#Think of the time it spent basking in the sun and blanketed in the soil being nourished by decay

[salty-sith-bitch]

Hey, so I saw you needed some writing ideas. I was wondering if you would be ok writing a platonic Mando/Reader (the reader is like a teenager or young adult), where the reader gets anxious when Mando is gone for long periods of time hunting for bounties due to past trauma of their family leaving them (albeit not on purpose, they were taken away). And since they have to stay on the ship and take care of the child, they can’t go with him to make sure he’s alright. Just something I thought of.

This is very angsty I AM SO SORRY! I absolutely enjoyed writing this and it's probably one of my favorite pieces. 

The reader and Mando have a sweet platonic almost father/ child relationship in this.

Ni cuy' olar ad'ika (I am here Little one)

Wanings: Hurt/comfort, angst

Words: 1557

Ao3

"I'll be back," the Mandalorian said to you as he descended the ramp of the crest.

You nodded as you snuggled the child. Giving a soft coo the child looked up at you and moved his ears. Sighing you turned and entered the crest, heading off to make lunch.

***

You decided to eat lunch outside and enjoy the sunlight with the child while you could. It had been a while since your trio had inhabited a warm plant. The sun's rays kissing your skin left you feeling warm and hopeful. Hopeful for a better future and of not being alone again. 

It felt like home. The home you once knew for nearly 17 years where you had never felt alone or unloved. Where you had a garden and a family. Where cooking lessons from mother took place and sarcastic banter with your father. Where giggles from your brother bounced off the walls as he pulled your hair.

Eyes stinging and bottom lip quivering you looked down at the child as he brought his soup up to his mouth. Just like him, you had been alone until Mando found you. A child without parents or someone to take care of you. Lost and abandoned trying to find your place in the galaxy.

Before you met Mando you had been loved by your parents. They worked hard for you and your brother and made every moment worth living. Your home had been small and your parents would work until exhaustion overtook their bodies, leaving you to cook and look after your brother. You would tend to the garden and sew clothes for the family. Each day you would thank your mother for the skills she taught you and your father for his sense of humor and hard work. Your family was all you had known In life. It was all you needed. It was home. Where you felt safe and adored.

But everything changed when the troopers came. To this day you swear you can still smell the fires and feel your lungs ache as they tried to breathe anything besides ash. The fires and storm troopers engulfed your village, taking the children and killing off anyone who tried to stop them. 

Your parents had gone out earlier that day to the market and had never returned. They had taken your brother as you spent the day reading and basking in the sunlight in the garden. The first sound of blaster fire startled you, your muscles freezing as you pulled a vegetable from the soft soil beneath your feet. It was another couple of moments before the next round of blaster shots could be heard, this time closer.

When you could finally move again you looked off into the distance as the fires grew and smoke filled the sky. Panicking you ran inside and hid in the back of your parent’s closet. That was where your parents had told you to go if there was ever an invasion. They had created a room that was safe and where no one could find you. You waited and waited for your front door to be knocked down and for you're home to be stormed. No troopers ever came in search of you though. 

Neither had your parents.

You had spent days in and out of sleep not daring to leave the confined space of your hideout. On the third day, you had awoken to the noise of the front door opening and the shuffle of heavy footsteps. You waited a couple of minutes silently crying and praying to the maker that you wouldn't be found. Minutes turned into an hour, then two, then three, and eventually, night has fallen.

You knew whoever had intruded your home had not left yet and they didn't seem like they were in a hurry to. You waited until the early morning just before sunrise to try and sneak out from your hidden space and had almost made it to the front door when heard the click of a blaster and felt the barrel of it pressed into your back.

It was then that the Mandalorian and Grogu had found you, starving, dehydrated, and filthy. You broke down crying and begging for him to just kill you. You refused to be taken as anyone's slave, servant or turned into a soldier. 

Watching you shake and please for death Mando had gracefully holstered his blaster and instead comforted you, explaining he would not hurt you and that he could leave once the sun rose and his child woke. In response, you told him that you would instead go. This place was a house but no longer a home.

Putting the pieces together the Mandalorian sympathized with you and offered you a new beginning and what would eventually become your home. He expressed his concern about his son and needing someone to watch him while he went on missions. You considered and said you would think about it. Mando would be leaving later that night and told you that if you decided to join him to meet him at his ship just before sundown.

That evening Mando found you sitting outside of his ship with the few belongings you had and any produce that had not wilted from the ash and fires. The Mandalorian didn't say much or ask much of you and you quickly fell into a routine with him and the kid.

That had been nearly a year ago. You had been too old to be a foundling but too young to become a bounty hunter yourself so you stuck with watching the child much as you did now.

Looking down at the child again you saw his eyes begin to droop. Smiling weakly you packed up the remaining bits of lunch and scooped up the child.

"Naptime my friend."

Grogu cooed, nuzzling his head into your chest.

Making your way into the ship you shut the ramp and laid with the child on Din's cot until you both fell into a deep slumber.

***

Three days. It had been three days since Din left to go search for his bounty. You generally didn't worry but when his adventures hit the three-day mark anxiety started to kick in. You knew Din was capable of handling himself and would always comm you if there was trouble or if he needed you to fly the Crest to him. Despite knowing all of that you couldn't fight the bile that rose in your chest and the tunneling sensation of the world around you.

By sundown, on that night  you felt like a walking corpse. You hadn't eaten but still had to fight the urge to throw up or break down crying. Grogu had watched you in concern all day and had been extra cuddly and affectionate. He could sense your unease and see your fear through forced smiles and glossy eyes. 

Bedtime came early that night for the little womp rat. Trying to comfort you tuckered him out.

Having time to yourself is both a blessing and a curse. You could cry freely without being embarrassed and without tiring out the kid but it also reminded you that you were alone and what you had lost. It reminded you that it could happen again. That the family you now had could be torn apart just as easily as your last.

Sobbing, you sat in Din's chair in the cockpit wrapped in your favorite blanket from home. It still had the smell of your mother's perfume and your father's aftershave on it. Realizing one day that that too would fade and disappear you wept harder, letting out gasps of air as your lungs tried to replenish themselves. The material of the blanket caught the tears that rolled down your face and you wrapped it tightly around you in desperation to feel close to your family again. Eventually, your body gave up on supporting you and you fell out of the pilot's chair and laid on the cold metal ground. Eyes squeezed just hit salty tears continued to flow and splash onto the worn metal of the Crest. 

You don't know how long you were down there or how long you had been crying but you felt yourself being lifted and scooped into a hug. You wailed into Din's chest as he slowly rocked you.

"Ni cuy' olar ad'ika." His unmodulated voice rang through your ears and you felt his own tears fall down and into your hair.

You may have been too old to be a foundling when Din found you but he still adopted you as his own. He treated you as I'd you were his own child, laughing when you laughed, threatened to take away credits when you sassed him and cried when you cried.

He understood your pain and hurt and his chest tightened every time you shed a tear. He knew you longed for your parents as much as he longed for it. If there was a way he could bring your parents back he would. You would do the same for him if you could.

That was not a possibility though and you both knew it. Instead, the three of you made your own family. Your own clan.

This is the way.

Rocking together on the floor of the cockpit you both cried into the night.

[secondhand-trash]

boys, their rooms, and what it feels like to stay in them

A/N: this is a direct consequence of me looking through bed sheet+pillow case sets and thinking who would have which colour scheme lmao

Pairings: Miya Atsumu/Oikawa Tooru/Nishinoya Yuu/Kita Shinsuke x reader

Word count: 1263

ꦼ———▸

Miya Atsumu

Miya Atsumu’s room was full of life, full of signs that there was someone who lived and laughed and cried and woke up to each new day in there.

Your first impression of his room when you stepped into it was that it was a mess, even though he argued that he could always find what he needs when he needs it. His things were littered everywhere. A volleyball leaning against the closet, his jacket dangled on the back of his chair, and groups photos stuck all over his walls. His bed was never made, the blanket kicked to the edge and put a smile on your face at the image of him burying his face into his pillow, his legs kicking at the covers as he grudgingly forced himself awake.

Ultimately his space was... him. Finally having his own space after having to share made him indulge in it as much as he could, and the unabashed display of personality in front your eyes was the end result. There was a baby photo of him and his twin pushed back against the corner of his desk, a group photo of his beloved Inarizaki teammates from his most carefree days stuck next to a cut out from the Sports Monthly published right after his VLeague debut. The Polaroid of him lifting you up as you laughed at one of his stupid jokes had doodles all around it, nearly covering all the white spaces with your jabs abut his hair and his complains that you were not cooperating.

Full of him, tugging you by the sleeve closer and closer to him with each glance of your eyes. Until he pulled you into his arms, into his bed that was too tiny for his large frame and you, and right on his chest as you fell asleep to your whole head full of the steady breathing from his chest.

ꦼ———▸

Oikawa Tooru

For someone so mesmerising, so bright and so hard to ignore once you saw his light, Oikawa Tooru’s room was surprisingly simple.

White linens, heavy curtains that hadn’t been changed since the last tenant, wallpaper in a muted cream.

He had never been one for excessive materialistic possessions. He did not really think that these four walls standing on foreign land was home, at least not yet. It would take a while before the sound of people shouting as the day awakes each morning become familiar to his ears, he still had a long way to go till he no longer has to think and concentrate to know that the bakery owner was screaming at the clerk for sliding a pan onto the floor or the truck driver was honking because the worker was too busy flirting with the girl waiting for her bus to actually be quick with his work.

But empty walls would eventually be filled up. One frame at a time, one postcard from home at a time, one crash into his arms when you see him after so long at a time. And suddenly his room was filled with the sounds of you laughing at something he said, white sheets tangling your bodies as you basked in being surrounded by his scent that you so missed.

There was home when he watched the San Juan sun filtering through the flowing curtains that blended into the walls, the temperature of your skin slowly melting into the white lining tangling around his waist the day slowly woke up, as he waited for you to wake up, while he enjoyed the way your chest rose and fell steadily against his mattress for just a little longer.

ꦼ———▸

Nishinoya Yuu

Nishinoya Yuu spent a good amount of his life chasing the sea wind blowing through his hair, running after the vague memory of the wide fields where the scent of grass evades your senses with each gentle brush of your finger along the soil, going where ever he wants as long as he wanted, that he never did spend much time in one single room until the time finally come for the bird to build its nest.

His room was the one shared with a few others he could barely communicate with through gestures in a youth hostel in Naples, then it became the rundown bunk at the cheap room he got as part of his salary as a shipmate in Italy, or a sleeping bag at the bottom of some cabin if he hadn’t been lucky. But all and all, he didn’t care much. He’s happy as long as he woke up each day feeling ready, ready to head onto the next pin point of his map.

Some days you would squeeze into his cramped bed with far too hard mattress with him when you join him, listening to the sea crashing onto the shore outside as you focus on his arm around your waist instead of how vividly you could hear each noise outside.

He never stopped wanting to see the world, only his world had come to find the place it can always circle back after each flight. His final destination was where he could hang all the knickknacks he collected on his way, with the seashells you picked together on the beach of Santorini next to the plastic replica of the sphinx he bought at a roadstand in Kairo.

Here, the bed was soft and the furniture all looking somewhat different in style but came together in harmony.

And when he pulled you close to his side, tugging the blanket up on your frame before bidding sweet dreams with a yawn, you felt like you had the world in your arms too.

ꦼ———▸

Kita Shinsuke

Kita Shinsuke’s room was so tidy and so spotless that it was hard to believe that it belonged to a young man.

The factor of simplicity was hard to miss. He preferred not putting much of his possessions or keepsakes on display, keeping them nicely somewhere safe rather than letting it become a collector for dust and a headache during cleaning. The design of the old house he lived in meant that you wouldn’t even get to see his bed unmade for just a second. The futon and tatami was always rolled up and stored in the cupboards neatly each morning after he woke up, only smoothen out again after a long day and the moon hung high.

The distinct smell of fabric softener was still left in the blankets that were not often used, with some trace of the sun’s ambiguous scent lingering from the ritualistic task of letting each sheet air dry on a sunny day. There was nothing out of place at the sight of the young man sitting with his legs together, back straight and hands on both thighs, the type of ease and calmness that seemed way beyond his age.

A calm space creates a collected mind, that was what he told you as he took out the spare futon for you the first time you stayed over.

He wouldn’t even initiate anything out of his place, even as you were just breathes away in the now dark room after the lights turned off. The futons laid out side by side properly as you laid next to him, your eyes closed but too conscious of each inhale from your side that you couldn’t let your mind drift away.

But that doesn’t meant he would stop you if you eventually got closer and closer until you slipped yourself under his cover, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of your lips when you felt an arm around your shoulder.

[burninglilys]

81/9/13 (i couldn't choose so you pick one hehe) + phutian obviously

Orthy!!! 💖 Thank you for the ask! Okay, so I could not resist, which is why I tried fitting in all those prompts in this lil ficlet (that got a lil longer than I had originally planned for)). It basically takes place after Tian gets discharged from Dr Nam's clinic in epsiode 6!

It is a little like this: the sun shining a little too brightly for it to be only an hour until sunset, as always. The mud under Tian's shoes seeping into places that he won't have the heart to scrub away, a little reminder of Pha Pun Dao staying with him, forever. The smell of the soil, so distinctly Pha Pun Dao, that Tian feels unsettled if it doesn't surround him. The trees, still dancing in the wind to the tune of the birds that pull them apart. Nothing out of the ordinary from another, ordinary day at Pha Pun Dao.

It's also a little like this: the chief's face still pulled into a frown, back from when Tian had (unwittingly) insisted that they walk back to his home. The chief's warm, broad hand splayed across on the small of his back, a grounding force, pulling him back when his thoughts drift a little too far. The chief's slight hitch in breath, the tremble in his hand as he helps steady Tian whenever he stumbles. The silence, an awful, awkward silence stretched across the space they share — a silence that never existed before, a silence that Tian grows restless in, willing to do anything, just about everything for a little reaction from him. It is nothing like an ordinary day at Pha Pun Dao.

The place that felt a little too much like home, feels too big — or Tian feels too little, flailed across in the empty spaces the village never had, before.

"Chief…" Tian starts, not knowing how to end. He just, he needs to make sure that he hasn't, somehow, fucked up.

"Yod has gone to town to get your medicine," Phupha replies with something that Tian had already known. Perhaps to fill in the gaps.

(Tian does not miss the slight shake in Phupha's hands every time his fist unclenches. I caused this, Tian thinks.)

"Yes," Tian replies regardless.

A beat, and then: "Thank you." Tian schools his voice to sound unbothered, as though he's only thanking Phupha for asking his subordinate to get him his medicine. Instead, it comes out in a waver, fear still clinging around the edges. He doesn't know what exactly he is thanking Phupha for — the fact that he's looking out for Tian, even now when he'd indulged in a lie, the fact that he is here, with him, instead of letting him go home all by himself, or whether he is simply grateful that he gets to exist, as he is, with him.

They come to a stop then; Tian had not even realised that they've come home until he looks away from Phupha's intense gaze, still unmoving, still peering into his soul.

"No problem," Phupha replies, his voice soft, his hand still fixed on Tian's back, as though he'd fall apart if Phupha didn't hold him.

"I should go now," Tian says, pointing at his door.

Phupha nods, letting his hand fall away, leaving Tian's back a little cold.

They've been here before, right outside his door, only saying goodbye to each other, but never truly meaning it.

(He can't, Tian realises with utmost clarity, he can't even think of saying goodbye to Phupha. You can't say goodbye to the other half of your soul.)

"Chief…" Tian starts again. "I am sorry for scaring you."

Phupha lets out a shuddering breath at that. He steps in, his hand extending, his fingers splaying out — and for a moment Tian thinks, yes, hold me again — before he clenches them again, and holds his hands behind his back.

"Why didn't you—" Phupha looks away, before meeting Tian's eyes again.

"I am worried," he says, at last. "I—" Tian has never seen the chief so out of composure, as though words have failed him entirely. His heart tugs towards Phupha. "It's you, you know?" Phupha says earnestly. "How can I not be worried?"

Words flail inside Tian's chest. It's you, the chief says, as though Tian is not someone who has, for the lack of a better word, fucked things up in the place he dares to call his home, with the people he dares to call his family. It's you, the chief says, as though he's worth the raw vulnerability in his eyes.

"Let me cook for you," Phupha says, stepping forward.

"Chief, I am alright." Tian realises that he's said the wrong thing when Phupha tenses up.

"Let me cook for you, Tian," Phupha says again. "Let me stay with you for a little while. Let me take care of you."

"You don't need to protect me," Tian replies on instinct.

The chief doesn't flinch the way he would've, before. "You call the villagers your family, didn't you?"

At Tian's nod, Phupha says, his eyes as warm as the setting sun, "I am from this village too. Family takes care of each other. Let me take care of you."

***

It is a little bit like this: Tian was always bound by time — either before the transplant or after — but not like this, never like this. Here, in the time that Tian has spent looking at Phupha cook from his bed, time almost feels fragile. Revel in it too deep, and time will be over before he knows it. Not savour it enough, and time will be marred by the lack of meaningful memories. It feels like this will soon slip away, like sand between his fingers, and he won't even get to hold it close to his heart.

It is a little bit like this: Phupha attempting to make senseless conversation over a simple dinner, just because he knows, somehow, that Tian doesn't need to think, much less talk about what happened today — at least not for the night. Just the other day, Tian had accused Phupha of not smiling, but ever since then, Tian had been privy to his warmest smiles, making Tian bask in the selfish glory of it (no-one gets to see it, no-one but him).

It is also a little bit like this: Phupha, making a home for himself in Tian's space long after it's dark, setting up Tian's mosquito net without prompting, a hushed silence falling onto them both before Phupha breaks it with a quiet, "Would you consider extending your stay?"

Tian looks at him shocked, unable to form words or find his voice for the hundredth time that day.

"I'll think about it," Tian answers at last, despite wanting to scream, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

The smile on Phupha's face at Tian's tentative answer is incomparable.

Phupha moves then, and at that moment, that singular moment stretched across the spaces in time, Tian doesn't know what takes over him. He's so reluctant for this night to end, so reluctant for Phupha to go away, and he's scared, he's so scared damn it, and just wants somebody near him that he rushes forward to grab Phupha's hand with his.

Phupha looks at their joined hands, before meeting his eyes, promoting Tian to blurt, "Can I sleep with you?"

The chief's eyes widen, ever so slightly.

"I meant!" Tian is quick to amend. "Beside. Can I sleep beside you, I meant. I—"

Tian looks around his room, suddenly feeling as though the space is too big, too large to contain what very little is left of him. "I don't want to stay alone. Right now, that is. But it's okay if you can't," Tian feels so unlike himself. Sleeping alone would have been preferable to this mortifying conversation.

Phupha's warm hands come to rest on Tian's shoulders. "I will," he says softly.

***

In his room, in the velvety darkness they surround themselves with, it is a little like this: them, sharing a blanket (again). Their hands gravitating towards each other in the dark — this time, Tian does not hesitate to envelope the chief's hand with his, before the chief flips their hands over and threads their fingers together. Tian feels safe here; secure.

He moves a little towards the chief, towards the warmth he perpetually emanates. Tian does not miss the chief moving closer too; Tian wonders why he would, for Tian always runs cold. It could not possibly be comfortable.

They move closer until their shoulders are touching. Tian does not have to look at the chief to know that he's looking at him.

Tian has already lost face in front of the chief today, on several different occasions. He nudges his cold toes against Phupha's ankle.

Phupha's sharp intake of breath, and the fact that he doesn't move his foot away, tells him all there is to know.

"Can we," Tian starts, not knowing how to end that sentence.

Phupha hums, curious.

They haven't even hugged, for god's sake. They've only...Tian has only wished that they would. He does not know what prompts him to say it.

"Can we cuddle?"

Phupha does not hesitate before letting out a relieved, "Yes."

Their hands tighten around each other.

"What do you— are you the...big spoon or the small spoon?"

"Tian."

"What? It's a valid question. I wouldn't mind being the big spoon, chief." Tian thinks about wrapping him in a hug from behind. But tonight, Tian thinks—

"Just turn around, Tian," Phupha demands.

"Geez, okay, so bossy," Tian says, leaving their hands and turning around.

Phupha does not wait a second before pulling Tian into his warm self.

Tian can already breathe easier. He gingerly puts his hand atop Phupha's, and squeezes onto it.

It goes something like this: Tian, wrapped safe and secure in Phupha's arms. Phupha, pulling him closer, muttering sweet nothings into his hair, a melody, a lullaby. Phupha, making sure that Tian sleeps better than he had, ever. Phupha, Phupha, Phupha.

Tian feels more at home than he'll ever be.

(send a pairing + a prompt if you want!)

[gotemsayingw0w]

Bed

Look, mom, I finally finished the damn challenge two months late!! Ao3 FFN

Kyo has a crooked nose. It was one of the first things Tohru noticed once she had full access to staring at his face, though she had spent plenty of time before they were ever together staring at his face as well. The place where the bridge of his nose deviates from its traditional path is a dead giveaway.

For a long time, it really bothered her. When she first reached out to gently trace the jagged slope with her finger, Kyo smiled at her. A side effect of having it broken at least a dozen times in his life.

It wasn’t the shape or aesthetics of his nose that were the problem, it was the fact that anyone would ever dare hurt him. She cupped his cheek in her hand and frowned, trying to ignore her temper simmering under her skin. It wasn’t as if she actually had the capability to protect him, especially not physically, but nevertheless.

Kyo assured her that he thoroughly deserved to have his nose broken. He reminded her that a handful of times it happened was when she was actually present. It was all Yuki and Haru, he told her. Coupla’ assholes. Although, of course, he at least broke Haru’s nose in return. He never did get the chance to return the favor to Yuki. Maybe one day. Either way, Kyo just laughed it off.

Shishou showed her a picture of what he dubbed ‘the worst Kyo has ever looked.’ It was a middle school class picture. He stood in the back row, a scowl on his face. His eye had a deep, purple crescent moon underneath it. It was taken only a year before they met.

His nose wasn’t the only giveaway of the tumultuous childhood he had. He had plenty of tiny scars all over his hands, proof that he’d been known to punch through unsuspecting windows. He had a puckered spot on his shin, which he blamed on Kagura knocking him into a boulder. But just below Kyo’s left eyebrow laid a deep groove, only about a centimeter long. 

Tohru only received a very cursory explanation of that mark. It was clear Kyo was not keen to talk about it. A permanent reminder of the abuse he’d received before the age of five. His mother had a matching one on her cheek. A dinner gone awry; that was all Kyo wished to explain. Tohru didn’t need the details anyway.

The marks on his body made her want to cry. She couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone intentionally hurting him. And she especially couldn’t stand the physical reminder of what he’d suffered mentally as well. The years of ridicule, abuse, victimization, and fear he had to face. Sometimes it made her cry to think about. While Kyo would assure her that he was fine, that it was all in the past, that he’d let it all go, it still tore at her heart.

“Everyone’s got scars, Tohru,” her mother had said to her in middle school. “Even if you can’t see ‘em, they’re there.” Her mother assured her that scars weren’t a bad thing. They were just evidence of the past. “It’s what you do after you’re hurt that matters.”

But if those physical reminders of his past pain bothered Tohru, her scars bothered him even more. 

Her hands were littered with tiny pockmarks. Burns from pans or the racks in the oven. Tiny punctures from poking herself with a knife on more occasions than she was willing to admit. She had a piece of pencil lead permanently buried in her palm from a mechanical pencil stabbing her while she dug through her bag back in high school.

Her knees had permanent marks from the amount of times she’d tripped and tore through her tights. She gritted her teeth not just because she’d have to buy another new pair of stockings, but because she could never quite believe how she was so clumsy.

Those weren’t the scars that bothered him, especially seeing as she continued to be clumsy well into adulthood. It was the scars she found him tracing in the middle of the night. The scars he would fix his gaze on when she was able to wear summer clothing again. The scars that their son asked about on occasion, only to be met with two adults who couldn’t fathom a way to answer.

Just as Kyo assured her that his scars were nothing to worry about, she did the same for him. It didn’t stop him from pressing three of his fingers to the three parallel lines on her shoulder. It didn’t stop his face from twisting to a look of pain that broke her heart. It didn’t stop him from repeating over and over out loud how sorry he was and it certainly didn’t stop whatever awful things he was saying to himself in his head. 

He had a different reaction whenever she caught him staring at the scar on her opposite side. Long and thin, but deep; the tiny suture marks still very much visible even years later. When she caught him staring at that, she could feel the tension radiating off of him. His jaw would set, teeth clamped together, mouth set in a scowl. No matter the weather, Tohru always made sure to wear long sleeves whenever Akito and Kyo were together with her in a room, though that had only happened a handful of times since they’d left home. 

They were a patchwork quilt of defects, but her mother had, of course, been right all those years ago. It’s what you do after that matters.

And after all of the trauma, the injuries both physical and emotional, what they did together mattered more than ever. Because they created Hajime. And Hajime is the most perfect little boy she has ever known.

Hajime does not know anger. He does not know rejection or exclusion. He does not know judgement or loneliness. Hajime is surrounded every day by love and, in turn, returns it to his parents and those around him. He is kind, empathetic. He is precocious and articulate at only the age of two. He is everything she ever could have dreamed of.

True, that she and Kyo spent hours when he was an infant just staring at him as he slept. At his porcelain face, framed by vibrant red hair and his tiny, cherubic hands. Even now, Hajime’s parents find tranquility in simply watching him play, basking in the smile on his face and returning it back wholeheartedly. Hajime is the center of their world. He melts any residual anger and soothes the pain that lingers in the two of them. 

They are inseparable, the three of them. Hajime joins both of his parents at work every day, following papa around the dojo between classes and playing at Tohru’s feet when the after-school crowd comes rushing in. He helps cook meals, as much as a toddler can, and grabs each of their hands as they go for walks along the shoreline in the evening.

As of late, he winds up in their bed at dawn every day. Sometimes being held by Tohru, other times by Kyo, but oftentimes placed squarely in the center, where both of his parents can cocoon him and squeeze another hour of sleep out of the morning before they can start their day together.

Today, Hajime rose from bed earlier than the sun, and Tohru heard through thick, sleepy ears the sound of Kyo plucking him up by the arm and hauling him up to their bed to share his pillow. She felt the blankets shift subtly as the two boys snuggled in close to succumb once more to silence and calm.

It’s a shrill cry that wakes her up. She bolts upright in bed next to Kyo, who is pulling Hajime up from the floor. Hajime screams in agony as Kyo wraps him up in the blanket, rising to his feet in a hurried panic. Tohru looks on in horror as Kyo holds a corner of the blanket over Hajime’s face, which is profusely bleeding, and she leaps to her feet.

It is a deep, albeit small cut under his eyebrow. Once Hajime’s panicked parents figure out that they alone will not be able to stop the bleeding, Tohru throws yesterday’s dress from the laundry basket over her pajamas. Kyo grabs his t-shirt from the floor and they hurry out to the car, where Tohru sits with Hajime to keep him calm and keep the now-soiled blanket pressed to his face.

Hajime leaves the hospital with three tiny stitches, a swollen eye, and a frown, all courtesy of the sharp corner of the bedside table he collided with when he rolled too far toward the edge. 

At home, Hajime curls up on their bed with the two of them, safely in the middle, a parental shield on either side of him. He falls asleep for an early nap, no doubt a result of the morning’s trauma and the child-sized dose of medicine they gave him to calm the pain and swelling.

After an hour of just watching Hajime sleep, Tohru rises to heat up a late breakfast and returns, two steaming bowls of ramen on a tray in her hands, to find Kyo staring fixedly on the mark, tears in his eyes, as he grabs his son’s hand as gently as possible so as not to wake him. Tohru rests the tray on the offending nightstand and curls herself into Kyo’s lap.

“It’s gonna leave a scar,” Kyo whispers, brushing his lips against her hair. She can’t fathom a supportive response, so she just nods against his chest. “I don’t want him to have a scar.” She nods once more. She doesn’t want Hajime to have a scar, either. She doesn’t want him to ever hurt. She doesn’t want the reminder of doctors stitching him up while he wailed. 

“Now’s the time when you’re supposed to give a positive Kyoko/Tohru spin on things,” Kyo suggests, wrapping his palm under her chin, tilting her head up to meet her eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. He’s trying to cheer himself up, too. “Didn’t your mom have a whole speech about scars?”

Tohru returns his slight smile. “She did, but I think she was referring to being mugged with a knife or in a fight.” She giggles softly, picturing her mom’s speech if she were here right now. “But she once fainted when I had a bloody nose, so she would be no good in this situation.”

They fall silent and Tohru returns her head to his chest. As they sit there in contemplative silence, a tidal wave of guilt crashes down upon the two of them. She can feel it well up in her chest and she can hear Kyo’s breathing give him away. 

Scars are a part of each of their lives, but not what either of them ever wanted for Hajime. Logically, she knows that kids get hurt all the time. She used to work in a school and now that they both work at the dojo, bandages and first aid kits are a part of their daily lives. But seeing her own child hurt, bleeding, and marked, even though there is nothing she could have done to prevent it makes her feel sick to her stomach.

Tohru breaks the silence and asks “Do you think a sparring helmet would fit his head?” Kyo snorts and she smiles, though she is partially serious. “Really!” She exclaims, a little too loudly and he hushes her. “At least until it heals...we don’t want it to get worse.” She whispers the last part.

Kyo hugs her tightly into his chest again. “I’ll try to find one his size.”

*   *   *

The same night, Tohru sits on their bed folding laundry. From the baby monitor, she hears Kyo read Hajime a bedtime story, her heart melting, as it always seems to, whenever he gets into it and switches up his voice for each of the characters. She hears the gentle thump of the hardback closing and being set up on the bookshelf next to Hajime’s bed. She continues to listen as Hajime and Kyo both yawn.

“Papa?” Hajime asks, his little voice floating through the monitor like music. Kyo prompts him to continue and Hajime says “Papa match?” Tohru rises to peek out of their bedroom door across the hall, curious as to what Hajime is saying.

“Match what?” Kyo asks, puzzlement lacing his tone. 

Hajime sits up and reaches his hand out to point to Kyo’s left eyebrow and the scar that sits just below it. With his other hand, he touches his own stitched up brow, though his is on the right side. Tohru smiles as she looks at her husband and Hajime. Hajime points out the scar with no mal-intent and no judgement, just making an observation as he tends to do.

“Yeah, guess we do match, huh?” Kyo responds, smiling and kissing his son gently on his injury. Hajime returns the favor, missing Kyo’s scar entirely and landing a kiss on his temple instead. “You know what mama always says when we match…” Kyo says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye as he settles Hajime back down under the blankets. “Aw, so cute.” Kyo croons in a high-pitched voice.

Hajime giggles, a musical sound, and recites a toddler version of her frequent catchphrase “I take a picture.”

“I love you, Hajime,” Kyo whispers, kissing the crown of his son’s head.

“Love you, too,” Hajime breathes, cuddling closer to his side. “So cute.”

[timesorceror]

Day 24 (January 30th) - Anders and Feathers

The theme of this day is Anders the feathermage, with all his feathers.

For @justhanderspositive‘s challenge: [HERE].

This was originally just going to be about how Anders got that set of robes we see him in when we meet him in Awakening.

It turned out to be so much more than that. Enjoy. 

Anders remembered finding that first set of Tevinter robes for sale at that Wonders of Thedas place when he was passing through Denerim again after his seventh escape. He knew he probably shouldn't buy it, there were plenty of other things that he needed, but...

The metal plates of gold were just so shiny and the fabrics were softer than anything he’d ever worn in the Circle, even as an Enchanter. And then there were the feathers.

Black as pitch with hints of blue and green and gold hidden among the wispy layers, the robes came with a set of pauldrons that were covered in what had to be hundreds of the silky things, and Anders adored every last one.

When he bought it, he remembered burying his face in the feathers, taking in their smell, only to be surprised to pick up hints of copper and sulfur among the soap and perfume that still clung to it from whomever had owned it previously. Whoever had sold this had seen battle before, or its previous wearer had been killed in battle and it had merely been sold here so that the victor could earn a rather nice sum of coin on the quick.

He wouldn’t know, until after he’d been conscripted by Rashia Amell and she’d recognized a chink in the side of the gold plating around his waist, that the robes he’d somehow managed to hold onto after all this time had belonged to a Tevinter mage.

“What, you mean a real mage from Tevinter?” He hadn’t been able to keep the excitement out of his voice, and Rashia scowled at him.

“Yes. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t sound so excited at the prospect of wearing a dead slaver’s clothes.” Anders remembered the feeling of shock as it slammed into him, and the burning shame that followed.

Rashia’s eyes had softened and her lips turned up in a wistful smile.

“Not so willing to continue wearing that, now are you? Well. Give me a minute to fetch those new robes for you before you have the desire to strip down to your smalls to scrub the filth of association off your skin, hmm?”

He only wore the Warden robes from then on.

…at least, until he had to leave them.

Anders remembered that he hadn’t disposed of the robes when Rashia had told him of the robes’ true origins. Instead, he’d dismantled them and had taken the parts he liked, threw away the parts he hadn’t. Over the course of his time with the Wardens, Anders made a coat from the pieces of the robes. He’d taken the pauldrons, but had to replace the shiny black feathers with a mix of white and brown feathers instead. They weren’t as fine as the black ones, but they were softer, fluffier. And he took the green vest outlined in gold, attaching it to a thick, brown undercoat. He’d had to sew his own sleeves together, and the result was… less than pretty, but it was sturdy and held together. It served him well when he and Justice fled the Wardens and headed to Kirkwall to seek out Karl.

And of course, as with most things in Anders’ life, it had ended in disaster.

Karl had been made Tranquil, but something about Justice’s presence had given his first love the presence of mind to become himself again as he bled out on the tiles of the Chantry floor. His eyes, which had grown duller and duller with each moment the flow remained un-staunched, somehow focused on the feathers of Anders’ coat for few moments.

He reached up to thread a hand through them, and he smiled a little at the feel and texture of them. “They’re a good look on you,” Karl whispered. “Keep them. My beloved feather mage.”

Those were Karl’s last spoken words, as only a few moments later, his breathing stopped.

Anders gathered a few of the stray feathers that he always had on hand and burned them with Karl’s body later that night, just outside of the city limits where no one would see. He spent time crushing the bones –almost lovingly– by hand, and burying the dust in the soil with some elfroot seeds. Several months down the road, the elfroot there would grow tall and strong, and even managed to produce the only patch of royal elfroot that Anders knew of for miles.

He never forgot where that particular patch was, or who had been buried there.

He tried not to think about his feathered coat overmuch after that, as the thought was too painful, even years later.

Until Hawke.

Hayden Hawke, who had stood by him as Karl’s body was burned, who held Anders while he cried even though he was but a stranger… who had helped him scatter the dust and ashes and plant the elfroot seeds. Hayden, who had once been so timid and quiet, had grown into a charming, beautiful, and charismatic servant of the people. Hayden, who never forgot who they were or where they’d come from, reached out to everyone but only surrounded themselves with the few they considered trustworthy. Family.

And in Anders’ case: their lover.

Hayden shared Karl’s love of Anders’ fascination with feathers, with their texture, their structure, the symbolism behind them. They loved Anders’ coat. They touched it every chance they got, hugging him from the front or behind so they could thread their fingers through it, or sometimes when they shared a tent while out on an overnight job, Hayden would drape themselves over Anders like a human blanket, burying their face in them. Once, Anders had woken up to find Hayden reading on the chaise lounge on their balcony… in nothing but his coat.

It had been the most beautiful and arousing thing he’d ever seen. And the wicked grin that sprung to Hayden’s lips when their eyes met told Anders just how much they knew that.

Later, when Fenris joined them, Fenris loved the feathers of his coat too.

But he didn’t tell Anders why until they were on the run after the destruction of the chantry at the hands of the Underground, headed for Amaranthine to see what awaited them there (because nothing did in Kirkwall anymore, not really).

It was late evening, and Hayden was off looking for some game to eat. The area was heavily populated with rabbits and the large birds that preyed on them, so it wouldn’t take them long to come back, and it was just the two of them watching the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon of distant trees.

They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the quiet, which would have ordinarily bothered Anders, but because the forest was so populated with the sounds of the wind and the wildlife, it wasn’t the kind of quiet that he hated so. And having a warm body next to him helped too.

Eventually, Fenris glanced over at him, and at the black coat that had replaced the one he’d made himself all those years ago shimmered softly in the warm red glow of the setting sun.

“You know, you look good in that coat,” Fenris told him matter-of-factly.

Anders stared at him, blinking owlishly. “What? You… you really think so?”

Fenris nodded.

“I didn’t used to. It’s a Tevinter thing, those feathers, or it used to be. It think it had gone out of style before Danarius took me with him to Seheron, where we were separated.” Separated, unfortunately reunited, and then separated again. But Fenris lips merely pursed –likely because he was remembering what had happened there– and he continued with, “I think that was another reason I didn’t like you when we first met. Even though feathers had never been to Daranius’ tastes, it… they reminded me of him.”

“And therefore, so did I.”

“Yes. But… then I saw you with the coat off, and your shirt…. and I saw the scars. And I couldn’t unsee them. Even when the coat was on, all I could see when I looked at you was those scars.”

“And… then? Now?” Anders prompted.

Fenris was silent for a moment, and he reached up to thread a hand through the feathers, as dark and inky black as the feathers of the robes he had bought when he was young.

“After seeing those scars, I couldn’t see you as a magister anymore. No magister has scars. I suppose I began seeing you as more of the man you wished me to see you as, rather than just a mage. And then… Hayden… Hayden brought us together, and you became more than just a man.” Fenris stared at him intensely, capturing Anders’ gaze, freezing him to the spot.

“You became… mine.”

And that was saying something, considering Fenris had claimed very few things as his over the course of his life. Fenris kissed him then, basking in the light of the setting sun. They remained that way until Hayden returned with a large rabbit for them to eat, and they settled back into being a trio again.

Eventually they arrived at Vigil’s Keep, and by happenstance Hayden’s cousin and Anders’ former commander, Rashia Amell, happened to be back from her latest trip to Soldier’s Peak. She greeted them with open arms, introduced almost everyone from their motley crew (with the exception of Nathaniel whom they’d met a few years prior) and helped them pick out a place for them to live out in the Amaranthine wilds.

It was at dinner that Anders and Rashia finally had the chance to speak while they watched Nathaniel and Fenris have a deep conversation about something while Hayden appeared to be listening to some story of Sigrun’s with rapt attention.

“You still have a thing for feathers, I see,” she commented with a teasing grin.

He merely smiled at her and took a sip from his cup of cider. “At least these didn’t belong to the robes of a dead slaver. Or at least I hope they didn’t. Hayden had it made for me when my old coat became to difficult to repair.”

Rashia nodded thoughtfully. “Well, regardless, even if they were, you are certainly not the man who was once proud of the fact that his robes had belonged to a Tevinter mage. So I suppose that counts for something. You look good in feathers, though. They suit you.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Rashia. Call me Rashia. We’re family now, right?”

“Hmm. Then I suppose we shouldn’t tell Hayden about the things you and I got up to when you conscripted me, hmm? I’m pretty sure family don’t do those sorts of things with one another.”

Rashia paused, shuddered, and took a sip from her own drink.

“No, definitely not.”

But Anders couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto his face when he thought about her words. His feathers suited him, she said. She, who was now family. A family that consisted of herself, her ragtag band of Wardens, and now Anders and his two lovers, one of whom she was actually related to.

His love of feathers had given him all of this, in the end.

And it hadn’t ended in disaster.