#and had to write them sad

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (page 97-100)

* Where could she be?

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[ajastu]

sibling bonding ritual 👍

Leandra's ghost disapproves

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

"We need cash." Two, Soda, Steve, Dallas, Pony, 'n Johnny crowd the living room in a loose circle like mourners at a funeral. Between them, the shattered, stacked, 'n swept together corpse of what had once been their TV.

"We? Ain't my fault it's broken." Dallas kicks at a shard of glass 'n Pony narrows his eyes at him. "Blame it on the kid 'n call it a night."

"Hey!" Pony stomps a foot before he can catch himself, crosses his arms. "It wasn't me!"

Steve scoffs, rolls his eyes. Pony's face darkens murderously. "Was too."

"No, it was not! You were the one who fuckin' threw me!" Soda 'n Two's eyes ping pong back 'n fourth between the two of them.

"Did not! 'N if I did it was only 'cause you started the fight."

"Bullshit!" Pony's voice hits a shrill high note 'n Steve smirks at him, self-satisfied. "I only started it 'cause you were fuckin' callin' me names you asshole."

"Well, I wouldn't have been callin' you names if you hadn't been actin' like a brat." Pony lets out an indignant wail 'n Soda has to fly across the group to snag him by the waist so he doesn't start right back up again.

"Ok, ok. Enough you two." Pony writhes around like a fish on a hook for another moment before Soda jabs him in the ribs 'n he howls but stops fightin'. "This isn't solvin' our problems."

"I don't see how this is an us problem." Dallas tries again, hooks an arm around Johnny's shoulder 'n pulls him close. "I just got here, Johnny wasn't involved, 'n neither was Two. Soda bites the bullet for not stoppin' 'em 'n Darry can string the idiots up as he so pleases. What's the problem?"

Steve 'n Pony both turn on him, united for the first time that afternoon, fingers pointed 'n accusin'. "'Cause Two was bettin' on us-"

"Hey! Look, all's fair 'n love 'n war or whatever they say. Nobody asked ya to start rumblin' in the livin' room of all places."

"Yeah, 'n Darry'll love to hear that." Steve grabs his hip, wags a finger in a pretty damn passin' imitation of Darry. "Two-Bit Mathews you're how old now? Glory God almighty when are you gonna get any sense- OW!" Steve hollers at the comic Two's rolled up 'n thumped him over the head with.

"Ok, Ok fine. But I wasn't fuckin' bettin' against myself!" Two glares pointedly at Soda who rocks back 'n forth on his heels, suddenly findin' the floor real interestin'.

"Soda!" Steve stops nursin' his head to glare at Soda with wide eyes.

"Hey! Look! I'm sorry!" He blinks, tries his best tip-earnin' grin. "It was all on you, Stevie."

"SODA!" Pony whips on him quick as quick, quiverin' with as much indignance 'n outrage a fourteen-year-old can manage. Soda swallows back a snort, grabs Pony's face in his hands. "I'm sorry-"

"Well. Tough shit for y'all. But I don't see what this has to do with me or Johnny 'n I'm of the mind to beat it before Darry gets home 'n raises hell."

"Uh, Dal." Johnny clears his throat 'n tries to ignore the pointed stares of the rest of the gang hot on his face, runs a hand up the back of his neck, blows out a long breath. "IhadfiftycentsonPonyboy."

"Johnny!" Dallas drops him but doesn't sound half as annoyed as he does impressed.

"Well at least someone was in my corner-" Pony shoots Soda an aggravated glance 'n Soda throws his hands up placatingly.

"Yeah, speakin' of which." Two whips his hand out, palm up, 'n makes a grabbin' motion. Both Soda 'n Johnny huff but reach in their pockets 'n pull out quarters, dumpin' into Two's waitin' hands. He hoots his laughter 'n shoves the dollars' worth of change into his pants.

"Wait, who were you bettin' on Two?" Steve crosses his arms at the same time Pony plunks his hands on his hips, both glarin' accusingly.

"Me? I wasn't playin' for neither of ya! I bet y'all were gonna break somethin'!" Two cracks himself up, howlin'. It doesn't last for long 'n Pony 'n Steve turn succinctly on him, draggin' him down to the floor 'n landin' jabs wherever they can reach.

"Good lord. Well, y'all have fun with that one. I'm peelin' outta here."

"Oh no you don't." Soda catches one hand deftly in the collar of Dallas' jacket as he turns to leave, hefts him back. "You even think about wormin' outta this I'll tell Darry about that time you smoked all that pot 'n threw up 'n I had to carry a bowl a soup down to Buck's for your scrawny ass."

"Yeah, or that time you got picked up for shopliftin' 'n when the cops called I picked up the phone 'n never told Dar." Steve pauses in his onslaught of Two-Bit to throw his hat in the ring. The moment he's not focused Two wriggles out, flips him easily onto his back.

"Or that one time with Tim-"

"OK. Goddamn! No wonder Darry's goin' grey. Y'all are enough to send a man to an early grave." Dallas scowls 'n throw his hands up, shakin' Soda off. "So what now?"

"Now we need cash." Two says plaintively 'n they all stare down at the wreckage again.

"Ok. Thanks, genius." Steve rolls his eyes, clambers back to his feet, offers Pony his hand 'n hauls him up. "What are we lookin' at here? Like what? Twenty bucks?"

"Twenty bucks? Steve, what world do you live on where a TV is twenty goddamn bucks?" Dallas toes at the the box 'n it sparks. "Jesus Christ, none of you unplugged it? Hurry up 'n yank the plug out before we gotta by Dar a new house too."

Both Soda 'n Johnny dive for the cord 'n Johnny pulls up at the last second so they don't crack their heads together.

"So what, like fifty?" Pony 'n Soda exchange a glance, avert their eyes.

"Uh, try more like eighty, man." Soda plops down on his ass, looks desolately at the hunk of plastic 'n glass again.

"EIGHTY? Guys. We're dead. More than dead. Dar's gonna kill us, bury us, 'n then dig us back up again." Steve chews at his thumbnail, paces quick back 'n forth.

"Naw, Steve. Be realistic." Two grins, stuffs his hands into his pockets. "He'd never go through all that work for us. I think just killin' us the first time around'll do it."

Pony groans, presses both his palms into his eyes 'n collapses back into the armchair. "Not funny, Two."

"Aw, not even a lil-" He's cut off by the throw pillow Steve beams at his head, hittin' him square in the face.

"Man focus. We got cash, right?" Dallas refocuses the room, looks at them each in turn. The silence is answer enough, the celin', floor, 'n walls becomin' real fascinatin'. "Man, y'all've got to be jokin'. Steve, don't you have some money from the DX or your da put away?"

"Uh, well, no. Not really. Kinda, uh, lost it. All." He twiddles the bottom of his vest between his fingers, refuses to look up.

"Whatta ya mean lost it?"

"Look you lose one goddamn drag 'n suddenly everyone's crawlin' up your ass! How was I supposed to know that? 'N hey, what about you, Two? I don't hear you offerin' anythin' up."

"Ha! What money? I didn't have anythin' to start with don't look at me. Ask Soda, he's employed."

Soda throws his hands up guiltily. "Don't look over here. I got six bucks to my good name."

"Yeah, good 'n broke-" Soda pulls a face 'n kicks Dallas hard in the shin before he can duck outta the way.

"Where'd your paycheck go, Soda?" Johnny prods at him with his foot 'n Soda playfully catches it, yanks at him.

"Hey, I keep the lights on in this place!"

"And the rest of it?" Johnny pulls back 'n, when he realizes Soda ain't lettin' up, reaches down to jab at the ticklish spot on Soda's ribs.

"What? A man can't be afforded a lil' fun?" Soda yowls 'n drops his foot, wrigglin' backwards to get away. "How was I supposed to know a guitar was twenty-five bucks?"

"Soda!" Pony's jaw drops open. "You can't even play!"

"Hey! Yet! Gimme some credit! Plus I don't wanna hear anythin' from mister no job over there." Soda crosses his arms dramatically but he's grinnin' the whole way 'n all of them know he doesn't mean it.

"That ain't fair! Darry won't let me get a job. 'Course I don't got no goddamn money. Look at Dal. He's got a job!"

"First of all, I didn't even break the fuckin' TV. Second of all, how much money I got is none of your damn business." Dallas scowls, turns his nose up. Steve groans, drops down to the couch with his head in his hands.

"God so we're all broke."

"Hey-!"

"Shut up, Dal." Two cuts him off 'n Dallas' shifts his glare, damn near murderous. "Johnny Cakes?" He tries, weakly hopeful.

"Uh, I got three bucks." Soda quirks an eyebrow up 'n Johnny plops his hands on his hips.

"Where did you-"

"Ya gonna ask questions or are ya gonna take it?" Soda studies him for a moment, arms crossed still 'n doin' a cartoonish impression of a fussin' hen.

"Boys, we got a real hood among us here today." He hoots 'n Johnny kicks him in the hip, both of them still howlin'. "So that brings us up to, what?"

"Uh, nine bucks. Ten if someone can wrestle that change outta Two's pocket." Pony leans forward, elbows on his knees, 'n sizes Two up like he stood even a single chance.

"Man. I want lillies at my funeral. Can I put that out there? Should we do last rites now or-"

"Aw, hush up, Steve. Look, we just gotta scrape together a little money before Dar gets back. We can get, uh, what was it?" Soda frowns, counts absently on his fingers.

"Seventy more bucks." Pony dead pans 'n Soda's self-assured smile wavers a bit.

"C'mon, that's nothin'! We just gotta put our heads together." Soda climbs to his feet, rubs his hands together in thought. "How do we get our hands on some quick cash?"

Dallas 'n Two open their mouths 'n Soda throws out an accusin' finger to each of them. "'N nobody's doin' nothin' illegal 'cause if Dar has to pick one of us from the station before he comes home to no TV he's gonna start inventin' cruel 'n unusual punishments, y'hear?"

Dallas rolls his eyes 'n mutters 'n Two nods absently in agreement but they both don't offer any other ideas. "Anythin' else?"

"Uh, pawn shop?" Pony offers.

"Yeah, great idea, Pone. Anyone have any expensive jewelry they've been keepin' back?" Steve drawls, dryly, apparently resigned to his fate.

"Well, it ain't mine but I got, uh, a Singer we could sell." Dallas leans back in the doorway, waits for the onslaught of questions. They don't disappoint.

"A Singer? Dal, you've been watchin' me hafta hand hem 'n you had a Singer?" Soda howls, goes to kick him in the shin again but Dallas is prepared this time 'n dodges it.

"Where the hell did you get a Singer-?"

"Why-?"

"Look! It was Sylvie's, right? When I kicked her out she didn't get the chance to take it or nothin'. It ain't mine." He throws his hands up defensively, eyes Soda still standin' close enough to wallop him if he decided to. Soda glares back like he's still makin' up his mind about goin' for round two.

"Aw, man. We can't pawn off Sylvie's stuff." Johnny backs outta the way as Soda decides to give it another go 'n jabs at Dallas. "She mighta been a lil' mean but she don't deserve to have her shit sold off."

"The bitch- Soda get offa me- two-timed me? Remember?" Dallas knocks Soda's hands deftly away 'n Soda sneaks in on more solid kick before retreatin'.

"Oh, yeah." Johnny rocks back 'n forth on his heels, still clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea.

"Maybe Soda 'n Steve could pick up some extra shifts for a bit?" Pony tries again, clearly not as willin' as Steve to lie down 'n take his medicine.

"Yeah, another winner, Pone. 'N when Darry comes home to no TV tonight?" Steve scowls at him 'n Pony glares back, the two still dangerously close to another all-out scrap.

"Well, at least I'm comin' up with somethin'."

"Doesn't help if it's all stupid-"

"Alright you two, knock it off. We can't afford to have to buy anythin' else y'all broke 'cause y'all can't keep your traps shut." Two cuts in 'n they both round on him, glarin'.

"Look who's talkin'!" Steve mutters 'n Two grins 'n flips him off.

The laughter 'n bickerin' trail off, lapsin' into silence again. Each lookin' guiltily at the disaster, eyein' each other. "Well, uh, is anyone not above beggin'?" No one says anythin' 'n Two clicks his teeth, nods. "Yeah, didn't think so."

"Hey, guys." Six heads turn to look at Pony, suddenly ashen 'n lookin' past them up at the clock in the kitchen. "Is this a bad time to tell y'all Dar told me to tell y'all he'd be home early this afternoon?"

"Pony." Steve flies to his feet, grabs Pony by his shoulders. "How early?"

Somehow, Pony manages to pale even further. "Uh. In like. An hour?"

As if it had heard, the TV hisses, flashes, lets out one final death rattle 'n falls silent so it's just the seven of them, eyein' each other like men at the gallows.

"Dallas?" Johnny gives himself a shake, grabs his jacket from the back of the sofa.

"Yeah, man?"

"Let's get your girlfriend's stuff."

[bbuzz28]

Memories

Old man Fiddlestan, my beloved-and what's this? It could be semi-canon compliant :O ?!?! Woof- this is one of the saddest things I have ever written. I know some of you gremlins (affectionate) love that sort of thing, but I don't. I like really really don't. This is my comfort ship, so I don't even know where this came from other than trying to figure out how they *could* work in canon. Truthfully though, I prefer my Fiddlestan heavy on the comfort when it comes to the "hurt/comfort" genre. This is my only “angsty” (i.e. no immediate happy ending) Notes-app fics, so don't get used to this level of sad from me lol.

“Stan?” an oddly familiar voice called. Mr. Mystery, Stan Pines, glanced up from the flyers he was organizing and found that Old Man McGucket stood in the doorway of his front door. The last tour of the day had just left, it was dinnertime, and he was exhausted. Stan rolled his eyes as he unfurled his tie, wishing Soos was still there to escort the crazy old man off his property. No matter what he did, the old hillbilly always managed to find his way back to the Shack. “Sweet Moses McSuckit, what are you doing in here? Shoo, scat, or whateva will get rid of ya.” Hearing no movement, he looked at the man again and found he was standing erect. His blue eyes were the clearest he had seen them in no less than a decade.

          Wait, what did he call- oh. Oh no.

“Stan…ley? Did I…did I do somethin’ wrong?” the other man asked, his hands twisted in knots in front of him. Memories flashed through Stan’s mind; Ford falling through the portal, Fiddleford finding him passed out in the lab, working together to bring Ford home again…being together. Being happy. They had been happy, if just for a little while, hadn’t they?

Then there was the cult, and his discovery of the damn memory gun that had finally ruined everything they ever built. He took a hesitant step forward, a thousand thoughts roaring in his mind at once. “Fidds? Wha-what do you remember?” A bandaged hand snaked up and rubbed over the faded scar on the side of his head “I…don’t rightly know. Did we…I think we had a fight? I just woke up in the…in the dump. N’ I don’t have any shoes. Do ya know why my arm is in a cast?” Fiddleford looked so lost.

Stan knew in his heart that all of this was fleeting- “clarity” would hit Fiddleford every few years after he had finally wiped his mind of himself. Almost like his brain was trying to jumpstart itself back together. The first time they thought it was a miracle but…it didn’t last. It just started a trend that would follow them both for the next almost thirty years. Fiddleford would seemingly “wake up” and be lucid for a few weeks in the beginning, then eventually only a matter of days. It had been so long since the last time that Stan would wager, they only had maybe a few hours together if he was lucky.

The last time Fiddleford was himself…they had fought. Stanley thought he had figured the only way Fiddleford could stay; he needed to remember. Remember everything he had ever forgotten. At the time, Fiddleford had been unwilling to try. He didn’t think he could handle it; he knew he had forgotten what he had for a reason.

Stanley had gotten as close to begging as he ever had in his life since surviving Tijuanna, and when it had no effect…Stanley had told Fiddleford to leave and never come back. He had left that night, and by the next day he had faded away again. After a while, Stan thought his last words had been the final nail in the coffin that was Fiddleford’s mind. He carried that weight along with every other mistake he had ever made. But here he was. Fiddleford. His Fiddleford.

He took a deep breath before he opened his arms up. “Hey, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I’m right here.” Fiddleford rushed through the doorway, melting into Stanley’s open arms. “I went away again, didn’t I?” Stan could feel Fiddleford’s tears soaking into his chest, his own whispering at the edges of his eyes. Yes, and you will leave again. You will leave me and I will be alone all over again, you fucking asshole. “Hey cowboy, didn’t I just say not t’ worry about any a’ that? You’re here now, n' that’s what matters. You’re…you’re home.” A haggard laugh vibrated through the smaller man’s chest into Stanley’s own. “I know I keep tellin’ ya, tellin’ me not t’ worry is like” “…tellin’ a fish t’ stop swimmin’; I know Fidds, I know.” Fuck was really the only conscious thought that went through his head as he held his one-time lover. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, again.

Fiddleford looked up, eyes wide and searching Stan’s face. “How long do ya think we have?” Stan shook his head, unwilling to lie even if it eventually wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t remember. You’ve always been the only person I couldn’t lie to. “I dunno, it’s been…a while. Probably not very long.” Fiddleford closed his eyes before he said “I need ya t’ know somethin’, Stanley.” Stan started to shake his head. “Fidds, you don’t have t-” The look on the other man’s face shut Stan right up-he had always had that ability. Stan wished he didn’t miss it as much as he did. “I need ya to know that even when I’m not here…I miss you. The part of me that’s somewhere in here-” A weathered hand tapped the side of his head to emphasize his point “ misses you. I’m just so sorry, Stanley. Sorry that I’m a coward. I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to be here all the time…but I’ll never stop tryin’. I’ll always try n’ come home to ya.”

Stan thought of the thousands of times he had chased Old Man McGucket, the neat little character that Stan had to compartmentalize his Fiddleford into when he wasn’t himself, out of the Shack. How many times he had found him curled up like a cat on the back porch. How every time they “met”, McGucket would say how nice Stan was or how good he felt to be around him “for some reason.” How many odds and ends McGucket would gift Stan from the dump for exhibits at the Mystery Shack with a large smile and nothing substantial behind his eyes.

It would be so much easier if he would stop trying to come back. Maybe the hole in Stan’s heart the size of the sweet, certifiably insane man would scab over. How many times had Stanley mourned him? How many times was he willing to hurt himself? They were now nearing their sixties, how long was he really willing to do this song and dance?

What’s one more time? he softly thought, his hand coming up to tenderly cup the grizzled face of Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Mad scientist, friend, and unfortunately for them both…the love of his life.

“I miss you too, Fidds.”

[sleepybitnation]

Noticed an interesting parallel.

For Kaito’s line in chapter 3- it’s when Maki was struggling with her real talent being exposed and hid in her room sorta accepting the fact that everyone views her that way now

For Maki’s line in chapter 5- it’s when Kaito was dealing with the effects of his illness and emotionally distancing from the group in order to maintain the idea that he’s Perfectly Fine

In both of these, they’re aware the other is hiding behind a mask of sorts (for Maki she sees herself as a heartless killer, while Kaito sees himself as the hero everyone relies on), but they also see past that in each other and are aware they are struggling. Hence the concerned looks and Those Lines.

I thought it was cool because their dynamic is often dismissed as Kaito simply helping her, but in reality they were both there for each other and in a way that’s equal rather than him playing “hero” with her. When one of them was suffering, rather than leaving them to deal with it on their own like they’re both used to, they said stuff like this and went out of their way to look out for each other.

I find it interesting how they similarly struggle with feeling like they have to be strong for those who rely on them. It makes sense they’d see right through it in each other because they understand that pain. I love equals

[sunlight-shunlight]

suddenly sitting up awake at 12am: i think thedas has a genre of memento mori types of paintings, where they put a skull in with some fancy still life stuff to indicate that the patron/artist is wealthy, but also Pious and thinking about Inevitable Death rather than material things (even though they're lovingly rendering all the silverware and expensive fruits and lace tablecloths or whatever)

BUT. since andraste is associated with fire, this is done by including like a lit candle or an urn of ashes or something in the composition, to show the piety and focus on the impermanence of life! i think this would be common in orlais especially. presumably tevinter is trying not to play up the "whoops we turned the saviour into a burnt kebab :)" angle in their religion, so they'd have... idk. a knife or something? to indicate the sword of mercy as the pious symbol of death rather than the fire itself?

[evilminji]

You know? So much of the Sith plan?

Indeed, their very survival? Hinges in their opponents acting with selfishness.

Acting without Trust in the Force and Fear of Death. Not facing them with absolute serenity. At peace, with the knowledge that their actions will resulted in a Greater Good. You know... like Jedi.

Terrifying, Terrifying Jedi.

Not the PG, made friendly for the masses, kind. But the? Shows up out of nowhere, to lead a violent coup, and free us all for 1000 years of Slavery kind. The?? "Meh. Guess I'll die then. See you all in the Force." Kind.

You know... the way they GET? When the Force is leaning on them? To DO something? Is sorta just.... taking their fear. Their worries. Speedrunning their "end of life" grieving process. And they get... that... that frankly DEEPLY alarming Spark Of Serene Madness in their eyes.

Cause their survival instincts have shut off.

Reason I'm bringing this UP? Is because I genuinely? Don't think The Sith remember or understand? That Jedi sometimes just... pop off. Go Rouge. They cock their heads to the side, as the Force whispers, and something inside them... settles. Goes quite.

Because no one else was LISTENING. The time for talking has passed. Action must be taken and will not be. So?

It is the Will Of The Force.

Giving yourself up to something greater then yourself. TRUSTING that this is RIGHT, even if you can't see HOW, and will not live long enough to see the end results. For the greater good of everyone. For everything you vowed to protect. The Force is telling you to so something. And you? You Have Faith.

So you cut down a world leader. Carry a bomb where it should not be. Sabotage the ship you're on. No warning, no lead up, no great plots. And most importantly?

No time to stop you.

If you tried and tried, yet failed to make them listen? If the Force itself is COMMANDING you act? If you have died before and know that it is not as frightening as everyone fears? Then what can you do? But cut through all the fluff and nonsense of plotting and schemes? Of "what if's" and "could be's"?

Trust that this is necessary. Trust in those who follow. In the Force.

And Kill The Sith.

Bang.

@babbling-babull @legitimatesatanspawn @hdgnj @spidori @hypewinter @mayfay

[pokimoko]

haunting the narrative -> haunted by the narrative -> haunting the narrative -> haunted by

[a-most-beloved-fool]

the first time you reblogged the kiss prompt I was like aaah I want all of these for spirk and I ended up not submitting any at all from sheer feeling overwhelmed by the selection.

but i've been thinking about it and i'm so glad you reblogged it, I was gonna go digging for it!

Still can't decide though, there are so many good scenarios, so maybe any of 4, 10, 17, 18, 23, 28, 38, 46 for Spirk?

... in relief.

It happened in the space of a moment.

First, Spock had been dead. Kirk had been sure of it. The transporter had failed at exactly the wrong moment, and where a Vulcan was supposed to stand, serene, on the transporter pad, instead was simply - nothing. Empty space.

Spock had beamed off the planet, yes, but he never made it to the ship. Dead not to some heroic cause, but mere mechanical failure, leaving his atoms scattered in the black expanse of space so very far from home.

It seemed cruel. Senseless.

Kirk had seen death before, many times, but somehow no loss had hit him as hard as this one did, an icy dagger between his ribs. All Kirk could manage in its wake was to grip the edge of the control panel with shaking hands, barely able to keep himself upright under the weight of the grief which knotted thorny vines throughout his chest.

Spock! Kirk despaired, a sob building in his throat.

But then, the transporter grated again into motion, a terrible whine leaving it as a beam of light slowly consolidating into a heartrendingly familiar form. Kirk stared, half agony and half hope, hardly daring to imagine it was possible. The beam wavered, then settled, and there he suddenly was - somewhat ruffled, yes, but upright and breathing.

The most beautiful creature that Kirk could imagine - Spock, alive! - stood at attention on the transporter pad, and Kirk could do nothing else but take him by the arms and kiss him. It was sheer animal instinct, urging him to grasp what once was thought lost and draw it close.

Those narrow lips were shockingly plush beneath his own, and Kirk basked for a moment in the heat of them, the air that puffed gently between them, proof of life. Relief and adoration spilled from Kirk's every pore as he kissed Spock, working to memorize the contours of his mouth.

Dimly, it occurred to Kirk that he had never done this before. He had dreamed of it, certainly, but never once had he actually kissed Spock. Idly, he wondered why.

Then, quite abruptly, he remembered.

He yanked himself away, a desperate apology tripping to the tip of his tongue, but when he looked up into Spock's face, instead of horror or disgust or stiff rigidity, he saw-

Kirk blinked, dazed. Perhaps he had been too hasty when he had called Spock's earlier appearance, "the most beautiful he could imagine," because this, he thought, might just beat it.

Spock's eyes were loosely closed, dark lashes fanning out over olive-dusted cheekbones. There was no crease between his brows, no mark of discomfort or frigidness which closed him off to the world around him. Instead, their slant suggested some far gentler emotion. His typical lipstick had long since worn away, exposing the natural sage of Spock's lips, which here held soft and slightly parted. Slowly, Spock blinked his eyes open, sending those lashes fluttering. Spock gazed at Kirk, eyes so lovely a brown, and Kirk's heart couldn't help but stutter in his chest at the sweetness of his expression.

Spock looked like a man who had just been kissed.

Spock looked like a man who would like to be kissed again.

Kirk's apology died on his lips, and for a long moment he stood frozen, simply staring, mouth agape. Then, Spock tilted his head, gently inquisitive, and time took effect once more.

"I'm, ah - glad you're back safe, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, looking down and coughing lightly as heat flooded into his cheeks. "I feared for a moment there that you were space dust."

"Indeed," Spock replied, dipping his head. Something almost like a smile sat in the corners of his lips, secret and teasing. "Your greeting was... most unusual, Captain."

"Unusual," Kirk mused quietly. His eyes were fixed just beyond Spock's elbow before he snapped them up again, scanning Spock's face for each telltale trace of emotion. "...not unwelcome?"

And, oh, it was beautiful to see how that almost-smile twitched ever so slightly wider, setting Spock's eyes alight with a subtle glow. "No, Captain," he said. "Not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"I see," said Kirk, and something warm and giddy unfolded inside of his chest, fluttering. A smile which he was certain Bones would call "sickeningly besotted" was spreading helplessly across his face; Kirk couldn't bring himself to try to stifle it. "That's - good to know."

On a whim, he darted forward, pressing another brief peck to the corner of Spock's mouth.

"Very good to know indeed."

_____

from this ask game

(also, if you haven't already seen it - one option you gave was Spirk #17, which I answered for a different ask here!)

[jade-len]

i think it'd be funny if someone transmigrated as xin mo. the goddamn evil sword. instead of taking it seriously, they just really fucked around with bingge. and, somehow, ended up having the opposite effect of what it's supposedly rumored to do.

picture this: bingge, on the quest for revenge and power, comes across the almighty xin mo. this demonic sword killed everyone that dared to even try wielding it. and, the few who were lucky enough to have it by their side, eventually succumbed to the swords' will.

it is said that the sword is unlike any other, that it etches into your head and eats away your brain, until eventually it consumes you whole. it whispers, speaking in lust, greed, and hatred. it slowly beckons the wielder into giving in to the worst part of themselves and feeds off of pure sin. but to him, it is no matter; luo bingge will surely tame it.

and then he gets to the sword.

demonic qi practically oozes from xin mo. the aura surrounding it makes every part of luo bingge scream, "run; get away, away from that monster." his gut prods at him, begging bingge that this is probably a really bad idea. it's a little terrifying, how even luo bingge, the determined, vengeful demon, is now getting second thoughts about wielding xin mo from just being in its presence alone.

but luo bingge is too, a monster. so he ignores the screams of plea; pushing every thought of doubt in the back of his head, and tightly grips onto the handle. the world around him seems to spin and shake, tumble and crack, from the amount of force bingge needs to use in order to pull the sword of sin out of its place.

when bingge finally has it perfectly fit into the palms of his calloused hands, he hears whispering. he knows that the sword has accepted him as its new host.

the sword's language crawls up to him, as if it were feeling around his body and mind. checking every nook and cranny for it to settle into bingge's form, truly becoming one with the embodiment of sin. the words flow through his brain like a tragically broken guqin, a melody that holds him in a frighteningly familiar trance - all while simultaneously eating away at his brain in the worst ways possible, akin to a child and their favorite snack. it seems to beckon something, but even with luo bingge's impressive hearing, he cannot make out any words from the tone-deaf musical notes xin mo sings.

and then, it is clear. the land around him settles, and everything is still. xin mo itself seems to be.. content. at least, that is what luo bingge believes.

the language of this wretched sword reflects the state around these two monsters.

luo bingge expects it to demand for bloodshed, for the erotic ecstasy of multiple women, for bingge to steal the last of the finest gems of these horrible, vast lands.

instead, he hears this:

"yoooo damn that shit was crazy. did you see what i did there? man, you know, it feels so fucking good to get out of the dirt. hey, do you know if people can like, feed their swords or something? i'm kinda craving something spicy. we never know, in this wack world! wait, don't hold me like that, buddy. it'll make things real awkward."

but luo bingge is determined to get his revenge, so he puts up with the swords' constant rambling about.. whatever the hell it's thinking.

"wait, dude, did you seriously fuck a dying girl? that's wild. yeah, like i know she was dying but it doesn't sound like you wanted it. yo, listen to me, consent is very sexy."

"HAHA hey, dude, sir, man. you wanna play some 'i spy'? we don't have anything else to do. no? too bad, we're playing it. i spy a loser who doesn't wanna play i spy. hint: he's holding me right now."

"okay i know i'm supposed to be this super evil sword and beg to be used - woah that sounded real wrong - but can you at least clean me when you're done killing shit? if you don't, i'm gonna refuse to respond to you and you'll look like a dumbass trying to wield me."

"i can't hear you lalalalalalala you're not being very it girl right now lallalalaalalalla-"

somehow, this is worse than if xin mo was actually eating away at his brain.

weirdly enough though, as luo bingge starts spending more time with this weird ass, seemingly possessed sword, it starts to become more of a.. comfort to have it by his side than pure annoyance. he finds himself responding to it more, like, actually having full on conversations with it. it puts him at ease, wielding xin mo. the hatred doesn't consume him, instead, it seems to soothe the burning rage (and, admittedly, just replace it with small irritation) that holds onto his darkened heart.

xin mo is actually quite kind and caring, for a sword that's supposed represent and be the literal embodiment of sin. sure, it is a hassle to have it cooperate with him sometimes, and it does just ramble on and on about the most random things ever, not giving a single shit if bingge was in the middle of sleeping with maidens and slaying those who get in his way. for the first time, bingge feels so comfortable around something.

it's.. odd. what was supposed to be the turning point in his life, a big step in his plan for revenge, is now something akin to an... acquaintance. not like mobei-jun, or any of the women he's come across, but an actual, dare he say, friend.

sometimes, he finds himself thinking all of this delusional. is this what people were driven mad by? perhaps they simply could not handle dealing with a talking sword. he understands that xin mo was undoubtedly unbearable to be around at the beginning of their alliance, but it has never actually beckoned for blood, power, and sex. if anything, it does the opposite.

maybe he's the delusional one. maybe this is xin mo's way of getting to him.

maybe, xin mo should be considered a thing. the thought feels terribly laughable, as if he were witnessing a person horribly explain themselves. it also makes his teeth grind together in pure agitation.

"hey, you know, you didn't deserve any of the things they did. it wasn't your fault, binghe. the fact that you're half heavenly demon doesn't make you a monster, or any of that wild stuff.. uh, i'm here for you, okay? i know you don't really like talking about all of this or opening up, but i just want you to know that you can.. talk about it. it's not like i can tell anyone else, anyways.

hey- shit i didn't mean to make you cry! wait, wait it's okay to cry! you need to let it out anyways, i promise it doesn't make you weak. there, there. i don't have any hands, so me patting you on the head with my handle will have to do. there, there.. everything will be alright, you'll be okay. i'll be here every step of the way, even if you want to get rid of me."

xin mo, the demonic sword, is more of a person - a good person - than anyone he'd ever come across.

...and then bingge and the xin mo transmigrator become besties or he falls for the damn sword. knowing him, he probably doesn't even know the difference between platonic and romantic attraction anyways. maybe bingge gets a plant body for xin mo using airplane's wack writing. idk i typed all of this down in one sitting.

(plot twist: it's not that the transmigrator xin mo had the opposite effect, it was literally just a placebo effect. luo bingge thought that, and thus it actually did help him lmao)

[blastzachilles]

— One of Your Girls .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: MRTA + 2019!ARTRICK WORD COUNT: 1.8k CW: mentions of blood, guns, knives

a/n: baby's first fanfic!! i love these two so much, they've infected my brain an unhealthy amount. this is loosely related to troye sivan's 'one of your girls' which i compared in this post to being art's perspective talking about patrick, and wanted to write more about it. i also actively consulted the script so the sauna dialogue is directly ripped from that LMFAO. i hope you enjoy, and any comments or feedback is greatly appreciated!! <3 big thank you to my lovely beta readers!

— Patrick saw the way Art looked at him when he walked in. 

His gaze a little lower than it should have been for the respectable tennis player, for the man married to the woman who was once the Duncanator. 

“When we were teenagers.” Art says. No. Not says, stings, like frostbite, his voice cold and unwavering. No wonder he was Ice.

The sharpness of his words are a bullet through Patrick, dangerously inching closer to his heart every time.

“Right. When we were teenagers.” Patrick gets up this time, but he’s still bleeding out. A few more shots and he’ll be a goner. 

He just wants Art to see him. Patrick thinks he never has. 

How wrong he was. 

Before they were teenagers both obsessed with the goddess who fell from grace, they were boys. 

Boys who did everything together. Who laughed, cried (no matter how many times they denied it), and most importantly, loved together. 

And boy, did Art love Patrick. 

Patrick, who comforted Art when they were twelve, when Art was just learning how to live by himself. Patrick, who went out at absurd hours of the night with Art, just because he wanted a walk. Patrick, who stayed up with Art hours before an exam, not caring about the material, but knowing Art needed it. 

Patrick, who made Art feel like he was the most important person in the world. 

Patrick taught him everything, how to jerk off, how to talk to girls, how to be Art. It was all Patrick.

But nothing can stay in bloom forever, and they transitioned from boys to teenagers. 

Art watched Patrick grow, as his face matured, as it grew sharper, as he started twisting his face into that one smirk Patrick knew would get into any girl’s pants. The one that made you feel like you were everything.

He knew because Patrick tested it on him first. Art still remembers it clear as day.

In their dorm, sixteen years old, Fire and Ice had decided they were going to their first party. 

“Hey, Art.” 

“Yeah?” Art was tired. It was past midnight, and he knew he was going to be up late the next day. He just wanted to sleep. 

But Patrick’s next words had him more awake than drinking any amount of pure caffeine. 

“I think I’m gonna try to get some tonight.” Patrick says, and Art doesn’t even have to roll over to see the smug grin on Patrick’s face as he stares at the ceiling. 

“Okay?”

“Wanna help me try some things out?” 

Art didn’t know how he could help, all he knew was that he wanted to. So against his better judgement, he rolled over in his twin bed, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge.

“Sure.” 

Art remembers the research that ensued, the work done to help Patrick finally get lucky, their faces when they found out sometimes all you needed was a simple expression. The way Patrick’s face contorted, twisted, in a form of gymnastics, before making a perfect landing.

Art’s face had never felt so hot, and he swore he was going to end up in cardiac arrest the way his heart skipped. 

“That one.” Too loud. Too fast. 

He says it again.

“That one.” This time it’s too small. Too confused. Too emotional.

Patrick doesn’t press. He knows better than that. He just grins like he’s won the lottery, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

And Art swears he’s in a dream, knowing his best friend thinks of him like that. Even if Patrick doesn’t mean it, which Art knows he does, all that matters is that his god, his guide, his everything has just told him that he matters, that Art’s an integral part of his life. He’ll do anything to stay that way. 

But Patrick keeps moving, growing, getting more experienced, and no matter how much he begs Art to finally get his dick wet, he never goes further than handjobs.

And always in the dark.

So he can imagine it’s Patrick’s hand wrapped around him instead, so long as he shuts his eyes tight enough. 

He wishes Patrick would see him. That Patrick would see he’d do anything for him. That Patrick would see he’d be anyone, absolutely anyone. Hell, he’d even be just like one of those girls, just to get a glimpse of Patrick, just to be his first place. 

The way he still would, even now, 31 and playing at Phil’s Tire Town Challenger, in a sauna with his ex-best friend, married to Tashi Donaldson.  

But Patrick doesn’t know. He never has, and he never will. Art will take this with him to his grave. 

There’s static in Patrick’s brain as he looks at his ex-best friend, ex-teammate, ex-everything. Begging him silently to say something, because if he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what will come out.

“You’re right. I do find it disturbing.” Another bullet, but it’s easy to deflect this one.

“Well, there’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me. None of them wanted to marry me. That’s not what I was for.” Patrick thinks this is the safe route. That Art can’t hurt him with this response.

He was dead wrong.

“Then what were you for?” 

Patrick begs that the gasp of air that left him is only in his head as he tries to cover it up with a smile. Art’s lack of acknowledgement says it was, but Patrick can’t tell if he’d say something either way. He doesn’t know Art anymore. Somehow, that thought sends another bullet through him, grazing his heart. 

A small scoff to hide his blood on the floor that he’s just begging Art to notice, and Patrick continues.

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy that I was in the draw. You’ve always wanted to beat me at a tournament, haven’t you? Especially a few weeks before the Open. It’s the perfect confidence booster.” Patrick begs to be noticed, to be acknowledged, but Art gives him nothing. Like he can’t see that Patrick is bleeding out, spilling all over the floor, just for him. 

“I know what you’re trying to do right now–”

“I’m not trying to do anything. This is a challenger. I don’t have to play mind games with you.” 

“Right. You don’t give a shit.” 

It seems Art doesn’t know Patrick either anymore, seeing as he believes Patrick doesn’t give a shit about him.

Patrick’s mind shifts in and out of static, losing oxygen as the bullet grazes his heart now. He’s set on the path of certain death, but it’s just what he’d do for Art.

Even if Art isn’t willing to see it, his mind clouded by something Patrick can’t quite tell anymore. 

“...the more I realize it’s about what didn’t happen. You didn’t grow up. You still think you can talk to me like I’m your peer because we came from the same place.” 

Patrick is internally begging Art not to continue. He won’t make it if he does. 

“But it doesn’t matter where you come from in tennis, Patrick. It only matters if you win. And I do. A lot.” 

The bullet’s a little deeper now. Threatening to finish him off. 

“You’ve never beaten me.” Patrick smiles his lopsided smile, the one he puts on when he can’t let Art tell how he feels. Patrick thinks he’s used it more in the past five minutes than in the whole seven years he had with Art. 

“So what? I’ve never beaten most of the guys who play these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.” 

Patrick’s gasping for air, begging himself not to ask the question that follows.

“I don’t matter?” He asks. 

His voice is too small. Like Art’s that one night, all those years ago. The one he ignored because he knew Art wouldn’t talk about it.

“Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the world.” 

Art gets bored of toying with him, not quite hitting the mark. So the bullet gets replaced with a dagger. Just the tip, slowly digging into his heart. 

“We’re not talking about tennis, Art.” 

“Then what the fuck else do you and I have to talk about?” 

Patrick’s sure that gasp was audible now. But still nothing from Art. He wonders if he’s really the same boy he met at twelve. The one who flipped his world on its axis.

“I just wanted to come in here to wish you luck.” Patrick’s voice still feels small, but a little throaty, like he’s trying his best to put on that mask of grandiosity and loudness he hid behind at school.

“That makes no sense.” 

A few centimetres deeper, agonizing, slow, every word being felt. This is personal, leaving Patrick feeling as though if he looked up to see who’s wielding the dagger, it would be Art himself. 

He can’t say he’s surprised.

When Patrick speaks next, his voice is shaky, and he doesn’t think he can say anything else without crying. He hates crying. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m looking forward to it. I miss playing with you, Art.” Patrick tacks Art’s name on at the end, something to ground them, to make it more personal again. 

To give it truth. Because Patrick means every word.

“Oh, yeah?” Art asks, his voice a boa constrictor that wraps itself around Patrick’s throat. 

Art doesn’t believe him. Doesn’t think he can. 

He doesn’t want to. It would give him hope.

So when Patrick nods, Art prepares. He readies himself, gripping the dagger hard, staring deep into Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick’s afraid Art will see everything that’s hidden beneath them, that he’ll figure everything out without even saying anything. 

But instead, it’s a stare that comes as the dagger is completely shoved through his heart.

“I don’t miss playing with you. I’m too old for it.” 

It stings. It more than stings. It’s final. 

And with that, Art walks out of the sauna, slamming the door behind him.

Leaving Patrick bleeding out alone, a gaping hole through his heart, inflicted by the one person who gave him heart. 

And Patrick just sits there. And he thinks. He thinks about what he would give to go back to being teenagers again. To being boys.

He thinks about what he’d do to feel like he was Art’s again. 

Before all of Art’s fame, before he became the face of men’s tennis. Before all of Art’s brand deals and galas and partnerships. Before his face was an icon synonymous with the pro tennis circuit. 

He’d do just about anything. He’d keep it secret, make sure nothing ever got out. Anything, to get back to when they were teenagers. 

To when he wasn’t Art Donaldson, but just Art. 

To when Art was Patrick’s, even if he never did anything about it. 

Oh, what he’d give to be one of his girls. 

[leashybebes]

snippet saturday

tagged by @apollabarnes, thank you beloved. here's an allying snippet which i am slowly making progress on a hundred words at a time basically.

also, fun story, going from spending the last three days thinking about tommy 'the man is 95% interiority' kinard angst to trying to write s1 allying buck, king of the unexamined thought angst is giving me whiplash

Buck finishes his beer. "I'm gonna leave you guys to it," he says and they startle apart like they've forgotten he's there, which…ouch. But fair. This is what Buck gets for hanging out with a couple.

"You sure?" Tommy asks.

"Yeah," Buck says. "I have a date." It's a lie, but it won't take him long to find one. Kind of a date, anyway.

The look Tommy gives him, the tone in his voice when he says, "Have fun," says he knows exactly what kind of 'date' Buck's talking about.

"It was great to meet you," Derek offers.

"Yeah, you too," Buck says. "Have a good night, guys."

When he gets to the door, he glances back, just in time to see Derek's hand land on the back of Tommy's neck, pulling him in for a kiss. His stomach churns weirdly, a combination of a beer too many, not enough food, and maybe a little loneliness. Hanging out with couples is the worst.

He gets on Tinder as he walks down the street, matches with a girl, meets her in a bar. He makes her come twice in the bathroom, three more times in her own bed. His heart's not particularly in it by the time he gets off, but she falls asleep in the crook of his arm which is nice until around 2am when she kicks him out because her roommate doesn't like 'strange guys' spending the night.

When Buck gets back to his own place at almost 3 three in the damn morning he crashes into bed and stays there until the early afternoon sun on his face wakes him.

not onward tagging because i've just realised it's atcually sunday and also i have no idea who's writing, who's on a break, and who's still chewing on the dialogue and the gifs that cake out of thursday's ep.

[zaunite-viktor]

I knew you in another life

Summary: When Viktor accompanies his siblings on their first robbery in Piltover, he doesn't expect to find himself in a workshop of a person trying to achieve the impossible. He especially doesn't expect to meet an even more impossible man

Snippet:

Viktor had to admit, as much as he was glad that this worked, it didn't feel good to threaten an innocent man, he hadn't really done anything but made the mistake of easily getting scammed and thus making an easier target.

But Viktor had to make sure his siblings would be safe. “You won't tell the enforcers anything, and it's not like we took anything that you can't replace right?”

The man nodded, though he didn't even know what they had taken.

Viktor should leave, but there was something about the earnestness in the man's eyes, he didn't even look angry, just worried. And they had taken enough, he could give one thing back. “And by the way, your calculation is wrong in the fourth row. You're supposed to square both variables, not just one.”

Viktor didn't know what he expected, confusion for the sudden topic change, derision at him pointing out the mistake, but it wasn't for the man to quite literally light up and exclaim, “I've been stuck on this for days. How did you figure that out? You're a genius!”

Read on ao3

Tagging a few people who wanted to read this <3 Thank you all so much for the encouragement!! @loverofclones @pleaselord @blackfoy @piratecore-art @saibowtie @kydrogendragon @dream-of-the-bitchless @rooftopwreck @altair214 @ari-just-ariririe @cosmosinfinity23 @spacelion-loveshermulletson

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

the arms of the ocean

for @andorerso's Fix-it Week, for the prompt stolen moments/traditions

After the mess of the past twenty hours, finding the shimmering purple lake feels like a little bit of a miracle. Or, to a less cynical being, perhaps a reward for all the shit they’ve been through – again – in this endless, painful, stupid fight that has clawed into their bones all their lives, and that she often things will be the last thing left of her when all else is gone.

Regardless, Jyn thanks the Force for the heavenly sight, and the perimeter check she makes before ripping off her sweaty, stained clothes would have got her yelled at for roughly a standard hour back when.

It doesn’t matter – right now, she’ll gladly fight whatever wants to stop her from sinking her battered, reeking body into the crystal-clear water. (And, on a more practical level, she is not really concerned. She is no longer alone, and Cassian, ever careful, hypervigilant, boring Kath-mutt of a spy is hanging back as she throws herself into the blessedly cool waters of the lake. With him watching her back, she can afford to be a little foolish sometimes.)

The water is divine after the heat of the fumes and the explosions and the overheating speeder barrelling through slate-grey sands, like grit paper on every sliver of exposed skin. She feels raw, all over, and her shoulder throbs where the trooper’s baton hit… But the lake’s embrace is gentle and soothing, the cold water lapping ever-so-faintly at her as she dives to the bottom.

And, true enough, when she comes up for air, feet digging into the fine sand below and dirt dripping from her hair into her eyes, Cassian is standing at the edge of the water, fully dressed and blaster in hand, shaking his head at her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone get naked this fast.”

[Read on Ao3]

She grins at him and tips her head back to rinse some of the grime out of her hair as best she can. “Sure you have.”

She hears him laugh, muffled by the water. “True. I meant I haven’t got a chance to, ah… admire the speed. From a distance.”

Jyn rolls her eyes at the pearly white sky, and dips her head underwater again, smoothing her tangled hair back as she resurfaces. She hadn’t really thought past the feeling of cool water on her skin and the opportunity to wash the slime and grit of the factory explosion out of her hair… but they do have at least five standard hours to kill before Bodhi, Chirrut and Kay will be at the rendezvous point. And, barren and lonely as it is, this is a very nice place. And there isn’t a sentient in miles and miles out here. After months on base… well, it would be downright criminal to squander this opportunity, wouldn’t it?

“You could admire up close,” she says, smiling up at her partner and pushing a little further out again. “The water’s nice.”

He smiles. “I’m good.”

“You’re every bit as disgusting as I am,” she scoffs. “Bodhi might not take you on board like this, and I wouldn’t blame him.”

He shrugs. “Someone should be on guard. This model isn’t water safe,” he says, waving the blaster in his hand.

“We lost them,” she says, with as much patience as she can muster. “We doubled back four times, Cassian.”

Instead of relaxing, he just tenses up a little more – not watching the shoreline as she thought, actually, but the water of the lake.

 “We don’t know what might be living in there. You should come out.”

She sighs, and forces herself not to roll her eyes at him again. No, this one’s on her, really. She had to pick the jumpiest son of a ruskakk she could find. He is a spy, it’s not like she didn’t know this about him.

“Look around,” she says, gesturing at the empty, silvery shores and cragged obsidian rocks lining the lakeside. “What would live here? What would it eat?”

He opens his mouth to argue, and she can picture it already – oh, but there’s a jungle nearer the equator, Jyn, things do live here, you’re the one always telling me to remember that the –

“Jyn, if something pulls you in there, I will be very little help,” he says quietly, eyes still skimming the glimmering surface of the water.

Jyn feels her thoughts grind to a painful halt, not unlike the lumbering troop carriers she used to wrench durasteel rods into when she was thirteen. The realisation drops in quietly, slowly, and then one after another the gears catch and whine, misalign, and –

“You’re telling me you can‘t swim?” she asks, and Cassian just shrugs, eyes never leaving the water.

“Where was I going to learn it?” he answers lightly. “On Fest, most water was frozen solid.”

Jyn swallows at something – a memory, a burning in her lungs, a horrible sound in her ears, a weight, wriggling and heavy, pulling…

She tamps it down, in tried-and-true fashion; cauterises it with searing, white-hot rage. It’s not difficult to summon. Those banthafuckers –

“And it’s not like you’ve been a soldier for like twenty years since then!” she snarls. “Doesn’t the goddamn Alliance teach their people to swim? Didn’t the Seps?”

Another shrug. “I guess they were giving the underwater espionage to other people,” he says, and puts a sardonic little smile on his face, but his eyes still watch the gentle patterns of the wind on the lake’s surface, and she has looked at him long enough now to see that the smile is off – not very, but enough.

She does wade back to shore, just so he’ll start actually listening to her. The tension melts out of his shoulders immediately, and he reaches down and holds out her jacket to her.

The wind is a shock on her bare, wet skin, but she is too angry to feel it.

“Who was your drill instructor?”

“Sargeant Karle,” he says patiently, still holding out the worn, coarseweave work jacket, though something crinkles around his eyes in concern when he finally clocks her mood. “But you can’t yell at her now, she’s been dead for a long time.”

Jyn huffs. “Did she drown?”

“No. Faulty grenade, I think.” He sighs. “I’m not sure. I was off world when it happened.”

Something about his tone soothes her a little – hell, how many times had a grenade, a blaster bolt, even the local fauna stopped one of her lessons short? How often had Saw dropped her into some mess, only to be irritated and confused when she had to hack her way out because he’d failed to impart some crucial information, had assumed she would know?

(Maybe he’d lied about it, too. It got so tiring, so embarrassing, being the kid of the group. She remembers that. She remembers, after the fiftieth time of piping up to say “I don’t know how to do that”, after the eightieth time of someone rolling their eyes and rattling off some condescending instructions – just nodding when someone asked if she knew, and praying she’d just figure it out in the moment… though she can about imagine how that well that would go when the thing you were lying about was knowing how to keep your head above water.)

She holds the jacket, runs her thumb over the coarse material, considering.

“Jyn,” Cassian says, very softly, and she drops the jacket on the sand.

She will not accept this. She will not –

“Get in the water, Cassian.”

The concern in his dark eyes makes room for something somewhere between bemusement and alarm. “Jyn –“

She shakes her head, steps up to him and slowly curls her hand around his over the blaster. He wouldn’t hurt her – well, he’d never want to. But they are what they are, and she’s not about to take chances while she’s actively triggering his fight or flight response.

A third emotions enters the confused mix on his face, battling the two much more serious ones. Jyn, too, suddenly becomes a little more aware of the fact that she is having this conversation very naked.

She makes use of his distraction by taking the blaster, and jutting her chin up defiantly. Naked or not, she could knock him on his ass whenever she wants. She wouldn’t, unless she had to. But she could.

“A blaster bolt to the head, or your karking little pill, that’s one thing,” she says quietly. “But you’re not drowning.”

The memory rears its ugly head again, for the span of a breath, but she swats it down. She has a task now. She can ignore it.

His eyes flicker, a motion so small she only catches it because she spends an inordinate amount of time looking at this man (and still, Force, not nearly enough yet, not by a long stretch). The anxiety still sits in his eyes, but something softens. She’s not sure what did it – usually, she has to hammer down the fact that she is concerned for him for hours until anything sticks. She probably gave something away. (Kriffing spies.)

“Get in the water,” she repeats, and he sighs, checks his commlink, sighs again. His eyes are still soft on hers, but the tension in his shoulders is back. She doesn’t need to clock this to know what he thinks of this suggestion – but he still watches her, and whatever he’s seeing seems to mean something.

“Alright.”

She tries to let her expression soften a little, too, but doesn’t feel very convincing. She attempts a smile. “Could be fun.”

He scoffs, steadying himself on her as he steps out of the uniform pants. “Don’t expect me to get too excited while I’m fighting a body of water for my life.”

She does smile, now. “One day, Cassian,” she mutters, pulling the grimy shirt over his head, “you’re going to loosen up. And I’ll be there to see it.” She steps in closer and kisses him, slowly, languidly. For once, not listening for the hiss of a door, the ping of a comm, the trampling of plastoid boots or the blaring of klaxons...

He doesn’t relax, but he does tug her closer, and the reflexive, practised movement of it makes her blood boil a little more. She won’t lose this man. Not yet. She is so far from having her fill of stolen moments like this –

“I would not mind doing this instead,” he murmurs against her lips, leaning his head against hers. She can tell he’s not putting in real effort to try and convince her, but shavit, she almost lets it work anyway.

Almost, though, because that memory is still simmering just under her skin and she will be damned if she ever hears anyone make that noise again. And not him, not for all the galaxy.

So she breaks away, not far, just far enough to look up at him with a teasing grin. “Try hard enough, and maybe there’ll be something in it for you.”

That brings a spark to his eyes, despite the nerves. It never stops being funny to her, how much this ever-patient kung loves a challenge, underneath it all. “Deal.”

She reaches for his hand, and pulls him towards the water. As soon as the water laps at their feet, she can feel the tension returning to his movements – not the limp, she barely even remembers how he walked before. But she can tell how much it takes him to keep following.

“We’re not going in far,” she says, as matter-of-factly as she can. “You can just stand up, and you’ll be fine.” She turns back to him, finds him staring out to the middle of the lake in apprehension again, and runs her hand through his hair until he looks at her.

“Are you with me?”

He exhales, slowly. “Yes.”

“Good,” she says softly, and pulls him further in, until the clear water is up to her shoulders.

“Okay. Just bend your knees and put your head underwater.”

He looks at her like she’s gone crazy, and she sighs.

“Hey. It’ll get all this druk out of your hair, and you can stand up whenever you want.”

He glowers at her for another second, but then goes under obediently – a little too fast, which tells her he had to force himself, and he’s breathing a little too hard when he comes up again.

She attempts a smile, even though no part of her feels like smiling. She doesn’t know what she hates more, how uncomfortable she’s making him or how obviously he, too, has some kind of very real experience with the feeling of drowning.

“Go again. Maybe actually wash your head this time,” is all she says, because she knows he doesn’t want pity, and she’s shit at it, anyway.

(When they get back, she will get Draven to sign off on mandatory swimming lessons, and if it’s the last thing she does. Perhaps the princess, or Mothma. She’d like to see them look down on her partisan training then, when she asks how many of their soldiers would survive the first ten minutes of being dropped onto Manaan.)

They repeat this for a while, until he lets her dive down with him and run her hands through his dirt-crusted hair, until his breathing is even when he comes back up.

“Good?” she asks, and he makes a motion somewhere between a nod and a shrug, which she declares good enough, because she’s getting cold. At this point it dawns on her that she doesn’t really remember being taught how to swim – at least not in what order she learned anything. But she figures she might get him more comfortable just standing in the water for a while, and teaches him the arm movement first. Breaststroke to start with, the way she learned – it’s not ideal, in fact with his limp it might tire him out a lot, but he needs to unlearn his fear before he’ll swim in any way that forces his head underwater.

The movement isn’t complicated, of course, so after a minute, he starts looking at her with his brows raised, as if to say I don’t think this is all it takes. He still looks at the lake like it wants to eat him, though.

Jyn sighs. “Look, if you keep your body tense enough, the water will keep you on the surface, okay?”

“That wasn’t my experience,” he says testily, in a tone that makes him sound far younger than he is – possibly as young as he was whenever he formed that memory.

“You go where your feet point, basically,” Jyn replies. “If your feet and your ass are close enough to the surface, the rest of you will be, too. Here,” she places her hands on his shoulders and lets her feet drift up behind her. “See? Doesn’t take that much.”

He eyes her like he’s not convinced she’s not doing some kind of magic to trick him. She brings her feet back down and places his hands on her shoulders. “Your turn.”

“I –“

“You said you trust me.”

Cassian sighs. “I do, but –“

“No but. I’ve got you,” she says flatly, placing her hands over his. “Just trust me.”

His hands clamp over her shoulder so hard she almost winces, but he does as he’s told, and eventually stays afloat without fidgeting, even though he’s still looking at her as if she was asking him to swallow a live vespid.

“Okay. You were watching me earlier. Do you remember how I moved my legs?”

He tries to set his feet down again, but she stops him. He glares at her.

“I was watching. Not strictly… to learn, though.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You… pull your knees towards you, then move your feet apart and have them meet again as you stretch your legs. Like you’re making a circle with your feet.”

“What?”

Jyn sighs. “You ever see a frog swim?”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” she mutters. She’s a very good swimmer. She’s a good instructor, too – hell, several councilmembers signed off on that fact. This shouldn’t be this complicated.

He sets his feet down and releases her shoulders with a patient smile that seems less fake than his previous ones. His thumb traces a gentle line along her arm as he pulls away. “Can you show me?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, regaining some resolve. “You should look underwater, though. You’ll see better.” And it’ll freak you out less if you have a task. Wins all around.

She swims a few laps around him, and is pleased she knows him well enough to tell when he’s seen enough and getting distracted again. Force, she hopes he gets the hang of this quickly, so they can make some less depressing use of their precious few hours out time… well, regardless, really, they’ll have to get out of the water eventually. It wouldn’t do to get hypothermia (and away from Hoth, too, that’d just be kriffing embarrassing). They’ll need to find some way to get warm... She can think of a few.

She has him hang on to her shoulders for a while, practicing the movements, until he succeeds in his first task (pushing her over). A little too well, if anything – she miscalculated. Her prosthetic doesn’t have as much traction on the sand as her good leg, and when he pushes her backwards, she actually goes under, cold water going up her nose, and, what’s worse, fully dropping out from under Cassian. Which is fine all things considered, they’re in shallow water and he’s already on his feet when she comes up again, but she feels a raw flash of panic anyway, and he looks about three shades paler than he did a few seconds ago.

“Are you okay?” he asks very quietly, and he sounds out of breath.

“I’m fine. Good job,” she mutters, probably just as unconvincingly nonchalant.

His face twists into something she doesn’t like, guilty and vulnerable. She feels that, too, and a sting of irritation – they teach each other things all the time. It isn’t usually this awkward… well, it was sometimes, at the start. Especially for the vulnerable things, like having to explain when and how she needs to be told things or needs reassurance, when and how to touch her and when to stay the fuck away from her and how to tell the difference (hell if she knows, most of time). She doesn’t like being suddenly reminded that even when she has never been this comfortable around another person all her life, it doesn’t mean that they get to be done with the painful, awkward learning of it all.

Chirrut would probably make some cheesy point of there being joy in that, in the learning always continuing.

She thinks that’s bantha shit, right now. She loves learning from Cassian, and teaching him… teaching him how to use a weapon he’s never held before, or play a game he’s never played before. Not… this.

She tugs him close, in lieu of anything good or helpful to say; slowly running her hands over the tight muscles in his shoulders and the line of jagged scars along his spine until his breathing slows against her.

“Sorry I dropped you,” she mutters into his ear, and feels him tug her closer in response. “It won’t happen again.”

“I know,” he whispers, fingers digging into her tousled, wet hair, and they stand like this for a few breaths longer, alone in the cool, dark, gently moving water. Pressed together like two stars in the same orbit, slowly, slowly fusing into one brighter sun.

.

She does not let him leave the water before he’s got the hang of it enough to swim out to where his feet can no longer touch the ground, and from there back to shore, and back again three more times. In the end, she needs to be coaxed into stopping with the promised incentives, and only relents after promising (threatening) to make him continue the lesson as soon as they get near an unfrozen body of water again.

(Unsurprisingly, nothing kills the mood faster than being naked on fine sand – it would, Jyn imagines, even if that wasn’t what she felt under her feet in most of her nightmares – so they do end up in the shallow water again. She thinks to herself, afterwards, staring up into the featureless, pearly sky, this might have gone further in endearing Cassian to the element than the ninety-or-so minutes they spent on the impromptu swimming lesson. It’s a real shame this method will probably not come in as useful the next time, since most bodies of water won’t do her the favour of being both beautifully clean and entirely deserted.)

“Who taught you to swim?” Cassian asks quietly, combing his fingers through her tousled hair.

“Papa. At the IoCE sports centre, they had this enormous pool,” she replies, turning over to tuck into his side so she can look at him. “The size of the Yavin landing pad, I swear.”

He smiles distantly. “I bet the water was warmer at the Imperial Corps of Engineers’s sports centre.”

“Yeah. But there were significantly less imps and ISB creeps watching us here.”

Cassian snorts. “Thank the Force for that.”

“Mmh.” She grins, tracing her fingers over his arm. “It’s fun, once you get the hang of it, you know. Swimming. It’s… nice. Someone said once, it’s the closest a flightless species gets to flying.”

He crinkles his nose. “I think flying is the closest I get to flying.”

“No, like… flying without a ship, you drydak.”

He grins and rolls to his side, facing her. “Well, maybe… if this is how these lessons go… I might see the vision eventually.”

“Yeah?”

The teasing melts out of his eyes, slowly. “I’m glad you’re here to teach me, Jyn.”

She may be getting lessons in vulnerability these days, but she thinks she’ll need a million more before she’ll know a sensible reply to things like this. But he tried, for her, so she makes an attempt, a feeble one – “Yeah. Me too.” – and leans in to kiss him again, before she thinks of drowning again. She’ll let him steal her air, on and on, until the memory has faded once more.

.

(They hike to their rendezvous point hand in hand, silent and exhausted, and there is a stillness in her head that she has not felt in… Force, maybe ever. For an hour, they wait there in the twilight, shoulder to shoulder, talking only in the press of fingers, in the passing of a canteen, in following the other’s gaze to the horizon. Making the most of their stolen time.)

[Leave a comment on Ao3!]

[riisume]

hellluu

i rlly hope that I'm not overwhelming you with asks or anything, if I'm sending in too much asks then lemme know!! i don't want to make you uncomfy in any way

but since you mentioned enasquared ,,, would you mind sharing some romantic tk headcanons for them 👀? ofc only if you want to and feel comfortable with it!

- shark anon :D

Omg!! Never!!!! Please, I adore when I get asks from you! /gen I’ve just been super slow with answering them. 😭🙏🏼

But OOOUGGGHH??? FUCK YEAH!!!!! You absolutely got it!!

I’ll give you one that’s been plaguing my brain since last night—

I like the thought of them having their first kiss with each other (ENA’s general first kiss ever as well) and ENA is SO nervous about potentially messing it up. (Don’t ask me how they’d even manage to kiss just work with me here)

ENA’s a LOT more confident romantically… At least her Salesperson counterpart. Meanie… Not so much.

When she’s ushering ENA in for a kiss and sees her awkwardly squeezing her eyes shut, wrinkling her nose, and puckering her lips while trembling noticeably, ENA just pauses with an amused scoff, looking down at her with a tender, fond look.

ENA takes advantage of ENA’s eyes being closed to reach out and gently scribble her claws up her side, coaxing out a startled squeak and series of frantic giggles.

“Relax, my dear~ You look like you’re about to be terminated from our business deal~”

Once ENA stops tickling her for a moment, ENA’s able to give a meek and whiny reply, her Sad side in full control.

“B-but…. What if I don’t do good and you nevew wanna kissy me again…..?”

ENA gives a lighthearted chuckle and places both her hands on the other’s shoulders.

“There’s no performance evaluation for this type of job training. Just relax and if you have any questions at the end of it, I’m more than happy to answer.”

“But… But— EHEEK!! W-ahait! Nuhuhuu!!” ENA could barely get anything else out before her taller companion started another tickly assault on her midriff. Giggles and squeals filled the air.

“Now! Let’s cheer you up! Smiles make these types of business transactions entirely more delightful~”

[charcubed]

"Stay Here" — a Smoke & Stack fic

Stack doesn’t let Smoke give up on living. And Smoke doesn’t give up on Stack.

What if Stack was holed up in the juke joint away from the sun while Smoke fought the KKK? And what if he realized Smoke was dying?

–––––

AU – Canon Divergence Rated T • 3,212 words

On AO3 here