#also my hands still smell like salmon despite washing them like three or five times i cant wait to take an actual shower

[wintersoldeer]

i hope everyone who watches videos in public without headphones drops their phone into a puddle and when they go to pick it up they accidentally step too far into said puddle so their shoes and socks get all wet and when theyre worrying about that they drop their phone again and this time the screen cracks 

[smilinstar]

Fic: this space between us (it’s nothing but stardust and the absence of you) - 2/6 (Legends of Tomorrow; Rip/Sara)

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Rip Hunter/Sara Lance (Time Canary)

Summary: Or Close Encounters. Five times Rip and Sara find themselves stuck together and somehow manage not to make out, and the one time they (finally) do . . .

Author’s Note: Fair warning, this part is kinda ridiculous. 

Can also be read on AO3

Part I 

] II [

2186, Amazon Rainforest

Peru

-----

 “Up!”

Rip swings around to look down at her, the rain dripping down his face, droplets teetering on the tip of his nose and catching on his eyelashes. She wonders if it’s clogging up his ears as well or if it’s just the sound of the rainstorm battering down on the trees and leaves around them that has him gaping at her in utter bewilderment.

“What?” he yells and yep, she thinks, he can’t hear a thing.

“Up!” she repeats herself, pointing this time in a skyward direction.

She can just about see the moment it registers – just about – because this rainfall? It’s ridiculous. Like honestly, the Peruvian rainforest could do without a few hundred millimetres of rain for one day, right?

And besides, they don’t have time for this. The forest floor is crawling with all sorts of reptilian lifeforms, not forgetting the poisonous spiders and insects with more eyes and feet than they need. But it’s not those that spur on the sense of urgency, it’s the great big wild cat prowling around them with the laser sharp fangs, and the fact that Rip’s only gone and cut his forearm so it is literally smelling blood.

Seems twenty-second century felines have the same carnivorous appetite, no doubt fuelled by a likely hatred for mankind. Not that she blames them. They’ve managed to decimate half the world’s total forestland area by 2186. She thinks she’d feel the same if anyone dare tear through the Waverider’s hull and destroy her home.

But now’s not the time for piling on the guilt.

From the widening, panic-filled eyes that stare down at her, she thinks he finally understands.

He shakes his head in horror, his lips curving around the word “no” as she nods her head “yes” and tugs on his arm.

“Sara! Sara!” he yells after her as she starts to climb. It is no easy feat by any means given so few of these trees have low lying branches, but hey all that work on the salmon ladder hadn’t been for nothing.

“Sara!” he yells again, and she hears him just fine as he curses, “I’m not bloody Tarzan!”

She anchors her foot, hands winding around a vine as she looks down at him. She reaches out her arm, her meaning very clear.

“Oh bollocks,” he mutters, and she can read his lips just fine as he makes his split-second decision and slaps his hand into hers and trusts.

Now’s not the time to marvel at that trust, but she knows, days from now, she’ll think back on it in wonder.

Because Rip Hunter isn’t really the most athletic type, and with the gash on his forearm still seeping blood, the pain and the strain etched into every grimace and exertion as he pulls himself up the tree, it really is quite a miracle that he manages to follow her.

It's adrenaline and survival instinct, sheer will power at work.

But somehow, they get there; one of the wider branches not quite at the top, but under the canopy and high enough to put a breathable distance between them and the predator prowling the forest floor.

He’s huffing and puffing away when he collapses onto the branch, clutching shamelessly to the wide trunk, eyes squeezed tight. The overhead branches and leaves provide some shelter from the downpour and she can see him a little more clearly now.

His shirt is sodden through, which isn’t a surprise, but it’s the fact that he’s alarmingly pale that has her worried. For a moment she thinks it’s just the exertion and the wetness that has him looking so pallid, but then she notices the stain on his arm and remembers.

“Damn it, Rip,” she mutters, shaking her head as she slides as close to him as possible. “You said it was just a scratch!”

“I, uh, may have understated the extent of my injury, Captain.”

She bristles at the formality. She knows he only brings out the Captain Lance in the middle of missions to keep her focussed, especially when things take a turn for the worse (which happens more often than not in their case), and it aggravates her that he knows her well enough to know it works. But still, she’s growing used to her name falling from his lips and anything else just makes her feel as if he’s forcing distance between them.

Because this thing between them is not a figment of her imagination.

She knows it.

And she damn well knows he knows it.

“Let me see it,” she says.

He pulls his arm in tighter, and grimaces, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” she says, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, “That’s why you look like you’re about ten seconds away from passing out.”

“If I look like I’m going to pass out, it’s because I’ve just climbed a tree in the middle of the Amazon with a beast, teeth the size of my arms, chasing me!”

“Impressive,” she says flatly, which gets her a sharp look.

She relents, tries a softer approach, “Just let me look at it, please?”

He sighs, before releasing his death-grip on the trunk and shifting around a little further so that his back is half pressed against it instead.

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to navigate their position. The branch is definitely thick and strong enough to support their weight, but with the rain still battering down around, she knows they’re more likely to slip and lose their footing than the bough breaking.

It takes Sara less than three seconds to realise where the best place for her to get a decent view of his arm is. The only problem being, she thinks the very idea of it may render him catatonic with embarrassment.

So she decides to forego the warning and just do it.

He’s watching her warily, pain etched into the tension lines of his face as she pushes her hands down beside her, using the leverage to lift her legs up so that they rest across his thighs. She then shifts forwards and slides into his lap, one hand clutching at his shoulder, the other resting on the trunk just beside his head.

He looks far more awake now, eyes wide and more panicked than they had been before. She wonders if she should take offence that he thinks her scarier than a big jungle cat.

“Sara . . .” he stammers out, and she supposes it makes sense to drop all formality with her sitting on top of him.

“Show me,” she says, bringing her hands around to look at his arm. The motion has her shifting her centre of gravity and she pitches forward ever so slightly. Rip instinctively grabs hold of her waist with his uninjured arm and holds her steady. Despite the rain seeping into her t-shirt, his hand is surprisingly warm.

The gash is fairly deep, and there’s a whole lot of dark blood drying on his skin but there’s relief to see that although he’s still bleeding, it’s slowed down enough now that he isn’t in any danger of haemorrhaging out here, hanging off a tree.

Her thoughts must be playing out across her face and she can feel his gaze, unwavering, on her. “See,” he says, breathing out and trying his level best to steady his voice, “nothing to worry about.”

Except he seems to be forgetting the blood he’s already lost.

She looks up at him, but the words to admit she always worries about him are washed away with the rain. His eyes are green. Ridiculously green. Made all the more vibrant by the surrounding foliage and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen them look so alive. Maybe it’s the pain that has them burning so bright, or the exhilaration of being chased through a rainforest and up a tree, but the way in which his gaze is fixed on her makes her think that maybe it’s something else altogether.

That something that they really needed to talk about.

Brewing for months, and neither willing to take more than cautious sips at a time.

His eyes drop to her lips and her stomach swoops with it, and she thinks maybe, finally, they’re on the same page.

But of course, with all the time in the world, quite literally in their grasp, their timing sucks.

There’s a sudden gust of wind then which has him clutching her closer as she falls into his chest. Her fingers curl into his injured arm, the palm of her other hand slapping down hard on the tree trunk with the forward motion. Rip releases a sharp exhale of breath in her ear, clearly in pain where her fingers have thoughtlessly grabbed hold.

There’s a darkness creeping across the sky over them, and an abrupt cessation of rain that follows.

Her dumbfounded “What-?” is accompanied by a huff of breathless laughter as Rip clearly recognises what’s happening before her.

She tilts her head back to look up at him, looks past his chin and follows his upward gaze.

And then she sees it.

And shakes her own head with a laugh.

Because there, hovering above them, is the Waverider.

“Looks like we’re finally getting rescued.”

“Pity,” she says, trying not to overthink her next words, “I think I kind of like it up here. Amazing view, comfy seat. Could have stayed out here all night, gazing at the stars . . .”

With you.

Except she doesn’t voice that part aloud.

It’ll only make him run that much faster.

But then maybe she’s not the only one deliberating over their words and choosing them carefully where the other is concerned. Because for the tiniest of moments, she can see it flicker across his face – the way he seems to weigh his words too.

And the balance? Well, it tips in her favour, as he shakes his head with the beginnings of a smile turning his lips, and he finally looks down and holds her gaze.

“Had I not been injured, I think I would have quite liked that too.”

“Really?” she asks, letting go of the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She does nothing to hide the surprise, and the burgeoning hope is difficult to stamp down.

“Really,” he nods. “Maybe next time.”

She can work with maybe.

It’s a hell of a lot better than never.

And so she grins back in return, adds a wink just to see him blush, and agrees;

“Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

 Part III

[missmichellebelle]

the gentle kindness of candles

Eren’s using a double-boiler, like he’s preparing fondue rather than magical candles.

aka I started writing this for Valentine’s Day and never finished but decided to post it anyway eeeey

ereri. by the wick of a candle verse. [ ao3 ] 1.7k

“So what do witches do for Valentine’s Day?”

It’s not the question that Levi means to ask.

He doesn’t mean to ask any question, or say anything at all, and yet… There it is.

Eren is making candles. The practice is surprisingly traditional, involving far less magic than Levi would have anticipated. “Magic doesn’t work that way,” Eren had explained to him, the first time he had seen Eren do something like craft his soaps by hand. “I can’t just create things from nothing. The magic needs something to… Hold on to. Like a conduit.”

Like most of the times Eren explains how magic works to him, Levi nods in understanding despite not really understanding any of it.

He’s melting wax in what is, sadly, not any kind of cauldron. He’s using a double-boiler, like he’s preparing fondue rather than magical candles. The only thing fairly magic about the entire thing is where his hand hovers over the pot, palm angled and fingers splayed, the only possible thing that is causing the wax to waver between its natural sallow yellow color and a pastel lavender.

Eren doesn’t even look up, his eyes never leaving his work, but his lips crack in a smile.

“What?”

Levi had been thinking about Valentine’s Day. It’s a week away, but he’s been thinking about it since the beginning of January, when storefronts went from jolly to romantic, all reds and pinks and hearts and frills. It’s been an impending sense of doom since Levi had seen his first bouquet of faux roses, a swirling feeling of panic that has been consistent in the pit of his stomach.

He doesn’t… Do Valentine’s Day. He’s never had to. Any relationship he’s had in the past has been a flash in the pan or, if it did last longer, never stretched past Christmas. The fact that Eren stayed through Christmas, through December, and through Levi’s seasonal depression and aloofness, is new. Someone had kissed him when the clock had struck midnight, tucked onto Eren’s overstuffed couch, glitter hovering in the air around them, and Levi still can’t quite believe it five weeks later.

So what he had been thinking of was what the fuck regular people do during Valentine’s Day.

What had come out of his mouth was, well… That.

“You know,” Eren continues as Levi remains silent, his fingers drawing flush together as his eyebrows pinch in concentration. They spring apart quickly, and there’s a pushback on Eren’s palm, the wax settling in its final purple state. “I go around, pricking people with needles dipped in love potion, or I drag dream catchers through the air between couples to capture the essence of their love.”

The silence that follows is so complete and so still that Eren’s sudden laugh shatters it.

“Kidding, I’m kidding.” He looks over at Levi then, green eyes round and bouncing between mirth and concern. “Fuck, you’d think after all this time, you wouldn’t take me so seriously.” He picks up a small bottle that reminds Levi of the containers they keep olive oil in at Italian restaurants. Whatever’s inside eases down the straw in drops, and Levi is hit with the overwhelming smell of lavender. “We’ve been together for, like, three or four months now.”

Levi blinks rapidly—has it really been three or four months? They’d started dating in… What? October, November? Huh. Seems like it. He’s consciously aware that three or four months is a decent chunk of time, and yet… It seems like the time he’s been with Eren has been a lot longer.

Wryly, Levi wonders if it’s some sort of magic.

“I celebrate Valentine’s Day the way most people do,” Eren adds. “Although if we’re discussing plans, I’d like to make you dinner.”

“You would?” Levi asks, watching as Eren pours some other liquid into his hands. It smells minty, and he rubs it between his skin before letting it drip slowly off his palm and into the pot. It’s not like Eren hasn’t cooked for him before. He’d cooked for Levi all the time, before the whole I’m a witch conversation. A little less, after that, but Levi likes to think he’s slightly more comfortable with the idea now than he had been back in the beginning of December.

“Yeah.” Eren’s moved on to handling the wicks, and Levi watches as he runs his fingers over the string, can see the subtle shimmer that instills itself in the fiber before fading. “At your apartment.”

It shouldn’t be a surprising request. Eren has been to Levi’s apartment. Eren has slept over at Levi’s apartment. He’s made pancakes in Levi’s kitchen.

Except that was also, mostly, before.

Since Eren had, for lack of a better term, come out of the magical closet, Levi predominantly goes to Eren’s apartment. Enjoys the buzz in the atmosphere that he is now fairly certain is actual magic. Still hates the candles, and the clutter, but likes the way Eren will catch Levi staring a little too intently at one of his artifacts and explain what it does. But mostly, he likes how Eren is in his own apartment. How he uses magic freely before Levi’s eyes, an ease to his movements that speaks of contentment and comfort.

“At my apartment,” Levi finally echoes, unsure of how he feels about the request.

Eren has finished securing the wicks in his candle molds, has a hand pressed to the metal of his double boiler in a way that winds Levi’s shoulders up tight, makes him want to jump into action and snipe what the fuck are you doing, you dumbass?! But as much as his mortal common sense is prickling, he knows that the pot is completely cool beneath Eren’s touch.

“Is… That okay?” Eren bites his lip, finally unsure, and Levi swallows. It’s what Eren wants. It’s what he’s asking for. If Levi doesn’t give him this for Valentine’s Day, what will he give him?

“Yeah.” Levi begins running through what needs to be rearranged, cleaned, purchased before next Tuesday. He swallows. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

*

Eren shows up to his apartment on Valentine’s Day at 7:15pm on the dot with two reusable totes—one full of groceries, one full of candles.

“You brought candles,” Levi says tersely as Eren starts unloading his things on the large island in Levi’s kitchen. There is something a little jarring, seeing the little glass jars and tin canisters that he recognizes from Eren’s apartment sitting in the sterile environment of his own. Eren, in a loose maroon sweater and jeans, scuffing socked feet against the white tile floor, a wash of warm colors in what is only ever cool tones.

It might be an adjustment, but… It’s not as wrong and clashing as Levi had anticipated.

“Of course.” Eren smiles, pulling out long, thin candles the color of ivory, each one sat in a handleless teacup. “Even though you hate them.”

Levi considers opening his mouth to contradict, even though it’s true. Even though Eren knows it’s true, because Levi has never been quiet about his distaste for them. So he gives a shrug and says nothing.

“What are they for?” Levi asks, as Eren sets the candles up in locations that seem simultaneously random and purposeful. After he finds a place for each one, he drags his palm over the top of the wick, sparking the candle to life and reminding Levi of the first time he’d ever been witness to real, actual magic.

Eren looks at him, smile curling teasingly.

“Ambience.” His chuckle pokes fun at Levi, and Levi lets it wash over him without rebuttal. “Not everything I do involves magic, you know.”

Half the candles are still unlit, but Eren reaches inside his non-food tote and pulls out yet another candle. This one is purple, and Levi knows that it’s one of the candles he had watched Eren make from scratch.

“This one does, though.” He walks close, pressing the candle into Levi’s hands. The bottom is wrapped in cheesecloth, but Levi’s fingers still find themselves brushing against the smooth surface of the wax. “I know you hate candles. But this one is special. It won’t drip,” Eren promises. When he’s sure that Levi isn’t about to drop it, his hand moves to cup Levi’s cheek, fingertips a dragging brush up his jaw before cradling his face properly. “It’s for sleep,” Eren tells him, voice soft. His hand continues its journey, the pads of his fingers seeking out the short hairs of Levi’s undercut before carding through the strands. “It’ll work better than the sachets of lavender I’ve been giving you.”

Levi swallows, distracted by the soothing cadence of Eren’s voice paired with the gentle caress of his fingers, and nods.

Eren nods too, his smile soft and sunshine warm, the tip of his nose slightly cold when he tips forward and leaves a soft, affectionate kiss on Levi’s hairline.

He drags his hand through Levi’s hair one final time, and then slips easily out of Levi’s space, finding his hand.

“Come on. Time to cook.”

“Oh?” Levi’s heart is aching sweetly in his too tight chest, and he let’s Eren lead him behind the kitchen island like he’s being drawn across clouds rather than marble. “Am I helping?”

Eren just smiles, giving Levi’s hand a squeeze before releasing it to start separating out the ingredients he brought with him. Levi finds that fingers twitch, yearning for the contact to be reestablished, and laughs slightly at himself.

“What?” Eren hums, setting a cutting board and a bag of fingerling potatoes in front of Levi. He’s beginning to think Eren brought his entire kitchen with him in that bag—which is fair. Levi very rarely cooks, and has very little in his apartment for the actual preparation of meals.

“Nothing. Cutting or peeling?” Levi asks, neatly rolling up the cuffs of his shirt, and Eren hands him a knife.

“Cut, please.”

As Levi rinses the potatoes, and his hands, he finds himself watching Eren as he heats a pan on the stove for the salmon he intends to seer, unable to keep the smile from his face. As if he can somehow sense Levi’s joy, Eren looks over at him and returns it.

It’s not as constant of a reminder now as it was in the beginning, but sometimes Levi still finds that he has to tell himself that this, all of this, isn’t some kind of magic. It’s… Just Eren.

Just Eren.