Hello. Amin asked me today if I was his “Valentine” after I gave him flowers I hand-grew and assured me he was not insecure when I asked him as much.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

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@blackbirdos
Hello. Amin asked me today if I was his “Valentine” after I gave him flowers I hand-grew and assured me he was not insecure when I asked him as much.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

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sendusablade:
A very drowsy Charlie was sketching her 5th go at a rejected floor plan. Uncomfortably, for reasons that were hopefully going to be rectified today. If only Kutkha could fix this terrible client she’s had to deal with for the past week too.
Tossing her tablet pen, she leaned back in her seat and groaned loudly. Work wasn’t the only thing frustrating her lately, but she wasn’t ready or able to really think about it. Where was she even supposed to start? At least work agitation made a little bit of sense to her, even if that mundanity also felt wrong in a way.
Charlie was leaning and leaning and running her hands through her hair and rubbing her eyes and being sleepy and annoyed when her door was knocked on. It managed to startle her and she’d almost leaned too far, catching herself at the last second. A cold shiver ran down her spine at the near-fall.
She slowly came up to the door and opened it looking sufficiently ruffled. “…Hey, uh. Thanks for this. Hah.”
“Hello, Charlie,” Kutkha answered in greeting. The desk remained on his shoulder until Charlie stepped aside and let him into the large, overly decorated room. He set it up against the gaudy papered wall and put the shopping bag down next to it. “It is a nice excuse to get out and do something. I don’t ever mind helping a friend. Ah, also, I brought some things to eat.”
He gestured to the bag at his feet. Not knowing what Charlie liked, he picked up a bunch of fun looking things from mostly different cultures that he hadn’t tried before.
“Have you ever eaten a ‘potato stick’? Seems like it’s full of emotional labor,” Kutkha continued, then huffed, seeming to remember something. “Oh, you said you had a toolbox, correct?”
Forgive me for leaving you all hanging. You know that full body ache when you’ve been stuck in one place for extremely long? That was me this weekend because I couldn’t get some glue to dry and had to hold little pieces together over and over.
Now, my bones have completely melted. Very messed up.
And from one moon to another I leapt.
Mahmoud Darwish, from In Her Absence I Created Her Image; The Butterfly’s Burden: Selected Poems (tr. by Fady Joudah)
breakdown to build anew
With ease, Kutkha hefted the heavy box off the floor in the foyer where Valsur had dragged it inside as pathetically and noncommittally as possible. They stood there eyeing each other for a moment, Valsur frowning petulantly as if it were Kutkha’s own personal fault that the desk in Charlie’s room was an ornate piece from 1832, carved of cherry, and also awful to use a laptop on while working. There was such a thing as too ornate, it turned out.
“Is something amiss?” Kutkha asked Valsur who frowned harder and waved his hands in Kutkha’s direction.
“Is something amiss? Oh, no, no, no. Just going on up there to break shit in my beloved home with your huge body and small head,” Valsur returned, scowling and baring his little dragon teeth in Kutkha’s direction, who smiled politely in the way that a nervous dog might wince while panting around a stranger. “Very much okay with me.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” Kutkha stiltedly said, adjusting the desk on his shoulder as if it weighed as much as a dozen feathers. “Can you point me to where Charlie is living?”
“You don’t even know. Sick. Go up the stairs and down the hall three doors. Take care not to accidentally go two doors down, you’d never survive,” answered Valsur, smug. Kutkha immediately knew that Charlie lived in the second room down and noted this. “May you not get a splinter.”
With that, Valsur spun on his little tippy tappy feet, scurrying away into what Kutkha remembered was the kitchen area. Kutkha sighed, then began up the stairs so he could wander down the hall. The walls were tight and intricately decorated and Kutkha knew he’d have to stoop to get into any of the rooms. He reached Charlie’s, knocking with his knuckles with his free-ish hand (there was a reusable shopping bag of snacks in it).

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It is almost cold on the balcony when Kutkha steps outside, and, as usual, the stars cannot be seen well through the thickness of the light pollution. He should be asleep, but the city is not, and there are probably a hundred other people just like him creeping outside for some air, to quell their churning thoughts. Kutkha inhales a shaky breath then moves over to the railing, stooping so that he can lean his elbows on it and look down into the dark street below. He likes the cold in a way he can’t explain. Before Earth, Kutkha had never shivered from a chill or sweat from the heat of the sun. Therefore, the temperature is unfamiliar to him, but unfamiliarity makes Kutkha feel the most like himself, devoid of the perfect prison he was born in. Difficult to explain, but nonetheless, truth.
Kutkha finally exhales. The feeling of it does not alleviate the weight in his chest, nothing has for a long while, but he can distract himself by watching lonely figures pass along the sidewalk far beneath him. The street lights cast them in long, cartoonish shadows, and they come and go, drifting off to their homes or work or lives. Kutkha does not know. Sometimes when he is out here, he likes to guess what their lives might be like, what his life could have been like if he was just like them.
Would he be happier if he had been born here? If he did not know what he knows?
He does not know.
Kutkha shifts and the railing creaks beneath him, then he stands up, drumming his fingers off the painted wood. What would a human do if up late with a restless mind? Perhaps play a game, watch a show, read, but nothing has been able to distract Kutkha from the ache in his chest, the need to move. He has tried everything else already; sometimes it is easier to just give in.
And so, he thinks.
-
His mind wanders first to the smell of old paper and bad coffee -- though all coffee is bad in Kuthka’s silent opinion. Logan is sitting across the table from him and frowning down at a journal that he’s referred to several times as ‘bullshit’, but has continued to read. It is endearing. It is also not the first time Kutkha has decided to step out of his metaphorical shell to spend time with Logan. The both of them come from vastly different lives, but they mesh well together in private, as both of them find silence companionable.
It is nice, Kutkha had thought at the time and thus thinks now upon reminiscing, and it is fulfilling to be a part of someone’s peace. He thinks of Logan’s struggles, of his journey to fit into this strange, unforgiving life, and relates to it immensely, but the two of them never speak of it.
There is no need to. Instead, Kutkha flips the page in his book and frowns at a diagram. They, after a while, talk about the finality of dust. To start as the leftovers of dying stars, to end, someday, the same.
-
Kutkha shuffles from foot to foot, drawn out of his memory by the honking of an impatient car down on the street far below. He turns to his dark apartment, intending to return inside and maybe… sit downstairs and read something, but he stops in distraction. He is wrong about his earlier assessment: the sky is especially clear tonight and he can see more stars than usual, though it is nothing like when he’d gone camping. The barest, ghost of a twinkle stands out of the clear, grey-blue sky. He is drawn to them in a way he is drawn to nothing else.
He steps up to the metal ladder that leads to the roof, climbs it gingerly, and stands with his eyes to the moon. Perhaps he could have simply teleported to the spot, but there was something inexplicably attractive to physical exertion, to the feeling of getting something done and feeling his muscles work in his body. He can feel the blood in his fingers, rushing along, and it is enough to remind him that he is indeed alive and standing there.
On the roof, the city yawns open before him. He walks to the opposite edge, watching out across dark buildings, and distantly the glitter of water in the bay. There is a breeze that ruffles his hair and he closes his eyes, overcome with the feeling that maybe it could blow him across the stretch of lights, across the sea, somewhere else.
Instead, he thinks of another time.
-
Emmett’s house smells like some unknown dessert as Kutkha steps inside, gingerly kicking off his shoes by the door as he had a dozen times before. Today, they will be building a model garage for the model house that had been in the works, and Kutkha’s fingers itched for the complicated embroidery that Emmett had promised. Kutkha bends to say hello to the little dogs that run up and greet him, but when he looks up, he notices another person coming to say hello alongside Emmett.
Oh, it’s Gardner. Kutkha feels strange about him in a way he can’t place, but not negatively. Kutkha vaguely recalls Emmett mentioning his presence days before, and Kutkha is happy to make room for someone a little new. He tells himself perhaps the strangeness is just a form of unfamiliarity, though Kutkha knows it is not.
He remembers what Gardner said about himself some time ago, plain and bare, and Kutkha understands intimately. To be a part of something huge and fearsome, to play a role bigger than yourself, not precisely knowing the consequences until it’s too late. Kutkha watches Gardner struggle to paint adhesive to the back of a small piece of wood for a tool cabinet and feels safe, here, despite the hesitance of others. It is a small normalcy that ends too soon.
-
The chill of the night time finally gets to Kutkha, just a little, and he finds that he’s tucked his bone-white fingers in his underarms for a modicum of warmth. It does not help much. It is just a distraction from a distraction. It’s now long past the time of just catching fresh air and Kutkha should go inside, maybe make some tea or, if truly despondent, put on a coat and go for a walk. He could see some of the kittens in the alleyway that have been too skittish to coax out from under the dumpster -- maybe this time one of them will take the step and accept the gentle offer of cheese.
Instead, Kutkha exhales, watching the steam roll off his lips. Breathing is second nature, as it is with most residents of this planet, but Kutkha finds that when he holds his breath, the sharp pang of need hardly comes. He does not know what to make of it, the idea that his habits are only learned and he keeps them only for comfort.
Still, inside of him is warmth somewhere like with anyone, as told by the steam.
-
Another memory flits through Kutkha’s mind, one that is shorter and more precious all the same. He and Amin are entertaining Alex for the evening, and Amin has run upstairs to take a phonecall. Alex is visibility enamored by the click-clack of Amin’s paws on the steps as he disappears from view.
“So, what have you been up to? I feel like we’ve barely talked even though we’re always in each other’s space,” Alex asks him after a beat of silence.
“I don’t know,” Kutkha answers. He looks at Alex who is looking at him oddly, like Kutkha is some kind of question he can’t figure out. Alex has big, bright eyes that give away every emotion. The next words slip out of Kutkha on accident, “Biding my time, mostly.” “Biding your time? What does that mean?” Alex asks immediately. He always speaks faster than his brain can comprehend words. “Hey, you know, I feel like you used to talk a lot more when I came over. Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Kutkha replies after a beat. His mind is spinning from his strange admission. The question is so simple and so complicated all at once. “My mind has been racing all the time. Things are… okay, though. Thank you for asking. How have you been?”
Miraculously Alex drops it. Maybe he understands how it feels to be afraid to answer a truth you aren’t ready for.
-
In hindsight, Kutkha should have said more when someone had given him the opportunity, when he didn’t have to hide behind a veneer of shame that he was not entirely grateful he was here. The time is passed. He no longer has the energy to explain to himself or others how he feels about his place in the universe.
There is order and chaos, space and time, and he is none of them. He has seen countless histories unfold and snuff out like the wick of a candle on its own wax. He hates knowing. He wishes that he could just --
A sharp inhale and Kutkha shakes his head.
He remembers Lilius. He remembers the small victories, of Wil giving Charlie a big hug, or the rebels crying and singing in celebration before Kutkha is strong enough to bring them home. He remembers how everyone meshes together, how bonds are formed, how much he has struggled to be normal, to stand all of this.
He thinks of everyone coming home and finding a place within each other. He knows they are all grateful of Kutkha’s ability to have brought them there. He knows he is loved and wanted, that he has people to rely on, that he has a home, but he cannot escape the fact that he does not belong here.
He does not belong here.
The thought hits him like a brick. He bares his teeth.
-
Another memory, and he is laying in bed next to Amin midday during a rainstorm. Amin is half-dressed and asleep, the front of his chest gently brushing against Kutkha’s shoulder blades whenever he breathes. Everytime they touch, Kutkha is jolted with teases of memory, of Amin’s family, his parents, his siblings, various other things that only made sense to a dreamer. A room full of kucing sharing a traditional meal from their planet, only now crucial ingredients replaced with similar Earthen ones, and eaten on paper plates with plastic forks instead of carved ghilka wood.
It is all Amin knows, but Kutkha has seen the alternative. He has never spoken of it and Amin has never asked, but Kutkha has heard the ringing dialogue of an ilmir king and the striking of stone upon flesh. He has heard the rattling magic in the bones of the planet, the sprawling jungles and cities and deserts. He has seen what Amin will never get to see, what he was supposed to have, what he could have if it wasn’t for Kutkha and the purpose he was born into.
Kutkha lies still, unable to move. All he can think about is that it is a burden to know. He does not want to know, but he cannot forget.
-
It is a long time before Kutkha moves from the cold, empty roof back down onto the balcony and into the apartment as quietly as a ghost. The gray-blue darkness around him is tinged with the faint pink of morning and he has again not rested as he has not rested in days. He kicks off his shoes, hangs up one of the sweaters he’d borrowed off of Amin’s nightstand and glances back towards the sliding glass doorway he had shut on the way in.
He sees himself as glassy and transparent, a dark shape, superimposed over the outside world. A figment of something not really here.
Something that doesn’t belong, but something that has nothing else to do but stay.
Urgh. My bones hurt.
19. Do they study before tests? Practice before job interviews? / 27. Forgiveness or vengeance (or…)?
19. kutkha has never taken a test or had a job interview in his life but if he did either, i think he would take them very seriously bc he's like that
27. HMMM he leans towards forgiveness, but i think along the wrong paths he could be very swayed by vengeance
Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words. - Lucerne
me: loyal, forgiving, ... unsure
her: unwavering, brutal, determined
Ask them to describe their love interest. - Juno
haha... he's fuzy... like a kittey (: nuff said

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Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child? - Icaros
Yes to the plant, if the plant doesn't need much sunlight or water. Space trains be like that.
Maybe to a pet -- I would not make Icaros have the sole responsibility over an animal unless it was like a cat or something.
Same goes for a child. He's not big on being a parent in general. He used to love babysitting, but not he probably needs therapy first.
Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is? - Valsur
Valsur will always take his OWN advice, that's for sure. It takes a lot of time and work to get into Valsur's inner circle where he'll trust someone's advice wholeheartedly. People like Lance and Jack, especially Jack, fit this bill.
As for people he will never take advice from -- most other dragons. He's sick of the things they have to say.
Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)? - Kutkha
HMM... depends on what it is. Kutkha definitely has a soft spot for things that are alive, such as plants, but inanimate objects no. He will play soft music in his plant room on a little speaker and spend a good few hours in there a day, so he certainly cares.
If it's a sentimental object, he'll moreso just be upset if it gets hurt because someone gave or made it for him, not because it got 'hurt'.
If you mean literally, he CAN empathize with machines lmao.
https://nightlifeowl.tumblr.com/post/656738209550778368/yvesdot-oc-asks-that-reveal-more-than-you-think
hi send me memes too... specify character pwease (^:
yfip: kutkha nolastname
- says he doesnt want to play video games with me
- proceeds to sit next to me and laugh at me when i crash as if he could do better 🙄🙄
You are not very good at some things and it is okay to admit this.

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Soft OC Asks
🌹 Where in the world does your OC feel most at home? Is there any reason why? If it’s not the place they were born, where were they born? Is there a certain somebody that makes them feel at home where ever they may be? What does home mean to them?
🍄 What are your OCs favourite snacks? Their favourite comfort food which always cheers them up when they’re down? Favourite meal to make? Do they enjoy baking and cooking and are they any good in the kitchen?
🍁 Where does your OC go when they need to have some time to themself? Would they ever have their own “comfort corner” filled with all the things they like? Do they have a favourite spot outside that feels like its theirs and theirs alone?
🍂 Does your OC enjoy hugs? What do they do as a show of affection for: their friends, their family, their significant other(s) or for strangers? Over all what are they like with recieving affection from others?
🌻 What little things do they notice about people or the world around them that make them happy? What tiny little treasures do they find in the normal every day that makes the world seem a little brighter for them?
🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them
💐 How does your OC handle being unwell or forced to rest in bed? Who cares for them and in what ways? Does your OC enjoy being doted on or are they a terrible patient? Reversed: is your OC good at taking care of others who are ill or in need?
🌿 What way does your OC show that they care without using words? What way do others show your OC that they’re cared about without using speech?
🌳 What is your OC’s favourite way to relax after a stressful day? Do they have a favourite book to curl up with? A hobby? Or do they have a nice bubble bath and have an early night to bed?
🌲 How deeply does your OC feel? Are they typically empathetic or do they have a hard time connecting with others in this way? What are they like when offering support and comfort to someone they care for?
🌺 What does your OC do to calm down when they’re scared or after a nightmare? Do they have any special comfort items or need to be reassured by a specific person? How do they handle this if they’re alone?
🌸 What are some of their favourite things and why? List as many as you can think of!
🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry?
🌼 Who are this characters friends and found family? How did they meet, how long have they been friends for, could they ever be something more than just friends? What do they look for in a friend or a romantic partner?
Questions for You!
💫What is your favourite fact about this character and why?
☄️ Does this OC deserve better treatment from you? Do you make them suffer just a little bit too much? Be nice to them!
🌠 On a scale of 1 - 10 how Baby is your OC? BONUS when asking this question rate the OC yourself as see if the reply matches up!!
💦 If you as the writer could erase one traumatic event from this OC’s life what would it be and why?
Huh. Many thoughts.