#its scabbed over at this point and its SO ITCHY

[thedisablednaturalist]

If scab no pick then why scab ITCHY

[scarletpiano]

I go on a rant in the tags about injuries, so if thats not your thing, don't read ect. ect.

[lightseoul]

cw. gn!reader, worker!reader, prohero!katsuki, aged-up (25), pining (again, if you look extra closely), a lot of cussing (are we still surprised)

masterlist | part 1 (although ig this makes sense on its own), part 3 (i didn't plan this), part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

“What.”

It’s less of a question and more of a statement—a statement sputtered in the typically demanding way characteristic of the one and only Bakugou Katsuki.

The Bakugou Katsuki who happens to be your boss for a good (debatable) three and a half years now, who you also have to spend overtime with until who knows what time to discuss what’s become rocky employee relations in the Ground Riot agency.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion or irrational annoyance—both, really—before you quickly school your expression into a neutral one. You riffle through the documents rather absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze before shooting back with: “What do you mean what?”

“I meant,” he leans back on his office chair that you know he singlehandedly picked out for its superior ergonomic design because he’s meticulous like that, “what the fuck is wrong with your face.”

“Excuse me?”

Your retort is laced with more indignant anger than intended, but at this point in the night, you cannot for the life of you bring yourself to care about your tone. It’s been a long day, and you weren’t about to let your stupid boss make fun of your appearance, of all things.

Bakugou probably senses the significant change in your demeanor, because his eyes widen in surprise ever so slightly before he sits up and opens his mouth to explain himself.

“You’ve been looking like you accidentally drank spoiled milk for the past hour and the shit aftertaste isn’t going away.” He haughtily shakes his head, and it takes everything in you not to jump him and choke your boss.

To your disdain, however, he continues.

“It’s either you spit it out or I’m going to have to force you to tell me what’s wrong.”

You gape at him. Whatever you expected him to say, it wasn’t that.

As quickly as you can, however, you attempt to regain your bearings and at least try to seem nonchalant, clearing your throat as unbothered as possible to top it all off. “Well, working overtime to iron out office squabbles isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing Friday night, thank you very much.”

He scoffs. “Bullshit.”

You almost get whiplash from how quickly you look at him. His brazen rudeness—which, right now, is worse than usual which is saying something, mind you—renders you incapable of saying anything aside from another winded: “Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Miss me with that bullshit, dumbass.”

You feel yourself heat up in irritation. “I thought I told you to stop calling me dumbass.”

“You’d rather I call you princess?”

At that, you break eye contact despite yourself, choosing to stare at his forehead instead. It’s still unnerving—looking at any part of his body, really—but it’s better than looking at him squarely and witnessing the smirk you know has taken over his unfairly handsome features.

Your voice is small, to your chagrin, when you reply. “That’s actually a lot worse.”

The man dares to bark out a laugh.

You continue to metaphorically choke him in your head.

“Okay then, dumbass,” he emphasizes the nickname and you are about 99% sure a pained expression is dancing across your face because Bakugou is observing you with even more amusement before his features settle into a look of seriousness.

“As I was saying before you missed the point entirely—I highly doubt you’re this bothered because of fucking overtime,” he eyes you cautiously before pressing on. “Something’s wrong.”

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion of the week filled with workplace conflict, or the crushing news you received this morning in the mail, or the very fact that Bakugou, despite his roughness and the annoyingly persistent way he’s been poking at your mood like it’s an itchy scab, is looking at you with genuine concern—but you end up doing it.

You give in.

You feel the tears welling up in your eyes before you even get the chance to deny them permission to, and at the sight of them Bakugou sits up even straighter in alarm—and you don’t know what comes over you because you start laughing so hard, your hand shoots up to your stomach in an attempt to keep it from cramping.

“Oi.”

The expression on his face is so unbelievably baffled that you only end up cackling to yourself more.

It takes a few more minutes before the sillies are fully flushed out of your system and really, it only took you a glance at Bakugou to realize you probably looked demented just now.

Feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, you quickly wipe away the tears in your eyes and muster enough courage to flash him a genuine smile.

To your delight, he flashes you one right back, albeit tentatively—one that is boyish and charming under the rather dim lights of his corner office.

Although he seemingly reboots to his default state because it’s immediately replaced by a frown and followed by: “You’re so weird, you know that?”

You snort and, before you can stop yourself: “Not as weird as my ex.”

At that, Bakugou’s entire countenance changes—he visibly stiffens in his seat and his eyebrows furrow in what you believe is confusion at the sudden mention of your past lover.

Bakugou says nothing, however, and so you take that as a sign to continue.

“Remember that meeting we had last March with Chef Asahi about our collaboration with his restaurant where I was late and you gave me shit for it? And when you asked I told you it was because I just got dumped over the phone?”

He gives you a curt nod, lips tight.

“Well,” you chuckle nervously, feeling embarrassed at your upcoming revelation, “I just found out that that ex is getting married in two months, and I’m invited.”

Neither of you says anything for the next—what feels like—hour.

Until Bakugou takes a sharp inhale, leans forward on his desk, and stares you down straight in the eyes: “I’ll do it.”

“What?”

He scowls at you like you’ve got a pea for a brain. “Don’t make me say it twice, dumbass.”

You frown at his hostility, your own bewilderment chipping away at your already thinning patience. “You’re not saying anything.”

Bakugou sighs, and he looks like what he is about to say next physically pains him.

“I’ll be your fucking date to the wedding.”

tagging. @kitthepurplepotato @chelbyisbord @lovra974 @katsukis1wife @brunnetteiwik

special shoutout to @he3v4n for reading the prequel to this and following thereafter--inadvertently making me check out past writing and get inspired to write this <3

[andiv3r]

So. I need to make a whole post about lots of things but I've decided that dermatillomania is one of them. Cw for blood and lots of skin-picking stuff below.

Story time. I remember in eighth grade, my religion teacher pulled me out into the halls to talk to me, and my first thought was, "Oh shit, another one," because the previous religion teacher had put me through hell and back for being queer (which was information I had not even shared with her). I braced to have an awkward conversation about my love life and gender identity for the second time in two years. Instead, she pointed at my arm.

"What's that?" She asked. I glanced down at my arms, covered in scabs, red and radiating heat from where I'd been picking for hours. "Your skin, I mean. Why is it... like that?"

Oh. Right. She was new. She didn't know.

"Genetic skin condition." I replied. "It's not really that bad on its own, but I pick at it whenever I'm nervous or upset or sad or bored or... just kind of whenever." She opened her mouth and I interrupted before she could say it. "I've tried to stop, and I've tried wearing long sleeves, and I've tried medicine, and I keep my nails short, but it doesn't help, so... yeah. Don't worry about it. It's not contagious or anything, it's genetic."

Her face scrunched into a frown, but she didn't say anything else and told me to return to my English class. I did.

Later that day, I had to go to Science class. The worst of them, at least in terms of places I picked at my arms. The teacher was nice enough, but I fucking hated science as a class. So, while everyone else was taking notes, I ran my hand along my arms. They were warm. Wet in some places, from the blood that had pooled around some bumps. But most of all, they were so... bumpy. So easy to just... pinch. Squeeze. Scratch.

I walked out of Science class that day with my left arm covered in bloody spots. Shit. My mom was gonna kill me.

No.

Don't think about her.

Don't do it, or else you'll get nervous, and when you get nervous you-

Too late. The fingers that had been rhythmically tapping my desk in Pre-Algebra were now tracing my jawline, searching for...

Ah. There.

Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move my fingers up a bit to my cheek. Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move. Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move. Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move, pinch, squeeze, scratch, move, pinch, squeeze, sc-

"[deadname], your face is bleeding!" I jerked my hands away from my face and stared down at my fingers, their tips stained crimson. So it was.

"Ah. Yeah. D'you have a kleenex?" I replied to the alarmed blond beside me.

"Uh... yeah." He passed one over with a frown. He knew about my skin-picking, so I'm not sure why he was so surprised. Maybe it was the blood. I licked my fingers, wetting them so that the blood would come off. It didn't.

The bell rang.

I swung my backpack onto my back and felt the fabric rub against my raw and open skin.

Well that fucking hurts, but I did it to myself, so I ignored it. I could've just stopped picking, as my mother so often reminded me. I should've just stopped.

I mean, it's not like I had some mental condition I didn't know about that was fueling this, right?

When my mom picked me up from after hours that day, both of my arms were red, both from blood and inflammation. Scabs littered every place in my skin that I could reach. The first thing she did was pull up my sleeve and her frown turned into a scowl.

"Really, [deadname]? Seriously? After all I told you about how that's horrible for your skin? Do you want to be so ugly no boy will want to date you?"

That did sound pleasant, actually, but I didn't need to tell her that. Besides, that wasn't why I was doing it. To be honest, there wasn't really a why. I didn't even realize I was doing it, usually, until I had. I zoned out as she ranted about how I'd never be able to wear a swimsuit, I would have permanent scars, and as I did, my left hand trailed up my arm, grazing the warm, itchy, painful bumps.

Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch.

[kevahaircare]

Managing Discomfort: Pain Relief and Comfort Measures After Hair Transplant Surgery | Keva Hair care | Coimbatore Hair Transplant Clinic

So, you’ve had a hair transplant in Coimbatore? Well, buckle up because we’re about to dive into everything you need to know about taking care of your brand-new hair.

First off, let’s talk about hair washing. It’s important to keep your scalp clean to help those new hairs grow strong and healthy. You’ll need to follow a special routine for the first couple of weeks. Here’s what you do:

- Step 1: Soften those scabs. Gently cover your transplanted area with lotion or foam for about 15–30 minutes.

- Step 2: Rinse, rinse, rinse! Wash your scalp thoroughly with warm water.

- Step 3: Time for shampoo. Use a special medical shampoo and lather it gently onto your scalp. No rubbing, though!

- Step 4: Rinse again! Make sure you get rid of all that shampoo.

After washing, pat your hair dry with a paper towel — no rubbing! And keep using that moisturizer until those scabs fall off.

Now, let’s talk about pain. It’s normal to feel a little soreness after the procedure, especially in the donor area. But don’t worry, over-the-counter painkillers can help with that.

Next up: swelling. If you notice some puffiness around your forehead and eyes, don’t panic! It’s just your body’s way of reacting to the surgery. It should go down within a few days.

Feeling itchy? That’s normal too! Just resist the urge to scratch too hard. If it gets really bad, you can take an antihistamine pill.

Now, let’s talk about the best sleeping position. Try to sleep on your back with your head elevated for the first week. It’ll help reduce swelling and protect those precious grafts.

As for healing — everyone’s different! But most people start feeling back to normal within a day or two. Just be patient, and you’ll see those new hairs sprouting up before you know it.

Let’s add a couple more crucial points to ensure you have all the information you need:

Shaving after Hair Transplantation: You might be itching to shave, but hold off for a bit. You can shave your donor area about a week after the surgery, once the scabs have cleared. As for the recipient area, wait a whole month before reaching for the razor.

Shock Loss and Hair Regrowth: Don’t panic if you notice some of your transplanted hairs falling out within the first few weeks — that’s just shock loss doing its thing. But fear not! By the third to fifth month, those lost grafts will start making a comeback, and by the seventh month, you should see about 60% of them sprouting back up.

Oh, and don’t forget about sun protection! Your scalp will be extra sensitive for the first few months, so slap on a hat whenever you go outside.

And finally, when it comes to exercise, take it easy for the first week or so. After that, you can gradually get back into your normal routine.

With these extra tips, you’ll be well-equipped to navigate the journey of hair transplant recovery like a pro! Patience is key, and soon enough, you’ll be flaunting your fabulous new mane with confidence.

And if you ever need expert guidance or personalized care along the way, consider reaching out to Keva Hair Care. With our dedicated team of professionals and cutting-edge treatments, we’re here to support you every step of the way on your path to regaining your confidence and achieving your dream hair. So why wait? Take the first step towards your hair restoration journey with Keva Hair Care Clinic today!

For those ready to embark on a transformative journey to restore their crowning glory, Keva Hair Care awaits. With a promise of unparalleled excellence, it is the beacon of hope for many.

Keva Hair CareAddress: No 424K 3rd Floor, Harmony Complex, Diwan Bahadur Rd, above ICICI Bank, above Pandiyan Medicals, R.S. Puram, Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu 641002 https://medium.com/@kevahaircare/managing-discomfort-pain-relief-and-comfort-measures-after-hair-transplant-surgery-keva-hair-44da055dae7c

[trip-to-nature24]

Hair Transplant Aftercare and Recovery Instructions

A hair transplant is a delicate and precise operation and a combination of art and science. The days and weeks following your surgery are critical to a successful outcome. This is healing and recovery time, something that can greatly affect the overall output of your procedure. In this article, we will provide detailed instructions on hair transplant after care. 

What does the hair transplant recovery timeline look like?

After the hair transplant procedure is complete, and you've gone home, you'll still have access to Elation Hair and Skin Clinic’s complete post-hair transplant aftercare program and the expert guidance you need.

After a hair transplant, it may take two to three months for your new follicles to fully accept and start growing new hair normally. Initially, the new hair may be rough and uneven, but soon you will have the youthful head of hair you deserve.  It is common for patients to have full natural hair growth within about 10 months of their procedure.

But every patient's outcome and recovery time is different. So if your hair regrowth takes more than 10 months, it doesn't mean the procedure didn't work or your results won't be as effective. But if you have any concerns, you can call us or request a complimentary checkup as part of our aftercare commitment.

Care steps after 1-4 days of hair transplant

The healing period after hair transplant is 1-4 days, and you must follow the aftercare steps prescribed by your surgeons. 

Once you are done spraying, sleep for a few hours.

The first few days after your hair transplant are for rest. The procedure exhausts your body and rest helps speed your recovery.

Avoid swimming, drinking alcohol, smoking, high-impact exercise, and more. Keep the scalp well hydrated during this period with regular saline sprays. Combing should also be avoided, but if you must comb, do it carefully while wet to avoid any bleeding or irritation.

If you experience any irritation, pain or discomfort during this time, please contact us immediately.

 Care steps after 5-9 days of hair transplant

The scalp would begin to heal. It's time to gently wash again. The pain and swelling will mostly disappear. Do not use a lot of shampoo;  Focus on gently removing dry skin or scabs.

Avoid any high-impact exercise at this point after your hair transplant, just to be sure all the follicles are healed before you go again. High-impact exercise causes sweating, which is dangerous for a newly transplanted scalp.

Hair care after 10-14 days hair transplant

Ten days after the transplant, your scalp will likely look pink and itchy. As long as there is no pain or discomfort, you don't have to worry about anything. After the pink skin and scabs have completely healed, your follicles will go dormant again and your new hair will fall out, leaving you looking like you did before the hair transplant. This will eventually lead to the growth of rich, healthy new hair in your transplanted follicles.

You can start washing your hair normally.  So what shampoo should you use at this stage?  Use a mild shampoo, and it should not be harsh or abrasive.

How to wash your hair at this stage?

  Fill a clean container with lukewarm water

  Add a dollop of tea tree shampoo and mix well with water until it becomes soapy

  Use a cup or a jug to carefully pour the solution over the transplanted and donor area

  In the transplanted area, gently press on the grafts and gently wash the suture line using a circular motion.

  Make sure all sides are rinsed using plain clean water

  Leave your hair to dry naturally, but try to pat it gently with a clean towel.

  Follow this regimen once daily for four to fourteen days.

  In an FUT procedure, your stitches will be removed seven to ten days after the procedure.

  You can exercise, but check with your surgeon to make sure you are completely healthy and safe.

3-6 months after hair transplant

Follow up with your appointment. Once the incision is healed, let nature take its course and your hair will slowly begin to grow back naturally.  At this stage, check-up appointments will be only after 3 months and after 6 months.  We recommend that you take pictures of your progress.  Don't be careless at this stage;  Please ensure you book these in your diary.  Everyone has a different healing process.  An appointment at this time will not confirm anything unusual about your recovery.  You can discuss any questions about aftercare and the future of your hair with our experts.

10 months post hair transplant care

You will get your hair back, and it will grow naturally.  Natural hair regrowth begins within 2-3 months of the procedure.  That hair will be patchy and uneven because each follicle begins to grow at different times.  After 10 months, a haircut is usually needed to bring all the hair back to the same length.

Hair transplant care after 12 months

After 12 months, you will meet with your surgeon for a final appointment.  At this appointment, we will examine your hairline and growth to evaluate overall results.

Keep these points in mind in the days and weeks following your hair transplant

Avoid wearing tight caps and scarves. This will inhibit your hair growth and prevent the surgical site from healing properly.

Apply the recommended saline solution before applying a mild shampoo. The salt will keep the area clean, speed up healing and relieve any itching sensation. Store the saline solution in the refrigerator.

Avoid using hair products. Any hair product, hair dryer or power shower will damage the hair follicle. They can migrate before they heal, resulting in less than perfect results.

For four weeks post-operation, avoid heavy lifting as it can negatively affect your healing. The same is true of any high-impact exercise or contact sports for at least one month after the procedure to prevent the healed follicles or incisions from reopening.

Avoid gym work, swimming, running, cycling etc. These actions will extend the scar.

Wash your hands regularly as your scalp begins to heal;  You may want to check it regularly to notice any changes.  But avoid touching your scalp as much as possible to let it heal. But if you can't resist, it's important to clean your hands and wash them more regularly than usual with hot water and antibacterial gel.

So, before doing hair transplant surgery, we need to understand which place is good for doing this. It's very much important to do hair transplantation from a proper and experienced place. If you are thinking about a hair transplant and want to make the present worth it, feel free to contact Elation Hair and Skin Clinic. All the doctors in Elation will be happy to serve you with world-class services and if you haven't started researching yet, we are here to make your life easier. Elation Hair and Skin Clinic is the most experienced hair transplant clinic in kolkata. 

[kats-alcove]

To Scratch an Itch

Pairing: Dabi x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: Contains graphic descriptions of skin picking/itching, blood, self harm.

Summary:  Your urges get the better of you, and Dabi steps in to help.

A/N: Ok, so this is a really personal piece I wasn't sure I was gonna publish. I have eczema that flairs when I get stressed, and over the years I developed the unfortunate habit of itching as a form of self-harm. I've been getting better, but there are still times when it gets bad. If this can help anyone else out there with a similar issue, I hope it reaches them.

Read it on AO3 here!

You were itchy again.

It was always the same when your stress piled up, your anxiety spiraled, your depression reared its ugly head. Before you knew it, little patches of red appeared on your skin. On the crease of your elbows, the backs of your calves, your thighs and wrists. And they all itched like crazy.

Sometimes you could catch yourself before it got too bad. You could wash the spots with a cool cloth and apply some ointment or lotion. You could distract your hands with a video game or craft project to keep them from picking at your skin. You could calm down, identify the source of the stress and sort out the problem. You could stop yourself before you hurt yourself.

This was not one of those times.

This was one of the times when you couldn't resist, didn't want to resist. One of those times when the stress was so heavy, the anxiety so high, the depression so deep that you couldn't help but pick at every itchy spot until you’d scratched the itch away. Raking your nails across your skin as scabs were torn off and blood pooled in crimson dots on your arms and legs.

It hurt, but it hurt so good. It felt like you were finally able to take all that internal pain, all the anxiety and regret and fear and anger, and bring it into the real world. Because you had learned young that nobody took your pain seriously, not unless there was blood to show for it. But even then, they never asked the question you wanted them to. They just gave you a cloth to clean up with, gave you prescription ointments and Benadryl and told you “Try not to itch, honey; you're just hurting yourself.”

Nobody ever asked if you were ok.

This attack was a bad one, the first you’d had in a while. Your skin had almost completely healed from the last time you’d done this. That almost made it worse, because now there was a voice in your head screaming at you to stop it stop hurting yourself what are you doing you were doing so good, clashing with the one that was almost gleefully telling you keep going keep going make it hurt make them all see how much you hurt.

Tears welled in your eyes as fingernails moved to a new patch of skin on your wrist. There were a few scabs here from your last attack, and you tore at them, ripping them off and widening the wounds until they too were crying crimson. Only when it started to really hurt did you stop and shift positions on your bed so that you could more easily reach the backs of your calves.

It was then that your boyfriend, the notorious villain Dabi, walked into your bedroom without knocking. As soon as the door opened, your entire body froze. Your entire body except for your fingers, which kept unconsciously picking at the skin of your legs. Dabi’s eyes darted from your face to the blood on your arms to your still-moving fingers.

A brief look of horror crossed his face before he was rushing across the room to grab your wrists and pull them away from your skin. You fought him a bit, but you were no match for his strength. Dabi pinned your hands to the sheets on either side of you.

“Y/N, what are you doing?!”

His borderline frantic tone, when he was usually almost completely expressionless, only added to the feeling of shame beginning to wash over you. You hated that he’d caught you like this, at your lowest point. Tugging your hands away from him, you tugged your pants and sleeves down to cover the worst of the scratches.

“It’s nothing, Dabi,” you said as nonchalantly as possible. “Did you need something?”

“Well, yeah.” He gave his head a hard shake. “That’s not important! You’re bleeding, Y/N.”

“I-I know. I should probably go clean up, excuse me…”

You swung your legs around and stood, but before you made it more than a few steps Dabi was in front of you again. He caught you by the shoulders and gave you a gentle shake. You knew he wanted you to look at him, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead you kept your expression as blank as you could, eyes staring over his shoulder.

Absently, you noticed your other wrist starting to itch and your fingers started to instinctively twitch towards the sensation. But Dabi was perceptive; he caught the motion and intercepted your hand before it could make contact. That got you to look at him, and what you saw surprised you. Concern was evident in his eyes, genuine care and worry for you. The raw emotions so unlike anything you ever saw from the man had you relaxing in shock and allowing Dabi to tug you into the bathroom.

“You should take your clothes off,” he said, so blasély you thought you must have misheard him.    

“Excuse me?”

Dabi fixed you with a stare. “So I can help you clean up.”

You didn't have the mental strength to argue, so you did as he said and stripped out of your blood-speckled clothes while Dabi rifled through the cabinets for some washcloths. He emerged with a stack in hand, wetting two in the sink before wadding them up and holding them in his hands for a few seconds. When he held one out to you, wisps of steam curled off it.

“Hop up on the counter, little mouse,” Dabi instructed, and you did as he said.

Sitting there in your underwear with the tile counter cold against your butt, you watched as Dabi sunk to the floor. He propped your right foot up on his knee and began gently washing off the fresh blood that still trickled from your self-inflicted wounds. You took his hint and mirrored his actions on your arms, though the blood there was already starting to dry, so it took a little more scrubbing.

Soon, all the blood was washed away and Dabi handed you another washcloth to dry yourself. With the command of “Don't move, and don't itch,” he was leaving the bathroom. At least he closed the door behind him. You took the opportunity to wet a few more washcloths, with cold water this time. Draping them over the inflamed areas felt good, cooling the skin and reducing the urge to scratch at them again.

You sat by yourself for only a few moments before Dabi returned carrying an industrial-sized container you recognized. It was the tub of coconut oil you, Dabi, and Toga had bought Shigaraki as a prank. A giggle slipped past your lips when you realized that Dabi must have stolen it from Shigaraki’s room.

“He’s gonna kill you when he finds out you took that,” you teased.

Dabi smirked. “Nah. I’ll bet he doesn't even use it.” He twisted the lid off, only to see that half the product was already gone. “Huh. I stand corrected.”

Dabi resumed his previous position in front of you, setting the tub on the floor next to him. You reached down to scoop some of the oil onto your fingers, but he blocked the container before you could get any.

“Please, Y/N, let me do this for you.”

You nodded silently, sitting back as Dabi completed the motion you were making. He held the solidified oil in his hand for a moment to let it melt. Then he was massaging it into your calf, not just on the places you’d torn open but all up and down the skin. You hummed in pleasure as he worked, switching legs or positions when he indicated. It felt incredible to have Dabi’s rough fingers treating you with such care, like delicate porcelain in his grasp.

Neither of you spoke until he had worked his way all the way up your body, hands finally coming to gently hold your wrists. There, Dabi took a moment to inspect the damage, thumb ghosting over the biggest scratch.

“Why… why did you do this? Doesn't it hurt?”

“It does,” you admitted. “It hurts a lot. But…” you trailed off, not sure how to explain.

“But?” Dabi prompted.

“But sometimes I can't stop myself no matter how much it hurts. Whenever I get too stressed, it’s like it feels good to have physical pain, because at least I’m choosing that.” You dropped your head. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Dabi tsked, catching your chin and bringing you to meet his gaze. “Don't apologize, little mouse. Is this the first time you’ve done this since we’ve started dating?”

“No, but it is the worst one.”

“Then I’m sorry, Y/N, for not noticing you were in pain sooner.”

His rough voice was so sad and soft that you couldn't help but lean forward and hug him. Dabi returned your embrace, guiding your head to settle in the crook of his neck. Something about that simple gesture broke something within you, and before you knew it you were sobbing into Dabi’s shoulder. He didn't say anything, just rubbed circles on your back as you blubbered out everything that had been weighing you down, every worry and fear and anxiety.

When there was finally nothing else four you to pour out, you looked up at your partner through tear-studded lashes. Dabi gave you a crooked smile before swooping down to press a kiss on your forehead.

That made you smile too. “Thank you, Dabi. And again, I’m-”

“Nope.” Dabi cut off your apology with a finger against your lips. “No more apologies. Just make me a promise.”

“What promise?” You tilted your head, curious.

“That the next time you get the urge to do this again, you come to me. We can talk it out, or go bug Shigaraki for some video games. Hell, you can even scratch at my skin if you need. Just please, little mouse, don't hurt yourself like this again. You deserve better than that.”

You blinked, tears rising in your eyes again. But this time they were tears of happiness. Choking out a laugh, you pulled Dabi down into a real kiss, pouring all the love and adoration you could into the gesture. Dabi returned your affection as he scooped you off the counter and carried you back into the bedroom. He laid you down and took several moments to arrange the pillows and covers before he climbed in beside you.

Immediately, you curled into his waiting arms. Dabi trailed his fingers up and down your back, the gentle tickle distracting you from the itches that were still begging to be scratched. But now you could ignore them, choosing instead to focus on the man wrapped around you. You listened to his breathing and his heartbeat, felt the rough texture of his burns and the smooth press of the staples holding him together.

Having Dabi there didn't make the urges go away, but having him care for you, care about you, helped to scratch a different itch.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 14 - ao3 -

If Lan Qiren hadn’t had any idea on what to do with Cangse Sanren to begin with, he had even less of an idea of what to do when he received a letter from his sworn brother which, after some deciphering of the small talk and insincerely meant pleasantries that could just as easily be read as implicit threats, seemed to boil down to so I hear you have a lover now? and also come to the Nightless City at once.

I do not have a lover, Lan Qiren wrote back crossly. You should send whatever spies you have packing because they are clearly completely useless to you. Also, I have classes that I have no intention of missing. If you want company, recall that you have a wife.

That won him a few weeks of blissful silence, possibly due to Wen Ruohan’s shock but more likely due to Lan Qiren having spitefully chosen to send his reply by usual post rather than by special post, which was more expensive and also generally reserved for important sect matters and not for obvious fishing attempts for gossip about the personal lives of juniors.

Which Wen Ruohan should be above, anyway. What did it matter to him?

The response, not long after that, went something along the lines of so what you’re saying is that you haven’t won the immortal mountain’s disciple yet? if you come to Qishan, I can advise you and that irritated Lan Qiren most of all, because right up until that point he hadn’t known that Cangse Sanren was a disciple of the famous Baoshan Sanren, the best-known immortal still in contact with the mortal world.

Mostly because Cangse Sanren hadn’t ever bothered to introduce herself.

It bothered him, a little. More than a little. She knew how much he valued people acting according to the rules; even if she didn’t care for them, shouldn’t she respect his inclination?

(It turned out that she didn’t introduce herself because she didn’t have a proper name, just the title that everyone used for her. Baoshan Sanren let everyone keep the name they came to the mountain with, but Cangse Sanren had come too young for any name at all, and so she’d never gotten one in all the suspiciously unspecified years she had spent on the timeless mountain. It was a pretty good reason not to introduce yourself, as such things went, and it also belatedly explained why she took offense to people calling anyone old.)

I am not trying to win anyone, he wrote back to Wen Ruohan. And even if I was, which I am not, I would still have classes and am not currently at liberty to travel. Has there been some sort of terrible tragedy such that your Wen sect is so desperate for additional people in the Nightless City?

You are not just any person but my sworn brother, Wen Ruohan responded. Am I not entitled to see you? Maybe I want to see this beard you’re reputedly growing.

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes and threw the letter into the box he was keeping all the others. He was trying to grow a beard, as it happened, though being a newly-turned eighteen it was a slow and frustrating process. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked the itchy feeling of it growing, either, but stroking his chin as if in thought was nearly as cathartic as waving his hands, only more socially acceptable; he liked that part very much.

He’d always had a tendency towards strange motions – moving his hands or arms, tapping on things, or rocking back and forth when he was especially distressed – but his brother had always hated it especially, always quoting Do not move arbitrarily at him even though he knew that that wasn’t the fundamental meaning of that rule. That wouldn’t have been so much of an issue, except most other people seemed to agree with him, citing the importance of acting in a dignified and restrained manner, limiting unnecessary movement and remaining still and calm as a placid pool of water no matter what the circumstance.

The beard was an acceptable compromise. Given how common beards were in the sect, it would be hard to criticize Lan Qiren without accidentally insulting an elder – and it felt so good to be able to move freely, the action serving as an aid for emotional regulation that he desperately needed.

Of course, Cangse Sanren thought it was ugly.

Lan Qiren didn’t agree, but he also didn’t think it was any of her business what he did with his face. Even if it was ugly, so what? He wasn’t particularly egotistical.

Accordingly, he thanked her stiffly for her opinion and then proceeded to ignore it.

Apparently, that didn’t sit well with her, a fact Lan Qiren only discovered when he woke up one day, groggy and unclear as to what had happened the night before, to find himself shaven clean and Cangse Sanren beaming at him from within his own room, to which he had never invited her.

He did not react well.

Stories of your shouting have reached even Qishan, Wen Ruohan’s next letter said. Was what your little lover did really so bad? I hadn’t known you were so sensitive. It’s not as if it won’t grow back.

This is your fault, Lan Qiren wrote back, irrational and upset, his calligraphy rough from the way his hand shook – though whether in rage or something else he couldn’t quite tell. I don’t want to hear from you.

Truly his reaction had been out of proportion with Cangse Sanren’s offense. Shaving a beard, especially a half-grown thing like that, was little more than a childish prank, even if it had taken him several months to get as far as he had; in the end, it was really only a blow to his vanity, and perhaps the loss of a convenient emotional crutch.

And yet, when he’d woken up and seen her there where she wasn’t welcome – when he’d realized that he couldn’t remember the evening before, just the way he couldn’t remember what had happened in the Nightless City that day, waking up to Wen Ruohan smiling at him and an oath he didn’t know nor want – when he’d tasted the sour taste of day-old liquor on his tongue –

He’d panicked.

She’d realized it, he thought in retrospect; the ever-present smile had slowly dripped off her mouth as he stared at her blankly for the first few moments, frozen, and had morphed into an expression of shock when he had broken through his paralysis to start screaming at her to go, get out, leave – he’d even picked up some of his own things to throw at her, just to make her leave faster.

He continued smashing his things after she’d gone, unthinking in his frenzy and unsure why he was so upset, and in the end when clarity had returned and he realized what he’d done he’d been so ashamed that he’d grabbed his guqin and slunk away, retreating to the rooms where the Lan sect entered into seclusion. He couldn’t go into real seclusion with so little preparation, of course, but he was practiced enough at inedia that he could skip meals for a few days and not need to see the world for at least a week.

Part of the feeling of shame was that he didn’t know why he had reacted so badly. Wasn’t it normal for peers his age to play that sort of trick on each other? It hadn’t been meant as a real insult.

He had no right to feel so betrayed.

And yet, he did.

Cangse Sanren had visited later that day, her hand tapping lightly on the door bound by wards and her normally brash voice murmuring explanations and not-quite apologies – saying that she hadn’t realized what it had meant to him, that she wouldn’t have done it if she’d known, asking if he wouldn’t come out to talk to her about it and let her apologize properly.

He ignored her.

He ignored her the next day and the day after, too. His hands were unsteady when he tried to play calming songs for himself, his music tangled and knotted up like the feelings in his chest.

On the fourth day, she came and sat by his door in the evening, late and near to curfew.

“I didn’t know, you know,�� she finally said after sitting there for nearly a shichen. “About what happened to you in the Nightless City.”

His hands froze over the guqin.

“Drinking liquor comes as easily to me as breathing,” she continued. “No one’s ever been able to play a trick on me because I got drunk – it’s everyone else who falls over in the end, not me. Maybe what why, when someone told me how badly your family handles its liquor, I thought only of how funny it would be…and not how it would feel, waking up and realizing that you didn’t know what happened. What someone could have done to you.” She was silent for a moment. “What I did do.”

Lan Qiren shut his eyes tightly.

Yes, he thought to himself. She was right. That was why he was so upset.

It wasn’t about the beard at all.

“An oath made when you didn’t know it doesn’t count, you know.”

He laughed harshly, the sound catching in his throat like thick mud. “It does,” he said, and his voice was hoarse from the lack of speech. “Of course it counts. It’s my honor, in the end…anyway, there’s no reason for me to lose my head over it. Sect Leader Wen’s powerful and influential; there are those who would cut off their right hands for a connection with him, much less an oath of brotherhood.”

He wasn’t even all that angry at Wen Ruohan for doing it, either, not really. There wasn’t much point – his few experiences with the other man so far showed that that was just what he was like, always taking instead of asking, and scheming was as innate to inter-sect politics as fighting. Might as well be angry at his grandfather for the ancestral weakness to liquor in the Lan lineage.

It had only been the shock of Cangse Sanren’s unexpected actions that had made it feel like a knife stabbed into his back, a scabbed-over wound suddenly ripped open again.

“You didn’t trust him,” Cangse Sanren pointed out. “You trusted me. And I scared you.”

Perhaps that was true.

“You’re still you, you know. Even while drunk.” She chuckled. “You talk more, care less what people think of you; you’re a little more willing to stand up for yourself, a little more bitter, a little less consciously kind. You told me all about music, something that went over my head, then went to sleep in just the right and proper way, albeit right on the floor. I had to wait until you were asleep to shave you.”

That was a relief to hear. Lan Qiren hated the idea of being so vulnerable.

Although – perhaps he wasn’t. According to Lao Nie, he’d apparently kneed Wen Ruohan in the balls that night for bothering him with nonsense or possibly for trying to leave before he finished explaining something, sometime either before or after their oath.

(After, he assumed. If it had been before, it seemed more likely that he would’ve ended up dead.)

“Anyway, I wouldn’t have done anything serious,” she added. “You wouldn’t have woken up married or anything.”

“It’s not you,” he assured her hastily, alarmed by the thought. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about your character, which I know is good; I know you wouldn’t have done anything like that. It’s only – you don’t always know what people think is enough, coming from the immortal mountain as you do. If someone really wanted to push the issue, or if you didn’t have the background you did, just you being in my room unattended might’ve served as an excuse. And then where would we be?”

She was silent for a while.

“You really don’t want to be married to me,” she finally said. “You’re not playing games or anything; you really don’t.”

Lan Qiren felt something lurch in his chest.

“No,” he said, painfully honest. “Did – did you?”

“Maybe a little,” she said, and Lan Qiren winced. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him, not even when others had suggested it.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” she said, and her voice was warm. “Don’t worry about me, Qiren; I’ll get over it soon enough. There’s no pain I won’t forget a day later, never learning anything, it’s just the way I am.”

He gnawed on his lower lip. “…can I ask why?”

“Why you, you mean?” He could hear her shrugging through the door, the fabric of her clothing rustling against the wall she was leaning against. “You care about things, deeply and truly. Rules, honor, the right path…I like the way you think, the way you care. You have a good heart and a good brain. Why not you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and felt rather a wretch over the whole thing. “I didn’t mean to…to…”

She laughed. “You didn’t lead me on, Qiren! You only ever treated me as a friend, and I was, I think. Maybe still am?”

“You are,” he said, and looked down as his guqin, then sighed, picking it up and going to the door. There was no point in pretending to be in seclusion now that the knot in his heart had loosened, and he was starting to get hungry. “Come on, let’s go. I feel a need to graze on the kitchen’s leftover vegetables, as if I were a wild rabbit.”

She beamed up at him, round face shining like the moon.

The next day, after he finished doing penance for missing classes without advance notice – two dozen strikes, but no more – Lan Qiren went down the mountain and purchased some tea said to have especially strong stimulant properties, and gave it to Cangse Sanren.

She blinked at it, then looked at him.

“If you brew this in the morning, you won’t be so tired all the time,” he told her, and shrugged. “Since we’re friends and all.”

He didn’t have that many friends – so few as to not even have recognized her as being one. He was determined to cherish them.

She smiled.

The next day after that, there was surprising news in the Cloud Recesses, the gossip reaching the classroom faster than the messenger sent there specifically for that purpose.

Wen Ruohan had come to pay a visit.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Wash Day

Yall I just really want Trisskel to be a solid couple from like, day one and be happy and in love and hhhnnngggg. I have feelings. (specifically Netflix Triss and Game Eskel) 

Summary: Modern AU Eskel helps Triss with wash day when she cant use her arms. 

Warnings: Mentions of burn injuries and burns in healing process, nothing gorey, just the mention of scabs, temporary dependency, dealing with the shitty mental part of recovering from major injuries/surgeries - not fucking bathing, eskel is not flexible and tries so hard to do things right. bless, lol swearing as is usual

I’d like to put a little disclaimer that I did a bunch of natural hair care research for this but I have no experience save from helping my friend diffuse her hair before class. 

________________

Triss groaned and tossed her phone to the other end of the couch she was perched on, wiping her one good hand over her face. Her burns over her chest still weren’t allowing her much range of motion with her right arm and her hair was starting to drive her absolutely insane. Yennefer was going to come over and help with wash day, but Ciri got in a fight at school, leaving Triss to sit with an itchy, ratted, and, frankly, horrendous head of hair. 

She leaned her head back against the arm of the couch and sighed, not even able to adjust the bun Eskel had helped her with that morning. 

Speaking of…

She scooted over the couch to pick up her phone, tapping the little call icon under his nickname, “Hey, Yen can’t come over tonight. No need to pick up the wine,” she sighed. 

“Are you sure? Nothing wrong with a little treat, babe.” 

“I’m sure. It was more for her efforts than my treat anyway.”

“If you say so… How are you feeling?”

“Less shit than this morning. I’m just tired,” she didn’t add the feeling of hopelessness that went along with not even being able to bathe on her own. He worried enough for the both of them and then some. 

“I’m picking up the good wine. I’ve got one more client then I’m done. Maybe take a nap?”

“Skel…”

“I will spoil you if I want to. Oh! Look! There’s my 3:30! Bye Bug! Love you!” he hung up on her before she could protest.

She rolled her eyes as she lowered the phone into her lap, smiling a little despite her annoyance. 

Gingerly, she made her way to their bedroom and laid down, running the risk of taking out the bun to lay comfortably. She turned on a podcast she told Jask she’d listen to and hoped to zone out at the least, if not actually sleep. 

-

Triss was woken by Eskel stomping in their front door and dropping his gym bag with a dramatic thud. A few moments later she could hear grocery bags settling on the kitchen counter, the distinct sound of wine bottles bumping together reminding her what he probably had planned. 

She ever so slowly tipped over and pushed herself up with her left hand, catching a horrifying full-body reflection in the mirrored closet doors. 

The scabs and little spots that were still bandaged she was starting to get used to, but the rest of her? Looking at herself in sweats that hadn’t been changed in two days, a summer tank top with no bra and coffee stains, and mismatching fuzzy christmas socks was… difficult. Her hair was wild, all the curls stretched out and sticking together in big frizzy clumps that stuck out at odd angles. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It had only been four weeks. No one was going to be back to normal after four weeks. Her body was using all its energy to heal, not look put together.

Regardless of her efforts she felt the tears well up in her eyes and her breath hitch with the effort of holding them back. 

It still fucking sucked.

Eskel’s soft touch on her thigh made her jump, “Is it hurting again?”

She shook her head, opening her eyes to see him knelt in front of her with his eyebrows drawn up in worry, “No. I’m okay,” she whispered, pulling herself together and resting her hand over his. 

Eskel tilted his head, “Then what’s wrong?”

“I… I look like I fell down the garbage chute,” she laughed. It wasn’t her usual, musical laugh, though. She laughed because she knew, in the grand scheme of things, it was ridiculous. It felt stupid to be worried about how she looked when she’d lived and, well, laughing was better than more tears.

“You’re always lovely to me,” Eskel hummed, brushing her tears away with the back of his knuckles.

She leaned into his touch and took a steadying breath, “I just don’t feel like me.”

He stretched up to kiss her forehead, “I’m sorry, Bug.”

She just shrugged and squeezed his hand. 

“Yen called. I got a very long lecture on wash day and firm orders to help you wash and deep condition your hair. If you’re feeling up to it,” Eskel flashed that crooked grin she could never resist and she shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“Are you prepared to follow instructions?” she teased. 

“Babe,” he raised one eyebrow, “the only instructions I don’t follow are on Top Ramen packs.”

-

Eskel seemed to have confused ‘instruction’ with ‘directions’.

“I swear to God, Eskel. You don’t have to read the ‘how to use’ blurb,” Triss groaned, sitting on a kitchen chair they’d moved into the bathroom with dripping wet hair, “Just section off my hair and do what I tell you.” 

“But I don’t want to use too much,” he protested, “This says to use one tablespoon!”

“Yeah! For natural blondes! I have completely different hair and know what I’m doing. Use half the bottle! I don’t care! Just get it fucking clean!” 

Eskel rested his hand on her good shoulder and gave her an apologetic look in the mirror, “I’m sorry. How many sections do you want?” 

“I- it’s not a number. You just- kneel down for me I’ll show you,” she pointed at the floor next to her and sighed, missing Yen more than ever. She drew little lines with her nails through Eskel’s hair as she explained just how to scrub while making the least amount of tangles possible. He watched her in the mirror and pointed to the points on her scalp she was talking about with a look of serious concentration. 

It was cute. Even if he was a little inflexible he really did want to do a good job. 

Conditioner was easier, even combing out the tangles went fairly smooth. They took a break and made dinner, breaking open the good wine. 

Just having her hair down and somewhat bouncy again made Triss feel a million times better. The sweats were exchanged for yoga pants and the tank top for one of Eskel’s sweaters too. It almost felt normal. 

They ate ice cream while he worked the deep conditioning mask through her hair. 

“You sure I’m not using too much?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder to take the bite she held up for him, nice and small so he didn’t get a brain freeze. 

“Fbe moreb fbe bedder,” she tried speaking around a giant bite of ice cream, giggling at the face of confusion he made with the spoon still sticking out of his mouth. 

She swallowed and scrunched her nose at the light brain freeze, “The more, the better. We’ll rinse it out in the morning and I don’t want any dry spots.”

He nodded and waited for her to take the spoon back before getting back to work, “Yes ma’am.” 

“Mmm, I like that.” 

Eskel rolled his eyes as she let down a new section, “Oh do you, now? I had no idea.” 

“Mhm!” she nodded with a proud smile, taking another bite of ice cream and earning a chuckle from him. 

She walked him through a couple rough twists and adjusting the plastic soaking cap before attempting to explain how to tie a headscarf. He was… truly awful. Somehow she ended up almost blindfolded before she just gave up and found him a video to follow. It took him a few tries, but eventually he got it the right level of snug. I 

She tried to tilt her head back to look at him but that pulled at some of her new scar tissue, so she tried another angle and another before she huffed and resorted to standing up to look at him, “Thank you Skel.”

“No problem, Bug,” he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her nose. 

Triss laid her head on his chest, the perfect height for him to rest his chin on top of her head, “No, I mean it. It… helps. A lot.”

He rubbed soothing circles over her back, swaying them slightly, “I’m just glad I could do something…” he took a breath like he wanted to say something more but settled for pressing a kiss to the sloppily tied scarf. She hummed and leaned into him, snaking her hands around his hips and up under his shirt to rest over his back dimples. 

Triss could have stayed there forever. 

[valdomarx]

For a Geraskier prompt whenever you feel like it: They're FWB and one of them's pining and the other one's oblivious but it's fun!! It's chill!!! Until one night the sex turns into lovemaking for some reason, and suddenly there are FEELINGS and TENDERNESS and EYE CONTACT, and the oblivious one gets an epiphany like a punch to the face. Thank you for your time (love your writing so very very much!

Geralt and Jaskier have an arrangement.

It’s casual, a way to blow off some steam when they’re antsy or lonely. A hand in the dark, a willing mouth, a spark of pleasure on the long cold nights.

It’s convenient, especially when they’re out on the road, far from decent company. When there are no comely locals for Jaskier for either of them to indulge in. It’s a bit of fun. A way to meet their needs.

It’s enough. It’s fine.

It’s not.

.

Geralt almost wishes he didn’t know Jaskier so well, because then he might not notice how very carefully choreographed Jaskier is when they sleep together. How much of a performance it is. Geralt will reach for him, or whisper a suggestion in his ear, and it’s like a curtain will fall over his face. Jaskier, his friend, the one with the big heart and the bigger mouth and the goofy sense of humour, he disappears, and he’s replaced by Jaskier, the performer. The confident, wicked flirt who’s the best lover on the continent.

And that’s… well, look, Geralt enjoys Jaskier’s attentions under any circumstance, and he’s undeniably skilled with both his fingers and his tongue. It’s fully pleasurable for both of them, no doubt there. It’s just… Geralt wishes he could see less of the act, and more of his friend.

But it’s fine. Of course it’s fine. Who wouldn’t want to bed the famous lover Jaskier?

And if, when they’re both spent and sweaty, breath panting in the cool night air, if in those moments Geralt feels a twisting pain in his heart every time Jaskier rolls off him and dresses without a word, that‘s not very well something that Jaskier needs to know. Geralt doesn’t even know what he’s hoping for. Cuddling? Intimacy? Confessions of love?

It’s pathetic, frankly, that he can’t even enjoy the occasional casual tryst with a friend without needing something more, something that he knows he can’t have. He always did want too much.

.

He picks up a contract for a griffin, and it goes less well than he’d hoped. He takes the beast down with his crossbow and an oiled silver blade, but not before it dives at him and rips through a weak point in his armor. As the blow lands, Geralt’s only thought is, ridiculously enough, that he‘s glad he insisted Jaskier stay at the camp so he doesn’t have to see this.

The wound looks worse than it is. There’s a torrent of blood pouring from a dramatically deep gash in his side, but the talons missed his major organs and it’s nothing he can’t handle.

He pushes a linen pad to the wound, throws back a couple of doses of Swallow, and drops to his knees. If he mediates for an hour or two, the healing will be easier.

.

He’s roused from his meditation by frantic shaking at his shoulders and a wailing noise that sounds like… crying? He blinks, woozy, his brain taking a moment to snap into focus.

In front of him is Jaskier, distraught, tears pouring down his face. Geralt pulls himself forceably back to full consciousness and leaps to his feet, ready to defend Jaskier from whatever is threatening him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps. “You’re not dead, thank the gods, you’d been gone for hours so I came to look for you and I found you here all covered in blood, I thought, I really thought -” He bursts into tears again and throws his arms around Geralt.

It pulls at the gash in his side, but Geralt puts his arms around Jaskier anyway, rubbing comforting circles into his back. “It’s okay, Jaskier, I was just meditating, I’m fine.”

Jaskier snorts and pulls back to look at Geralt, face still wobbly. “Are you sure? Because that is a lot of blood.”

Geralt grunts. He is standing in an admittedly large pool of red, but the potions and the meditation have helped. The gash will close itself in a few hours. “Don’t worry,” he says, rubbing the tears from Jaskier’s face with his thumb. “A hot meal and a warm fire and I’ll be good as new.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip trembles, but he nods and walks Geralt back to the camp.

.

Some food and warmth do indeed help, and by the time night falls his wound has closed to an itchy scab which is little more than an annoyance and another scar to add to his collection.

Jaskier fusses over him, piling the fire high and pushing extra portions of food into his hands before rearranging their packs on the ground so Geralt can sit comfortably propped up against them.

“Enough, Jaskier,” Geralt huffs when he comes over to check his wound for the third time in an hour, though even to him it sounds less annoyed and more fond. Jaskier’s lips purse like he’s about to argue, so Geralt deploys a cunning distraction, lifting his arm on his non-injured side. “Come here.”

A blur of emotions pass over Jaskier’s face before settling on what Geralt assumes to be amused tolerance, and he sits down beside Geralt and nestles under his arm. He’s warm against Geralt’s side and he smells like campfire smoke and cool linen. Geralt lets himself indulge for a moment, breathing in the scent of Jaskier’s hair and pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head.

“Earlier,” Jaskier begins, voice a little shaky, “when I thought… well. Earlier. It made me think.”

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to not do this, at least once,” he says, shifting until he’s looking up at Geralt and their mouths are inches apart.

Jaskier kisses him, and it’s not like the times before. They’ve kissed occasionally, mouths meeting as they pant for air while fucking, but this is not like that.

This time, Jaskier kisses him like he’s drowning and Geralt is his last source of air, like they have awoken something vast and all-encompassing between then, and when Geralt lays him out on the bedroll his hands don’t leave Geralt’s body for a second. Every touch feels like a revelation, the slide of their bodies creating something larger than themselves.

Geralt looks into Jaskier’s eyes, really looks, like he’s always wanted to, and Jaskier is crying again but it’s real and it’s genuine and it makes Geralt feel like he might be going under himself.

Because this is no performance. This is messy and desperate and heartfelt, without artifice or facade.

Afterwards, they stay twined around each other, Geralt gently brushing his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “That was…” Geralt trails off. He’s not sure he has the words to explain. No, that’s not true. He does know the word, but he’s terrified to use it.

“Loving,” Jaskier supplies, not meeting his eyes. He sounds very sad about it. “Not much point in hiding from it now, is there?”

Geralt supposes not. He doesn’t just want Jaskier’s body or his company. He wants his heart, and that’s too much to ask for.

Jaskier seems to take his silence as reproach. “I’ve tried to stop it, but I can’t. I love you, Geralt, and that’s how it is.”

Geralt stares, because he is sure, so sure, that he must have misheard. “You what?”

“I didn’t mean…” Jaskier trails off. “No, actually, I did mean it. But you don’t have to say anything, I know that’s not what this is. I’m know I’m not… enough… for you, not like that. We can keep it casual. It’ll be fun.” He looks like he might cry again.

Geralt’s heart soars, like there’s a fountain of warmth and life overflowing in his chest. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and Jaskier’s face falls like he’s been punched as he turns away. Geralt takes his chin and turns his head back so Jaskier can look him in the eye. “You’re an idiot, and so am I. I don’t want casual, Jaskier, I never have.”

Jaskier peers at him like he’s not sure he believes what’s happening. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you.” There it is, in its brutal simplicity. “In every way and in any way you’ll have me.”

The tears start again, and Geralt would feel bad about that but Jaskier is smiling bright as the sun. “You have me. Always have and always will.”

[satan-chillin]

Spirited Away

Wei Ying, abandoned and homeless in the middle of a snowstorm, is spirited away by an entity that must have been the White Ghost.

He's brought home.

(Or WenZhou adopts WWX. The Fic.)

Also available in Ao3

❆❆❆

Wei Ying exhaled hotly against the cusp of his palms and shivered.

The snow had raged for days without letting up, and the cold did nothing on the itchy scabs of dog bites on his arms and the hunger squeezing his stomach. Wei Ying hunched into himself further. This would pass, though whether it was the snowstorm or the pain of his wounds or the hunger, he couldn’t say.

Carefully, he broke half of the molded baozi and then broke the half again into two; this way, the baozi would last him another three days. Hopefully, the remaining pieces wouldn’t be spoiled by then.

He was thirsty after a single bite that it took him to eat. Nothing filling, as usual, but it would be enough for now and something that sleep could improve through the night. The upside of having a snowstorm was the lack of nocturnal predators also hunting for food, therefore less to worry about whether he’d wake up mauled on the sidewalk. Curling himself into a ball in order to preserve what little body heat that he could, he prepared for sleep. He tended to sleep easier these days, tired and worn out as he was even without moving about much.

Wei Ying must have fallen asleep immediately that night and was quickly lulled into a dream because the next thing he knew, he could make out a vague shape of someone approaching him.

White. White as the storm of snow. Long white hair and robes billowed in the harsh wind. A ghost, Wei Ying thought immediately. He had heard of tales of a white ghost around the town, one that would eat unruly children who strayed out of their beds late at night. He used to believe that the white ghost had yet to find him, though now that he was found, oddly enough, he was not afraid.

Not when a pale hand reached for him, tender atop his head. Blearily, Wei Ying stared at the face and couldn’t seem to focus on anything else aside from the sudden warmth coursing from his head to toe. If the White Ghost would eat him, he wouldn’t mind as long as he got to be this warm forever.

“Sleep, little one,” came from a voice that was seemingly carried by the wind. “I’ll bring you home.”

Home. Wei Ying would love to go home.

❆❆❆

Wei Ying woke on an actual bed and with a man hovering over him by the bedside.

“You’re awake,” said the stranger with a tentative smile. He made no move to come closer, looking unsure the longer Wei Ying stared at him, the silence spanning between them. “I brought food.”

Wei Ying did not shy away from the tray laid before him. He took a bite out of the bread and drank deeply from the cup of tea. He almost choked if not for the man’s sudden alarm, gently patting his back and encouraging him to eat slowly. He reached for the soup before Wei Ying could, taking a spoonful and blowing before feeding it to him. Wei Ying obediently opened his mouth, delighted at the right temperature of the soup.

By the third spoonful, the man sheepishly brought down the spoon, murmured an apology, and asked him if he’d rather eat by himself. Wei Ying did not mind one bit, did not understand what the apology was for, and boldly requested to be helped with the soup. Something shifted on the man’s expression, his previous smile turning soft and sure when he assisted Wei Ying with the food, occasionally pausing to let him drink the tea or take a bite of the bread first.

“I’d get you more, but maybe later, once your stomach settles,” the man said. “It’ll hurt if you suddenly eat too much.”

Wei Ying remembered the baozi he kept under his robes, though upon touching his clothes he discovered that they were no longer the dirty ones he had slept in for as long as he could recall. The one he was wearing felt nice and soft and clean, something new and in the color of light blue with long sleeves that hid the bite marks on his forearms. He checked on his scabbing wounds and stared at them in wonder seeing as they were almost gone.

“A good friend of mine is a healer. He came by last week to take a look at you,” the man told him. “And Lao Wen made sure to apply medicine on them every day.”

Wei Ying did not know this Lao Wen—and what did he say? “Last week?” he asked, voice hoarse from sore throat. Wordlessly, the man handed him a cup of lukewarm water.

“What do you remember?”

“Snow,” Wei Ying answered. “Lots of it.” He frowned to himself, mind clicking on a significant memory. “The White Ghost came for me last night.”

The man blinked, a hint of amusement in his raised brows. “White Ghost?”

Wei Ying nodded eagerly. “It must be him because of his white hair. He also wears white. They say he eats unruly children who don’t return home in time.”

That earned him a snort, a grin lighting up the man’s face. He had a pleasant face, Wei Ying realized. “Ah, Lao Wen doesn’t eat unruly children, I assure you, not when he can be unruly as a child himself,” he said with a shake of his head. “He brought you here roughly three weeks ago. From what I understand, it was a long journey back from where he picked you up to here, and you had a fever during the trip.” He glanced at Wei Ying’s thin wrists peeking from his sleeves. “Ten days later, he arrived home with you.”

Oh. So this was the home the White Ghost was pertaining to. Wei Ying’s eyes darted around the room. It wasn’t cold here despite the snow he could see still falling outside the window that painted a night sky, and there was food.

“You’re in the Four Seasons Manor,” the man said as if reading Wei Ying’s mind. “Forgive my manners, my name is Zhou Zishu. Later, you’ll meet Lao Wen. What do I call you?”

“Wei Ying. My name is Wei Ying.” Wei Ying liked Zhou Zishu already for the sole reason that he did not ask where his parents were; he honestly had no idea. “Can I live here?”

“Of course,” Zhou Zishu said without hesitation, though his palm hovered uncertainly over Wei Ying’s head as if silently asking for permission. Wei Ying beamed up at him, inching closer to his side that had Zhou Zishu smiling. “This can be your home, Wei Ying, if you want.”

“I do!” It wasn’t as if Wei Ying had anywhere else to go, and it must have shown in his face judging from the flicker of Zhou Zishu’s expression. “I will help around, I promise!”

Zhou Zishu tsked amusedly. “Don’t make that promise when you haven’t seen the entire place yet.” He stood. “It’s better if you go back to rest, but I won’t stop you if you want to stretch your legs.”

Wei Ying felt the length of time he spent lying down on the bed through shaky knees, and Zhou Zishu was instantly there to carry him instead in his arms. Wei Ying automatically circled his neck, hooking his chin on Zhou Zishu’s shoulder.

“Right. You can stretch your legs later. I’ll carry you for now. Is that alright?” Zhou Zishu asked him. “If you fell asleep, then I’ll bring you back here.”

Wei Ying gave him an affirmative, liking the sound of that. Zhou Zishu swaddled him with a thick blue robe that was twice Wei Ying’s size before bringing him outdoors where the breeze swept the last dredges of snow. A firm hand stroked Wei Ying’s back comfortingly as they took a sedate trip around the manor. Zhou Zishu explained to him which was which, whose room was whose, pointing at specific locations. Later, he would let Wei Ying pick out his own room.

Wei Ying could not pinpoint what hour it was in the evening. It was quiet enough that he’d think only Zhou Zishu originally lived there; he did mention that he had some disciples and that if Wei Ying wanted he could join them once he recovered.

“But I already recovered,” he protested. “I can join them tomorrow.” He looking forward to meeting other children that he couldn’t wait to play and train with them.

“Not yet, brat. Give it another three days at least.”

Wei Ying pouted. “A-niang said my golden core is strong so I heal quick.”

“Golden core?” Zhou Zishu paused, thoughtful. “Your parents are cultivators?”

Wei Ying nodded. “They left for a night-hunt. They never came back.”

A frown creased Zhou Zishu’s forehead before a sigh escaped him. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure they were good people.”

His parents were never called ‘good’ by anyone who took one glance at Wei Ying, who was a homeless boy anyone would take pity in and promptly forgot once they crossed over to the next street.

“Do you want to be a cultivator like them someday?” Zhou Zishu asked.

“Maybe,” Wei Ying muttered. “I don’t know. Are you also a cultivator?”

“No. The Four Seasons Sect is not a cultivation sect. Not that kind of cultivation, at least. Though I can teach you its foundations: martial arts and the way of the sword, and help you develop your own body and spirit in order to prepare both for cultivation.” Zhou Zishu peered at him. “How about that?”

If Wei Ying couldn’t learn cultivation here, then that meant he would have to eventually leave and learn somewhere. Wei Ying did not want to, not so soon. His hold tightened, though Zhou Zishu hardly minded.

“Don’t overthink. You’re young, it won’t happen for years,” Zhou Zishu reminded him. “I’m a strict teacher, Wei Ying. I won’t deem you ready unless I say so.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying whispered elatedly. He would be a good student… or not if it meant staying here longer.

“And there’s also Lao Wen. He also teaches here.”

Wei Ying blinked at Zhou Zishu. “The White Ghost?”

“White Ghost doesn’t sound bad as far as titles go.”

There was a new voice from behind. The same white robes and the same flowing white hair from Wei Ying’s dreamlike memory. Like a floating ghost, he was quiet when he approached them, and Wei Ying stared at how the faint moonlight was caught at the White Ghost’s head.

The White Ghost pursed his lips at Zhou Zishu. “Isn’t it past bedtime for sightseeing?” At Wei Ying, he smiled fondly. “How are you, little one?”

“I’m good!” Wei Ying said, perhaps with a cheer that the White Ghost did not expect. “A-Shu toured me around the manor.”

“ A-Shu?” Delightfully, he addressed Zhou Zishu, “I see you already endeared yourself to the child you thought I kidnapped.”

“You—Do you even know his name before you picked him up?” Zhou Zishu demanded. He sighed exasperatedly at the shrug he received in return and the conspiratorial smirk the White Ghost shared with Wei Ying. “This is Wei Ying, Lao Wen. Wei Ying, that man you called the White Ghost is Wen Kexing, but he’s known as Lao Wen.”

“Wei Ying,” the White Ghost—Wen Kexing—Lao Wen—tested his name. “You have a good name, little one.” Delicately, he tucked a stray lock of Wei Ying’s hair behind his ear. “You can call me Lao Wen.”

“But you don’t look old,” Wei Ying pointed out. “Can I call you A-Xing?”

Wen Kexing’s laugh rang like a chime in the silence of the evening. “This little one is not shy at all.” He grinned. “I think we’ll get along really well.”

“He has a name,” Zhou Zishu interrupted. “And don’t encourage him to be troublesome!” he reprimanded. “He’s going to be a promising student of mine.”

“Aiyah, A-Xu, can’t he be both? Besides, he’ll be my student too, and I’ll teach him the ways of a proper gentry.” Wen Kexing winked at Wei Ying. “Would you like that, little one?”

Wei Ying believed he would. His father had mentioned studying before, though his mother would rather he play instead, so he never had the chance to actually sit down and learn, either alone with his father as his tutor or with other children.

He wondered for a moment whether this was also a dream. The last time he closed his eyes to sleep, he was alone outside the cold, freezing and starving and with no one to call; then he woke up somewhere warm and big and comfortable with two nice people, and more he’d meet tomorrow.

A part of him thought he might have been truly eaten by the White Ghost that night, though if he was, it would not be A-Shu carrying him but his quiet father who preferred smiling that private smile of his than speaking, and the one with the nice-looking face and draped in all white would not be A-Xing but his mother from his vague memories of her.

Maybe someday he’d see clearer faces of his parents, but not anytime soon when he had just committed A-Shu and A-Xing’s faces to memory and when Wei Ying started to picture himself growing familiar with them instead.

Wei Ying grinned excitedly at what tomorrow would bring. “I’d like that.”

[penguinkinggames]

“Cerebos: The Crystal City” Actual Play Part II: Reconstruction

This is the second in a series of posts recounting a session of actual play from Cerebos: the Crystal City, currently crowdfunding on Kickstarter. The first part can be found here:

https://tumblr.penguinking.com/post/646498084013195264

This session was conducted on March 20th, 2021, with Matthew Dorbin as GM, and Amelia Gorman, Ashley Flanagan, Will Mendoza, and Kevin Snow playing. The events of play were recorded by Zach Welhouse.

When last we left our travelers, they’d just reached their first Stop, a city lost to the desert. Its only inhabitants are skeletons with manes and beards made of precious metals. Researchers from Inferno Heavy Industries have a great interest in these conductive skeletons, nevermind the living passengers.

The unresolved Danger from the Events on the train has made this Stop more perilous. The train Danger is reduced to 0, and the Events resolve in a way that makes sense for the story, but their impact increases the Stop Danger.

Stop Actions: Inferno Heavy Industries Outpost #7G

A Stop consists of a single round of Stop actions; each traveler will act once before the train moves on.

The Lady in Blue saunters over to the Inferno Heavy Industries scientists and learns they’re looking into a new phenomenon! When no one’s looking she Seizes an Opportunity to start nicking bone silver and supplying it to the ants. Although this raises tensions between the scientists and the ants, fewer skeletons threaten the passengers.   Initially the Lady in Blue rolls a setback, but she uses the Nick of Time trait attached to her gun to reroll one die. With a partial success, she pulls off the heist of the evening. The Stop Danger lowers to 4, but the lure of her criminal past intensifies. She gains one Momentum on her gun.  

The Lonely Seafarer approaches the danger from a more diplomatic position, badgering the lead ant with Morse questions: “Do they have a qualified Death Ray Engineer? Where did they receive their certification? I’ve never heard of the issuing institute? Try me.”   It’s a partial success. Several ants, unused to the heavy question, drop their cargo and flee. She reduces the Danger to 3, but gains one Momentum on her hat. It turns out she’s a person who is used to ordering people around. Or she’s a person with a very important hat. Either way, she’d better hold on to that hat and the authority it represents!  

Tinderling is a woman of action! While everyone else is resorting to thievery or tricks of rhetoric, she lays into a mob of electric dead with her fists and her bird bone sewing needle.   It’s another partial success. She reduces the Danger to 2, but decides to take Damage as her consequence. The skeletons don’t go down without a fight.  

The Unqualified Robot has never been in a situation like this -- at least as far as it knows! While everyone else is stealing, speaking, or swashbuckling, it rifles through its collection of face plates for an appropriate emotion. Finally, it decides on a bug-eyed expression of alarm. It waves its arms, attempting to communicate the danger posed by the skeletons to the scientists, who are now more concerned with studying the sentient ants.   Failure. The scientists ignore the robot, one of them knocking it to the ground like it’s an inconveniently placed chair. While it’s down, ants seize the opportunity to pilfer some more components. The Unqualified Robot takes its second Damage. It scrambles to recover the most important bits, but reattaches them in an inhuman configuration. Somehow this feels right, like whatever it’s becoming is more correct than what it was.

Despite the Unqualified Robot’s poor efforts, the travelers lowered the Stop’s danger enough for the night to pass uneventfully. The ants wander off with whatever they can carry while the scientists handle the remaining skeletons.

They travelers leave without consequences; however, it wasn’t a relaxing stay and they don’t get a keepsake. If they wanted to leave the worksite with a souvenir, they could have risked spending more Traits to reroll their partial successes or addressed the events plaguing the train before it stopped. Some Stops are naturally more dangerous than others, so luck (and certain Conductor abilities) also impact the outcome.

Some time later, possibly another day, the travelers enjoy lunch in the dining car, paying with Inferno Heavy Industries scrip.

Fourth Round of Train Actions

The Unqualified Robot shares a flashback with Tinderling while Tinderling eats. Tinderling had been admiring its face plates, and it was certain it had seen her rail spike before.   Back in the City by the Sea, the Unqualified Robot was unable to sell the gadgets it had been created to sell. To earn oil money it started scabbing at a factory while Tinderling marched the picket lines outside.   One day Tinderling confronts the Unqualified Robot while it’s pushing a wheelless wheelbarrow full of trash past the picket: “There has to be a better place for people like you. Or robots like you. You have better things to do than sell your soul to this company. If you have a soul? Or sell your labour!”    At this point, the Unqualified Robot only owns smiley face slides. So it smiles. Tinderling hands it a rail spike: “Throw it! Show it who’s boss!” The robot weighs the spike in its hand and uses it to scratch angry eyebrows onto its faceplate. Then it throws the spike through the factory window. In the ensuing riot, the Uncanny Robot is badly injured.   As a result of the shared flashback, Tinderling’s rail spike gains the Rabble Rouser trait. The Unqualified Robot’s expression slides gain Angry Eyebrows.

The travelers are shocked back to the present by a cheerful announcement from the conductor: “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about this. We’re just coming up on the Rail Labyrinth. Seems it’s time for my annual performance review. Worst case, I’m fired and we’re stuck in here forever and die.” The mess of competing tracks from before was nothing compared to the snarl of dead-ends, different gauges, and switchbacks the train enters.The Rail Labyrinth is a Danger 3 Event. The conductor could probably handle it on her own, but it’s going to be a bumpy ride!

The Lonesome Seafarer looks pensively through her broken spyglass to Engage the Event and sketches a few suggestions on a napkin. When it comes down to it, land navigation is like sea navigation, only easier. It’s an Inspired Success, which reduces the Danger to 1. She rushes her chart to the conductor, who’s going at her charts with specialized tools. “What is this?” the conductor asks. “It’s the way out of here!” responds the Seafarer. “Take a right, take a left!  

Tinderling is unconcerned by the Rail Labyrinth. She’s been keeping an eye on the Unqualified Robot, who’s been taking a beating. In a way, she got it into this mess, so she does what she can to repair the damage.   It’s been collecting bits of scrap to enhance its body. She offers her rail spike. It wielded the spike with conviction once; maybe now it can serve a different purpose. The bond of camaraderie is strong like steel.   Tinderling rolls an Ugly Break to give away her touchstone. She gains one Contemplation, but also gains one Momentum to her burnt match. She has to hold on to the fire and anger that set her on this path, or else all her sacrifices will have been for nothing. If she gives that away, someone will probably take it as a symbol of hope, peace, or something altogether too soft. The Unqualified Robot gains a new femur, which means it’s more human, right?  

The Lady in Blue observes the Lonesome Seafarer’s burst of action and authority. She’s like a different person when she’s giving commands! Did the spyglass help her focus? The two travelers catch eyes and the steel labyrinth flashback into one of wind and waves.   The Lonesome Seafarer is adrift without the guidance of Second Mate Scurvy. No one else in the crew will stand up to her in the helpful-but-confrontational way that Scurvy did so well. She grows harsher in her methods, challenging the crew to fight back. None do.   One awful night, she thinks she sees the ghost of Scurvy mouthing guidance. What’s that he’s saying? It’s either “Don’t mind me,” or “Come find me!” “Scurvy, that’s unhelpful!” the Lonesome Seafarer says, worrying she’s talking to a delusion. “Sorry! I’m a ghoo~oost,” Scurvy responds. The Lonesome Seafarer’s spyglass gains the Tunnel Vision trait.

Fifth Round of Train Actions

The Rail Labyrinth isn’t so bad, once everyone gets used to the sudden stops and jerks. Progress slows, so they turn to idle conversation.

Tinderling strikes up a conversation with the Lady in Blue. Something about her shabby finery suggests she may be an ally in the coming revolution. Take that burned handbag, for instance.   The Lady in Blue flashes back to when her bag was burned. She’s sitting in a car outside a bank. Alarms are going off inside and the building is on fire. Isabelle (not her real name) rushes out and tosses a handbag full of money into the car.   “Was fire part of the plan?” the Lady in Blue asks. Fire was not part of the plan. This was supposed to be a simple heist, but she escalated to arson. One of these days she’s going to get somebody killed. The next morning, Isabelle and the cash are gone. Two people died in the heist, turns out!   The empty bag gains the Score to Settle trait.

Two more flashbacks means it’s time for a new Event. Inferno Heavy Industries keeps on piling on the training exercises. The conductor alerts everyone to the newest sights: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’re entering an area of particular geological interest. If you look out on either side, you will see the site of the second part of my performance review. We are now entering Cactortle Canyon.”

Cactortles are large, friendly beasts. Trains are a novelty and a chance to scratch their itchy backs, making Cactortle Canyon a Danger 3 event. The Rail Labyrinth is still hanging in there with Danger 1, setting the total Danger at 4.

The Unqualified Robot starts throwing junk from its bag at the cactortles. Only by divesting itself of the signs of its former life can it find new purpose. Even better, it means throwing things at wildlife that are threatening to ram the train. The Robot’s Engage an Event roll is abysmal (1 + 3), so it takes a swig from its flask and uses its Drowning Sorrows trait to upgrade to a partial success (4 +3).   This is a moment of triumph, but also one of somber self-reflection: “I’m most successful when throwing things.” The Robot gains a point of Momentum on its sack of gadgets.  

The Lady in Blue values a clean plan with no complications. She ties a rope around her body and climbs onto the train’s roof. From the raised vantage point, she’s able to see the way out of the Rail Labyrinth. She rolls a success, lowering the Rail Labyrinth’s Danger to 0.   Since the Lonesome Seafarer and the Lady in Blue both contributed to lowering the Rail Labyrinth’s Danger, one of them will receive a keepsake of the event. The GM rolls a die and the Seafarer reflects on her newfound respect for infrastructure engineers. They can be right jerks! The keepsake also provides one rank to her Navigator trait.  

The Lonesome Seafarer and the Lady in Blue are a good team. They guided the train through the Rail Labyrinth with flying colors. It’s almost like being back at sea. Something about their teamwork is familiar.   The pair share a flashback where they decide to set out for Cerebos together. The Lady in Blue may have seen someone who matched Scurvy’s description, while the Lonesome Seafarer has heard tales of the Lady in Red. It’s not so bad, traveling together.   The Lady in Blue’s hat gains the Tying up Loose Ends trait, while the Seafarer’s coat gains Old Friends Not Forgotten.

The Lady in Blue and the Lonesome Seafarer have both experienced three flashbacks. The players talk among themselves to determine which of the two stories they want to see take center stage. After some back and forth, they decide the Lady in Blue’s tale of revenge is the most compelling, so she becomes the story’s Seeker.

The other travelers weigh in on the Lady in Blue’s dilemma. Do they want to be Saints, encouraging her of the righteousness of her quest to bring an end to her sister, or are they Demons, forces of caprice and change?

The Lonesome Seafarer is a Demon: she’s not one to support the killing of a long-lost family member, as she’s been looking for one of those herself, in a manner of speaking. The Unqualified Robot is a Saint. It’s been radicalized by its journey, and violence has been more effective than words in producing optimal results. Tinderling is likewise a Saint. Sometimes people need to make hard decisions to clear ground for a worthwhile future.

From here, the journey embarks upon its final leg: the Lady in Blue has been identified as the story’s protagonist, and the others will act in their capacity as Saints and Demons to shape how her story ends. In the third and final post in this series, we’ll see what end that is!

[poketin]

An Exercise in Observation

(can also be found on ao3 under poketin)!

Kanamori Sayaka has a sharp eye.

She’s known for it. The label on her favorite milk and what to look out for when someone’s trying to cheap out of her cashing in their favor for some of the good stuff. The way the fresher money tree leaves jut out rather than the slight sag they acquire as time passes. The guilty hunch of Mizusaki’s shoulders as she spends too long trying to make a shot perfect instead of getting things done on time.

It’s why when Asakusa fiddles and squirms in ways different than usual (and yes of course Kanamori has her comrade’s mannerisms filed away, you never know what information may come in handy for your own purposes), Kanamori notices.

Asakusa squirming is nothing new, fiddling with pencils, chewing on her rabbit, coiling in her chair then springing up when her energy needs to go somewhere, “BA-BWAA!” as she helpfully explained. Kanamori knows it helps her concentrate, lays the tracks in front of her mind’s train as it barrels ahead with anecdotes, tangents, and ideas, trying to wrangle its path before it derails and overwhelms her senses.

But Asakusa is twitching in a way that suggests she’s trying to curb her movement, only lurching slightly on the same side each time, not alternating like the blur of her swinging legs or crisscrossing ankles as she taps on the floor, but a movement devoid of silence save for a hiss between her teeth.

Irritation seizes Kanamori’s body, overriding any possibility of worry or patience as she spins herself in her chair and slams her feet on the ground, one leg draped over the other.

“What are you doing.”

It comes out as a statement because Kanamori hates pointless questions, preferring an acknowledgment that “Yes, I know something’s wrong and no amount of unconvincing jabber is going to prove otherwise, so spit it out already,” but in fewer words that can save both of them time.

Despite this, the course of action Asakusa takes is of no surprise to anyone as she tries to withhold her shock, her hat hopping off her head for the briefest moment. She turns to Kanamori with GUILT practically written on her forehead in thick, black lines. She’s either brave or stupid enough to look her in the eyes, nonetheless. Mizusaki smells danger, and hightails it out of the clubroom with the excuse that she’s going to buy them all drinks.

“W-whatever could you mean, Kanamori-kun?”

Her uniform looks fine, a smudge of dirt here and there, a grass stain peaking out behind the sleeve of her blazer, maybe even a twig in her hair if her adventure was recent enough.

Her hands are unmarred, curling and clasping at each other as they are, no bandaids, no bruising, no scabs.

Her hat’s as worn as ever, no new holes or tears, no irreversible bleach stains from a traumatic laundry mishap.

Kanamori’s gaze combs over Asakusa’s body but she doesn’t twist or turn in her chair at all. The telltale signs of Asakusa’s nervousness are what the unimaginative often call “normal.” She curls in on herself slightly, her eyes straight ahead rather than bouncing around the room finding the foundations of a fighter plane or a laser cannon in every cranny of ruffled steel, her legs hang like dead weights, hands steady in their twisting instead of squeezing love into her rabbit or bunching up in her clothes. It’s her usual self-expression that’s labeled “suspicious,” confirming for Kanamori once more that the ignorance of people has no stopping point.

Then there’s that pinched expression on her face that Kanamori doesn’t like at all.

“Did a teacher tell you off again?”

There’s been problems, Kanamori’s opinion of faculty falling somehow even lower every time a teacher snaps at Asakusa to pay attention as she doodles (as if she doesn’t get above-average marks in many subjects) or tells her to stand in the hallway if she can’t stop being a distraction.

“No, it’s been awhile since that’s happened,” Asakusa says, shaking her head. Inwardly, Kanamori notes with satisfaction that her anonymous letters about being “unable to receive proper education under teachers that see fit to constantly single out one student” have achieved their goal faster than she predicted.

Outwardly, she raises a single eyebrow.

Asakusa sighs, and before Kanamori has a chance to stop her, stands up and rolls her skirt up partway. Luckily, Kanamori’s brain hasn’t caught up quickly enough to fry itself and send heat blasting into her cheeks, so she notices the problem rather quickly.

“Mosquito bites.”

There’s an angry, swelling bump right above her right knee, with two more on her outer left thigh. With the way she leans down to tug at her socks, there may very well be more on her lower legs.

Deciding on whether to take a break and get medical help or ignore her discomfort to keep working on backgrounds seems to have been an easy choice for their director.

Kanamori stands up and makes her way over, without a sound.

“Sometimes you need to feel the grass between your toes…” Asakusa mumbles, as if that makes her case more reasonable or sympathetic.

But Kanamori is not one to pity.

She stands in front of Asakusa, who only wilts now that Kanamori is directly in front of her, and lets her fist fall onto Asakusa’s head, a common gesture of her disdain.

“And where was the bug spray in your pack?”

Asakusa jolts up, her arms crossed over her body protectively.

“To bring chemical warfare into their natural territory is a war crime, Kanamori-kun!”

Her eyes shine with such righteous indignation that Kanamori has to clamp her teeth down on the rush of fondness that floods through her. Of course the girl who once let a cockroach ride on top of her hat so it could “experience the world in an entirely new way” would never kill a mosquito that didn’t first invade her home base.

“Will it hamper your productivity?”

“Well…”

Kanamori sighs and cinches her arms around Asakusa’s neck, pulling her along.

“W-wait, Kanamori-kun! The power of my will won’t be defeated by mere itchiness—!”

Her voice becomes a muffled squeak as Kanamori tosses her onto the couch and flips open her bag. She points at the couch without looking up.

“Sit. And no scratching.”

She pulls herself into a seated position as Kanamori digs around in her backpack.

Asakusa immediately swings one of her legs, letting out a strangled note of distress as one of her larger bites brushes against the fabric.

Kanamori, now in front of her, grabs the leg in midair.

“K-kanamori-kun?!”

She could focus on the way Asakusa scrunches her mouth in bafflement or the way her brown eyes flicker between Kanamori’s own eyes and clasped hand. She could think about how soft the skin of Asakusa’s leg seems right above where she’s holding her socked ankle. She could read into the way Asakusa doesn’t jerk away from her, how she seems to trust her completely and is ready to follow her lead.

Instead Kanamori drops her leg and tries to make her voice less hoarse as she says, “Don’t move.”

She kneels down and pops the cap off the anti-swelling pain relief gel. More tenderly than she’d ever admit, she squeezes some onto her finger and rubs it on the bite near her knee. Asakusa sighs as the cool gel soothes the burning area.

Kanamori never hesitates, but she’s not sure how to approach the bites in more…intimate areas. She and Asakusa have always been on the same wavelength though, and wordlessly Asakusa leans over to roll her socks down, nose nearly brushing Kanamori’s as she straightens back up to adjust her skirt once more.

There’s only a couple bumps on her lower legs, and Kanamori gets through them faster than she wants to, what with the last few targets waiting for her.

“Asakusa-shi.”

“Kanamori-kun.”

Of all times, it’s now that Asakusa’s voice is clearest, firmest. There’s a hint of challenge in her eyes and her face is enviably clear of any blush.

Kanamori has never been one to stall on what she wants.

She squeezes out more gel, sliding her other hand up Asakusa’ leg, just barely grazing it until she reaches the spot where the final bites are. Once there, she gently grips onto Asakusa’s leg, her thumb trailing her flesh, urging her to turn so the welt is in clearer view. Asakusa obliges.

Kanamori has a good poker face even on the worst of days. Still, as she slathers gel on Asakusa’s soft skin, its coldness contrasts rather pointedly with the heat coming off her own traitorous face.

The door opens just as Kanamori is finishing up. To their credit, neither of them jump at Mizusaki’s return. Instead, Kanamori screws and unscrews the cap of the gel, cursing design flaws as she struggles to get it back on, while Asakusa hops off the couch. She smooths out her skirt and gives Kanamori a brilliant smile without a hint of their previous tension.

“Thanks, Kanamori-kun!”

She grabs a can of peach tea from Mizusaki and dashes to her desk, throwing herself once more into the spirals of far-off mountains and billowing clouds that hide them away.

Kanamori ignores the grin Mizusaki gives her as she hands off the cool bottle of milk, but what she doesn’t miss is Mizusaki whispering, “You so owe me,” as she straightens back up. They both know she’s not talking about the milk, and Mizusaki skips to her workstation before Kanamori can so much as scowl in her direction.

Never mind the fact that she’s smiling instead.

[capricornus-rex]

His Spark of Light (3)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by: @stellar-trinity​ | Prompt: Clingy! Cal Kestis

1 | 2 | Next: Part 4 | Masterlist

3 of ?

The crew learns that these are not the same partisans under Saw Gerrera back in Kashyyyk. They were another faction that wanted to cease the tyranny of the Empire and decided to fight back and rebel. Their only difference between Saw’s army is that their objective is on a much larger scale.

“I’m not one to believe it rumors but some of the people in charge once belonged to the Senate, during the time of the Republic. I heard some of them are doing this as a second agenda—but in secret.”

Cere’s eyebrows furrowed. Her position in her seat stiffened. Cal leaned closer, greatly intrigued, having remembered some of the politicians—both good and shady ones—he’s met back in his younger years. Someone from the Republic?

“They’re defectors?” Cere asked, a tone of concerned mixed with her intrigue.

“Not all; some are. They’re the ones who resigned from office shortly after the Empire’s establishment. I heard one of the Senators is working on this in secret, I don’t know the name though, I didn’t hear it.”

“Then they’re playing a dangerous game,” Cal added.

“I think they knew that from the start,”

There was a silence amongst you. It was a moment of reflection—especially for Cere, Cal, and yourself. The three of you have been struggling to survive, flying low on the Empire’s radar to avoid trouble, but you discover that you weren’t the only ones who want to fight back. Kashyyyk and now the rebels here in Yavin IV proved that.

“Look, Commander Hoss is a good man. He’s leading good people. I think it’s safe to say we have his good graces. Given that he’s welcomed us into this base, it’s a good start,” you reassured everyone.

“Then I guess I have time to stretch my arms!” Greez joked which lit up the mood in the room.

Cere stood up from her bench and talked about having a word with Commander Hoss later tonight. All of you leave the room and make your way out back to the ground level. Along the way, Cal noticed just now that some of your fingers were wrapped with Bacta strips and your hand was wrapped in a linen bandage. You were hiding your hands between your thighs or concealing them from everyone else’s view.

 “What happened to you?” Cal asked within your earshot, but the concern in his tone was very apparent.

“Oh, collateral damage,” you shrugged.

Cal slid his fingers into the spaces between yours.

“Tell me if I’m holding it too tight that it hurts, okay?”

Your heart melted and you smiled, “Okay,”

He would rub his thumb over the space of your hand from time to time as you walked; his fingernails would gently feel for the Bacta strips, the bandage, and your skin. Your slight squeezes would signal him to squeeze back, though he mindfully controlled his grip.

Even in the distance, you saw the Mantis and you smiled as you let out a sigh of relief. In the spacious exterior of the temple, it was the only thing that stood out amongst the rows of small fighter ships dotting the area. It wasn’t hard to miss.

“Thought I’d never see that old girl again!” you playfully jeered.

“Yeah, she missed you too!” Greez joked back.

“Home away from home,” you smiled and excitedly marched towards the entrance.

It felt like your legs were moving on their own. You didn’t realize you’ve picked up your pace and almost went ahead of everyone on the way to the Mantis.

The ship’s door hissed as it unfolded and then lowered. All of you entered the Mantis, but you got in first. There was a certain warmth in the ship that you longed for days, you basked in it as if it was sunlight.

“We’re home,” Cal announced.

You let yourself settle down again in the Mantis. Everything suddenly went back to normal, as if you weren’t gone for roughly four days. You and Cal sit together at the dining table, from your vantage point, you watch life in the Mantis go by like it usually does: Greez is outside getting some fresh air while checking on the Mantis’s exterior hatches and landing gears, Cere was tinkering about in the communications station in the cockpit, and finally, Merrin was trimming away the weeds in the terrarium.

“I missed this,” you mutter to him.

Cal turned his head to you. Your chin was propped over your fist while you look around the ship, at the corner of your eye you spotted the little Bogling stowaway hiding in the ventilation shaft. Cal thought you’ve looked better after seeing all that action in Geonosis.

Cal’s eyes wandered to your hands again, you were slightly scratching the plastered sections, you slightly pressed your thumb over the center of your bruises—a number of which were already paling from its dark purple shade.

“Come on,” he beckoned. “You obviously need to have those changed.”

“Indeed I do,”

There was no room for argument there. You removed your bandages and washed your hands, you unzipped your jumpsuit top revealing more wounds. You winced when the cold water seeped into the wounds, but you continued to carefully lather and rinse. The itchiness was too tempting but you pierced the less painful areas with your fingernail to repress the itching sensation.

Both of you retreated to the quarters, Cal hatched open the compartments and produced a first-aid kit. You sat down rubbing your wounds and feeling the hardened scabs in the cuts.

“Do they hurt?” Cal asked, sitting down next to you.

“Stings a little,”

He swabbed Bacta gel on your open wounds, cuts, and scabs. He thoroughly checked your front and back for more, he snuck a series of small kisses on your shoulders before turning you to face his front. Cal finishes with wrapping the bigger wounds on your hands and torso with the bandages. Cal gently caressed your hand, brought them to his lips and kissed the back of your hand. He didn’t let go when he pulled away, he rested his cheek on your palm; you notice his eyebrows slightly furrowing as he nuzzled his lips against your palm.

“I missed you so much,” he said in a whisper.

Your free hand cupped his cheek, you slightly angled his chin so he faces you.

“Oh, I missed you too… so much,”

You leaned closer to kiss him on the forehead. Your fingertips fiddled with the ends of his loose locks of hair, the feeling of his hair tickling your fingers was one of the things you missed and constantly thought about.

After replacing your bandages, you gave him a thank you kiss; out of the blue, you asked him.

“Are you hungry? I could make some snacks if you like,”

He gave a small smile, “Sure.”

You caressed his cheek before leaving the quarters. You made yourself busy at the galley. Shortly after you left, Cal walked out of the room and sat by the table again; he propped his chin over his hand while watching you work. Even with your back turned, he stared at you intently.

Occasionally, you would glance over your shoulder and smile at him, to which he would happily beam back at you.

“Would you like Ahrisa or space waffles?”

“Space waffles,”

Cal’s voice was closer than you thought, you shrugged it off for a second until you felt his head resting on your shoulder and his arms around your waist.

“Oh!” you grunted in surprise, but you chuckled it off. Your free hand reached for his head and gently patted his head full of fiery red hair. You continued with your edible art, “Honey or none?”

Cal gazed at you intently and fondly, the corner of his lips curled upward as he prepared to say the word.

“Honey,” and then he kissed a peck on your nose, proceeding to watch you go on with your work while having your boyfriend cling onto you from behind.

Your servings yielded some extras for anyone else who’d like some. Meanwhile, you and Cal sat together by the table, chatting over a medley plate of space waffles, Tepasi taffy, and Jogan berries.

“It sure was different not having you here,” Cal blurted.

“Oh? What’d you guys do while I was gone?”

“Same old same old, really. Though, I was bored as hell,”

“You have the crew to talk to,”

“Yeah, but…” he tapped his fingertips on the table’s surface. “I prefer your voice.”

He beamed, you’re feeling butterflies fluttering around your stomach and the digested space waffles aren’t doing much help in suppressing them. You could have sworn your heart skipped a beat.

“I didn’t like having your side of the bed empty either,” he added.

“Well, aren’t you just a big sweetheart?”

You caressed his cheek, secretly feeling for the scar on his jawline, and he caught your wrist before you could pull it away. You thumbed away a crumb of space waffle straggling on the corner of his mouth.

“Aww, you big baby,” you giggled. “What am I gonna do with you?”

He responded by softly suckling your thumb before letting your hand go and continue with your snacking. For the rest of the afternoon, you and Cal caught up some more about the past four days.

In the middle of the conversation, he cuts in as he picked up a Jogan berry.

“Say ah,”

You distanced yourself one barstool away from him and he tossed the Jogan berry towards you, he shoots and he scores.

“Aww, good one!” you said while you munched on the fruit and scooched back to your original seat.

“Just my luck,” he chuckled.

The sound of your laughter made Cal’s heart skip a beat. Whether or not you were trying to hide your laughter or just let it all out, he just continued making you laugh with his stories and jokes. You realized that you missed out a lot with the shenanigans, but Cal was vocal about missing you and having moments like these with you.

[zippiestdraws]

Choking Curiosity CH 4

Michael Myers x ftm reader

Read on ao3

You slowly wake up before your alarm to an itchiness along your arms. Your fingernails pull along your skin, catching along the feeling of small scabs. Your brain processes for at least five minutes before you turn over and rub your eyes open, yawning and pulling your wrists closer to your eyes.

Your brow furrows. Small scrapes litter your forearms and some of them sting as you stretch them. Thinking hard, you don’t find an explanation and the confusion kind of scares you.

Hoping you’ll find an answer later, you relinquish the warm confines of your bed to the chilly house that waits for you. In the kitchen your repairs list glares at you while you fix breakfast. You’ll have to pick up something from the hardware store to fix the roof before it rains again.

You work the night shift with Quentin tonight, you might as well start before you run out of free time. At least all this walking will keep you in shape, because goodness knows your diet sure won’t.

Locking the door behind you and stepping off the porch, you see your neighbor, Abtin, approaching through your yard again. You like the man, but he is long winded, so you start thinking about how to tell him you were heading out.

“Hey Abtin, how you doin’?”

He waves away your question, “good, good,” he pauses to point up at your house, “look at your house.”

Not really questioning it, you turn and incredulity hits you. Then anger.

“Oh my god. Who would do something like this?”

In big, drippy, red letters, the words ‘SLAUGHTER HOUSE’ decorated both sides of your porch.

“Some hoodlums.” Abtin helpfully adds.

You sigh through a clenched jaw.

“You know what? Halloween is next month anyway, at least I don’t have to decorate.”

Abtin laughs and slaps his knee, “you’re funny”. It takes a couple minutes to break off the conversation politely, but you get on your way in due time, making a mental note to grab that scarecrow in your backyard and bring him to the front.

The door of the Young’s Hardware opens with a jingle of a bell and you scan the aisle signs from the entrance rug before realizing you have no clue what you’re doing.

Gathering your courage, you approach the fatherly looking man behind the counter hoping he can point you in the right direction. Asking about roof repairs, he nods sagely and walks with you towards a particular aisle.

You look over the products he explained, discreetly checking the prices.

“Old house?”, he inquires as you decide on a can of roof sealant and some roll roofing.

“Yeah, a real fixer-upper, I need to make some patchwork last until I can afford a new roof.”

“I know the good handy-men around here when you need one. How old is it?”, he rings up the items and you inwardly cringe at the price.

“Not sure, but it’s been vacant since the sixties.”

He whistles in the way people do to mean “that’s rough, buddy”, before taking a look at you when he hands over the bag.

“Wait a minute, are you the one who moved into the Myers’ house?” It wasn’t a rude question, but you felt uneasy, like saying yes was a bad thing. You tell him the truth anyway.

“Talk around town says it’s cursed.”

Oh come on now, it can’t be that bad that people think you’re bad luck or something.

“How come? Nothing bad has happened yet.”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”, you really don’t know what he’s dancing around.

The tone shifts drastically as he leans over the counter on his forearms, looking to the side before speaking to you in a lowered voice.

“There was a murder a couple of blocks away last night. Someone gutted two kids.”

You breath out a horrified ‘oh my god’, not wanting to ask anymore questions. He grimly tells you to be safe as you leave and you return the gesture. You really wish you could watch the news.

You get all the way home before you realize you’re going to need a ladder.

*** Abtin let you borrow his ladder and you’re eternally grateful you don’t have to buy one. The downside is that it isn’t tall enough to reach the roof from the ground, so here you are climbing up a ladder propped on the roof of the porch crossing your fingers you don’t fall and break something.

Surveying the shingles, you tentatively climb onto the roof, testing the weight of each step before getting comfortable. Wiping the sweat from your forehead, you search for the problem area.

The roofing gets tacked down and sealed with plenty of cursing, and you wipe your filthy hands on your equally dirty jeans before precariously making your way back to the ladder.

Which isn’t where you left it. Panic rises in your chest as you look for the rungs peeking over the gutter, because ‘this can’t be happening right now’.

Getting on your knees and carefully looking over the edge, you see the ladder folded and lying flat on the porch roof next to the open window you brought it through. Definitely not where you left it. But wouldn’t you have heard it if it had fallen? If it fell it wouldn't have landed perfectly and it couldn’t have gotten over there. Are you losing your mind?

It’s okay, Abtin is usually in his garden at this time. And if he’s not, it’s only about ten feet, right?

You move back from the edge and carefully walk towards the direction you may be able to see him.

Clunk

You turn around. The top of the ladder was visible again.

“Abtin?”, maybe he saw it fall and already went to help you? There’s no response.

You climb down the ladder and look for your saviour, but you’re alone. It’s safe to say you’re pretty spooked, and considering the murder nearby, you’re starting to think it’s not a ghost living with you.

You need to call Laurie.

*** You couldn’t talk long because you were needed at work, but she told you to ‘get the hell out of that house’ and she wants to meet in a public place tomorrow.

Before leaving, you took some left over packing tape and placed small strips over the closed doors. This way you’ll know for sure if somebody was sneaking around while you’re out, the tape will be disconnected.

You walk briskly to beat the setting sun and dropping temperature, pulling your jacket around you. Quentin looks up from a book on the counter as you pass, and quietly greets you when you grab the to do list Dwight leaves at the register.

It’s a slow night, so you idly chat while you make your way through the tasks and Quentin watches the counter. After the last of the straightening, your mind wanders to the news you heard early today.

“Hey Quentin, did you hear about what happened-”

He groans and runs a hand down his face before you could finish.

“Yeah, it’s all anybody’s been talking about today. I’ve had, like, nine old ladies ask me if they caught the guy yet.”

You grimace, “sorry, I kind of live under a rock.”

“You’re fine, I’m just tired of the gossip. Everybody’s saying Michael Myers is back and its stupid.”

“Why? I heard he was never found…”

“He was shot multiple times before he got away, so he’s totally dead by now.”

You respond with a nonchalant ‘oh’ and lean back on the counter. You won’t say it, but you feel safer after hearing that. Quentin moves back to his book, but stops and raises an eyebrow.

“What happened to your arms?”, his concern is almost tangible.

You look at them again, scrubbing all the industrial glue off irritated the scratches and they’re pretty red under the fluorescent lighting.

“I don’t know.”, you tell him the truth, even if it sounds lame. “I woke up like this this morning and they weren’t there yesterday. I think my house is haunted to be honest.”

He hums in interest and makes eye contact before continuing.

“Is it safe to be there?” You’re surprised that he believes you, or at least is acting like it. You tell him about Laurie’s warnings until you realize he looks more awake than you’ve ever seen him.

Backtracking, you tell him that you’re fine and that he shouldn’t worry about it. Scribbling on a sticky note, he presses his phone number into your hands, telling you to call him if you needed to stay somewhere for the night.

You thank him, bashfully tucking the paper into your back pocket. You’re glad to have him as a friend, but you’d have to come out to take him up on that offer so you desperately hope you won’t need it.

*** Anxiety reared its ugly head as you got closer to home. In the dark. Unarmed, with a killer on the loose.

You shake these thoughts away and pull your keys out, ready to check your ‘booby traps’.

There was only one downstairs, over the back door. You almost don’t want to look, but you laugh at yourself when you see it intact.

With a sigh of relief you head upstairs, ready to get off your feet. Before entering your bedroom, you bend down to peel off the tape seal you made.

It’s broken.

You don’t dare to touch it. You’re sure you placed them all correctly. You spin and nearly trip over your feet to check the bathroom seal.

Broken.

You feel sick, knowing that someone has been in your house doing who knows what in your room. You turn the knob expecting to find something out of place when you open it, but you hold the door shut. The tape on the back door wasn’t broken and the front door was still locked.

They never left.

You don’t grab anything as you bolt down the stairs, shoving just your toes into your shoes and sprinting over to Abtin and Sherrie’s front porch. You ring the doorbell twice and then knock rapidly on the door, eyes still on the house you’ve abandoned. A light flicks on in your neighbor’s house, distracting you, but when you turn back you think you can see a dark figure move in front of the windows facing towards you. You knock harder.

Abtin opens the door looking tired, you can hear him ask what’s happening, but you just repeat ‘someone’s in my house’ until he pulls you in and locks the door behind him. You’re already apologizing profusely, but he stops you to just explain what happened. You feel bad for waking an old man from his sleep, but you borrow his house phone gratefully and he makes himself a cup of tea.

You hesitate to call the police, but you need your house checked so you’re going to have to concede this time. When the emergency service operator informs you that they’re on their way, you hang up the phone to pick it up again. The crumpled piece of paper comes out of your pocket and you dial the number hoping someone would pick up.

It rings twice and you hear Quentin’s voice pick up. You feel guilty for asking, but he insists that it’s fine.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t actually mean it. What happened, are you okay?”

“actually...I’m calling from a neighbor’s phone…I think there’s someone in my house.”, you admit slowly.

“Did you call the police?!”, his voice strained in surprise.

Almost as if summoned, you can see red and blue light growing stronger through the windows.

“They’re here already, actually-”

“What’s your address? I don’t want you walking over after this.”, he cuts you off, but you’re glad he does. You almost forgot to ask about his address, and you’re too tired to argue.

You bid goodnight to Abtin and wind up standing by the squad car in the street, holding your elbows, while the one cop searches your house. He exits after what seems like a very short amount of time, and announces in annoyance that ‘nobody’s on the premises, sir’.

Quentin pulls up as you reach peak exasperation with the officer and you tell him exactly where he can stick his badge. Your temper was short after a long day and he insinuated that you were either crazy because of the Myers house or ‘wasting taxpayer dollars with pranks’.

You give Quentin an embarrassed wave when he walks up the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

“So,” he gestures towards the house with a swing of the jacket, “the myers house?”

“Yup,” you sigh.

You have to grab some things before you leave, at least knowing it’s safe now. Quentin follows you inside and you’re grateful that he doesn’t comment on the state of the place. It takes a few false starts, but you manage to broach the subject of being trans in your own way while you fetch your stuff. To his credit, he keeps it pretty casual and tells you it’s fine.

“So you’re okay with it? You still want me over at your house?”

“It doesn’t change anything man. My parents are already asleep and they wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh thank fuck,” you exclaim and wiggle out of your binder without taking your shirt off, “I’ve been wearing this thing for way too long today.”

*** Quentin sneaks you through the house to his room quietly and turns on a small lamp that fills the room with a warm glow. It was a bit of an organized chaos with very little freespace on his desk and floor, but it was cozy.

“Sorry about the mess, but we can share the bed.” He kicks some of the clothes on the floor into a more distinct pile. You mumble that it’s fine, but he’s too preoccupied in digging out pajamas for himself to hear you.

“Wait, you probably need a shower, let me show you where the bathroom is.”

You set your stuff down and follow him, tired and awkward, but glad to get clean.

You try to be as quiet as possible, and when you leave the bathroom in your damp pajamas, you startle at a figure in the hallway. In the dim light you see someone dressed as a sheet ghost.

You laugh softly, “you’re funny, Quentin”.

“What?”, Quentin’s voice responds from the bedroom.

Your smile drops, turning to see him on his bed. When you look back, the ghost is gone.

[minaa-munch]

of Cake and Cream - Team Flake Edition

Two layers of exquisite vanilla and peach sponge, coated with a generous amount of buttercream icing that consisted of crushed sakura and momo no hana petals. Candied petals adorned the top and the sides with an artistic flair, while soft, perfect swirls of buttercream bordered the edges. The cake on its own, was like an edible jewel put on a wooden stand. 

The swirl in the middle glistened with fresh strawberry puree that had been mixed with a tinge of caramel. It was still fresh, so one could see the pinpricks of strawberry seeds that had been left on purpose.

Obito wanted to poke it so badly. Charcoal hues kept straying towards it while their sensei spoke. 

“Rin and I need to make a quick trip to the Medical Corps for a report she submitted.” The blond was in his usual, blue uniformed attire, though without the hitaite. Besides him, Rin was winding a scarf around her shoulders. 

“We’ll be back soon.” Minato may as well have been talking solely to Kakashi, since the Uchiha was too busy ogling the treat that looked divine (and probably tasted just as well, seeing as how talented the Jōnin and Rin were in the kitchen). It was good enough, since Kakashi kept nodding like the solemn little shinobi he was while Obito hummed on periodic intervals to indicate that he was listening. 

Sorta. Maybe if he poked the tip of the swirly thingy—

“I’m counting on you.” He snapped to attention just as blue hues slid towards him, “Both of you. Make sure Kushina doesn’t come here. Stall her if you have to.” 

“Hai, sensei” The duo responded, with Obito raising two fingers in a salute for good measure, “You can count on me!” 

Satisfied, Minato turned to Rin, gesturing for her to follow. The Iryō nin smiled, but it slid off the minute his back was turned. Brown hues narrowed at her teammates in warning, which was probably more effective than their sensei’s words. 

I’m always watching you, neh?

Both boys immediately straightened - and promptly stayed that way until her lingering gaze had disappeared out the door. 

“About time they left.” Kakashi was the first to speak. Pale fingers rubbed an exposed part of his left arm; a wound had scabbed over recently and it was annoyingly itchy. Rin had given him some ointment to deal with it, but it wasn’t that cumbersome. Besides, it would take more than a scrape to put him out of commission. 

At the moment though, he didn’t know what bothered him more - the fact that he had yet to hear about his Jōnin promotion or that he had been assigned a C rank mission with the sole crybaby of the team. He was perfectly capable of protecting his sensei’s loud girlfriend’s birthday surprise.

Speaking of - dark hues flickered to the Uchiha, slapping his hand from where he was about to poke one of the perfect cream swirls. “Sensei said not to touch anything, baka.”  

But it looks so…fluffy. “What are you, my grandma?” Obito grumbled, rubbing his slightly pink fingers. Trust the Hatake to act like an old lady, since he projected a particularly grumpy old man half the time. 

Ah but who was he kidding? Most of the old people he knew (which were a lot) were nice and polite. Kakashi was, simply put, a jerk. “Ne, you think sensei and Kushina nee will get married?” There was a curious tilt in his tone, before his attention was once again captured by the delicate, rosy swirls decorating the top layer, “I mean..I hear we’re almost at war anyways.”

“Sensei can’t be that stupid.” his friend’s reply was instantaneous, and not without a barely hidden scoff, “He’s a Jōnin and a Hokage candidate…that loud girlfriend of his will only hinder his performance as a shinobi.”

“Ano…don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?”

“Well, there’s a reason why you’re still a Chunin and I’m practically a Jōnin.”

Jerk. “You’re not a Jōnin yet, Bakashi.” Obito snapped, one finger successfully managing to swipe just a sliver of icing which was promptly deposited on the unsuspecting Hatake’s face, “Besides, doubt you’ll be a Jōnin with reflexes like that.”

“Oi, you weren’t supposed to touch that” Kakashi hissed, rubbing the offending wetness away with the back of his palm before grey hues narrowed a fraction at his idiot teammate, “this is a mission, baka. Would it kill you to follow the rules for once?” 

“I was careful” Came an all-too sunny reply, though the tell tale icing on his own cheek suggested otherwise, “Besides, its your fault.”

“Is not”

“Is too”

Arguing more was pointless - especially where the Uchiha was concerned. Instead, Kakashi decided on his patented glower which was met with a splatter of cream, courtesy one twirling wooden spoon between said Uchiha’s fingers – who was currently laughing his behind off. Normally, it wouldn’t be enough to faze the Hatake - his opponents had laughed at him before, primarily because of how small he was. Kakashi never failed to make them eat dirt later. 

But this was Obito and he was an idiot who knew just the right buttons to push. Pale digits curled into fists as a peach flush tinged his features (he was not pouting). Grey hues caught a bowl of leftover cream and it didn’t take him long to scoop a generous amount and send it careening towards Obito.

The splatter was satisfying, and clearly, an invitation for war. Needless to say, by the time their relatively chipper teammate returned, the kitchen was in shambles (polite term). A fine layer of cream coated most of the counter and splattered the shoddy kitchen appliances. A stick of butter had found its way in a pot of coffee, whereas the leftover strawberries formed a sticky mess on the floor; and a particularly sloppy mush of fruit and leftover icing in which the Hatake was rubbing Obito’s goggled face in.

The cake, surprisingly, had been left intact, which was a good thing seeing as how Rin had been contemplating turning her teammates into cake batter if they ruined their (her and sensei’s, of course) hard work. The Iryō nin could only watch from the doorway as the two boys clawed at each other. Resisting the urge to sigh like the all suffering adult she was, the Nohara instead cleared her throat, soft features already set in a frown, “What are you two doing?” 

Freeze (though Obito still managed to pull Kakashi’s bangs in a final, feeble gesture). “I-its not what it looks like, Rin chan.” Obito stammered from where his cheek was pressed against the sticky tile. Arms flailing, he tried to push the Hatake off and failed, “Ah mou! Its his fault!”

Kakashi practically bristled (it was less intimidating because of the squished strawberry oozing down his forehead) and in one smooth movement, had the Uchiha’s arm twisted in a classic lock behind his back, “A good shinobi doesn’t lie, baka.”

“Get off you freaky little gremlin!” Obito’s fingers spasmed uselessly in his hold and Rin couldn’t help but thank the fates that she had convinced their sensei to make a detour to the supermarket for a few ingredients. He would be so disappointed.

Speaking of– “Guys, quit it already. Sensei will be back any minute.” The Nohara unwound the scarf from around her shoulders before gingerly stepping inside. Normally, Rin was the more careful of the three, though the floor was sticky and cream had somehow managed to get everywhere. 

Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t aware of the entirety of ‘everywhere’ - no sooner had she stepped in did her foot slip on a splatter of broken egg and sugar. Arms flailing, the poor Iryō nin stumbled, hands finding little purchase against the slippery counter before crashing against her teammates with a soft whump. 

“Ow”

“Rin chan, are you okay? Get off her Bakashi!”

“I’m not on her, idiot.” Kakashi hissed through the flush decorating his face (or could be the leftover strawberry, it was hard to tell). The poor Hatake was smaller than the other two, and had conveniently been sandwiched between them - and if that wasn’t mortifying enough for a Jōnin, he didn’t know what was.

Well…almost Jōnin. Either way – pale digits pushed her off (though not before elbowing the loud idiot by accident) before he clambered off his filthy teammate’s back. Grey hues narrowed at the dirty tiles before flickering to Rin, just as the girl caught the table’s ledge, causing it - and the pastry - to tip precariously. Kakashi opened his mouth to warn her, but the cake tumbled before his words did.

Maa…what a waste.

The resounding crash, along with her squeal, was loud enough to make him cringe. By that point, Obito had gotten up with a hand on his abused cheek, dark orbs set in a patented Uchiha deadpan before the noise prompted him to turn. 

And…well, quake like a little scuttle bug because Rin looked murderous (and kind of cute - but mostly murderous) with the bottom half of their hard earned labor awkwardly squashed against the top of her head. If their circumstances had been any different, he would have compared it to a fancy old lady’s hat, you know, the kind with feathers on it?  

Except this one was edible and the owner’s eyes were welling up with tears – angry tears, mind you - but tears, nevertheless. “Ano…” The Uchiha swallowed as Rin wordlessly, yet carefully, removed the cake from her head, mindful of the ruined bottom half, “It…looks better this way?” He added, creeping slowly yet surely behind his younger teammate. 

Wrong answer, if the murderous gaze directed their way was any indication. Both boys blanched, and Obito had the good sense to whimper as the Nohara launched herself at them with a barely concealed snarl. Cue a pandemonium which involved more sticks of butter, broken egg shells and what was left of the cream and icing - amidst Obito’s yelling of course. The cake, their collective pride and joy, was lost in the fray; its top half stuck to the ceiling while the other half found itself splattered around the walls in haste.

There may have been a stray, poorly attempted wind jutsu thrown in for good measure, which would certainly explain why an egg shell flew out the window with the speed of a kunai, only to land against the ground like a sad, lonesome martyr. It just so happened that a certain Namikaze had been making his way back by the time it had chosen to sacrifice itself, and had almost stepped on it by accident. Blue hues blinked at it curiously, almost slowly, before following its trajectory which…

Wait, was that his kitchen window? Minato flickered to the Hiraishin seal he had placed in his living room without a second thought. Depositing the bags on the floor, he quickly dashed towards the kitchen, fingers already pulling out one of his signature kunai because they were on the brink of war as it were. Not that he sensed any alien chakra signatures, but one could never be too careful. 

Besides, his kids were in there. Kunai raised in his usual stance, Minato paused at the door, expecting an Iwa rogue–

Only to find three pre-teens locked in a battle to the death with – a whisk? Rin had her arms around her struggling teammates - okay, maybe that was just Obito. Kakashi hung in her grip, as if resigned to his fate with a deadpan that could rival Fugaku’s. All three of them were splattered with an assortment of cream and squished fruit, and— Kami, what had happened to his kitchen?! He could barely discern the cream from the walls and the numerous splatters of broken eggs and sugar. Some of it had found its way on the ceiling too, if the steady drip of something over the door frame was anything to go by. 

All in all, a war torn mess. It would have been impressive if he wasn’t so horrified.  

The cake was nowhere to be found; though it was safe to assume that its splattered remains decorated the walls with the rest of his wayward ingredients. If he had been a lesser shinobi, he would have turned towards the heavens and asked why - why. 

But, as it turns out, he was a Jōnin sensei and had conveniently lost his ability to delve on his emotions, let alone express them as well as certain others (coughKushinamaybeInoichicough). So instead of repeatedly bashing his head against the nearest wall like a part of him wanted to, he did what any responsible sensei would - allow a sliver of his chakra, tinged with the barest of killing intent, to announce his presence.

It worked like a charm. Rin and Obito froze (Kakashi merely grunted), as the three watched their sensei step into the kitchen, sandals making an odd crunch (probably another egg shell) as he did. Minato’s gaze never left theirs as he approached, his narrowed hues a clear indication of his displeasure.

He wasn’t…that angry. Truth to be told, making another cake was hardly cumbersome work – what bothered him was the fact that he had given them one job. It didn’t even matter who was at fault; their teamwork was clearly amiss. Blond brows furrowed at the thought, and he stopped a few steps shy of the still tangled trio, “What have you got to say for yourselves?” 

Pause. At least they had the decency to look embarrassed - Rin in particular, looked like she was on the verge of tears and Minato couldn’t help but feel some of his annoyance ebb away. The Nohara was a seldom acknowledged soft spot, primarily because she was the most well behaved of the three. 

“A-ano…sensei” Obito spluttered, prompting the man to pause. The poor Uchiha barely had time to flounder a hand towards the ceiling before the creamy layer of what had been the cake lost its hold with a soft squelch.

And fell. Right on their sensei; Konoha’s Kiiroi Senkō, current Hokage candidate in opposition to Orochimaru of the Densetsu Sanin.

“…”

To the pastry’s credit, it was probably the only projectile the Yellow Flash had been unable to dodge and would probably go down in history as such. Buttercream frosting, along with what could be considered flecks of vanilla sponge, decorated blond hair and blue, clothed shoulders. The Namikaze raised a solitary palm just as a particularly creamy glop of ruined cake slid down his fringe, splattering against tan digits almost like a work of abstract art. 

Meep. Rin’s arms around their shoulders tightened just as icy blue hues met their own and Obito forgot how to breathe. 

“You three.” 

Said three collectively squeaked. 

EPILOGUE: 

In the end, the three were made to clean the kitchen - with their sensei eventually joining them out of sheer guilt (he couldn’t stay mad at them for more than seven minutes - today was a new record at the ten minute mark). Kushina found out, of course, and made enough pastry related jokes to put everyone at ease. 

Except Kakashi. He didn’t want to admit that her jokes were actually funny. 

With Kushina’s birthday surprise thoroughly ruined; they had to go to Ichiraku’s to celebrate. Needless to say, Minato’s wallet (apart from one legendary cake that will forever be remembered) suffered the most that day. 

@konohagakurekakashi @strawberry-medic