so happy they have one another ;w;

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Alexys was never quite sure about going to the ocean.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the ocean, oh no the opposite really! The ocean and the beaches around it were, in themselves, something of true beauty. Something that held her gaze into their fierce horizon lines and made her heart jump with awe at the way the light glimmered off of the reflective surface like the facade of a well cut sapphire. The sunsets, especially, were always so beautiful off the coasts around her. They painted the skies all shades of pinks and oranges before fading into deep, purple blue hues that looked like an oil on canvas rather than the atmosphere lighting up with the rotation of the land. For a long time, she considered the concept that the mythos of monstrous wolves chasing one another around the world, pursuing each other in the name of night and day, might be true. It would explain the deep unreality that was always felt at the start of a beautiful sunset.

It was those things she loved about the ocean.

What Alexys didn’t quite LIKE about the ocean was the heat. The temperatures that clawed on her skin against the windy summer day, biting like mosquitos in her veins. She didn’t like the way the sand meandered its way nosily into the grooves of her toes to the point in which her flip flops couldn’t even protect her. Instead they sunk down into the uneven earth, the gravity more akin to the surface of the moon as the light breeze blew bits of grainy earth that spat unflatteringly on her ankles. It was the discomforts that made the beach so hard to go to constantly. So hard to maintain a stready relationship with its pulling oceans and unknown depths of beauty.

Most of all she disliked wearing swimsuits.

Her body had never been ‘nice’ to her. Indeed it was more of a stubborn acceptance that it was simply the skin she inhabited. The mortal coil of her form that bound her to the physical plains of the earth around her that she was forced to stay in for at least seventy more years if she was lucky. That was what a body was to Alexys. No one ever said she had to like it, so she mostly did not. Everything felt too tall on her. Too lanky or too chubby in places models were not. Even the once piece bathing suit she was wearing, a brilliant shade of blue with freckles of white that looked like stars across her body, did little to sooth the worry of her body’s shape in her mind. The large hoodie she wore over most of the fabric protected her from both the wind and the prying eyes of no one as she looked around the empty space of beach.

Well, almost no one. A pair of green eyes that had lingered on her the entire walk from their shared Seattle apartment to the bayside they lived so close to. They shone like emeralds in the wake of the water as they followed at her side, pinky fingers gently entwined together in the loose form of hand holding that they managed as they walked casually across the shoreline. She remembered, then, why she even bothered to do this. Why she even ever considered coming to the beach more than once a year out of some sort of party and social obligation that would drag her from her home:

Because Katriona loved the ocean.

It was her instinct as a Selkie, Alexys supposed, that drew her endlessly to the water. She would be a fool to deny her girlfriend her nature, for it was what she had always fallen in love with. Kat’s excited smile, buck toothed and sharp, excited her whenever she stared on at the ocean as she was now. Her mess of long, curly brown hair covered her face in the perfect set of angles. It framed her like a cloud of copper. An angeled head of brilliant metal cascading down her sun kissed skin as she moved ahead of Alexys out of instinctual obligation. The seal skin she wore tight around her waist, like a sort of flowing skirt, fluttered eagerly behind her as she moved her legs to run towards the water. To touch the very surface that she had been born into all of her life. To become one with nature in a way Alexys could never truly understand.

Kat stopped as she got to the edge of the water, brushing some of her blowing hair back before turning around to face Alexys and, oh god, her heart stopped at the sight.

The sun sparkled so perfectly off of Kat’s body, her entire frame angled with a golden glow that emphasized the dimples in her cheeks as she smiled. Her eyes, burning emeralds amongst her body, shone with a type of love that Alexys could still scarcely believe was meant for her and her alone. Even the sharp, seal like quality of her ragged teeth only served to emphasize the feral beauty that surrounded the ethereal form of her girlfriend as she stood just before the water’s edge, the waves lapping lightly at her bare feet (she never wore shoes unless necessary. Alexys had watched her family try to put them on her only once for a formal event and even then it went poorly) as she shifted slightly to face Alexys fully.

Her hand fell out, fingers extending in a reach for her own as she tilted her head.

“Well, silly fish,” Kat teased in that sweet Scottish lilt that Alexys loved so much, “Are ya’ comin in with me or whut?”

Alexys couldn’t help but smile in return. She couldn’t help but hesitantly reach out to Kat’s hand for a moment, only to pull back and look down at her own body with a frown of thought. Kat looked gorgeous in her swimsuit of greens and greys. Not that it would last for very long, considering Kat would sooner swim naked than dare wear anything in the ocean, but the comparison was still striking. She felt so small in comparison to the presence of the other. So light in a way that half convinced her that maybe she should not have come.

Kat’s hand suddenly touched her cheek, startling Alexys out of her thoughtful reverie.

When she looked up, Kat’s face was close to hers. Her eyebrows were knit together in a gaze of soft care. Of endearment as she searched Alexys’ face for something that she wasn’t sure she would fine. Grey eyes watched green ones and Alexys bit a smile back at the fact that Kat was, literally, on the tips of her toes to reach as close as she was to her. Half of her wanted to stoop down to help the other each her better, but she knew it would just make Kat huffy. So she stayed still as she spoke, thumb rubbing circles on Alexys’ cheek as she sighed through her arched brow and patient smile.

“Oh, I know that look on you, m'eudail.” She hummed as her gaelic slipped lovingly from her tongue, “Now what part of ya do I have to kiss to make it go away~?”

The joke made Alexys snort, her smile spreading on her lips as she tried to breathe through her giggling to no avail. The laughter made Kat’s own echo of amusement chortle from her throat, her smile wide and bright as she giggled in return and pressed her forehead to Alexy’s shoulder, hiding her smiling face into the other’s flesh as they laughed in unison over the roar of the ocean.

It was these silly moments Alexys cherished. These moments that let her laugh and smile as she spent the day with the woman she loved the most. It made her forget about the insecurities that had plagued her not moments before. Katriona pushed those insecurities away like a gust of wind moving clouds. Like the sun’s bright rays burning into the earth and revealing itself to be sunny and beautiful against the once existing fog. That was, in essence, what she was. What she always would be to Alexys in one way or another.

Alexys gasped and shuddered when she felt Kat’s lips on her shoulder, a gentle kiss placed to the bare skin to inspire confidence before the shorter girl pulled away with a quirk of her lips and a blush on her tanned cheeks that made them look so much more full and pinchable that Alexys couldn’t help reach up and squeeze one of them. Kat crooned much like a seal would, surprise filling her tone as she blushed harder and reached out to bat playfully at the hand grabbing her face.

“Ya cheeky-!” Kat laughed as she walked forward, pulling at Alexy’s hand in process, leading her slowly towards the water again.

Alexys, confident now with their interaction, shed her sweater carefully until she was simply in her bathing suit. The water hit her feet, cold and icy in its wake, and goosebumps danced along her bare skin. They plunged deeper and deeper still, the feeling of the waves tickling her ankles and then her knees helping her to register just where they were in the water. Kat smiled as she continued to walk backwards, paying no mind to the water and waves behind her as she focused on her lover. Kat, after all, knew the water better than anyone Alexys had known.

Soon they were waist deep and Kat had let go, her instincts in the water overpowering her beyond the point of remembering to control her urges. With one last bright, toothy smile she dove into the water, submerging herself fully in the salty ocean waves that came crashing around them. Alexys gasped as she waited patiently for her lover to come up, giggling as the spray of the ocean surrounded her and bit into her skin like kisses from nature itself. She was aware how long Kat could hold her breath, much like a true seal was able to. When she had first disappeared for over 15 minutes, Alexys nearly had a panick attack thinking she had drowned. She had come up, though, as she always did.

Sure enough after a few more moments the surface was broken to reveal a blur of seal-skin and messy hair that tackled into her. The force of Kat’s entire being upon her in the water made her lose her footing, and Alexys took one last surprised gulp of air before being pushed into the water with her lover.

Beneath the ocean was surprisingly warm. The initial shock of the water had faded and now it was a clear, crystalline sort of experience. Dots of sunlight filtered through the water’s surface, decorating both girls in its speckled glory. Kat smiled under the water, her cheeks bright and her body easygoing. The way her hair floated around her made her look nearly ethereal. Alexys understood the myths of sirens now, so beautiful that they lured men to their deaths with just their looks and voices alone.

As Kat smiled, she smiled back.

Kat swam forward to take Alexys into her arms, their hands entwining as they held one another as a sort of crutch against the ocean waves. So that they might not float far away from one another. It didn’t matter much how far they were in the water, honestly. Kat would take them back to home as she always seemed to do. For once, Alexys felt no anxiety about being where she was. Being who she was. In that moment it was all she wanted to be.

Especially as Kat leaned forward, her lips finding the others in a careful deep sea kiss. Alexys couldn’t taste much above the salt of the ocean but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the girl in front of her who held her so close and so lovingly that she felt she might explode with care. Might fall apart with love.

In that moment, it was perfect.

[sansfangirl4life-blog]

Crowning Acheviement Oneshot

This was a oneshot I did for the awesome @unu-nunu-art when she did an adorable picture for me! Well, I commissioned her.....but still! It was too cute NOT to do it, and an AU came out of it! So enjoy the start if TrioTale!

Hope is my girl <3 Template and Pale belong to @unu-nunu-art

Template hummed as he floated in the AntiVoid, looking around on his large, digital screen. "Where to visit next? I've been to so many now..." He kept glancing at the screen when he felt a presence next to him. "Eeek!" He fell to the ground from where he'd been floating as Pale stared at him. "Pale! That's not fair!"

".....What are you doing?" A soft, flat tone came from the ink splattered skeleton.

"Looking for a new AU to visit! I'm trying to find something new!" He smiled, flicking through the screen. "Could do that one....or that....ooo, maybe that one!"

"....Waste of time."

"Oh hush Pale! I'm trying to find something!" Template huffed. "Ah, here we go!" Pale moved close, looking at the screen with disinterest. "Aww, c'mon Pale! Look at it! It's all pretty!"

"......Too generic."

"Ugh sometimes I wonder why I know you." Template smiled and widened the screen. "Alright, let's go!"

"Why me?"

"Because I said so! And I need to keep an eye on you to make sure you don't go bothering other AU's."

"Aren't you bothering them?"

"Shh, details, who needs them anyways?" Template hopped up and grabbed Pale by the arm. "Let's go!" He jumped into the screen and stood still for a moment. "Umm....Pale?"

"What?"

"I did make sure the picture was us on the ground....right?"

"....No."

"Oh....well pencils." He looked down and the two began to fall towards the flowers. "This is what I get for letting you distract me!" Template screamed as he flailed in the air, Pale just giving him a blank stare as he fell alongside him.

"...Someone's down there." Pale muttered.

"How in the matchsticks are you so calm?! Oh, wait....that's right." Template sighed and hit the ground with a loud smack. "Ow....." He tried to get up, but Pale landed right on top of him. "Ow!"

"Oh!" He groaned as he pushed Pale off of him, turning his head to see small, bare feet in front of him. "Are you ok mister?"

"Perfectly fine...happens all the time~...." Template gave a woozy thumbs up and slowly sat up, rubbing his head. "Head hurts, but otherwise ok....you Pale?"

"I had something cushion my fall, so I am unharmed."

"Yeah it was me you goofy canvas." He grumbled and turned to look at the person next to him. A little girl looked at him, head tilted in curiosity. She had a left red eye and right blue eye, a giant blue bow in her hair and a blue dress on, a basket in her hands. "So...who are you?"

"Me? Oh! My name is Hope mister!" She bowed and smiled. "And you?"

"Template, and he's Pale." Pale simply raised a hand and Hope giggled.

"You two 'plopped' outta nowhere! At first you both were like 'poof!' And then 'ahhh!' And then plop!" Both skeletons looked at her and she blinked. "What?"

"Plop?" Template scratched the back of his head. "We....plopped? I could have sworn we made a bang instead....what do you think Pale?"

"I do not care." Template pouted and huffed, crossing his arms and looking away. "Anyways....how are we going to get back?"

"What do ya mean? I have my pencil right-" He turned to see his large pencil missing. "Oh.....well pencils."

"Pencils?" Hope sat down and smiled. "Well....if you're gonna be here awhile, wanna help me pick flowers?"

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

"So, what is this place Hope?" Template asked, holding some flowers in his hand. Pale only had two in his hands, looking at them. "It's so big and filled with nice flowers."

"This is a large meadow on the other side of Mt. Ebbot! Sans showed me this place a little while ago." She explained, putting the flowers into her basket. "And Mama Tori taught me how to make flower crowns! So I wanted to make some for everyone!"

"Flower crowns?" Template tilted his head and looked at Pale, who just shrugged. "What are those?"

"You've never had a flower crown Mr. Template?" Hope asked, smiling softly. "Well....I can make one for all of us!" Template smiled a little as Hope ran around, gathering more and more flowers. "Let's go! And maybe we'll find Mr. Pencil too!"

"It uh, doesn't have a name." Template snickered. "And I've said already to call me 'Template', no mister required squirt." He smirked and gestured to Pale, who had now picked at least one more flower, looking at them still. "Pale, are you gonna pick faster?" Pale shook his head and Template rolled his eyes. "You're slower than glue drying."

"Ok, I have enough!" Hope saw the flowers Template had gathered and held her hands out. "Please!" Template looked at her hands and handed her the flowers carefully, not quite touching her. Pale bumped into him and he yelped, falling on top of Hope. "Eeep!" Template blinked before hurrying off of her, his breath coming in heavy pants.

"I-I-I'm so sorry!" He said, watching Hope sit up and smile.

"I'm ok Template! Are you?" She reached out for him and he backed up a bit. "What's the matter Template? Did....did I scare you?" Template shook his head and Hope looked at him with concern. "If you're hurt I can heal you! I-"

"N-No!" Hope flinched a little and he cleared his throat. "I-I'm fine...Pale just startled me, that's all! And I was worried I-I had hurt you so....." He sighed. "Sorry..."

"I said I was ok Template." Hope smiled. "Do you want a hug?" Template seemed to freeze and Hope whimpered a little. "I-If you don't want a hug, I-"

"No...it...it's ok." He smiled shakily. "S-Sorry I just....sorry." Hope watched and waited patiently for him to calm down and he sighed. "Whew..."

"Better now?" Hope asked. Pale sat on the opposite side of her, still holding the flowers he had picked. Template nodded and Hope beamed. "Ok, relax! I know just the thing!" Hope reached into her bag and handed out a cookie. "Here you go Template!"

"A....a cookie?"

"A butterscotch chip cookie!" Hope said with a finger in the air. "I made them myself!" Hope handed one to Pale and another to Template. Template gave Pale a look and took a small bite. The moment he swallowed both his eyes turned into stars and he ate it faster. "D-Did you like it?"

"Like it?! This is awesome!" He gave her a thumbs up, crumbs all over his face. "I love these! Can I have another one?!"

"Hee hee, of course!" Hope gave him another one and she giggled as Template scarfed it down, Pale just now finishing his first cookie and tilting his head at Hope. "You want another one too?" Pale shrugged and Hope handed him a second one. The vacant skeleton took it and gently ate it, crumbs sticking to the ink on his face. Template smirked at Pale as he slowly ate the cookie, laughing when he turned and had more crumbs on his face.

"Heh, feeling a little 'crummy' pal?" Template laughed and fell backwards, holding his sides as Pale just tilted his head and Hope let out small giggles. She knelt down and wiped Pale's face off with a small handkerchief, smiling brightly. "So, you like cooking?"

"Uh-huh! Most of the time I'm too sick to be outside, so...." She stopped and looked down. "But...today I got to make new friends!" She smiled. "So it's ok!"

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

Template watched the clouds roll by lazily as he laid in the flowers. I need to find Mr. Pencil-err, MY pencil soon. He thought. We can't stay all day....although this is a very nice and peaceful place. He glanced over at Hope, watching with amusement as she tried to show Pale how to make a flower ring.

"So you do this.....and tie it....there!" She smiled. "You did it Pale!"

".....Woo?" He blinked and looked at her, his gaze empty.

"Yes, woo! You've got it!"

"....Woo."

"That's the most unenthusiastic 'woo' I've ever heard in my life." Template chuckled with amusement. "Heya, kid?"

"Hmm?" Hope currently had a large, white lily flower crown on her head.

"We can't stay, you know that right?" He watched Hope frown a little and he waved his hands. "N-Not that we don't want to, you know? But we have other places to be so...."

"I know. Hmm....oh!" Hope beamed happily. "I'll make you both flower crowns!"

"You mean like the thing on your head?"

"Uh-huh! I'll make that, and you go find Mr. Pencil!" Hope ran off and Template shook his head, standing up and stretching.

"Woo."

"Will you stop that?" Template grumbled. "I don't wanna leave this place either, you know. But...heroes have duties to fulfill, bad guys to beat up!" He posed in front of Pale, who just blinked at him. "And cool catchphrases to say!"

"......W-"

"Say it again and I'll doodle all over your face."

"..." Template began searching the flowers, cheering when he found his large pencil. "Woo?"

"You know...I'll let that one slide." He grinned and hugged his pencil tight, eyes flickering with joy. "I've found you Mr. Pencil! Oh, I've missed you so much!"

"You found it?!" Hope popped up next to him and he yelped, holding his pencil behind him and blushing darkly.

"I-I...I uhh....yeah...I found my pencil." He mumbled and buried his face in his scarf. "S-So! Flower crowns?"

"I have one already made!" Hope tugged on his hand gently, making him sit down. He sat down slowly as Hope placed a deep blue flower crown on his head. "Blue is one of my favorite colors! So...you should have it!"

"Hope...." He looked up and touched it gently, the petals soft against his fingers. He snickered and watched as Hope gently put one on Pale's head, the yellow flowers even brighter against his pale skull. "Heh, suits you, since you're not the 'brightest bulb' in the patch." Hope huffed and Template just shrugged. "Yeah that one was a bit low. Sorry."

"So...you have to leave?" Template stood up, dragging Pale to his feet.

"Yeah. We can't stay here forever, you know." He pulled out a large screen and began to doodle on it, then brought up a larger screen with a big, white empty space on the other side. "It's been fun though!"

"B-But....but I...." Template didn't turn around, but he could hear Hope sniffle a little.

Aww c'mon kiddo....don't do that.....don't... He thought. That's not fair at all!

"Ok....but...promise you'll come back soon, ok?" Template turned to watch her wipe a few tears away. She reached up and hugged Pale, the skeleton not budging an inch.

"Hey dude, c'mon, give her a hug." Template huffed. He watched Pale repeat the motion, shaking his head. Dunno if its sadder that he has no feelings behind it, or that she's actually comforted by it.

"Thank you for playing with me Pale!" Hope smiled brightly.

"...Woo." Hope giggled and wiped tears from her eyes, smiling even wider.

"Yup, woo! I'll see you later, ok?" She watched as Pale walked into the large portal and then turned to Template. "I...I uhh....guess I'll see you soon too?"

"Uhh....yeah." He put the smaller screen down and walked over to her. "Hey, I wanna give you something."

"R-Really?"

"Yup! Here..." He handed her a small version of his own pencil, but instead of the ring that said 'Error' around the top, it simply said 'Draw'. "If you draw with that on a blank space, you can make small things real."

"R-Really?! Wow!" She beamed and held it close to her chest. She reached out and Template flinched, making her stop. "Thank you Template. I...I'll see you later...ok?" Template nodded and walked to the portal, but stopped.

C'mon...you can't leave her like that! He scolded himself. Heroes don't make little girls cry like that! Go on....just turn around.....and give her one. Just one! It can't be that bad...right?

"Template?" He rushed around and knelt down, giving her a shaky hug. "T-Template?!"

"We'll be back soon...o-ok? So....so no crying! And I promise to keep an eye on you ok?" He said, voice trembling as he held her. "S-S-So...stop crying! Heroes don't make girls cry!" For a few moments, he just stood there, holding her carefully. He felt thin arms wrap around him as best as they could and he flinched.

"Ok....I'll do my best not to cry.....I promise." Template shivered, but he felt a soft, warm feeling fill his soul from the hug, and he hugged back even tighter as Hope hugged him more.

"Alright kiddo....A-Alright..." He whispered, feeling small tears of his own fall. 

"Oh...I have one more thing." He quickly pulled a screen out and doodled a smaller version of his scarf, handing it to her. "Here you go! That way, you can be a hero too!"

"R-Really?!" Her eyes sparkled and he smiled, patting her head. She wrapped it around herself and placed her hands on her waist. "Like this?"

"Yup! That's the best superhero pose I've ever seen!" Hope's eyes seemed to twinkle and he laughed. "I'll see you around, ok kid?"

"Ok! Come back and play soon, ok Template?" She gave him another hug, and although Template flinched a little, he found himself hugging her back, patting her head.

"Alright kid. See ya." He hopped into the portal and watched it vanish, Hope waving on the other side.

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

Template watched the screen with a small smile, seeing Hope picking flowers and messing with her big scarf. Maybe I made it too big? Eh, oh well.

"Woo?" Template screamed and fell over, glaring at Pale.

"I said stop that!" He grumbled. "If you wanna be all stalker and spooky, go somewhere else!"

"Hope." He blinks and turns to the screen, showing the little girl drawing on a piece of paper. "Hope...woo?"

"Are you trying to say you wanna go back already? We've been gone only for two days." Template frowned and tilted his head. “You've never wanted anything before....why now?" He thought for a bit and smiled. "Or is it because I want to, and I'm projecting on you a little?"

He turned to the screen and smiled. Hope had finished doodling a picture of the three of them, holding hands with their crowns on. "Heh....maybe tomorrow." He could hear Hope giggling and he smiled himself, looking at his hands. Yeah....tomorrow.

[thelordfool]

When The Sun Rises - Chapter Two

Stripped Away

The Courier stared up into the morning sky, Mojave dust tugging at the hems of his jacket, cracked, dry asphalt beneath his boots. Something about being back in the Mojave - back home - brought a great sigh of relief to him, a sigh that shuddered deep throughout his body. Long had he walked, long had he been exposed to the dangers that lay outside the wastes he had grown to know, and finally, he was home.

Home, he thought, blinking upwards at that same morning sky, sun hidden behind endless layers of charcoal clouds that hailed down the storm, is where he would like to be most. Laying down on his bed in Novac, shaped to the curve of his body, fiddling with a Dinky the Dino plastic figure and wondering how hilarious it would be to turn it into a grenade. Pop the head, toss over a wall, hear a solitary moment of confusion, then, boom!

“Ahem,” an impatient cough interrupted his thoughts. Aberdeen turned his head to stare at the figure in the tent beside him. The woman inside was waving him in. “Come on, get out of the rain already!”

He obliged and stepped underneath the canvas. Buckets were strewn about, catching drops of water that fell through in areas where the tent had been chewed through by moths.

“Sorry about the mess,” said the woman. She was a frazzled looking person, like the stress had sunk deep into her skin, but she still wore a genuine smile on her face. The hair on her head had looked like it once had a mohawk, but had been flattened by the onslaught of rain and was now slicked back. Her eyes shone bright green, even in the dimness of the tent. She wore, much like many of the Followers, a doctor’s lab coat. “My name is Julie, and I’m the leader of this branch of the Followers of the Apocalypse. Are you in need of any medical attention?”

“One could say that,” croaked out Aberdeen. He removed his helmet to give her a proper look. “Not in the physical sense, though.” Julie seemed taken aback to see his face. Aberdeen was not handsome by one’s standard definitions - his travels have caused scars, more than just on the surface. Across his dark brown skin stretched a bright pink, fresh scar, temporarily blinding his left eye. It ran up into his scalp, stopping just before the scar where he had been shot just three months prior. Fainter than them both, unnoticeable if not by where the hair could not grow, the scar from his lobotomy in the Big Empty. “Pardon my manners. I’m Courier Six.”

“An interesting name,” she commented, looking him over. “Are you the courier that everyone has been talking about?”

“One and the same.” 

“My goodness. And here I thought all the celebrities had been stolen away to the Strip.”

“I’ve got an invitation from a man named Benny up there,” he grimaced, “but I’ve decided to leave it for another day.”

“I see. So how can we help you today, Courier?”

“I’m looking for a therapist.”

“Well, you’re quite forward.”

“Takes a lesser man to not admit when he’s down.” Aberdeen was not one to be afraid of opening up to people, or showing his emotions. While some people become tough and an impenetrable wall when facing bad times, he had turned softer and knew that this was his only life. So to speak, having risen from the grave. Speak true, speak kindly, but take shit from no-one. It’s done him well thus far, and goody-two-shoes as it may seem, treating others with kindness makes their lives that much easier and gained him that much more in return. All in all, it was a selfish way of life.

“Well, I’m sorry to say, but I don’t think we have what you’re looking for here. The Followers specialize in some forms of mental health, mainly addiction, but we may not...” She trailed off, seeing the pained look on Aberdeen’s face. Julie thought a moment. “Actually, we might.” Julie turned to point in the direction farther into the Fort. “Head into the tent just past the one next to this. In there, there’s one of our doctors. He’s less of a doctor and more of a researcher, though. He might be able to figure something out to help you with your problems.”

“So... you want him to experiment on me?” Aberdeen arched an eyebrow, a sarcastic smirk on his lips. Julie opened her mouth to retort but caught onto his tone before giving a disapproving grunt, narrowing her eyes. 

“I take it you’re the type to express his pain in the form of humor.”

“Ring-a-ding-ding!” That smirk grew into a shit-eating grin.

“Get out of my tent.” Aberdeen let out a short laugh, threw back on his helmet and trotted to the tent, Julie watching him disappear into the rain. They’ll be a good fit, she thought, then swore at how much water was pooling at her feet.

*

The courier stepped into the tent. This one was much smaller than the one that Julie had hurried him into, and only occupied a single person, sitting at a desk, fiddling with a barrel cacti. The sound of someone stepping in was enough to startle the man, who dropped his succulent and spun around to face the courier. Blonde hair that had been made unusually curly by the weather framed at the top of the man’s face, followed by rectangle glasses that shadowed green eyes - though a duller shade than those of Julie’s. 

“Uh, hi,” Aberdeen waved awkwardly. He once again took off his helmet, this time, sticking it on a nearby, unoccupied chair. “Julie sent me over here? I’m, uh, Courier Six. What are you...”

“Oh,” the man seemed to swallow what may have been a lump in his throat and cleared it out. “You know. Finding treatments to common illnesses and injuries. Simpaks out of barrel cacti, and other fantastic improbabilities.” He nodded his head back to the succulent, eyes rolling so hard they’d’ve been better off on a New Vegas betting table. “As far as fruitless wastes of time go, this one is quite noble in its aims.”

“I see,” Aberdeen nodded. He had quite the knowledge of medicine after having to patch himself up so much and all the magazines and books he’d found, reading them during long, boring nights of nothingness. “She had told me you were a researcher.”

“I’m not much of a people person. So I’ve got no qualms with Julie sticking me back here.”

“Yeah, no shit, I don’t even know your name yet.” 

“My apologies. My name is Arcade Gannon.”

“That doesn’t sound very real,” Aberdeen eyed him with suspicion and amusement.

“The situation we live in currently doesn’t sound very real, yet, here we are!” Arcade threw his hands up in annoyance. “Now, why did Julie send you over here?”

Aberdeen eyed the doctor over a little more carefully. Looking at the shape of his nose, the way his hair made perfect circles, broad shoulders and legs that went for miles. He found himself being hit with the initial feelings of a crush - love at first sight. Being the rational person he is, he swallowed that and planted his butt firmly on some dry ground up against a metal shelving unit.

“Turns out I need a good-looking doctor to help take care of me in the big, bad wastes,” he said with a smirk. Arcade scoffed at this, the slightest hints of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and a quick flash of red washing over his face.

“Overt flirtation will get you anywhere, you know,” he finally forced out with a chuckle. “Seriously, what would Julie send a courier to me for?”

“She thought your research might have helped you come across something for my mental health issues. Unsurprisingly, I have depression, but have found myself unable to cry in recent memory.” Aberdeen tapped the top of his head on his bullet wound. “Might’ve been able to before this magical eraser, but all I could remember when I woke up was my name and the face of the man who shot me.”

With this, Arcade made a hard face. His mouth twisted at trying to find the right words to say. But the look said enough for Aberdeen.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“I wouldn’t say that-”

But Aberdeen was already standing up, moving to put his helmet on. “Sorry to waste your time, doc,” he muttered in a frustrated tone. How many more days would he have to suffer with this? Strange as it may seem, it had effected his other emotional responses, too. How much longer would he have to think about how he would be unable to properly mourn? Laugh? Did he even truly feel anything? 

Arcade leaned over, grabbing the courier’s wrist. “Don’t,” he said in a stage whisper, barely audible above the rain. “What you really need, I think? Is a friend.” Aberdeen stared at Arcade with marvel. The doctor’s face screwed up and he released his grasp, face reddening with either ire or embarrassment. He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixated on his feet. “I’m sorry. You’re free to go as you wish.”

Aberdeen hovered for a minute, then put his helmet on, and stepped into the rain. Arcade didn’t even watch as he went.

*

Exactly two hours later, around 11 a.m., the courier returned to the tent. The rain had persisted relentlessly, forcing Arcade and the other residents of the Old Mormon Fort to the inside barracks. Aberdeen swore and rushed into the nearest tower and set search. When finally he came upon Arcade, he was slowly picking at an early lunch of cold grilled mantis.

“Courier,” he said in shock, “I didn’t think you’d return.”

Silently, only panting, Aberdeen sat and pushed a tightly plastic-wrapped, large, oddly-shaped package at Arcade. It made an audible thump as he tossed it on the table. The doctor looked down, then up to Aberdeen questioningly. 

“God damn it, just open it.”

With no further words, Arcade carefully tore the package open to reveal a set of armor not unlike that of the courier’s. Upon Arcade examining it, Aberdeen spoke again. 

“Why don’t you come with me?”

*

This is part two of ? of a slow-burn Courier Six (Aberdeen)/Arcade Gannon fic. If you like my work, consider buying me a coffee or donating to my PayPal. If you need any artwork done, here is my commissions post.

If this is your first time seeing this, you can start here with chapter one on tumblr or on Ao3.

[noxsden]

Perspective

Another work I got to after being inspired by events yesterday.  It’s a bit long so I have it cut to not swamp too much <3.  Horror and the like below.

The pumping beats of music swelled into a crescendo about the studio, a slight wiggle to each swath of paint that was put to canvas.  Lips curling to the words that came blaring out, upbeat, empowering, not a care in the world.  Brown hair tied up into a ponytail, trying to keep the inevitable mess from spreading outside of her clothes and the glasses she wore.  Outside the windows was a stark wall of darkness, the rest of the city had long gone to sleep, or in terms of her neighbors, tried to.

She had been pulled awake again that night, inspiration like wildfire to continue work for a collection of commissions.  The lens of her glasses glared as she turned her head away from the canvas, brushstrokes still working furiously along the canvas.  A knocking sound had taken her away from her comfort zone.  Persisting until the knocking turned into jarring slams against the metal, she begrudgingly made her way to the door.

*This is the third time this week that she has gotten up in the middle of the night and started listening to music and woken us all up.  And I have had about enough of it, you've seen the work right?  It's...*

The muttering died off, a look of nonchalance taking over the group as the artist peered out from behind her door.  The first of the neighbors stepping forward, smiling warmly.

"I'm sorry, but we are trying to sleep if you could turn the music down, I'm sure we could all go back there."

A nod given in return, her eyes flicking to the other two neighbors before she shut the door to the muttered semblance of neighborly 'have a good night'. 

Turning around and taking a few steps she could hear the voices chastising her again.  Putting them behind her, far behind, the music was turned down and she went back to work.

Humming with each stroke, the gradients of curls, curves and flexes of the humanoid shapes she was putting to work.  Dark and eerie landscapes brought to life, a flicker of excitement behind the glare in her glasses.  The lights in her apartment flicker again, and she hears a crooning voice complimenting her, a silhouette passes by her glasses.

The adjoining neighbors tossed and turned in their beds, each swath of paint like a scratch across their mind.  Her humming though low and melodic, seemed to echo into their houses.  Surely she hadn't listened to them.  Surely she was doing this on purpose.  Why else would she draw such things.  Edwin and Violet, loners for the most part, they worked and they came home to their uneventful lives.  Joined together in only one cause, their disapproval of what their neighbor did.

Tossing the covers off the bed and storming out of the apartment, they found themselves meeting again on the veranda in front of the artist's door.  But instead of knocking they proceeded to head downstairs to the last neighbor who was directly below.  Pounding on his door the sleepy man stepped out of the cracked doorway with a yawn.

"What is it you two, I had just gotten back to sleep."

"She is at it again Dante, both me and Violet can't sleep.  We keep hearing strange noises coming from her place.  Music going, all that."  Edwin took charge, a bit of a flail to his arms as he tried to alert him, to shake Dante out of his stupor.

"Look, I don't hear anything, if you have a problem go and talk to her and tell her.  She is your neighbor.  Now, I'm going to bed, I have a big day today."

Dante reached out, patting them both on the shoulders and turned around to enter his apartment.  Met with silence as he shut the door behind him, a muttering out before the entry sealed, 'have a good night'.  Furious with his lack of a response Edwin turned to Violet.  "Guess we are the only ones with any sense of common decency."  Marching back upstairs, they found themselves again at the portal to the Artist's domain.  It looked the same as any of the others, but they regarded it with a sort of dread reserved for the worst of evils.

"We are going to fix her up good, just wait.  Next time she leaves the house." A nod is shared between the two before they leave to return to their separate homes.  Climbing into bed they are both wracked with the same pains they had before.  Like nails on a chalkboard through their minds.  A thumping on the walls by their beds, creaking of steps, a feeling of eyes.  Sitting up straight to panting gasps they both looked around their rooms.   But they were empty, as they always were.

When sleep finally found them, it only made things worse.  Fighting their way through a dark sea of trees, with no one, no thing around them.  Barren and empty, haze rolling in around them until it was all they could see.  The scratching returned, dizziness and spinning.  Disoriented, mouths twisted open into a scream that held no voice behind it, they slammed down into a room.  The artist's room, outside the windows held back a writhing mass of shadows.  Inside everything was twisted, the silence was deafening.  Suddenly, a flash of movement caught their attention.  A figure, in the mirror, solidified into a human appearance with no discernible features.

In that silence, it just stared on, observing the two for what seemed like an eternity.  Before, it shifted.  Twisting it's head, a mouth began to tear it's way along the darkened flesh.  Jagged and cruel, filled with teeth.  The hands now claws reached out to grab at the enamel border of the mirror, yanking itself through with a chittering echoed roar that woke the two up in a cold sweat.  Running to the bathroom to try and calm nerves they both looked at the bathroom mirrors.  Finding a single crack up through the middle, and dark trickling stains running down the sinks.

Rushing out, they again met on the veranda, determined that something had to be done.  It was clearly her doing, something she was painting had to be the cause for all their dread.  Looking to the looming door to the artist, they noticed it was not shut all the way.  Violet held a bit of hesitation, looking down toward's Dante's but as Edwin pressed into the darkened interior, she was right behind him.  It was their first time inside the apartment, and all they could do was look at everything in disgust.  Walking straight back to the studio and looking towards the bedroom door, no sign of movement.

Her current painting was shrouded and still sitting on the easel at the center of the room, the other completed ones around it, in reverence of it's altar like status.  Muttering under his breath he yanked the painting free.  The painting almost thudding onto the ground as an unexpected heft was behind it.  Growling again he looked over to Violet who had found herself transfixed by another painting.  Half covered by a sheet, a breeze seemed to come through to make it flicker, revealing more of it.  Pulling at a knife in her pocket and flicking it open she approached it.  A look of shock on her face as if the painting itself was insulting her.

A whisper flirted by in that stray breeze, Edwin turned around to try and find the source of it.  His eyes settling on the mirror, the one that had been shown in the dream.  Well, it was a mirror at one point, but the glass was no longer affixed in place.  Staring at the empty portal, he could see the claw marks around it.  Tucking the painting under his arm he began to head for the door, forgetting momentarily that he had come there with another.

The landscape she looked at, was so twisted, so disturbing, why would someone paint such a thing.  Couldn't she tell how it looked, this wasn't how things were supposed to be.  Everything should be the same, seen the same.  The artist just wanted to make them out to be lesser.  That's what it was certainly.  The vitriol that spewed from her thoughts grew louder as Violet crept closer, not seeing Edwin turn to leave.  She was going to give this bitch a piece of her mind.

The blade worked quickly, slashing through the thick canvas again and again.  A fiery glare in her eyes, a sinister smile creeping onto her face.  That will surely get the point across.  The strewn canvas parted, scraps tumbling down around her.  Panting and heaving, Violet dropped the knife to the ground, the gaping void at the center of the canvas shuddered.  A glinting eye still intact after her rampage, stared up at the woman.  Leaning closer to a particular set of strokes.

Her scream was what made Edwin turn around.  No, it was the muffling that followed, the dread and panic that was so tangible like a fog.  Turning slowly a dark limb was protruding from the center of the painting.  At the other end Violet was gagging as it had filled her mouth.  Seconds, minutes, hours, how long did he stare at that sickening sight.  Silence broken by an unimaginable snap, the limb pulling back an dragging along with it, Violet's tongue.

A shudder to her form, tears streaming down her face as she tried to reach out towards Edwin.  His painting dropped with a loud thud to the ground, the shroud flickering away to reveal some of the painting beneath it.  Frozen in fear he seemed only able to reach out towards her to no avail.  Pleading as much as she could without the ability to speak coherently.  Crawling towards him until the scraps of canvas began wrapping it's way around her ankle.  Renewed by the threat of danger she crawled along the floor, until the piercing tug yanked her back.  Behind her the void seemed to swirl and contort, drawing up into it the tendon that had been pluck from her body.

Edwin continued to watch in horror as Violet unraveled her way into the clutches of the void.  Until nothing was left but the knife and the reformed painting.  Shaking his head, Edwin turned to run before he realized he was no longer carrying the painting.  Looking down at the bared work.  A peculiar marking caught his eye, looking close it all became apparent.  The strokes of paint, carving letters into the top corner, not of a signature but to designate the owner.  Edwin was scrawled out above, marking the twisted image below as his own.  Shaking his head he bolted towards the door.

But he didn't make it far, stopped dead in his drags by a painful earth shattering tug.  And just like that he was suspended in air.  Unable to turn, just stare forward, the mocking portal just a few steps away, but there would be no reaching him.  The limb that stretched out of his painting gave another sharp tug before the extruding spine became a suitable leash.  Edwin was dragged back, lost to the world behind the painting without a trace.

Morning came, and with it Dante found his day starting out rather quietly for a change.  Walking upstairs seemed to be heralded by a strange sensation.  Neither Edwin or Violet were answering and just when he was going to just get on with his life, the artist poked her head out and beckoned him over.  Worried that the two had done something stupid he hurried over, stepping into her domain, the similar interior seemed to capture the light well.  When he neared the main room he could see on the easel a peculiar painting,

The twisted lines and dark gradients were clear to him.  A smile on his face as he nodded to her, all offerings in response were denied.  Knowing he was beaten he thanked her again and went to leave.  The peculiarly heavy painting tucked under his arm.  A breeze crept up and he could swear he heard voices being carried along with them.  Swept about the room and across a mirror on the wall, and over the paintings about the rest of the room, ending once he looked back upon the artist.  Behind her stood a featureless man, dressed in fine clothes, and a hand upon her shoulder.

Before he could even question it, the figure brought a finger up to his slowly pursing lips.  The shushing sound wiped out the voices, and carried the breeze back to him and out the door.  His pace was slow as he walked towards the open doorway.  He didn't look back, just kept walking.  Clutching the painting close until he could hang it in his home as soon as he caught there.  Staring at it, finding himself drawn into the curves and lines,  gravitating towards the differences.  A piece of a new world, from eyes not his own.

[newrageinc]

Day 8:  Drawing

This is an unfinished 1/3 of a thought. It’s raw as all heck and I’m posting it because I’m so done. I don’t think I’ve ever hated a single word more in my whole life. Writing every day is hard *whiny voice*

Sasuke was star struck.

A marked improvement from his prior mood of irritated. Who made the curriculum for art students? How did a faculty come together to decide what he’d need to know to be a successful artist? Who made them the boss? Other scholarly institutions?

It was all a scam.

Why was he even going to school anyway?

He should be out experiencing the world. He should be putting paint brush to canvas and getting firsthand accounts of big time rejection. He should be hunting down his next commission and fighting for publication and exposure.

Not hunting for a peer to model for a final project.

Sasuke had been stomping up and down campus, all but snarling at other students as he started his search. He had taken a different way out of the fine arts building than his normal route when he had stopped short, breath catching at the sight before him.

He probably should have started his search here instead of circling around campus before doubling back. It probably would have saved him some time as well as lessened the blow to his reputation as “calm.”

Hindsight was 20/20.

Sasuke generally avoided this side of the fine arts building. Something about watching people traipse around in tight fitted leotards and that different type of arrogance that dancers seemed carry themselves with had put him off of walking through. Even if their courtyard had the prettiest afternoon light and biggest trees and nicest marble benches.

He really should have just started here.

The courtyard was strewn with students, all of them wearing some type of dance attire as they hung around in small groups. Some were stretching out, long limbs reaching as far as they could go and others were practicing pieces of choreography.

Like the pair that was tucked away at the far side, a large oak tree partially obscuring them form view. Sasuke probably wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t been in the middle of a complicated lift.

The girl had her hair loose and it moved around her in a secondary dance, dark as midnight and catching the light in just a way that reminded Sasuke of stars in the night sky. She twirled around her partner effortlessly, her movements the epitome of grace. Her limbs were all long, elegant lines from her soft hands to her pointed toes and Sasuke knew.

It had to be her.

He was half way across the courtyard when someone stepped into his path.

“What?” He snapped, glaring at the girl who decided to block him.

She looked oddly familiar. Her hair was a light shade of pink, pulled up into a severe bun, and she wore a classic black leotard with pink tights. She had pointe shoes draped over her shoulder and she was smiling up at him. “You’re Sasuke, right? Naruto’s friend?”

“What of it?” He bit, shifting on his feet to look around her, a wave of annoyance rippling through him when he realized he couldn’t see the couple from where they currently stood.

“You don’t have to get snippy, it was just a question. I’ve never seen you come around here before but Naruto says you’re a painter?” Sasuke snorted.

“I usually avoid this side of the building,” he sneered and she huffed, her own delicate brows dipping downward as she pursed her lips at him. He sighed. “If you must know, I’m looking for someone to model for a project.”

She visibly brightened, shoulders rolling back as her posture straightened. “Oh? Well, I think I’d be available.” She smiled up at him, maintaining eye contact even as he glowered at her.

She was pretty enough. He remembers Naruto mentioning someone with pink hair he’d been hanging around with but couldn’t think of her name at the moment though he was pretty sure it had to do something with her hair. She was lean and her eyes were a unique shade of green he’d be interested in trying to match.

Just not for this.

His muse seemed decided as his mind replayed the scene of the dark haired girl mid turn.

“Thanks, but I’ve got someone specific in mind.” He stepped around her to keep heading in the direction of the tree.

“Hinata has class with Tsunade right now. Tsunade’s the department head and doesn’t like being interrupted.” The girl called out after him. He froze.

“What-?”

“You kept looking in that direction and she always practices up there before rehearsals.” She sniffed and started turning away. “Good luck convincing her to model for you, she hates unnecessary attention.”

Sasuke wasn’t able to catch up to that dark haired girl. He’d roamed the halls of the rehearsal rooms for about an hour before calling it quits and heading back to his apartment.

“What crawled up your butt?” Naruto asked when Sasuke swung the door open with enough force to bang loudly against the wall. Naruto’s shoulders drooped at the dent in the drywall. Not that they’d had any hope of recovering their deposit at this point anyway.

“Art school.” Sasuke grumbled, tossing his backpack on the floor and throwing himself on the couch. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair. “Art school and your stupid friends.”

“What? Which friends?” Sasuke threw his hands over his head and stared up at the ceiling.

“That pink haired girl you talked about kept me from a girl.” He could hear Naruto’s confusion from the kitchen table.

“A girl? Sakura? I need more details man, you’re making zero sense.”

Sasuke threw an arm over his face. “I have to get someone to model for me and I spotted the perfect girl and Sakura held me up so I wasn’t able to catch her.” A bitter taste filled his mouth putting it together like that.

Stupid art school.

Stupid Sakura.

Everything was just so stupid…

Sasuke heaved a sigh as he heard the scrape of a chair against the linoleum floor. Naruto hovered over the back of the couch, eye brows raised in concern as he watched his friend mope.

“Do you want to get stupid drunk?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“That’s essentially the weekend.”

Sasuke blinked up at the ceiling then pushed himself up. “Yeah, fuck it.”

Okay.

Thursday was definitely not essentially the weekend.

But this was college. Essentially pre-actual life. He was allowed to make decisions on the same level of stupidity as this schools’ art program.

This didn’t make his throbbing temples feel better as he trudged through campus, hoodie sopping wet from the sudden torrential down poor he had not planned on getting caught in. Thunder rumbled outside as he pulled the heavy fabric off of his body.

So much for trying to camp out in the courtyard to see if he can find dark haired girl.

He found an empty longue chair and pulled out his sketchbook. He glanced down at his phone before stuffing back into his bag and pulled out the sketch he’d started on the night before.

Without more than his memory he wasn’t able to get much down on paper but he’d started trying to capture the movements of that girl. He’d started drawing different bits and pieces of her. His pencil drifted towards the hand he had started on the night before, lips pressing into a thin line as he tried to recall how her hands had looked when she’d spun away from her partner.

He heard the sound of rain increase as someone opened the door, the heavy patter of fat drops on pavement loud in the nearly empty halls of the building. Sasuke didn’t bother looking up, getting more frustrated with himself as he failed at recreating this girl on paper. He turned the page and started over, this time trying to see if he could sketch out the complicated lift that had caught his eye.

He had just started on her hair when he heard a gasp.

Sitting next to him in another longue chair, was dark haired girl, a coffee cup gripped in her hands and drops of rain dripping off of her bands as she stared at him with wide eyes. The paleness of her gaze made his breath hitch and he wished it were illegal to be this attractive. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, hangover momentarily forgotten as he took in each and every feature of this girl as quickly as he could like she was going to disappear.

Her skin was pale and immaculate save for the blush that started at her cheeks from how fiercely he searched her face. Her lips were parted slightly from her gasp and they looked so petal soft he was half tempted to reach out and touch her.

“H-hi?” She said, touch of hesitance to her greeting as he continued to state.

“Hi.”

Neither of them moved. A group of students came through, nosily chattering as they went, sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor. The door’s slam echoed after them and settled into an awkward silence that he wasn’t sure he wanted to break.

“I-uh that’s a nice drawing.” She muttered, pulling her cup closer to her lips to hide her face, finding the lid suddenly fascinating. “It kind of looks like they’re dancing.”

“They are.” He tapped the end of his pencil against the paper. “Dancing, that is.” He looked down at the gym bag by her feet pointedly. “You dance?”

She nodded, crossing her legs at her ankles, self-consciously tucking loose hair behind her ear. Sasuke quirked a brow at her.

“You’re quiet for a performer.” Her blush intensified and she pressed her lips into a thin line before responding.

“I just like to dance.” She jerked her chin at his notebook. “It’s pretty. You’re drawing. It kind of looks like… Part of some of the choreography I’ve been working on.” Sasuke smirked.

“Oh? Funny, I saw a couple of people running through it and I thought it was interesting.” She hummed and took a sip from her cup. “I’m Sasuke,” he offered when she didn’t say anything else. He squinted at her, pretending to think for a minute. “Actually, you kind of look like one half of the couple I had seen yesterday.”

“O-Oh?” He flipped a few pages back on his sketch book, looking for the one of her face he had abandoned when Naruto started puking last night. He presented it to her and he finally noticed her face had gotten so red he wondered if she was alright. “O-oh, how about t-that.”

He was about to open his mouth to ask her if he could draw her dancing on her own when someone called out to her from the end of the hall.

“Hinata!” A tall blond girl in knee pads, short shorts, and a crop top was waving at her from one of the class rooms. “Good! I’m glad you’re here, come help me real quick.” Without waiting for a response, she flounced back into the room, long hair whipping behind her as she went.

“I-I’ve got to go. Sorry.” She grabbed her gym bag and all but ran towards the room where the other girl had disappeared to.

‘Hinata, huh.’

“Who were you talking to, by the way? He looked cute.” Hinata shrugged, pulling her sweatshirt over the top of her head and tossing it aside, adjuster her off the shoulder t-shirt and shaking out some of the moisture from her hair.

“I’m not sure.” Ino gave Hinata a weird look as she joined her on the floor of the classroom she had sequestered. She liked to take over empty classrooms at the end of the day for impromptu hip-hop dance sessions.

“It’s not like you to strike up a conversation with a stranger,” she smirked wickedly. “Little princess Hinata, were you flirting?” She spoke in a song, eyebrows wriggling when Hinata spluttered.

“I-I I mean… I don’t. Ino,” she let herself fall back on to the floor, hair splaying around her as she blinked up at the ceiling. “I think he was drawing Sai and I.”

“What?” Hinata groaned and brought her hands up to her face, sliding herself across the floor and away from Ino with her legs.

“He was drawing and I sat next to him and happened to see and I guess I made a noise when I saw and he recognized me.” She took her hands away from her face to look up at Ino who was looking down at her curiously. “Is that conceited of me to assume he was drawing us? It was that weird lift that we do, you know the one where I bend my arms and legs in that weird pose?” Ino scrunched up her face in thought.

“No, I mean it’s a unique movement, I don’t think anyone else has something like that in anything they’re working on now so it’s not a farfetched idea. Is there something wrong with him drawing you guys? Does he give you like, creep vibes or something?”

“No,” Hinata groaned again as she pushed herself off the floor and drew her knees up to circle her arms around her legs. “No, I guess I just… He seemed kind of like… He wanted to ask about drawing me some more.” She hid her face in her knees, speaking into her tights. “And I don’t think I can do that.”

“You’re so weird sometimes, Hinata.”

[heliconus]

[Viewpoint] Contemporary Art: Does it ever stop being art?

After watching a film of a bald man eating chicken, Julia Pompilius shares how contemporary art frees viewers from academic barriers to access and allows them to construct their own interpretations of art.

The trouble with moving to a city as incredibly stimulating as Paris is that you eventually grow accustomed to it, even take it for granted. Lately, I’ve been falling prey to this privileged sort of apathy and so I decided to put a stop to it; I made it my goal to check off a meaningful destination of my choice at least once a week. So this past weekend I paid a visit to the Centre Pompidou—home to Paris’s most esteemed collection of modern and contemporary art. The building itself, commissioned by former President George Pompidou in 1977, is a bold architectural statement. Amidst blocks of cobblestone streets and Baroque French architecture dating back to the 1600s, the Centre Pompidou sticks out like a sore thumb. Its design was heavily influenced by the Structural Expressionist movement, which externalizes the structural innards of a building, thereby aestheticizing the functional aspects of architecture. This highly conceptual architectural style was not exactly well received by Parisians during the 1970s, but it has since become a pillar of post-modern architecture in Europe. That being said, it is the perfect home for the world’s most recent and cutting-edge artwork. 

So as I somewhat confusedly made my way up the external escalators to the 5th floor, I braced myself for a coming wave of confusion and frustration. Because if we’re being honest, those are very often the emotions I feel while looking at contemporary art. (Contemporary art is a blanket term I use here to cover any conceptual or post-modern piece from the 1960s onward).  I believe this is a sentiment shared by many. Even those who have studied art, who are familiar with the narratives of flatness, kitsch, and post-structuralism, often find themselves utterly at a loss while pondering conceptual pieces. For each new abstracted innovation, must the viewer really learn yet another theory in order to understand it? Is it possible to continue innovating artwork, or are we just spiraling down a conceptual path of nonsense?

These questions are not ungrounded. As I stare at a thin, elongated strip of white canvas covered with repetitive black dots, I struggle to extract meaning. This is natural—there is no easily recognizable story here; one cannot simply look at a piece like this one and connect the dots (pun intended). Thus it seems necessary to have a continuously growing literary understanding of artistic theory in order to gather meaning from modern and contemporary art. Cultural critic Tom Wolfe dedicated an entire book to satirizing this phenomenon. If contemporary art seeks to free art from an “academic” context, why is it so inaccessible to the typical viewer? In his book The Painted Word, Wolfe observes, “Frankly, these days, without a theory to go with it, I can’t see a painting.”

This is the looming intimidation that surrounds the contemporary art world—the nervousness that you don’t have quite the right set of theories in your head in order to unpack the truth within the artwork—even if that truth is the denial of any truth at all. The nagging feeling that maybe if you wore a little more black, smoked a few more cigarettes, or went to an even smaller liberal arts university, you might be better equipped to understand the piece that sits before you. Maybe, just maybe, you aren’t missing anything. Maybe these two squares painted next to each other are just that—two squares. Maybe the people parading around professing their amazement are phonies just trying to insert themselves into the haute couture of the art world. Many would argue this stance; however, I would not.

I found hope when I stumbled into a dark, perfectly cubed room with a video being projected onto one of its walls. I sat down on the bench opposite it, and began to watch. What I saw was bizarre, if not just downright disgusting. The film showed a man sitting in an empty room attempting to eat an entire rotisserie chicken with his bare hands. The man was white, balding, looked to be about in his forties, and wore a plain sweater atop a button-down shirt. Essentially he was the picture of banality. As he grappled with the greasy bird, an epic Italian opera blasted behind him. As I sat there watching the strange scene unfold before my eyes, it slowly dawned on me that I was entranced. Sitting in this dark, enclosed space watching a bald man eat chicken with his bare hands, I felt oddly at ease. What an odd juxtaposition: the beauty and grandeur of an Italian opera (some might say the pinnacle of human achievement) accompanying a man gorging himself in the most primal way.  What a privilege it was to sit there and watch it.

The man’s name was Dmitri Prigov and the piece was entitled Death & the Child. Prigov was a prolific poet and artist during the era of the Soviet Union and he used his art to criticize the Communist regime at the time. Thus his work is supported by a bounty of relevant context: the suppression of free speech under Soviet reign, widespread famine in the USSR, as well as strict, legally-enforced guidelines of what art could and should be. If the viewer were familiar with such phenomena, she would gain an entirely new perspective of Prigov’s work. A bald man grotesquely eating chicken would be transformed into a commentary on dissidence from Soviet tradition. However, even if she did not have this understanding, as I did not, this piece would have meaning. For me, I recalled just a few days before when I sat at the dinner table with my Parisian host mother. We ate cold chicken, and she served me what I, as an American, would call a drumstick. I asked her, “is it appropriate in France to eat this with your hands?” She looked at me blankly and replied, “Non. Pas du tout.” (Translation: “No, not at all.”) In this instant, I understood that to eat a piece of meat with your bare hands in France was completely against custom. Thinking back on this moment while watching Prigov’s video piece, I formed my own understanding of his work. To me, his piece communicated the dissonance of cultural etiquette. It evoked the most basic functionalities of humanity: the need to eat food, the creation and appreciation of beautiful music. It juxtaposed these very natural and primal qualities with the superficial rules of society we impose upon ourselves: etiquette, civility, tradition. What does it matter if one continent eats chicken with their hands and the other would never dream of such an act? The same question can be asked of practices of conversation, of love, of war. Prigov’s piece rendered these differences meaningless: they all fulfill some basic human need, no matter how their surroundings perceive them.  

One could certainly argue that this interpretation is not the “correct” one. Perhaps the meaning of Prigov’s piece is entirely dependent on a thorough knowledge of the social and political context that produced it. Regardless, I left that room having gained something meaningful. I was given a frame through which to view my own life experiences. A frame informed by one unique understanding of the world yet still capable of lending itself to mine. This is the beauty of contemporary art. It does indeed free the viewer from the chains of academia. It allows her to struggle with the unfamiliar material before her and assemble it into a meaning unique to her. There will always be theories and schools of thought influencing the creation of artwork, and it is certainly important to understand such things. However, this does not eliminate the possibility of interpretive freedom. No matter the prior knowledge of the viewer, she is free to conceive of abstraction however she chooses, a liberty that is not so easily enjoyed with traditional realistic artwork. This is the liberty I enjoyed during my visit to the Centre Pompidou; a liberty that allows artwork as bizarre as Prigov’s to enter one of the most established art venues in the world and calls it art.

[bdotson46-blog]

Our country would be better served if we listened more to people who don't have titles in front of their names.  Ordinary Americans of all ages -- in all walks of life – have good ideas.  These days, anyone -- anywhere -- can find information, but the facts and rumors fly so fast, its like trying to read a book with a four year old flipping the pages.  We must all start digging for what’s significant.  Don't settle for clichés.  Find the people standing in the shadows who can offer perspective.  Social media can tell us what is, what ought to be, but those people can tell us what was – and that is the key to understanding. Charles Banks Wilson asserts that “America was built by just folks.”  He was staring out the window of his artist’s studio.  Behind him were huge images of cowboys and Indians, trappers and pioneers – four paint spattered murals, twenty-seven-foot tall, propped above the relics of their creation.  Pencil sketches and clay figures lay scattered about.  Dozens of history books were stacked on tables.  Five years earlier, Wilson had set out to paint the world’s largest textbook – a heritage for ordinary people.             “I felt I owed it to that guy who dug the water well, or that surveyor with the interesting story,” he said, pointing to the figures before him, “to show them just as well as I could.”             Wilson turned and walked through the single shaft of light that came through his east window.  He crossed the room, which was big and dark and boomy, then pulled himself up on a wooden scaffold and climbed forty feet above the concrete floor.             “In most written history, they tell you who, what, when, where and how,” said Wilson, as he picked up a palette and worked with a fine brush.  “They almost never tell you what things looked like.”             He dabbed paint on a small cabin.              “If you notice,” said Wilson, “in that little shack is a blacksmith.  A blacksmith is a black man, which very few people realize.  Over in Europe the man who did that kind of work was called a ‘smithy’ or ‘smitty.’  But when folks came over here, black men prepared the metal products in many trading posts, so naturally, they were called blacksmiths.”             Wilson shifted his brush to the figure of a massive Indian wrapped in fur pelts.             “The Osage Indians were lovers of dogs,” he continued after a stroke or two.  “In my research I found that the Osage Indians wore buffalo robes around their waists and their legs, even in the summer time.  I asked, why?  Well, they wore these buffalo robes not to protect them from the weather, but to protect them from the dogs that didn’t have enough to eat.  The dogs would eat their leggings off!  I found accounts where overnight the dogs would eat up a whole teepee.”             “Why’d they keep the dogs?” I wondered.
            Wilson touched his moustache.  “Well,” he said matter-of-factly, “they liked dogs.”             The Oklahoma legislature commissioned Wilson to paint that visual textbook.  The work would hang under the dome at the state capitol.  For two years there was not a stroke on canvas as Wilson searched dusty archives and drifted back roads looking for descriptions of what he would paint.             “I wanted people who stood before my murals to say, ‘Those folks looked just like that,’” he said.             There are few monuments to common people, but there are traces in the weeds of time.  Later that day we took a small boat and went searching.             “When you cross the bridge and look to the right, you’ll see the falls of the Verdigris River,” said Wilson as we floated past shadows and sun.  “To the left, on that high knoll is the location of Chouteau’s fort.  He was an old French trader.             “There were nine thousand Indians at his fort.  Three thousand trappers and something like five thousand traders.  Each spring they built flatboats to carry their pelts down to New Orleans.  There weren’t any pensions or that sort of thing in those days.  So, the benefits, the fringe benefits, were so much whiskey a week.   And I understand that Sam Houston, who would later become the first President of the Republic of Texas, was probably the biggest whiskey dealer that ever came up the Verdigris.  I’m not taking anything away from the man’s fame, but he was criticized by other traders because he had more whiskey and could get more flatboat builders.”             We nosed our boat ashore and stepped into the forest. “Those flatboats,” said Wilson, “were built out of exotic woods – walnut, pecan – anything that was available.  They were filled with buffalo robes and deer hides for shipment to New Orleans and then on to Europe.  Of course, once they got the stuff to New Orleans, they had an empty flatboat and they couldn’t bring it back up river.  So they’d sell the wood right there.  This wood would be sold to a French wood-carver in New Orleans, and he would turn it into a fine piece of French furniture.  It would stay around New Orleans for a couple of hundred years, and then someone from out West, who was down there visiting the Mardi Gras, would see this beautiful piece and bring it back up the Verdigris as an antique.”             The wind blew the tall grass between the trees, and the water birds rose toward the bridge, screaming at passing cars.  We shoved our boat back into the river.             “I was afraid of this job,” Wilson admitted, “because I knew what was going to happen, and I doubted that I was really capable of doing what was expected.”             He watched the birds for a moment.             “I went through hell.  I couldn’t sleep at night.  I had nightmares.  I knew what was coming!  I knew I was going to have to give up everything else I was doing.” Perhaps it would have been easier to simply paint a wrought-iron dream against a stained glass sky.  Perhaps there was no need for years of research and late night wandering.  But Charles Banks Wilson was working for the people who never had time to own a dream.  And he was signing it for them. Several months later, Wilson called to say that the job was finished.  I went by to see him.  The streetlights had just come on outside his studio window.  We approached the huge figures through the shadows, our footsteps echoing off the walls.              “Late one evening, a few weeks before the murals were completed,” said Wilson, “I sensed that something was wrong.”             He got dressed and went to his workshop.  The door to his office was open! Wilson bounded up the stairs.  In the cavernous darkness of his studio, a figure was outlined in the night.  Fumbling for a light, Wilson recognized the man – Joe Noel, a roofer who had posed for the mural, one of the last of the pureblood Choctaws.  “You know, Charlie,” said Noel, spinning to face him.  “I just had to come back and take a look.” The man stood silently beneath his massive image.  “Choctaws are really happy that I’m up there,” Noel said at last. He straightened his hat and walked to the stairs.  “Goodnight, Charlie.” The next morning, Wilson was back—touching up Joe Noel’s figure.