#deckard's words

[pookiebearmick]

Aching for some slow dancing or touching their waist to move past them for the prompts 🙏

i just feel like ian would always be wanting to slow dance with mickey. like all the time. he'd be a little cheeseball and put on music and make mickey dance with him just because he loves him and wants to be close to his hubby <3

Mickey always lets Ian pick the music when they're cooking together, and Ian is always grateful. He loves Mickey's dad rock Spotify playlists, but after listening to them all day when they're out on the job, all Ian really wants to put on some slow, soft, indie music to help him relax.

He and Mickey jabber their way through making supper, Ian talking about some family drama happening between Lip and Tami and Mickey going on about Iggy trying to find a legal job. They keep yapping all the way through their meal, too, just enjoying hearing each other talk. Listening to the other's stories about what's going on with their respective in-laws, mostly, since they spend pretty much all day together.

Once they're done eating, Ian gets up and takes their dishes to the sink while Mickey reminds him that they need to kid-proof the apartment for Franny's stay this weekend. Ian chuckles and gives a quiet "I know, Mick, I remember" as he grabs his phone and changes the music.

He turns back to Mickey, a big grin on his face, as the strings start playing over the small speaker.

♫ At last...

My love has come along ♫

He holds out his hands for Mickey, who rolls his eyes, but still takes them and stands with a grin.

"Fuckin' sap," Mickey teases, shaking his head with a small chuckle and wrapping his arms around Ian's waist.

♫ My lonely days, are over ♫

"You know it, baby," Ian smiles, leaning in to Mickey's teasing and wrapping his arms around his husband.

♫ And life is like a song...

Oh, yeah, yeah ♫

Ian pulls Mickey close and Mickey leans his head on Ian's chest, letting him take the lead in swaying them back and forth to the music.

♫ At last

The skies above are blue ♫

They move back and forth together in their small kitchen and dining space, swaying along to the music and enjoying a soft moment made just for them.

This, Ian thinks, is the perfect way to finish a busy Tuesday.

[pookiebearmick]

“Who says we can’t disappear?”

“This ain’t a fairytale, Ian,” Mickey answers. Ian could hear the sadness in his voice.

He knows Mickey wants to go, wants to get away, wants to get away with him. Mickey just wouldn’t admit that, or Mickey thinks it would be impossible. Or too risky, with his dad being home.

“Who says it can’t be? We can disappear, Mick,” Ian replies.

Mickey takes a long drag off of his cigarette, then exhales all of the smoke through his nose. Ian watches him as he shifts from foot to foot, thumbing at his eyebrow. Ian knows he’s feeling nervous, vulnerable, and all he wants to do is wrap him up in his arms and squeeze - make him feel loved.

“I want to.”

Mickey spoke so quietly Ian almost missed it, but he didn’t. He feels his heart beating in his chest, the butterflies flipping in his stomach. “So let’s go,” Ian whispers back, running his fingers up Mickey’s arm. 

Ian made a plan for them; had been doing some research on what ways they could get away. He figured that they could steal an old truck or a little beater and just drive to the middle of nowhere, just to be alone together. Even just for a weekend. Even just for a day.

“We don’t have to go forever, Mick. Just for a couple of days, just us,” he tries to bargain.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay,” Mickey agrees, shuffling from foot to foot and giving a small nod.

And so they go. Ian runs to the Kash and Grab to stock up on snacks and quick meals before going home and grabbing blankets, pillows, and clothes. His heart is drumming along as he waits for Mickey to come pick him up from the Gallagher house. He doesn’t bother telling anyone where he’s going; he doesn’t even know how long he’ll be gone.

He watches as Mickey pulls up in a beaten down truck, windows down and rock music blaring from the radio. Ian throws the blankets, pillows, and his backpack of clothes in the back, then climbs into the passenger seat, giving Mickey the sweetest smile. “Where’d you find this?” he asks, gesturing to the truck as Mickey starts to pull away from the curb.

“Dealt to some kid who couldn’t pay up. He owed me a favor,” Mickey replies quickly, a smirk forming on his face.

Ian chuckles, watching the sun hit Mickey in all the right places as they drive along through the sunny afternoon; hitting the highway, leaving Chicago. They drive mostly in comfortable silence, Ian opening snacks for them as they cruise down the country roads. The wind races through their hair, the summer heat washing over them.

As the sun starts to set, Mickey pulls into a big open field with one house that looks like it could be abandoned. Ian watches him as he hops out of the car and peels his shirt off, his skin glistening with sweat. He reaches into the truck to grab some open snacks and the six pack of beer sitting in the center console, putting his shirt in their empty space.

He gives Ian a quick nod to the side. “Gonna join me?” he asks, sounding just a little nervous.

“Of course, Mick,” Ian smiles, opening his door and stripping himself of his shirt, too. It feels good, the slight warm breeze on his chest. He hops out of the truck, putting his shirt on his seat before closing the door behind him.

Ian makes his way around to the back of the truck where Mickey is opening the tailgate up and grabbing some of the blankets Ian brought. Ian hops up onto the cargo bed, grabbing ahold of one side of the blankets and helps Mickey spread them out. He props up the pillows against the rear panel, then moves towards the tailgate, holding a hand out to help Mickey up.

After Mickey hauls himself up they both get comfortable; leaning against the pillows, munching on snacks, pushing and shoving each other, laughing together, feeling each other's bare skin against their own.

Ian leans over to kiss Mickey, and Mickey leans right back into it. Ian can’t help but smile into the kiss, moving his hand to hold the back of Mickey’s head. They move their mouths together softly, and Ian revels in the feeling of Mickey’s soft lips on his. 

He doesn’t know how long they’ll stay out here, alone together, but at least they have right now. Maybe this moment can be a fairytale, after all.

mini moodboard story challenge [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] [ more ]

[imjustavenuxwithaboomerang]

like i said before, i'm showing my sister arcane, here are some of her thoughts (we just finished ep 2):

she's not vibing with vi (haha vibing with vi)

"it's hard to look at heimerdinger"

"marcus is a bitch"

mylo gets on her nerves

like i said in the linked post, benzo and vander give off boyfriend/fwb vibes (specifically from the "above average" comment)

her ranking of the 5 kids (1. powder 2. claggor 3. ekko 4/5. vi and mylo (it flip flops depending on the scene) we counted ekko because...we felt like it)

"vander's better than me cause 'get the f out of my bar.' go drink somewhere else, oh wait, you can't"

"almost the whole council is a bitch. specifically the one with the ginko nuts"

the way they look unnerves her (like the way they look/are designed (ex: silco and singed) and especially the way they move)

"deckard is a bitch"

"viktor, don't sneak up on someone like that. 'oh am i interrupting?' YES"

she had a slight concern about caitlyn and jayce's age gap

"poor powder at the end with the thingy and good direction of vander's face of noticing the thingy" (by thingy she means the stuffed animal)

update: we finished all of act 1

update: we watched episode 4

update: we finished up act 2

update: we watched episodes 7 and 8

update: we finished the first season

[tiredassmage]

something something, back to the beginning with 7.5, something something spend nearly half your life doing something, something memories, something totally probably not at all actually related to the plot of the patch, but something something excuse for me to write cheesy flirt lines-- self-indulgent as hell little brainworm of an exchange that may or may not actually happen but i sure as hell had fun putting tyr through it xD loosely inspired by the premise of returning to hutta for 7.5 and name-dropping one of the new characters, so technically some kind of spoilers but. obvs we don't know much and this is just. deeply, deeply self-indulgent fun on my part for now, lol. [but that kind of stuff is under the cut, if that is important to your reading choices <3]

“We have been to Hutta before,” Vector recalls. They step up to the agent’s shoulder as Tyr leans into the doorway, cocking one foot over the other.

Tyr grunts, “Somehow.., I’m inclined to doubt much has changed in…” A grimace starts to pull the agent’s features tighter around his eyes, as if counting the years might make the aches settle deeper. “Oh, twenty years, almost.., isn’t it?”

Vector hums thoughtfully. “Much has changed, agent,” they remind gently, “But… not so much, all the same, we concur.” They watch the agent’s eyes scan the distant swamp for a moment, noting the restless toy of his hands along the fit sleeves of the overcoat he wears.

They recall a saying on the ways of old habits…

“We suppose not all things can improve with age.”

A sharp, loud huff leaves their companion. Vector begins to smile. It’s enough to still Tyr’s hands - they instead fold together across his waist, supporting the agent’s lean. Out of the corner of their eyes, Tyr’s own narrow as they turn on him, mockingly accusatory.

“Vector Hyllus… I’m going to assume good faith.”

“Of course, agent,” they reply. Their smile widens under the mounting suspicion. “We have known plenty to admire a fine vintage.”

Tyr doesn’t quite manage to choke back a bark of laughter beneath a hand flying up to his mouth, nor does it entirely conceal his smile and the brush of color that enters his cheeks. Vector mercifully turns their eyes back out to the smog-hugged buildings awaiting them. Shortly, Tyr clears his throat. “You know I prefer Kaasi brandy myself.”

“Of course. You’ve always had a most enlightening taste, agent.”

Tyr coughs lightly and shakes his head. “Ah… right. So.”

“So,” Vector allows. “We… are not familiar with this… ‘Yusinduu,’ agent. It will be our first time in the district.”

“Right.” And just like that, a familiar lighting bolt clarity clears Tyr’s eyes. He pushes off from the doorway and waves Vector down the ramp with him, sweeping his jacket over the holsters at his hips. “Stay close, for now. If Hutts are reliable for anything, it’s an eye for profitable motives-”

Even that brief smile was well worth the diversion. They follow after the Commander, tucking their hands into their pockets.

“Do you think there is any relation, agent?”

Tyr begins to frown - a familiar brush of durasteel and the first gasp of rain-heavy air from the horizon. “I wouldn’t be surprised in the least,” he says.

His eyes skim the edges of the streets over Vector’s shoulders. “You know, I think you owe me a drink-” A cover for the agent’s sentiment to find a place to observe the local hum.

He claps a hand to Vector’s shoulder with a grin, eyes clear of the aged rhythms thrumming in battle-tested veins, no doubt. His fingers squeeze carefully around their shoulder and his voice drops for only a moment, “If I know anything about Hutta, it’s that we’re all good for someone… for the right price.” Stay close. Stay vigilant.

Tyr’s eyes face forward again, easily slipping through unfamiliar streets - enough heaviness in forward steps to keep their path clear and draw only the barest of curious glances. New faces on Hutt-controlled streets aren't uncommon. Nine wants them just under the radar. For now.

“Let’s see who we should be today, hm?”

[miniscule-meow]

How would your characters react to Isabelle and lark being swapped? Like Isabelle goes to larks story and lark goes to Isabelles story?

Ooh this is a good one. Sorry it took me all day, I couldn't just answer this, so I wrote out the scenes! It's kind of long so it's under the cut. Enjoy!

~*~

Isabell wakes up to the dim light of early morning filtering in through the window of a dark room. There is a prickling sense of wrongness that jitters down her spine. This is not where she fell asleep. She's in the center of a large pillow, the plush surface beneath her would make rough terrain for any kind of quick movement, if she needed to escape or- no. She doesn't need to worry about that anymore. It's hard, trying to rewire her own brain, to undo every instinct her life has instilled in her. These humans are her friends. She won't need to worry about her movement being slowed down, she won't need to escape.

"Zeke?" She whispers into the vast room, turning her attention beyond the pillow, blinking into the murky darkness of the room. The daylight is not quite illuminating the space just yet. The few rays of hazy morning sun really only succeeding in lighting the room to a muted gray. Her eyes settle on the bed, more specifically, on the giant occupying the bed. The figure is bundled into the blankets, she can't make out any of their features. "Uh, Marcus?" Her voice trembles, but she tries not to panic. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe she fell asleep on the couch and one of them moved her into their room. That seems like something Marcus would do. Though, she's been in Marcus' room before. It didn't look like this.

Her mind spins. All at once trying to rationalize what's going on and trying to figure out how to get out of this situation, but before she can think of a plan, the dark figure in the bed shifts. Massive limbs stretch out from the blanket, the shadowy figure looking more monstrous by the second as it's form is obscured by darkness and the spiraling panic that has begun clawing it's way into the back of Isabell's mind.

In one swift motion the blanket is tossed aside and the being swings it's legs over the edge of the bed, stretching up with a groan and rubbing it's face with the palm of their hand. It's eyes glint as it settles it's gaze on her form.

"Oh good, you're awake," the voice is low and entirely unfamiliar. If alarm bells weren't going off in her mind before, they are ringing at full volume now. Any intention of trying to stay calm has flown out of the window. One objective shoves it's way to the forefront of her consciousness.

Run.

She fumbles over the plush ground, her injured leg is stiff and only slows her down further as it feels like her own limbs are betraying her by protesting this movement. She fights her way towards the edge of the pillow. Once she's on solid ground she can figure out a plan.

There's a scraping sound, and suddenly a warm light floods the room as the giant strikes a match, lighting a lantern by his bedside.

"Hey, careful princess, you're getting close to-"

She ignores his voice as she slides off the edge of the pillow, ready to feel solid ground beneath her feet. Her heart lurches as her foot instead touches down right on the edge of the dresser. She was in too much of a hurry to get off the pillow she didn't consider that there might not be any ground to escape to. She scrambles to catch her balance to no avail, her momentum drags her backwards, and just like that, she's falling. She barely registers the flash of movement as the strange giant swears under his breath, lurching forwards to catch her.

She only has time to let out a short shriek before the wind is knocked from her lungs. She lands prone, on her back in the center of this stranger's waiting palm. His fingers are curled over her protectively. Time seems to slow down as both of them struggle to catch their breath and slow their runaway heartbeats.

"Shit. Princess are you-" the fingers unfurl, revealing the handsome face of her captor. Handsome... where did that word come from? It might be the adrenaline from almost dying for maybe the third time this week, but it's hard not to notice someone's features when their face eclipses your entire sky. And whoever this human is, it's hard to ignore the fact that he has very nice features. Her cheeks warm. And of course, here she is flinging herself off of furniture.

She has got to stop meeting humans like this.

Dark curls fall into his eyes, his lip pulling into a pout of confusion "What- who? Uh," his large brown eyes blink down at her. His eyelashes are so long. No. Focus, Isabell. Stranger danger. "Sorry, you're not ... You're not Lark."

"Uh, I'm- no. Um. I," she sits up in his palm struggling to find her voice. Though, she's unsure if it's because of the immense size difference, the fact that she has no idea where she is or where her friends are, the fact that she almost just died, or the fact that she was rescued by this giant who is entirely too handsome. "Isabell. Is- uh is my name. Sorry. Uh. My name is Isabell. I don't- I don't know how I got here." She pulls her uninjured knee into her chest, letting her other leg stretch out in front of her.

His eyes scan over her. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees the stitches in her leg, "My stars. What happened there?"

"I fell out of a cabinet?" Her face burns, her graceful track record has been getting more and more tarnishrd lately. "Um two humans have been helping me. Zeke and Marcus? Do you know them?"

"You think I would know them because we're all humans? Do you know every fairy in the world?" He asks, a playful glint catching in his eyes as one corner of his mouth pulls into a lopsided grin.

"No, no I just thought. I mean how else did I get here I- wait. Fairy? What's a fairy?" She looks up at him curiously.

"Arent you-" he looks her over again, more quizzically this time. With a tilt of his head his eye flick to her back. "I guess not," he notes her lack of wings. "anyway um. I'm Deckard. I don't know your friends... And ... I also don't know how you got here."

He explains to her what a fairy is, and how he was recently helping one out. It seems as though they've switched places somehow. When he went to bed, he had a fairy on his dresser. Now, he has... Isabell. Curious.

"Okay. Well, Isabell was it? Don't you worry. You can stick with me until we get all of this figured out." That same crooked grin graces his face, and in that instant she knows that this boy might just be more dangerous than any other human she's ever met before.

~*~

Somewhere across the universe, in a time beyond princesses and kingdoms, a fairy awakens in an apartment.

She knows instantly that she is very far from home. Did Deckard sell her off? Again. What a stupid, lying, snake. She can't believe she fell for it a second time.

Deckard.

Resident heartthrob.

All the girls love him, he only loves money.

She should have known better than to trust him again. With a sigh, she sits up, taking in her surroundings and seeing what mess she's stuck in this time.

The first thing she notices in the room is a large rectangle spilling out unnatural light. Pictures and colors dance across the screen as chatter pours out from this strange device. Her wings twitch as she is transfixed by the sight. What type of enchantment was cast to achieve such a feat? She must have been given to a very strong sorcerer. Spell components. He's sold her for parts. A deep shard of dread lodges in her gut.

She tears her eyes away from the magical rectangle, wondering bitterly how many times Deckard plans to sell her off just so he can steal her back.

What a lucrative business model he's created.

That is, if he intends on stealing her back again. She chases the thought away, not daring to even think about that. Of course he'd come back for her. He wouldn't-

She freezes, her wings going rigid at the sound of movement behind her, saving her from her own thoughts. Though "saving" might be too generous of a term. She whirls around to see a human stretched out on the large piece of furniture behind her. Instantly, she's on her feet. Is this the person that is responsible for the enchantment on the rectangle? The sorcerer.

"Oh. I didn't mean to fall asleep out here," the giant mumbles, sitting up. "Did you sleep alri-" the words die on his lips as he looks down at her. His brow twitches together, seemingly as confused as she is. Certainly one doesn't forget purchasing a fairy. Just what is she dealing with here? She takes him in, acutely aware that he is doing the same to her.

His clothes are odd. The construction of them is unlike any of the styles she's seen before. He has markings all along his arm, and two rings of metal protruding from his lip. A glint of metal cuts through his eyebrow as well. Is this what human sorcerers look like? His dark hair is pushed back away from his face, still appearing well put together though he obviously just rose from sleep.

They stare at each other tersely before the human speaks up.

"Where's Isabell?" His brow twitches together, his lips part as though he has more questions, but whatever words wants to say find no purchase in his voice. His mouth flattens into a line, he looks pensive.

"I don't know who that is," she raises her chin, refusing to be intimidated by this human's piercing gaze. "What did Deckard charge you? If I'm lining his pockets, I want to know what I'm worth." Her hands ball into fist by her sides, her wings twitch with frustration. The human's eyes flick to her wings, tracing over them before he takes the rest of her in again. He takes his time, apparently in no hurry to respond. "What? Are you surprised that it can talk?" A mocking sneer fills her voice. The human's brow twitches once more. Her insulting tone seemingly having no effect against him, he looks at her like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"I apologize if this is rude but... what are you?" He frowns as if the words are sour on his tongue.

"What kind of sorcerer is unfamiliar with the fae?" She scoffs, "obviously, I'm a fairy." She turns to flutter her wings, looking up at him incredulously.

"I'm not- " he does that thing again. He looks like he wants to speak, before thinking better of it and pressing his mouth flat. "You haven't said a single thing that makes sense," he says finally after a heavy pause.

She stares up at this human, unsure of what to say. If Deckard didn't sell her off, then how did she get here? Besides, who's this Isabell person? And why would a human have such a tiny couch? Glancing down the the coffee table she's on, there are actually quite a few objects that are scaled to a being of her size. What is going on? Every new thing she discovers only arouses more questions in her mind. Keeping the human in the corner of her eye, she takes in the rest of the room. The walls are a sleek off-white. Daylight filters in through the windows, muted through drawn curtains.

"You can fly?" The question comes from nowhere, she turns back to the human.

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

The human hums dispondantly in response, electing to fidget with the piercing in his lip in lieu of giving her a real answer.

"I'm a fairy," she enunciates each word slowly, "the wings aren't just for decoration," her wings twitch irritably. "What kingdom do you belong to? I don't recognize this architecture. Nor do I recognize the cut of your jib. Certainly you are not from the Aesteriun Planes?" She looks him over, everything about him is foreign.

"I really need you to just say one thing that makes sense," the way he blinks down at her as he speaks tells her that she is just as foreign to him.

"How did I get here?" She asks in the simplist terms she can.

"I don't know," he replies with an easy shrug of his shoulders.

"You didn't buy me from Deckard?"

"I am morally opposed to the concept of people as merchandise," his words have a sudden venom. He takes a short breath, "This Deckard person were you ... Did he hurt you?"

She laughs bitterly. " I don't know where the hurting stops and the helping begins with him."

"That's not... Are you okay?" Worry tinges at the corners of his eyes.

"Obviously not! I don't know where I am, or who you are! And you are no help whatsoever."

He looks at her for a long moment. "Uh Marcus?" He turns his attention to the hallway. Hopefully this 'Marcus' character will be more helpful. "Are you up? uh. We have a," he looks back at her once more, trying to finish his thought, "situation."

A situation.

"I will have you know," she flies up to be eye level with him, he reers back, quickly putting distance between them. "I am not a situation. I am a princess. If you would be so kind as to return me to Deckard, I would much appreciate the help."

He's all too predictable. There he goes again, opening and closing his mouth searching for words, but finding none. She scoffs, settling back down on the coffee table and crossing her arms. He speaks up, having finally decided on what to say,"You want to go back to the guy trying to sell you," it's a question, but he says it as though its a statement.

"Yes that's exactly what I want! Why are you making this so complicated!"

"Marcus?" Zeke calls again, a little louder this time.

[tobiasphobia]

butch wolverine trend happened just in time for me to realize i also like women

[benewitch]

I have been set on finding every rare Silco shot and those are probably my favorite ones. They are from episode one of the first season- aka Silco's introduction to the viewer. The first impression we are given of him is his profile outlined against the dimmed lights of the lab, barely making out ANY of his features. Then he walks towards Deckard with slow measured steps. Our second impression is intentionally limited to only the lower part of his face, cut precisely to the scar's edge, slowly transitioning to the full revealation of it. And then we have the shocking view of only the ruined side. Almost like they are giving us piece after piece of the puzzle, creating anticipation to put all of them together, giving us enough time to learn every single angle of his. No other character seems to be introduced in this way. This whole "luring in" aligns with the animator's words that they view Silco's personality as "seductive".

[gothcsz]

First Sight | Frankie Morales x F!Reader | ~3.5k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Two strangers discover they’ve been swapping movies through a communal space, each leaving a note in return until curiosity forces a meeting.

Tags: meet cute kinda i think, drug use (smoking weed), the movie swap box is definitely inspired by little free library, pwp, smut, lust at first sight vibes, thigh fucking!, spanking, unprotected p in v, face riding, lil bit of dirty talk, pull out method strikes again, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: helloooo this is my submission for @jolapeno's dear-uary challenge (i know i'm late pls...) so thank you jo for hosting! such a fun idea! 🖤 okay so i'm not usually a meet cute person but i wanted to challenge myself by writing it, which is why this took me forever to finish! i'm still a little iffy about the results and frankie's characterization—but fuck it, we ball! gotta start somewhere! shoutout to @mandaloriankait for reading over this as well when it was still in its early stages lmfao ummm i hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! 🖤

Francisco stands at the edge of his uncle’s property, staring at the house he now owns. The old man had lived like a ghost in his final years—ex-military (like himself), a recluse, barely seen except for maybe an occasional grocery run.

Now that he’s passed, the place is Frankie’s problem.

He planned to sell it, take the cash, and move on. But after really assessing it, taking in the sturdy bones of its structure, covered in grime and dust but still holding strong, he changed his mind. Maybe fixing it up would be good for him. 

Lord fuckin’ knows he needs something to get his mind right after all the shit he’s been through.

So that’s what he devotes his time to. He takes many trips to the local hardware store, flips through home improvement magazines to find tricks to make the process easier. On occasion, one of the guys will drop by to lend a hand, but for the most part it’s just been him. 

It also helps that the neighborhood is quiet, houses spaced out just enough to offer privacy but close enough that it isn’t completely isolated. A large pond stretches out, shared by the community, and it’s the kind of place that could feel like home, if he lets it.

Needing a break from the endless cleaning and repairs, he decides to go for a walk. The nicotine-laced weed dulls the edge of old cravings, a quiet battle he fights every day, choosing this over the harsher habits he’s trying to kick.

He wanders without aim, hands tucked in his pockets, the low hum of insects filling the gaps in silence. Something catches his eye as he approaches the end of the street—a small structure, half-concealed beneath the spill of a streetlamp.

Curious, he ambles closer. The old newspaper stand has been given new life, converted into a makeshift movie and book swap. Inside, a careful arrangement of DVDs and dog-eared paperbacks wait to be discovered. His fingers trace over the spines, skimming titles until he stops on one—Blade Runner.

As he pulls it out, a green post-it note, scrawled in neat, looping handwriting, flutters to the ground.

Always a bittersweet watch (I cried this last time) but it’s a comfort movie of mine. Also helps that Harrison Ford is a hunk!

His brows raise in amusement, as if weighing the personality behind the words. He pockets the note and takes the movie home.

Later that night, he’s sprawled on his couch, half-buried in old blankets, takeout on the coffee table as the film plays. He watches as Deckard moves through the neon-drenched streets, the melancholic score settling into his bones.

He doesn’t cry, obviously, but he does walk away from this viewing with something different than when he had watched it back on base years ago with the rest of the other lost twenty something year olds in his cohort.

By morning, he’s still thinking about the movie and the note along with it. On impulse, he plucks one of the carpenter pencils from his toolbelt, tapping it against the counter before messily scrawling his reply on the corner of a random sheet of his notepad.

The movie/book trade idea had been something you created back in high school—before the cynicism of adulthood had shattered your rose colored glasses.

Now, after financial setbacks had dragged you back to your childhood home, bringing it back felt like the kind of mindless distraction you needed. Something to keep your hands busy (even if temporarily) when your brain wouldn’t shut up about how shitty things have been lately.

Most people just stream whatever they want now, so this is pretty useless, but you don’t get hung up on that.

There is something nice about the physicality of it. Of leaving something you enjoy behind for a stranger to find and potentially be into as well. So, you revamped the idea and set it up in a spot where it wouldn’t be totally ignored, hoping maybe someone out there would get as much out of it as you used to.

You check in on it one afternoon, expecting to see everything exactly where you left it. Instead, you find empty spaces where movies had been. A book was gone too.

Your heart skips, just a little. For the first time in a while, something doesn’t feel like a total waste of time.

You spot a note haphazardly taped to the cover of the Blade Runner DVD case.

Didn’t cry, but I respect the existential crisis. Also think I agree with the Harrison Ford statement.

A grin pulls at your lips, eyeing the messy handwriting. Someone was actually playing along.

Over the next few days, the exchanges continue. Each time the stranger returns a movie, they leave a note and a film of their own. It is exhilarating for no reason, getting to know someone in this way.

Disagree with your take, bad movie all around, but I see where you’re coming from.

At least you aren’t an asshole about it like everyone else…

…Didn’t expect to be into period dramas, but this hit different. You have decent taste.

I do have decent taste, thanks for noticing!

It became an obsession—checking the box first thing in the morning, wondering what he’d taken next, what he’d written.

Who was he? What did he look like? Most of the neighborhood was made up of older residents, so the idea of someone more your age participating in this felt strangely intimate, almost like a secret conversation no one else knew about.

You never ask for a name or anything, neither does he. It’s more fun this way. The animosity of it, but still, you can’t help but wonder what he is really like. Was it possible to crush on someone like this? Were you actually down this bad?

You finally meet him one night.

Movie in hand, he stands beneath the golden hue of the streetlight. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips that look almost too pretty for someone as rugged as him, framed by a patchy beard. His worn t-shirt clings to his broad chest and toned arms, the fabric stretched just right, hinting at the solid muscle beneath.

His cap sits low, his dark curls peeking out along the edges.

Your gaze drags over him, drinking him in. His eyes meet yours and the lust you feel in that moment threatens to disorient you.

“Hello,” his raspy voice breaks the silence first, also shameless in the way he checks you out.

“Hey.”

For a moment, neither of you move as the tension simmers, absentmindedly taking a step towards each other.

He shifts, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “You the one leaving those notes?”

“Depends,” you tease, tilting your head. “You the one writing back?”

His grin widens just slightly, a lopsided thing that sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. “Guilty.”

You cross your arms, attempting to play it cool. “I was starting to think I was talking to old man Paul or something.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle at the fact that you’ve named his now dead uncle. “Close enough. I’m his nephew, Francisco—call me Frankie.” He extends his hand to shake yours and you feel yourself getting hot all over from the simple, normal fucking interaction, giving him your name in return.

His hands are so big.

“Nephew? I didn’t know he had family.”

“Not really a family man. He passed away a few weeks ago and I was the lucky one he left his house to.”

You’re about to express your condolences, but it’s like he can feel it coming before the words even form on your lips. “Don’t—it’s fine. I hate that pity shit.”

You laugh, a little nervously, though his brown eyes seem to settle your nerves. 

“Well, Frankie,” you say his name, as if testing it out, familiarizing your mouth with it. “Thanks for playing along with this,” you motion vaguely to the swap box.

“I like it. Keeps me entertained while I fix up the place...” He exhales, glancing at the smaller structure before looking back at you. “It’s weird, though. Feels like I already know you.”

You nod, feeling the same. It should be strange, standing here at night flirting with a man you really don’t know… but it isn’t. 

He lifts the DVD in his hand. Heat—classic crime thriller. “I was gonna watch this tonight.”

The invitation hovers, your tongue flicking over your lips in anticipation.

“You in?”

A smarter version of you might have hesitated. Might have thought about the risks, the potential awkwardness. But standing here with Frankie watching you like he already knows what your answer is, hesitation isn’t an option.

You grin. “Sure, why not.”

Things escalate fast.

You’re sitting on the couch, the low hum of the movie playing in the background, the two of you exchanging quiet comments between drags of the joint he so effortlessly rolled.

The space between you shrinks. His fingers graze your thigh, intentional but unhurried.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. But your bodies are pressed together, mouths hungry, hands wandering. His cap gets flicked off, curls spilling into your fingers as you tug him closer, inhaling the scent of smoke and tasting the candy he’d been snacking on.

The movie is forgotten. The joint smolders in the ashtray. You straddle his lap, rolling your hips down, and he groans against your mouth, gripping your waist.

Somewhere between deep drags of each other’s kisses and the slow, filthy grind of your pussy against bulge, he requests, “Let me taste you...” Biting at your lower lip, kneading your ass.

You’re not about to object to a man willingly wanting to go down on you. Nodding, you both quickly undress each other, your want for him only increasing with each layer that gets shed.

Now you’re here. Your thighs bracket his jaw, the arm of the couch supporting you as you sink down into the urgent heat of his mouth. The first slow, wet drag of his tongue at your slit makes you moan pathetically. 

His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you down like he wants this—like he needs this.

The scratch of his scruff against your sensitive skin makes it all the better. He’s not gentle—he’s messy, hungry, eating you out like it’s all he’s been thinking about since laying his eyes on you. His tongue flicks, circles, then flattens as he drags it up through your slick folds, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking just right.

Your head tips back, a broken cry slipping out.

“God, you’re so good at this,” you gasp, rolling your hips against his talented mouth.

Frankie groans in response, the vibration of it sending sparks up your spine. His nose presses right where you need it, and you swear you see stars when he starts moving his head with you, matching your rhythm, letting you ride his face.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, tugging hard. He grunts as one of his hands slides lower, wrapping around his leaking cock. He strokes himself in time with his tongue working you over, his other hand gripping your ass, spreading you wider to get a better taste of all of you.

You don’t even realize how desperate you sound, whimpering… pleading. Your grinding then shifts as his tongue goes taut and you start bouncing softly against his jaw, your hips swiveling in ways you didn’t even know you could move, your body instinctively chasing after his mouth.

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets more into it as you do, his tongue fucking into you before moving back to your clit, his swollen lips working magic, sucking, teasing, wrecking you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Your words melt into a strangled whine as your orgasm crashes into you, your whole body shaking while you come apart on his tongue. Frankie doesn’t stop—he eats you through it, his grip on your hips tightening as you ride out every last wave of your orgasm.

Then—smack.

Your eyes fly open as his palm connects with your ass, the sting mixing with the aftershocks in the best way possible. He does it again, harder this time, a smirk tugging at his lips when you jolt.

The sting of each spank feels so fucking good that you start sobbing, damn near pulling the hair out of his scalp when he harshly sucks on your clit.

He’s been holding himself back from finishing in his fist, but suffocating between your thighs while hearing your pretty noises nearly undoes him.

Continuing to stave off his own release, he grips the girthy base of cock tightly. He needs more. Needs to feel the walls of your pussy squelching around him, pulling him in deeper.

And from the way you’re looking down at him, mouth parted, eyes shining with satisfaction, he knows you need the same damn thing.

He maneuvers out from under you quickly and efficiently, his dexterous training being put to use, pushing your upper half flat into the old couch while your hips remain in the air, thighs pressed together.

Francisco slides the fat tip of his cock through the swollen lips of your pussy, getting himself wet, groaning deep in his chest before pressing his heated dick at your silky thighs, the lubrication of your juices making it easy for him to slip between them, the pressure against his cock having him curse beneath his breath.

“So fuckin’ soft.”

His left hand crosses at your lower back to grab at your right hip while the other lands a harsh smack to your ass. You whimper, but the sound is muffled from how your face is buried into the cushions.

He soothes over the sting with his palm before gripping tight again, using the leverage to thrust between your thighs, the thick weight of his cock teasing you with every stroke, your clit puffy and dripping, needing to feel him inside you.

“Put in, Frankie, please,” you whimper, the squeeze at your thighs causing your cunt to clench around nothing, pushing more of your slick out, pussy drooling for him.

He grunts, pressing a firm hand to your lower back, arching you deeper, adjusting the angle. He spreads you enough to give himself room to line himself up.

“So eager for this dick,” he taunts, swirling the head of his cock at your clit before tapping it repeatedly, the evidence of your horniness clinging to him in a sticky web with every smack.

Frankie teases you by running it up the seam of your pussy, notching it at your fluttering and needy hole before pulling out and repeating the action, driving you crazy. “You always put out this fast?”

You grind back against him, pushing onto your elbows, voice breathy but flirty. “Could ask you the same thing.”

He doesn’t reply, a smug smile on his lips as he finally gives it to you, sinking into the wet cavern of your cunt, groaning out a Fuuuuuck as your pussy stretches around the intrusion of his cock.

You try to moan, to say something, but no sound comes out—just a desperate gasp, eyes falling shut, fingers clawing at the rough couch fabric as he fills you completely.

He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, savoring every squeeze, every tremble. His thrusts start slow, deep, rolling his hips just right, pulling out almost entirely before pressing back in, making you feel every thick inch.

“Fuck, you feel so goddamn good.”

The heat of his body blankets yours as he lowers himself, his weight pressing you deeper into the couch. His mouth is everywhere—kissing up your spine, nipping at your shoulder, his mustache scraping against your oversensitive skin. When he bites down you whine, your cunt clenching tight around him.

His thrusts speed up a notch, somehow getting deeper and harder—grinding into you just right, making your breath stutter.

“Yes—yes—right there,” you sob, turning your head to look at him… or well, try to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over with thick tears of euphoria, barely able to make anything out but you can feel him everywhere. His breath fanning against your face, a small amount of spit stuttering out as he grunts, burying himself over and over inside your tight, wet pussy.

Your nails dig into the old, tacky couch, trying to keep yourself somewhat grounded as he screws the thoughts right out of your brain.

It’s everything you’ve needed. Life has been fucking you over relentlessly as of late, it’s about damn time you finally get a pounding that’s actually worth it. 

Frankie groans against your ear as he keeps up the brutal pace. “Pretty movie girl likes it deep, huh?” You could honestly get off by just the sound of his raspy voice. “Shit, never had it like this before, have you?”

You shake your head—not out of denial, but because fuck, he’s right. Nothing has ever felt this good.

His lips brush over your cheek and then he’s kissing you sloppily, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. You moan into his mouth as the pleasure at your pussy blooms again, your second orgasm creeping up fast under the weight of his praise, his cock hitting all the right spots, stretching you wide.

Frankie growls into the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he ruins you.

“Gonna make you come on my dick,” he mutters, gripping your chin, making sure you’re looking at him while he fucks into that one spot that devistates you. “And you’re gonna take every fuckin’ bit of it.”

And God—you will. You want to.

Because you already know this is the type of sex you’ll be feeling for days.

A few more relentless thrusts, and you’re done for. Your body shakes beneath him, muscles seizing, wails and sobs absorbed by the cushion your cheek is pressed into.

“Shhh just like that, doin’ so good—shit this pussy is amazing.”

Frankie holds you down, his weight keeping you exactly where he wants you. His grip shifts to the armrest, fingers curling tight, using the leverage to piston into you rougher. The couch jerks across the hardwood floor with each thrust, the force of it sending shockwaves up your spine.

The end credits song plays somewhere in the background, barely audible over the obscene sounds of your fucking.

His breathing gets ragged, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own high. He pulls out abruptly, chest heaving, and licks the tips of his fingers before spreading your pussy open, angling his cock right at your slick, swollen cunt.

Hot ropes of cum spill from his slit, milky and thick, painting your used flesh, dripping down onto the couch beneath you. The sight is filthy, so fucking erotic it makes his cock throb in his fist.

He groans at the mess, at the way his release pools against the cleft of your clit. He pushes inside again before either of you can think, his cum and yours mixing as he fucks into you, more fervently this time, dragging out the pleasure until his cock begins to soften.

You’re too spent to do anything but take it, too blissed out to care. All you know is that you want this again. Over and over and over...

“Damn,” Frankie chuckles, still breathless, his curls damp with sweat. His hands move lazily over your body, tracing the curve of your spine, your waist, your thighs, before he leans over to grab his discarded gray tee.

He doesn’t think twice before using it to clean you up, wiping between your legs with a casual ease.

You hum in response, floating somewhere between the high of the weed and the sex. You could crash right here, stretched out on his couch, and be perfectly content.

“You good?” The hot edge of lust has barely cooled when he’s touching you again, stroking his big, warm hand up and down your back.

You don’t nod, just manage a lazy, “Mhm… just need a second.”

He smirks and a wink is thrown in your direction before he stands, sliding his sweatpants on and fixing the couch to its original position before disappearing into the halfway renovated kitchen.

You stretch your limbs, pulling your clothes back on with no real rush. Your body is warm, loose. When Frankie returns, he hands you a glass of water, and you thank him softly, realizing how parched you are when you down the whole thing in one go.

“We didn’t finish the movie,” he muses, lounging back on the couch like he hadn’t just given you the best sex of your life.

“Bummer,” you tease, looking at him over your shoulder.

His gaze flickers from the screen to you, a glint in his dark eyes catching in the glow of the TV.

“You could stay the night,” he offers smoothly. “We could watch somethin’ else… maybe fuck some more too.”

His head tilts slightly, curls messy and inviting. The broad expanse of his naked chest gleams, rising and falling with steady, easy breaths. And then there’s the soft bulge in his sweats, evidence that he’s not nearly as spent as he looks.

Your mouth damn near waters.

You narrow your gaze at him, playful, challenging. Frankie mirrors the expression, watching, waiting…

You both move at the same time.

[noredemptionhere]

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃

pair: 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚡 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

tags: fluff. so much fluff, mention of blood, reader is shorter than sevika—neither of them has a specified height.

life was a pain in the ass.

not always—but most of the time. and this week? this week seemed determined to chew her up and spit her out.

as if getting her ass handed to her by a dead, pink-haired brat wasn’t humiliating enough, an enforcer had to go and bust the shimmer tank in her prosthetic.

now here she was—one arm barely functioning, the other gripping a screwdriver so tightly she might snap it in half.

sevika wasn’t the kind of woman who whined. she didn’t believe in asking for help—asking for anything, really. taking matters into her own hands always got the job done. it took time, sure, but it spared her the headache of relying on anyone else.

but—

this little piece of shit wasn’t fixing itself.

no matter how hard she studied the intricate network of screws and gears, no matter how carefully she pressed the screwdriver against the bolts, no matter how many hours she wasted at her desk trying to crack the goddamn riddle of it all…

nothing. nothing.

the prosthetic arm remained sluggish, unresponsive—mocking her.

and sevika? sevika could not afford that.

she was the right hand of a man who held zaun in his palm. silco’s enforcer, his blade. when he gave an order, she was expected to execute it—swiftly, cleanly, with all the force necessary. she was his shield in the undercity’s shadows, his muscle behind closed-door negotiations.

and she was ‘useless’ without this arm.

the anger coiled in her gut wasn’t the kind she could drown in liquor—not tonight. it wasn’t the sharp, cutting kind that had her picking fights just to bleed out her frustration. no, this was the slow-burning kind. the kind that settled deep in her chest, thick and suffocating, turning over and over.

silco noticed—took him long enough.

“you’re getting too pissy.”

his voice was as smooth as ever, carrying that infuriating calm as he stood near the window of his office, gaze set on the city below.

sevika didn’t look up. instead, she rolled her jaw, pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, and traced idle circles against the rim of her glass.

“i’m fine,” she muttered.

a tired excuse. a lie neither of them bothered to acknowledge.

“you have more important things to handle than some ludicrous gadget.”

his voice was flat—nearly bored. but there was something else beneath it.

disappointment, maybe. or amusement.

she wasn’t sure which one pissed her off more.

“you could’ve just asked.”

sevika exhaled sharply through her nose, gaze flicking up to him at last.

she didn’t ask. she never asked.

and yet, she waited—silent, expectant—for him to finally say something useful.

silco sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair before finally giving her what she was waiting for.

“sugar & sparks.”

sevika squinted. “you’re fucking with me.”

he didn’t even smirk. “i wouldn’t waste my breath.”

sevika rolled her eyes, tossing back the last of her drink. sugar & sparks. what kind of mechanic named their workshop like it was a damn bakery?

she scoffed, setting her glass down with an audible clink.

“what even is that?” she crossed her arms, unimpressed.

silco didn’t turn from the window. “the place where your prosthetic was made.”

for a moment, sevika just stared.

the workshop that built this—the metal monstrosity fused to her shoulder, the thing that made her more machine than woman—was called sugar & sparks?

her fingers tightened around the ruined prosthetic.

“sir.”

the word was flat, edged with a cut the bullshit tone.

“get ran to set up a meeting with her. she knows her.”

her.

sevika didn’t react, but the detail lodged itself in her mind. if silco was involved, this wasn’t just help anymore—this was an order.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸

the city pulsed around her, a mess of flickering neon and distant shouts. deckard’s directions had been clear enough, leading her to a quieter part of zaun—quiet by its standards, anyway.

she found it easily.

and she really needed this done.

the entrance to the workshop was… tidy. almost out of place.

sevika stepped inside.

a bell chimed overhead.

cute.

adorable, even.

the thought hit before she could stop it, an uninvited flicker of pink in an ink-black world.

her gaze swept across the shop. everything was too neat, too soft. tools hung in perfect rows, the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, and the workbench was cluttered—but not in the usual, careless way. this was rather a careful, lived-in kind of mess.

it was the kind of place that didn’t belong in zaun.

and there you were—the pink dot.

sevika nearly whistled, watching as you swept the floor, head twitching just slightly at the sound of the door. a quick glance, a flicker of recognition—just a girl in her little shop, unaware she was about to fix more than just a prosthetic.

the bell above the door jingled, and you didn’t think much of it at first. another customer, another repair—same as always.

then you looked up.

sevika.

you almost dropped the broom.

sevika, the sevika, was standing in the doorway of your workshop, broad, scowling, much taller and bigger than you imagined. her sharp eyes flicked over the space, unimpressed, before landing on you.

you knew her. not just knew her—you made that. that poor, disfigured work of art clamped to her shoulder. it was one of—if not the best—pieces of your opus.

you could recall the entire day silco—the silco—sent one of his gang members to your workshop. you still remembered your conversation with ran, her reaction to your shocked face when she informed you about sevika’s incident. how your eyes almost spilled a few tears from the intensity.

you had also seen sevika in real life once—at the last drop, when you went out for drinks with your friends. she hadn’t acknowledged you that night. too busy getting her dopamine fix from poker, collecting chips under the whining of grown-ass men.

were you fangirling? fuck yeah. your eyes had practically sparkled with red hearts like a lovesick idiot when you first saw her.

were you intimidated? still fuck yeah.

and now? now she was standing here. in your shop. with you.

who knew—maybe she was here to tell you how much of a shit job you did on her metal limb. except you knew you were a pro at your job and she already had that arm for years now, so… maybe there was still hope she wouldn’t get your workshop shut down.

you forced yourself to blink, to breathe, to not stare at the way the dim light caught on the sharp angles of her jaw or how her arms—one flesh, one metal—looked like they could snap your spine in half. not that you would complain.

your voice wobbled when you spoke. “uh… hi?”

brilliant. amazing. that was definitely the way to greet a terrifying crime lord’s right-hand woman.

she didn’t react, just strode further in like she owned the place.

up close, she was even worse.

her presence practically swallowed the room, bringing with it the scent of smoke and metal and something vaguely like whiskey. the prosthetic—the one you built—was in bad shape, the shimmer tank cracked and gears struggling to turn.

your mind screamed at you to focus.

this is a job. you’re a professional. get it together.

“what happened to it?” you forced your hands to stay steady as you gestured toward her arm.

“got into a fight.” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘i’d pay to see that.’ the words almost slipped out of your mouth.

“right.” you nodded, as if this was normal. as if your stomach wasn’t flipping over itself like an idiot. “i, um, i can fix it. just—sit?”

she gave you a long look before sighing and dropping into the chair beside your workbench. the metal groaned under her weight.

you got this. you’ve literally made this arm. you sure as hell can fix it.

but the moment you reached for her prosthetic, her gaze flicked up—sharp, calculating.

and suddenly, touching her felt like a very big deal.

your fingers hovered over the damaged plates. “i, uh… is it okay if i…?”

sevika raised an eyebrow.

you wanted to melt into the floor.

“i mean—you came here for this, so obviously it’s okay, just umm—” you shut up immediately when you saw the corner of her mouth curl up.

she knew.

she knew how flustered you were, and she was amused.

you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task instead of the heat creeping up your neck. carefully, you pressed your fingers against the damaged joint, testing its movement. sevika barely reacted, but you could feel her watching you.

you were going to die. this was it. cause of death: overwhelming gay panic.

you kept scolding yourself. fix the arm. stop thinking about how ridiculously attractive she is.

sevika rolled her shoulder, exhaling as the weight of the prosthetic lifted. she was used to the process—clamps unlatching, metal shifting, the familiar dull ache left behind. what she wasn’t used to was this.

the girl—you—were practically vibrating with nervous energy.

she didn’t miss the way your breath hitched when you looked up at her. how your fingers stilled for just a second too long before you yanked your gaze away, gripping the prosthetic like it was a lifeline.

pretty.

so damn pretty.

she leaned back in the chair, stretching out her flesh arm as you turned your back to her, moving to your workstation like a skittish little thing trying to escape a predator’s gaze.

sevika smirked.

she wasn’t trying to intimidate you. but she wasn’t exactly trying not to, either.

her eyes trailed over the workshop—cleaner than she expected, with little tools and scrap parts neatly lined up. it smelled like metal, like oil and faint traces of something sweet. there was a little lamp flickering beside the workbench, casting warm light over your hunched shoulders.

there was nothing remarkable about the place. but somehow, it felt different from the usual grime of zaun. quieter. softer.

sevika rolled her jaw, exhaling through her nose.

what a weird fucking day.

she should’ve been more annoyed about coming here at all— but she wasn’t.

not really.

her gaze flicked back to you.

you were already at work, delicate hands moving with practiced ease, eyes sharp and focused. the nervous stammering was gone now, replaced by quiet concentration.

sevika tilted her head slightly, watching.

maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

she watched as you turned the prosthetic over in your hands, lips pressed together in quiet focus. a muttered string of words slipped past them—barely loud enough to catch.

“…some of the glass shards fell into the gears…”

your voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but sevika caught the way you winced slightly, shaking your head like you were scolding yourself.

she still found you so fucking cute.

she didn’t bother responding—just watched as you worked, fingers quick but careful. you were so damn delicate with it, like the thing wasn’t a weapon built for splitting skulls open.

the silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, before sevika finally broke it.

“this your place?”

you flinched, just barely, before nodding. “mhm. my father started it. i, uh… took over after he passed.”

sevika hummed, gaze dragging over the workshop again.

that explained the neatness. the warmth in the way things were arranged. it wasn’t just a place for work—it was yours.

didn’t quite fit in zaun.

didn’t quite fit her.

she leaned forward, resting her forearm on the workbench, the sheer size of her making the space feel even smaller. “and you fix up scum like me for a living?”

your breath hitched.

she smirked.

“i… i don’t see it like that,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your work. “i just… fix things.”

sevika chuckled lowly, the sound deep and full of something unreadable.

fix things.

interesting.

you were squirming now—so easy to unravel. so easy to toy with.

she tilted her head, voice smooth, mocking. “what, you got some soft spot for criminals?”

you didn’t answer right away. probably too busy trying to figure out whether she was fucking with you or testing you.

smart girl.

“i don’t pick sides,” you finally said, tweezers plucking a small sliver of glass from the prosthetic’s inner mechanisms. “i just… i like helping people.”

sevika watched the way your fingers trembled, just slightly. the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed.

you liked helping people.

and yet, you looked like a rabbit cornered by a wolf.

“a thing like you won’t last long with that mindset.”

you swallowed again, shoulders tensing.

sevika leaned in a little more, voice dropping.

“…and you look like you don’t last long.”

you swore your heart stopped—maybe it had, maybe you were already floating.

her presence was suffocating in the softest, most deliberate way. the knot coiled in your stomach from the moment she walked in wasn’t enough. the heat rising in your cheeks wasn’t enough either.

the faint prickle behind your eyes—the humiliating threat of tears—had to be the cherry on top.

you dropped your gaze, fingers tightening around the plucker in your hand, grasping at whatever was left of your composure. anything to ground yourself—to not crumble under the weight pressing against you.

you weren’t crying. not really. you just… wanted to melt. to fold in on yourself, small and soft, and disappear into the floorboards before she could see what she was doing to you.

the worst part was—

she saw.

every. damn. thing.

and she was quiet about it. not a chuckle, not a hum—just stillness, watching, waiting. then she saw your eyes.

glistening. soft.

her smirk widened, eyes dark with something far too pleased. this was going to be so good.

“are you fucking crying?”

your breath hitched. your eyes widened. stupid—so ridiculously stupid—because now she had a perfect view of your ruined, trembling self.

ignore her. just ignore her. you were about to finish—her arm. just say it.

“th-the glass is out…”

“yeah?” she cooed, pushing up from her seat.

she got up.

fuck. fuck. abort.

your body moved before your mind—bolting upright, searching for an escape route.

sevika followed.

slow. deliberate. a predator, savoring the chase.

“what… are you doing?” you whispered, as if she’d answer with mercy.

she didn’t.

your back met the corner.

and she was still coming.

amused. patient. towering.

trapping you in this unbearable, suffocating heat—until there was nothing left of you but shivers and surrender.

melting.

sevika watched you for a second longer, amused, before lifting her hand—slow, deliberate—until her fingers brushed your cheek.

you froze.

rough fingertips swiped just beneath your eye, catching the heat of your skin, the lingering dampness that betrayed you. and her smirk—god, her smirk—only deepened.

“didn’t know you were this soft.”

the words curled around you, thick and mocking, a lazy amusement laced beneath them like she was enjoying this. like she was studying you—memorizing the way you squirmed under her touch.

and you did. you squirmed.

a sharp inhale, a panicked jerk away from the warmth of her palm—your back hit the wall first, then you shoved off it, slipping past her as quickly as your legs would allow.

she let you go.

didn’t move. didn’t chase.

just turned, leaning back onto the table with her usual lazy confidence as she watched you scramble to finish the job.

you could feel her gaze on you the entire time—steady, knowing, hungry.

and if your hands shook while working, well…

she definitely noticed.

you worked faster than ever, fingers fumbling over metal, tightening bolts, securing plates—all under the weight of her gaze.

finally, you stepped back. done.

your lips parted, the price tumbling out before you could think—before you could breathe.

“seven brasses.”

it was embarrassingly low.

sevika noticed.

but more than that, she noticed something else.

the quiet. the ease.

for the first time in what felt like years, there were no gnawing thoughts, no simmering rage pressing at the back of her skull. just this—this small, quiet space, the hum of old machinery, the scent of oil and metal, and you moving carefully around her, buckling the joints against her shoulder with hands that still trembled slightly.

it felt almost… nice.

like stepping into a warm room after a cold night. like that first slow inhale of a cigarette after a long fight.

she flexed her fingers, rolled her wrist, tested the weight.

perfect.

her lips twitched as she snapped the glowing red knife out of her palm, watching the way your breath hitched ever so slightly at the sound.

she pushed off the table, clenched her metal digits for the last time, and tossed ten brasses onto your desk.

three more than you asked for. just because she could.

then, as if the moment had never settled in her chest, she strode for the door.

no teasing remark. no parting words.

but before stepping out, she did pause—just briefly—to glance back at you, eyes flickering over your form, before disappearing into the night.

after she left, everything felt quiet—except for the little pumping piece of shit caged between your ribs, refusing to let you pretend this was just a normal interaction.

it wasn’t. the ‘piece of shit’ was right.

you could still feel her hand lingering on your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an ember refusing to die out. it felt even better than it looked, so soft, so warm. almost like a hug to your heart after the enervating events of the day.

you exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together as if you could somehow trap the feeling inside you before it disappeared completely. but it was already fading, slipping through your fingers like smoke, leaving behind only the ghost of her touch and the mess she made of your head.

her presence lingered in your workshop even after she was gone, in the air, in the heavy silence, in the spaces she had occupied without effort. you felt her in the rest of your body even when she hadn’t touched it. felt her in the places she looked at. like she left something behind, something you couldn’t name but couldn’t shake off, either.

but it was gone now.

and you really shouldn’t get your hopes high—especially when it came to people.

so when she returned, the first time, then the second, then the third, you told yourself it meant nothing. that it was just a coincidence. that she was only here for the repairs, for convenience, because you knew her arm better than anyone else and didn’t ask too many questions.

and yet—she always came back too soon.

the first time, her excuse was simple: a bad fight, a rough night, nothing out of the ordinary. you believed her.

the second time, she grumbled something about a shitty enforcer nearly breaking her wrist. you weren’t sure if it was true, but you let it go.

by the third, the fourth, the fifth—you knew better.

the damage was never anything catastrophic. a loosened joint, rusted gears, wiring that had been fine the last time you saw her. always just enough to warrant another visit, to keep her in your orbit a little longer.

and she lingered.

at first, she would hover by the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you worked in silence. but then she started staying longer. sitting on your workbench, exhaling cigarette smoke into the warm air of the workshop, commenting on things that had nothing to do with her arm. you ever sleep? she’d asked once, her gaze flicking to the dark circles under your eyes.

you had laughed—soft, surprised. “you ever take care of this thing properly?” you had shot back, tapping the side of her prosthetic.

she had only smirked. “that’s your job, isn’t it?”

you should’ve known then.

but it wasn’t until her latest visit—when you unscrewed the panel on her forearm, pushed back the plating, and saw the state of her gears—that it really hit you.

they were rusted. neglected on purpose.

your fingers stilled, eyes narrowing slightly as you studied the damage. not enough to completely disable her arm, but enough to slow her down, to make sure she had to return before it got worse.

slowly, your gaze lifted to her.

sevika was already watching you, unreadable, jaw tight.

“shut your mouth,” she muttered.

you didn’t say anything. just smiled—warm, understanding. the kind of smile that softened the edges of the moment, made it something else entirely.

sevika felt something lurch in her chest.

the workshop, the heat, the scent of oil and metal—it all faded into the background. the only thing left was you.

and that damn smile.

she had been coming back for the repairs.

that was what she told herself.

but now, she wasn’t so sure.

you leaned in slightly, still holding her arm in your hands, and whispered—so gently it nearly undid her:

“i didn’t say anything.”

the ache in her chest settled deep, smoldering. for a split second, she considered what it would mean to have you… not just as someone who fixed her, but as something unchangeable, something always with her. the thought curled through her like smoke, slow and insidious, sinking into her bones.

sevika’s gaze never left you, her eyes darkening as they followed the smooth, practiced movements of your hands. you weren’t asking for anything. you weren’t pleading, weren’t demanding. no, you were just there. with her.

she wanted you. god, she wanted you in a way that shook her, made her pulse race with the raw need to have you.

but wanting meant needing. and needing meant surrendering control.

so she did—but in her own damn way.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

a slow week wasn’t unusual, and business in the lanes had always been unpredictable. maybe people found a cheaper place. maybe they were just busy.

but then the silence stretched. days passed. the usual faces—the old man with his busted radio, the kids with their broken toys, the regulars who came in just to tinker with their own gear under your watch—never showed.

the only person who did?

sevika.

she came in like nothing was different, like she hadn’t bled your business dry with nothing but presence and intimidation. and worse? she acted like she was doing you a favor for keeping you occupied.

and for some reason—you knew exactly why—customers stopped coming.

men, women, kids with their tiny gadgets, elderly folks with their busted radios. all of them. gone.

now, you just sat there, waiting. working. for one customer who paid too much for fixes that took too little time.

you weren’t sure what to feel about it. stay neutral? drill her eye with your screwdriver? wipe that ridiculous—gorgeous—smirk off her stupid, gorgeous face?

…fuck.

“you seriously need to start oiling these… i’m so done with you”

you growled, hands greasy and covered in rust. at this point, you were starting to believe she’d cursed the damn thing—like some kind of spell that kept her prosthetic in a constant state of disrepair.

“how did you even do that?” you scowled, digging into the mess of loosened joints and worn-out gears.

the funniest part? she didn’t even bother hiding it anymore.

sevika was shamelessly, blatantly fucking up her own arm just to have an excuse to see you.

you don’t know how long it’s been since the first time she walked in—two months, maybe three.

and yet, those months had been full. oddly full, despite your shop being emptier than ever.

she had made something here. filled a gap you didn’t even know existed.

she made your stomach knot, your heart dance, your fists clench in frustration.

and somehow, all of it felt good.

“you’ll do it for me,” she murmured, smug.

you shot her a deadpan glare. “i will kill you in your sleep.”

“bet.”

fuck this woman. for real.

despite all your grumbling, you never actually told her to leave. never kicked her out, never set any real boundaries—not when she lingered in your workshop long after her arm had been fixed, not when she started treating the space like her own. at some point, she stopped hovering near the door and just stayed. sat on the worn-out couch like it belonged to her, took slow drags of her cigarette, let herself be comfortable.

and maybe you should’ve minded. maybe you should’ve told her to take her arrogance, her constant smirking, her ridiculous way of worming herself into your life, and get the hell out.

but then there were moments like this.

where the rain drummed against the window, where the scent of warm tea curled in the air, where she was settled deep into the cushions, her prosthetic resting on the armrest, her real hand gesturing lazily as she ranted about something that had pissed her off today.

and you? you sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, fingers curled around your mug, watching her talk like she wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room.

“fucking nightmare of a day,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.

you hummed, amused, taking a slow sip of your tea. “that bad?”

she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “you have no idea.”

you stretched your legs out, letting the heat from the mug seep into your fingers. “alright, let’s hear it. what ruined your day this time?”

sevika exhaled a long, irritated breath, tilting her head back against the couch. “some idiot decided to run his mouth at the bar. you’d think grown men would know when to shut the fuck up.”

you raised a brow. “and you, of course, handled the situation with patience and restraint.”

she snorted. “obviously.”

you gave her a look.

“…okay, i might’ve broken a chair over his head.”

you nearly choked on your tea. “sevika!”

she grinned, shameless. “it wasn’t that bad. he hit the ground before the chair even fully broke.”

you groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “damn.”

sevika just shrugged, like yeah, and? before propping her prosthetic up on the armrest. “what about you? your day any less of a shitshow?”

you huffed, blowing at the steam curling from your mug. “dunno, my only customer is an impossible woman who keeps ruining her own arm on purpose.”

her lips twitched. “sounds like a real pain in the ass.”

“oh, you have no idea.”

there was a beat of silence. the kind that wasn’t heavy or thick, just… easy.

then—

“you ever think about getting out of here?” she asked, voice quieter, more thoughtful.

you blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “what, the shop?”

she nodded, gaze unreadable. “zaun. this whole… life.”

your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. “…i don’t know,” you admitted. “maybe.”

sevika hummed, studying you for a long moment. then, just as smoothly as she’d brought it up, she let the conversation drift again.

“so, this tea any good?”

you rolled your eyes, grateful for the change in subject. “it’s amazing, actually.”

she held out her hand. “lemme try.”

you narrowed your eyes, lifting the mug just out of reach. “no.”

“why?”

“because you don’t appreciate flavored tea.”

sevika scoffed. “the hell does that mean?”

“it means i saw you down three shots of double whiskey earlier. you’ve lost all credibility.”

she actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that settled deep in your chest.

and for some reason, despite all the trouble she caused, despite the way she took up more space in your life than she probably should have—

you let her stay a little longer.

on an unremarkable wednesday, you were lost in the kind of mindless routine that existed only to fill the time. you didn’t care much for what you were doing—shuffling through old tools, wiping nonexistent dust off the counter—but it was something.

something to keep your mind occupied until she showed up.

you were expecting her soon. it had been a few days since she last dropped by, and she never stayed away for long.

the bell above the door jingled, breaking the quiet.

without looking up, you exhaled through your nose, amused. “you want some tea? i’ve been begging for anything to distract me these days, thanks to yo—”

you glanced up—

and wished you hadn’t.

sevika was bloody.

not just scraped-up, not just roughed-up—bloody. her shirt was torn in places, her knuckles cracked and caked with dried red, her cheekbone split open just beneath her eye.

but still, she moved like nothing had happened.

already half-sunken into the couch, she wrestled with the lighter in her back pocket, hand trembling with the effort.

your stomach dropped. “sevika!”

her fingers twitched—like she was deciding whether or not to wave you off—but she didn’t look at you. just kept digging for that damn lighter.

you were at her side in an instant, hands hovering uselessly. you wanted to touch her, check her, do something, but she was so tense, so unreadable, you weren’t sure if she’d let you.

“what happened?” your voice was quieter now, tight with concern.

she exhaled sharply through her nose, head tilting back against the couch. “shit night.”

“that’s not an answer.”

she finally looked at you then, lips twitching up in something almost like her usual smirk—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “it’s the only one i got.”

your heart twisted.

for all her arrogance, her sharp-tongued bravado, this wasn’t the first time she’d shown up like this. but something about tonight—about the silence, the barely-there tremor in her fingers—felt different.

felt worse.

wordlessly, you moved. crossed the room to grab some water from the sink in the back room, dampened a clean cloth with the warm water.

when you came back, you knelt in front of her, settling onto the floor between her legs, legs crossed beneath you.

sevika watched you, unreadable, as you reached out. your fingers barely ghosted over her jaw before she closed her eyes and let out a slow breath.

not a word.

just… acceptance.

you swallowed thickly, then pressed the cloth to her cheek, wiping away the blood.

“i don’t have anything to help you with…” you whispered, your tone almost scolding yourself.

the cloth in your hand felt useless. like no amount of warm water could fix this. like you were just wiping away evidence instead of easing the pain.

your fingers trembled against her skin. maybe from nerves, maybe from something deeper. either way, sevika noticed.

she reached out—not with metal, not with something cold and unfeeling, but with her real hand.

rough fingers found your cheek, thumb brushing over the skin in slow, absentminded strokes. like she was memorizing the feeling. like she was claiming it.

your breath hitched, your body going soft before you could stop it. without thinking, you leaned forward, resting your head against her knee.

and then—she smiled.

not a smirk. not something sharp and teasing. just… real.

the warmth of it settled in her voice as she spoke.

“you help.”

simple. certain. like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

sevika exhaled, slow. her hand stayed where it was, cradling your cheek like she needed it there. like she was grounding herself.

“i never had anything of my own—never.”

“no one belonged to me. i never held feelings in my grasp.”

she exhaled softly, something like a chuckle slipping out, but it held no real humor. more of an exhausted amusement, like she was laughing at herself.

“not even my arm.”

she let the silence stretch for a moment, let the weight of her words settle. and then, softer—more certain.

“but you…”

“something about you—something about you is mine.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to say anything at all.

so you let it be. let it settle. let it breathe.

let her have it.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸

it was an ordinary day.

a quiet one.

not wintry, not summery—just soft. the kind of day where the air smelled like something in between, where the breeze carried warmth but the sun wasn’t overbearing, where the light filtered in through the windows just enough to make the dust motes dance.

the kind of day that should’ve gone unnoticed.

you sat at your workbench, tools scattered around you, hands busy with the kind of mindless repair work that didn’t require much thought. the shop was empty, save for the hum of your favorite song spilling from the radio, filling the space with a low, dreamy melody.

“𝕚 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕪—𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥”

your fingers tapped against the desk absently, matching the rhythm.

“𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕖 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕕— 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖”

it was one of those songs—the kind you didn’t just hear, but felt, settling into your bones, sinking beneath your skin. you swayed in your seat slightly, shimmying your shoulders to the beat, lost in the music.

so lost, in fact, that you didn’t notice the door creak open.

didn’t notice her step inside.

didn’t notice the way she stopped—just for a second—to watch you.

sevika leaned against the frame, arms crossed, lips twitching in quiet amusement as she took in the sight of you, completely oblivious to her presence.

she had gotten used to this.

but she still smiled, just because she saw you.

she smiled whenever she saw you.

“didn’t know you danced for an audience, mechanic.”

the sound of her voice startled you so hard you nearly knocked over your drink.

you whirled around, heat already creeping up your neck. “sevika!”

she smirked, pushing off the doorframe. “go on, don’t let me stop you.”

you shot her a glare, heart still hammering. “how long were you standing there?”

“long enough,” she said, walking over to your workbench.

your lips parted, ready to fire back something deeply unflattering, but—

then she did it.

that thing.

that fucking thing she always did—where she got too close, where she took up too much space, where she looked at you with that knowing glint in her eye, like she was waiting to see how long it would take before you went putty in her hands.

you clenched your jaw. “you’re impossible.”

she grinned. “i know.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shoving your tools aside. “alright, are you coming in here just to bother me, or do you actually want me to fix your gears for the—what is it now? god knows how many times?”

sevika hummed, as if considering. “depends. what do i get out of it?”

you scoffed, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

but still, you didn’t push her away.

instead, you let her linger.

let her steal your space, let her smirk, let her lean against your workbench like she belonged there.

like she belonged here.

the song shifted. a softer one.

the kind that wrapped around you, quiet and warm, settling between the spaces left unspoken.

“𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈ℯ 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ…”

your fingers curled against the wood.

“𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ…”

without thinking, you moved.

got up, stepped toward her, reached out.

and she let you.

your hand wrapped around her waist, fingertips brushing over the hem of her cloak, barely there. you tilted your chin up, resting it lightly against the pulse point of her neck, the steady thrum beneath your skin.

and she—

sevika almost growled.

not loud. not harsh. just a low, barely-there sound in the back of her throat, as if caught off guard by the touch, by the warmth, by you.

slowly, she took your wrists.

slid her fingers over your skin, guiding them behind your back—so deliberate, so slow.

your breath hitched.

you squirmed slightly. “oh come on,” you muttered, playful, pressing against her just a little more.

her grip tightened.

you exhaled, heart hammering.

then, with a quiet chuckle, you let your hands slip behind her neck instead, fingers tangling in the short strands at her nape. “dance with me a little,” you whispered, barely audible. your face burned, but you still tried, still wanted.

you needed this moment.

she was silent.

drinking you in.

slowly, intensely—like she was trying to memorize you.

and then—

without a word, she pulled you closer.

wrapped both arms around you. flesh and metal. warm and cold. human and not.

but she let you see both.

by choice.

for once, without hesitation.

for once, without regret.

you two moved.

let the music fill the air, let the rhythm guide you, let the moment stretch.

“𝓃ℴ𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓌ℴ𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝒷ℯ𝓁ℴ𝓃ℊ𝓈 𝓉ℴ 𝓂ℯ… 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ..”

sevika exhaled, slow and deliberate, before her hand—her real hand—drifted up.

fingers grazing your throat.

pointer finger brushing against your jaw.

“…𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ.”

her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, deliberate.

“be mine.”

her eyes poured into yours.

your eyes, already hazy, already melting, flickered up to hers.

she was looking at you like you were something to be kept.

to be always there.

to be the only thing she ever wanted to have. the only and the last.

and when you nodded—

when your lips parted—when you finally dared to move—

she kissed you.

everything else faded away.

the world came back to her in pieces.

first, the feeling—warmth, unfamiliar but real, sinking into her bones. the weight of blankets tangled around her waist. the scent of something soft, something clean.

then, the quiet—no city noise, no distant shouts, no clanking gears or drunken brawls. just the steady hush of breathing.

and then—

the sight of you.

sevika blinked once, slow, letting the haze of sleep clear from her vision.

you sat in front of her, perched on your knees at the edge of the bed, watching her with a quiet sort of focus. you didn’t fidget, didn’t look away, just smiled.

soft. like morning light. like something easy and untouched.

something hers.

sevika didn’t move right away.

didn’t speak, either.

she just let herself have this. let herself wake up to something other than aching joints and an empty bed. let herself feel the way her chest tightened—not with panic, not with grief, but with something terrifying in its own right.

something she didn’t name.

you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your gaze. “you’re awake.”

sevika exhaled through her nose, slow, measured. “you were watching me.”

a quiet laugh, barely there. “maybe.”

she should’ve made some sharp remark—should’ve teased, should’ve scoffed, should’ve pulled the moment apart before it had the chance to settle.

but she didn’t.

instead, she reached out.

didn’t think, didn’t hesitate—just moved.

fingers curling around your wrist, tracing absently over your pulse. feeling the proof of you, steady and real.

she kissed the soft skin of your wrist, slowly dragging her tongue over your pulse.

you didn’t pull away.

didn’t shift, didn’t falter. just let sevika hold you.

and for the first time in a long time, sevika let herself believe. believe that this—this warmth, this weight, this having—wasn’t something she’d wake from.

warmth was a thing.

and it was all hers now.

[garchankdefender]

Just thinking today about how Vander's last words to Vi as his full self, before the explosion and before the Shimmer, are, "You did good."

In the moments just after she slams the door on the mutated Deckard - just after facing down and beating all of Silco's men in a desperate attempt to buy Mylo and Claggor time as they work to free Vander - Vi looks back to Vander for reassurance.

And he gives it to her - he saw how she fought; he saw how she saved them. "You did good."

And this episode is a masterclass in building tension, because they're so close to getting him out, and every time I watch it I'm on the edge of my seat, saying "Almost, almost..." But like I said, these are his last words to Vi as his full self. The next time he speaks to her, he's dying and shimmered-up.

This scene is just seconds before Powder's monkey bomb goes off, and nothing is ever the same again.

[pookiebearmick]

galladrabbles - mine

thanks @jrooc for the @galladrabbles prompt this week!! i've been obsessed with everyone's drabbles so far 🥺❤️ when i saw the prompt all i could think about was mitski and ian being a sap, so here's some of that 🥰❣️🌈✨

Ian likes TikTok about as much as any other millennial. He enjoys watching the viral trends and sharing goofy videos with his husband. Sometimes he’ll even try out a trend, but he never posts anything.

But this one… This one he might actually participate in for real. Every video he sees with this sound makes him think of Mickey.

So, he makes an Instagram post, picking each photo carefully before adding on the sweet song.

♫ ‘Cause my love is mine all mine

I love, mine mine mine

Nothing in the world belongs to me

But my love, mine all mine ♫

[fatehbaz]

I'm very interested in tidalectics, I hadn't seen the word before finding your blog but from what I can find it seems very much up my alley. Is there anything you'd recommend reading for an introduction?

I use 'tidalectics' as a sort of shorthand for a constellation or archipelago (pun intended, lol) of related concepts maybe better described as 'archipelagic thinking' and 'poetics of Relation' by Edouard Glissant, 'repeating islands' by Benitez-Rojo/Brathwaite, and 'sea of islands' by Epeli Hau'ofa. I also use it for related things like Black Atlantic, 'Caribbeanist' thinking, 'oceanic thinking,' transnationalism, 'intimacies of four continents,' etc. Much of this deeply, deeply connected to Afro-Caribbean thinking and literature. Unsurprisingly. Comes up often in discussion of eco-poetics and the postcolonial. This discussion is kinda becoming vogue in environmental humanities ('blue humanities' and critical geography) and postcolonial studies, but this has of course been discussed for years and years and years by Caribbean and Pacific scholars, especially Glissant (Martinican/Caribbean), Brathwaite (Barbadian/Caribbean), Cesaire (Caribbean), and Hau'ofa (Tonga/Fiji/Pacific).

The Caribbean(ist) journal Small Axe has also been a big arena for discussing the concept. Two of my fave authors on colonial histories and multispecies ethnographies, Sujit Sivasundaram and Elizabeth DeLoughrey, also focus on oceanic/archipelagic thinking. Highly recommend those two. Another, Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert, also covers Caribbean eco-poetics and frequently describes archipelagic thinking in accessible ways. You can search their names/publications for articles to read online. (Macarena Gomez-Barris--author of The Extractive Zone: Social Ecologies and Decolonial Perspectives--is currently working on a text about "fluidity of colonial transits and the generative space between land and sea.)

Heavily involves what you could describe as 'emotional ecologies' or 'environmental perception.' About the fluidity of tidal zones, the sea, mangroves, estuaries, deltas, seasonally flooded rivers. Very much about materiality of land/water/bodies, but also very much about imaginative place-making and belonging-in-space. Invokes centrality of ecology to place-making and identity. How these landscapes (tidal, seasonal, fluctuating, flowing) transcend, subvert, defy, exist beyond nation-state borders and bounded properties. Also implies transnational shared concerns of people inhabiting sacrifice zones and imperial peripheries (from Caribbean to Fiji to Philippines).

As intro, maybe:

Routes and Roots: Navigating Caribbean and Pacific Island Literatures (Elizabetth DeLoughrey), especially introduction chapter: "Tidalectics: Navigating Repeating Islands"

"Toward a Critical Ocean Studies for the Anthropocene" (Elizabeth DeLoughrey, English Language Notes 57:1, 2019)

"The Political Ecology of Storms in Caribbean Literature" (Sharae Deckard, The Caribbean: Aesthetics, World-Ecology, Politics, 2016)

At this blog, I've previously tried to summarize it by condensing excerpts here: DeLoughrey's "Submarine Futures"; Paravisini-Gebert's Caribbean eco-poetics of extinction; archipelagic thinking in South Pacific; Harney, Moten, and Sandra Ruiz discussing archipelagic and continental thinking; oceanic fugitivity and "thinking at the land-water boundary" in Hawaii; the "horror of the sea" and "environmental histories of colonialism" compared in Caribbean vs. English/US lit; the "hurricane does not roar in pentameter," poetics of storms, and "special geography of the Caribbean" which provides an overview of Caribbean writers on relation; the "Black Mediterranean" and contemporary archieplagic thinking relating to refugees/migration (a lot more too, but can't go through archives where I'm stuck right now).

-

Also has come to be provocative framework for thinking about non-literal islands. You'll see 'archipelago' also applied to other spatial and ideological formation things like 'carceral archipelagoes' and 'plantation archipelagos' and 'poverty archipelagos.' Basically, that US-European empire treated the Caribbean as a laboratory for how to isolate, contain, extract, commodify, and experiment on people, labor, land, industry, ecologies, etc. during instantiation of 'modernity.' (While Spain and Portgual played around with this in the Caribbean they also did something similar in the early modern spice gardens and ports of Southeast Asia, while Britain/France/US continued similar in both regions too. So archipelagos of both 'East' and 'West' brutalized.) Added weight because British and then later US naval force understood and capitalized on importance of oceanic networks to maintaining global empire (think British Navy; Lisa Lowe's writing on Britain importing Chinese and South Asian laborers to Caribbean during technical abolition of chattel slavery; US building Panama Canal; US naval force in twentieth century linking Philippines, Hawaii, Panama, Puerto Rico). You might've seen me talk about Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt and others writing on the history of British takeover of Bengal 1780s-1850s, and how the seasonality and deltas and rivers frustrated imperial attempts to fix and tax property; Elizabeth Povinelli describes this process of colonial fixation of 'solid' land in Northern Territory in Australia, too.

And these forms persist in extractivist settings and spatiality of labor, incarceration, industrial sites. Think Cancer Alley in Louisiana; archipelagos of Southeast Asian, West African, or Brazilian plantations along corridors of highways and railroads; low-income residential neighborhoods or 'workforce' housing compartmentalized along transportation corridors near logistics nodes; prisons in upstate New York; Commencement Bay's industrial sites and immigrant detention in Seattle-Tacoma, etc. Like hotspots or blinking lights along corridor. Australia, the US, and the EU all still use islands for migrant detention. At the same time, if global empire yokes together East and West, then empire's malcontents can perform the same trick. You can look at correspondences and writing from colonial subjects and radicals in like 1890s who explicitly described how anticolonial actors could and should also invoke transnational networks. (Linking networks in Buenos Aires, Havana, Los Angeles, Barcelona, Paris, Cairo, Istanbul, Tokyo, etc. And today still, too. Archipelagos of cooperation, not just on islands. What happens in a housing commune in Athens is related to movements in Puerto Rico, connected by defiance of same empire, market, capital, etc.

So since at least 1500-ish, 'globalized' world(s) involve circuits, networks, routes, often mediated by the sea. But people living on islands often have relationship with that sea long predating modernity. Glissant and others talk about a submarine/subterranean connecting tissue between islands, so that, even if they are apparently physically isolated or separated by Hispanophone/Francophone linguistic tradition, there is something akin, shared, in common.

But more than that: Relationality and relation to landscape asserts agency, autonomy, belonging. Especially with Glissant, this involves language, poetics, translation, reclamation of 'submarine' histories. Hau'ofa says "we are the ocean."

Maybe reminiscent of Indigenous resurgence, constellations of resistance, fugitivity, opacity/refusal, pedagogies of deep listening, maroons/marronage, resonances, and writers like Harney and Moten, Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, Achille Mbembe, Katherine McKittrick, Sylvia Wynter, Dixa Ramirez D'Oleo, and others.

-

Anyway, four classics:

The Arrivants: A New World Trilogy (Rights of Passage; Islands; Masks) (Kamau Brathwaite, 1973)

The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective (Antonio Beniteze-Rojo, 1989)

The Archipelago Conversations (Eduoard Glissant and Hans Ulrich Obrist, 2021)

We Are the Ocean: Selected Works (Epeli Hau'ofa, 2008)

-

And some others:

"Submarine Futures of the Anthropocene" (Elizabeth DeLoughrey, Comparative Literature 69:1, 2017)

Waves Across the South: A New History of Revolution and Empire (Sujit Sivasundaram, 2021)

"Archipelagic Interiority: Notes and Reflections on Poetic Voice and Trans Writing in the Philippines" (shane carreon, Kohl 9:1 Special Issue: Anticolonial Feminist Imaginaries, 2023)

"On the Unfolding of Edouard Glissant's Archipelagic Thought" (Michael Wiedorn, Karib-Nordic Journal for Caribbean Studies 6:1, 2021)

"Wet Ontologies, Fluid Spaces: Giving Depth to Volume through Oceanic Thinking" (Philip Steinberg and Kimberley Peters, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 33:2, 2015)

"New Materialisms, Old Humanisms, or, Following the Submersible" (Stacy Alaimo, NORA-Nordic Journal of Feminist and Gender Research)

"Sensing Grounds: Mangroves, Unauthentic Belonging, Extra-Territoriality" (Natasha Ginwala and Vivian Ziheri, e-flux Journal Issue #45, May 2013)

"Storied Seas and Living Metaphors in the Blue Humanities" (Serpil Oppermann, Configurations 27:4, 2019) and Blue Humanities: Storied Waterscapes in the Anthropocene (Edited by Serpil Oppermann, 2023)

Hydrofeminist Thinking with Oceans: Political and Scholarly Possibilities (Edited by Tamara Shefer, Vivenne Bozalek, and Nike Romano, 2024)

"From the black Atlantic to the bleak Pacific: Re-reading "Benito Cereno"" (Alexandra Ganser, Atlantic Studies 15:2, 2018)

"Literary Ecologies of the Indian Ocean" (Hofmeyer, English Studies in Africa 62:1, 2019)

"Archipelagic Readings: towards a Poetics of Creolization" (Hugues Azerad, Trans-Revue de litterature generale et comparee, Special Issue: Insularities/Archipelagos, 2020)

"Water Enclosure and World-Literature: New Perspectives on Hydro-Power and World-Ecology" (Campbell and Paye, Humanities 9:106, 2020)

"A Poetics of Planetary Water: The Blue Humanities after John Gillis" (Sidney Mentz, Coastal Studies and Society, 2022)

"Tending the Forests Beneath Anthropocene Seas" (Williams and Zalasiewicz, in Oceans Rising: A Companion to Territorial Agency: Oceans in Transformation, 2022)

"Caribbean Archipelagos and Mainlands: Building Resistance against Climate Change" (Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert, The Black Scholar 51:2, 2021)

Colonial Phantoms: Belonging and Refusal in the Dominican Americas, from the 19th Century to the Present (Dixa Ramirez D'Oleo, 2018)

"Oceanic Routes: (Post-it) Notes on Hydro-Colonialism" (Bystrom and Hofmeyer, Comparative Literature 69:1, 2017)

"Foreword: Ocean Space and the Marine Social Sciences" (McKinley, in The Routledge Handbook of Ocean Space, 2023)

"Atomic histories and elemental futures across Indigenous waters" (Hi'ilei Julia Hobart, Media + Environment 3:1, 2021)

"On Oceanic Fugitivity" (Hi'ilei Julia Hobart, Ways of Water series by Social Science Research Council, 2020)

Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals (Alexis Pauline Gumbs, 2020)

"Materialities in the Making of World Histories: South Asia and the South Pacific" (Sujit Sivasundaram, Oxford Handbook of History and Material Culture: World Perspectives, 2020)

-

Thanks, take care.

[melmedarda]

arcane ep 1 dashboard simulator

🌉 pilt-power Follow

did we all hear about the explosion in the kiramman building in midtown? somebody's getting fired and i hope its old cassie

🗝️ kirammankitty Follow

literally get off her case? yes it was an apprenta from her clan whos apartment was blown up but its not her fault. she is a mother and a fully functioning member of society you're just jealous you'll never be as rich and influential as she is

🌉 pilt-power Follow

don't know how to tell you this but she's not gonna fuck you.

#some people wanna eat the rich and not in the cannibalistic way #anways fuck the kirammans

🏚️ zaun-and-zest Follow

deckard won't admit it but he got his ass handed to him by a girl. so much for his hardass exterior

🥊 fist-in-your-face Follow

are you saying girls can't fight?

🌐 worldstarzaun Follow

i saw thatttt bro, she let him have it. we were like let him get up, let him get up #deckardassbeating

🏚️ zaun-and-zest Follow

no i'm implying he is weaker than a girl do not put words in my mouth i will enforce my foot up your ass

🍃 downthesump420 Follow

i swear to janna if that pleasure house yordle makes eyes at me again i'm jumping into the pilt and filing a restraining order

🏩 babettes-saggy-tits Follow

why is it you. what do you have that i do not?

👤 life-in-the-lanes-deactivated-3404985 Follow

those damn kids have got the fucking enforcers breaking down my door and for WHAT. this is why i don't want kids they are too much trouble. normalize celibacy

🍺 alkaholical Follow

you won't have that chance have kids bc nobody will sleep with you unless you pay them

👤 life-in-the-lanes-deactivated-3404985 Follow

my mother will know your name

🐹 deathtoheimer Follow

you aren't living in zaun if you don't have multiple organ failure!!!!

🐹 deathtoheimer Follow

👮🏾 grayson-fanpage Follow

Grayson sighted in the Lanes, at Benzo's shop.

🚨 graysonsulimatefanboy Follow

grayson pick me please pick me please pick me please pick me please pick me please pick me im on my knees pleace pick me plouse pick me come over i'm at 69 sidereal st

🫄graysoncocksleeve Follow

mommy longdick just landed back in the lanes!!!!!! welcome mommy longdick!!!!

🚓 graysontheemilf Follow

now what is she doing in the ghetto? free my milf!!! grayson come home baby, the kids miss you!!

🔗 graysons-left-asscheek Follow

humilating how you all are begging over an enforcer who enables piltover's unjust presence and occupation of zaun. disgusting!!! the gray has muddled your minds. that being said, i need grayson to dom me.

🚫 defundthenenforcers Follow

using this post as a blocklist, all of you are sick fucks

🍻 thelastfop Follow

fuck that piltie marcus his stupid face makes me want to kill someone

💦 dilfvander Follow

a fellow marcus hater on my dash??? legendary because i hate that sleeze bag too. i hope he stubs his toe every morning and gets an itch he can never scratch and falls into the pilt and is run through a ship propeller and his remains float out to bilgewater where he becomes fish food. dishonor on him and his family fr.

🍻 thelastfop Follow

bro said

[tiredassmage]

I can’t NOT send in ❛ you’re a weapon, and weapons don’t weep. ❜ for agent feels perhaps 👀

FINALLY. I FINISH IT! Perhaps a day late for Star Wars day(s) celebrations, but you know how Alucren is about talking about his feelings. Once again, them having issues actually talking about anything didn't end up using this word for word, but the shape of it's there. And... frankly a lot of indulgent intimacy, hehe. :3

Shoutout to the namedrop of my friend's blorbo, Taizi. Let's get these agents the idea of therapy and some supportive poly relationships, amiright?

[hit 'em where it hurts // sentence starts]

Deckard sighs soft and warm as Alucren presses his lips against his throat, dragging fingertips through the short hair of his nape.

Here, Nine is at a special, intoxicating kind of ease - one hand formed against Ellery’s hip and the other cradling the back of his head, encouraging Alucren’s introduction of teeth and rewarding the move by tilting his head back into nails digging gently into skin. By now, he knows Nine’s smiling without looking for it.

He smooths his hand along Nine’s spine, fingertips following the curve of skin down towards subtle implants. Nine sighs into the gentle pressure, content enough, it seems, to remain placated by Eleven’s lips over his pulse.

Ellery frowns as his fingers splay carefully over the implants, tracing the faint hints of scars he knows remains, no matter how masterful the work of droids in removing them. The texture’s rougher than the tanned skin around it, than the brush of Nine’s hand against his over his waist where he’s anchored his fellow Cipher back against his chest.

Dark emerald eyes fall away from the steady rise and fall of Nine’s chest to the murky, soft shadows cast in the cloak of Odessen’s night across the room. In this, he’s come to see that the skeletal fingers of Imperial Intelligence still whisper around their throats - the common tattered, lace thread tying them together that Deckard tugs on between the half-familiar dance of briefings and deployments, in the half-held breath of hallways and half-clouded eyes meeting silently over a desk.

He was an idealistic bastard at the best of times, their Nine… Always so concerned with not letting another choke on the decaying dust and rot that he prefers to line his own throat with it than remain idle.

Alucren swallows and tucks his chin into the crook of Tyr’s neck, tracing the outlines of those implants. It’s not the first time he’s seen them. Nine has bared plenty more than flesh to him, dragging him this far out into unknown and - to them - unmapped regions of the galaxy.

Sometimes, what Nine never wrapped words around said more than that which he did. Alucren wonders almost idly if it’s one of the reasons he was a better agent. Even a latecomer transfer as the war had reignited like himself had heard some of the whispers, the stories… Even a stubborn bastard like him had at least once seen the few extra lines across Keeper’s fair features.

And yet all the younger man had for him tonight was patience. Surely, some days it was shorter than others, but…

“Deckard…”

Tyr hums softly in acknowledgement. Alucren closes his eyes as Nine tilts his head slightly, just enough to brush his chin against his temple.

“What was it like?”

The draw of Tyr’s fingers against his knuckles slows to a stop. “Mm. ‘Fraid you’re gonna have to specify a bit more, darling.”

Alucren’s hand stills against his back as he turns to brush his lips briefly along Nine’s jaw. A moment later, he’s passing under Nine’s steady, watchful eyes. The urge to flinch nearly rushes up his spine.

Nine’s good at that - seeing all of him. Tracing fully down from the furrow of his brow, the aging lines Taizi tells him to stop fussing about, and not missing a single note in the depths of his eyes. It’s been damned infuriating at times. Alucren has yet to figure out how to swallow being so utterly disarmed.

Tyr’s eyes fall after only a few moments. It could’ve been hours, for all he takes from it. “You know I live with it,” he says quietly.

“Part of the job description,” Ellery supplies.

“Sure,” he says.

“Sure.”

Alucren’s chin settles against his shoulder again. Tyr pulls the hand from his hip away, draws it in front of him so he can watch as he traces over their fingers.

Living. It isn’t so simple as that. Taizi had told him… on Marr’s fleet to abandon his side, to go, flee, to live. Too much smoke had been in his lungs to discern the sting in his throat from the mauling of his chest.

In five long, lonely years that were as restless as the tempests over Dromund Kaas, Alucren Ellery had learned he’d never quite learned what living really was.

“Hell of a thing to live with…”

Tyr nods slowly as a frown begins to pull quietly across his lips. He turns Alucren’s hand over carefully in his and traces fingertips carefully along his palm, then up along each finger in slow succession. Alucren’s gaze falls to watch.

“They don’t talk about that much in Academy.”

“Did they send you?” Tyr asks.

Alucren’s head shakes faintly against his shoulder. “Not really. No time for it, with the war and all. Just some… accelerated program.” He weaves his fingers with Deckard’s and squeezes carefully. Nine lets him. “Suppose you gave them a run for their credits.”

A faint whisper of a sharper exhale clears Nine’s lungs. One corner of his lips barely flickers up for a fraction of a second - so slim Alucren’s half-content to believe it the blink of his own eyes at the edge of his vision.

“I think you’re skilled enough at that yourself, Eleven.”

He doesn’t imagine much, if anything, in that training explored the intricacies of the political fallout when an agent has to stand against the very head of their sphere, the very entity supposedly in control of their orders. There’s plenty in the handbooks for Minders about internal security. There’s regulations for these things between agents. From the most wet-eared recruits to the Minister of Intelligence, they all shared a duty to report security risks.

There was a time, Ellery imagines… There was a time he might’ve held a blaster to this man’s temple.

There was a time he might have - would have, likely - pulled the trigger himself on their infamous Cipher Nine.

He closes his eyes and tightens his arm around Nine. One hand against skin and metal and their linked ones over that heart of his.

Tyr’s chin nestles against the top of his head. He can feel the unspoken inquiry in the draw of Nine’s thumb once more against his knuckles.

Nine could talk a lot about Imperial Intelligence. Eleven usually balks on the matter.

He’s not sure he could’ve done what Nine did. He’s fairly certain he can’t do what Nine does now.

“How?” It’s hot and muffled against Deckard’s skin. It’s easier to hide than find the words for the hollowness in his chest, for the shape of the tremble in his arms, racing through his blood. “How did you..?”

Tyr inhales slow and carefully and releases the breath as a weary exhale. Their hands tighten around one another again. He’s not looking, but he’s sure his knuckles must be paling, constricting around Nine’s calloused, warm hands.

“Ellery…” Softer.

He turns away, not yet willing to cede the stinging in his eyes even if dodging it won’t obscure it.

“All I had were orders, Nine. A weapon, preferably in both hands.” His next breath shudders through him. “And no use for tears for what's given in the line of duty.”

“So they tell us, hm?” Tyr murmurs.

Quiet falls between them again for a few moments before Tyr presses his thumb a bit further into his skin. “Think I can have my hand back, love?”

Alucren inhales sharply, eyes turning from hiding behind his shoulder back to him only to find a soft, gently amused smile draping easily across his lips. Alucren’s knuckles are indeed pale around Tyr’s hand still in his grasp. He clears his throat and flexes out his hand.

Only for Tyr to reach out and take his chin before he can turn away again, pressing his lips carefully to Eleven’s temple.

“You’re here now, Ellery,” he says. “It’s alright. I promise.”

Alucren ducks under the arm he opens, pressing into the crook of Nine’s neck as he turns to face him. Now it’s Nine’s fingers at the nape of his neck, gently drawing lines up and down through short hair.

Living was very different from surviving, he’s learning. And even Ciphers have plenty of uses for tears.

[roseandxanderfics]

“The Lesser Evil” - Deckard Shaw x Morally Grey!Reader

Summary: You need the target alive. Shaw needs him dead. Neither of you are willing to back down. Guns, sharp words, and even sharper tension—who’s really in control here? Maybe neither of you. And that’s the real danger.

———————

You could feel Deckard Shaw before you even saw him. A predator’s stillness, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like a physical touch.

You exhaled slowly, adjusting the grip on your pistol as you crouched behind a crate, listening.

One body. Two sets of footsteps.

His and yours. Everyone else? Dead or unconscious.

“You’ve been getting sloppy, love.” His voice slid through the air like whiskey over ice. Smooth. Dark. Dangerous.

You smirked, standing without hesitation, gun still in hand. Across the room, leaning against a metal pillar like he owned the place, was Deckard.

“All due respect,” you mused, stepping into the light, “but if I were sloppy, you’d be the one on the floor.”

His eyes raked over you—calculating, sharp, but with something else simmering beneath. Admiration? Amusement? Lust? Probably all three.

Shaw pushed off the pillar, moving closer, slow and deliberate. “Still got that sharp tongue, I see.”

“You used to like that.”

His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Oh, I still do.”

Behind you, a muffled groan reminded you why you were here. The arms dealer, bound and beaten, barely holding onto consciousness.

Shaw’s gaze flicked to him, then back to you. “Let me guess. You need him breathing.”

“You need him dead.”

“And here I was, hoping we were on the same side this time.”

You cocked a hip, tilting your head. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The distance between you was shrinking, though neither of you acknowledged it. Just two professionals circling each other like animals waiting to strike.

“You always make things difficult, don’t you?” Shaw murmured.

You smiled—slow, knowing. “You love that about me.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping into your space now, chest nearly brushing yours. Heat. Power. The unspoken battle of control.

You could feel the tension humming between you, the weight of his body so close, the way his fingers flexed—like he was debating whether to reach for his gun or you.

Maybe both.

You trailed the barrel of your pistol up his chest, a slow, teasing drag until it rested right under his jaw. “I’d hate to shoot you, Shaw.”

The smirk he gave you sent something hot down your spine. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, not tight, but firm enough that you felt the heat of his skin against yours. His other hand? Pressed against your lower back, pulling you flush against him, gun and all.

Shaw leaned in, breath ghosting against your cheek. “You want me too much for that.”

You exhaled sharply, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You talk a lot of shit for someone with a gun to his throat.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, possessive. “Go on, then.”

Your pulse pounded. Your body thrummed with adrenaline, power, desire.

And then—

You pulled the trigger.

The click of an empty chamber rang between you.

Shaw’s smirk deepened. “Didn’t think so.”

You let him take the gun from your hand, his fingers tracing over yours in a lingering touch before he smoothly holstered it into his belt—his way of saying you won’t be needing that.

A beat of silence. The tension thick enough to choke on.

Then, voice low and teasing, he murmured, “Now, be a good girl and let me kill the bastard.”

You smirked. “Not a chance.”

His hand slid lower. “Thought you’d say that.”

And just like that—the real fight.

[imawholeassmood]

You're in my heart, you're in my soul

@somewillwin thank you for your adorable caitvi soulmates au.

part 1, I guess :) also on A03

As the pain radiates through her wrist up to her shoulder, the only thought in Vi’s head is she’s glad Powder’s not with her. Deckard’s cheap shot, hitting her with a bat to the head as she rounded the corner was low, even for him. Vi fought back as best she could, dazed from the headwound, but her disorientation had her missing more punches than she landed. She didn’t often stroll through the under city alone and tonight she was getting a tough reminder as to why that was.

But the headache she felt earlier and the overwhelming tension that pulled at her shoulders required her to get out and move her body. It was unlike anything she’d experienced before and, to her knowledge, completely unaccounted for. Vi didn’t get headaches and she certainly never felt her body tense the way it had earlier that day.

Another wrenching blow to the gut forces a breathy cough from Vi’s lungs as she hunches and heaves to fill her lungs. Deckard’s men are relentless with their attacks, kicking her while she’s down. This is it, she thinks as images of Powder, Mylo, and Claggor flash before her, I’m going to die.

***

“Caitlyn!” Cassandra’s voice comes out loud and strained as she rushes across the room to her unmoving daughter on the floor. “Tobias!” she shouts, dropping to the ground and grabbing Caitlyn into her arms. Caitlyn doesn’t respond to her mother’s panicked cries.

“Cassandra, what is i-“ Tobias’s calm demeanor disappears when he sees his wife and daughter. He rushes over to them on the floor and starts looking Caitlyn over. Blood gushes from an open wound on her head, bruises mar other parts of her face, and her wrist is twisted unnaturally. “I’ll call the hospital and let them know we’re on our way. Hold this here.” Tobias presses a handkerchief to Caitlyn’s head and waits for Cassandra to take over before rushing out of the room.

***

Claggor kicks the door to The Last Drop open and Mylo calls out for Vander. They’re holding Vi’s limp body between them.

“The sofa,” Vander says, pointing to the worn down and stained piece of furniture. Mylo and Claggor carry Vi across the room and ease her onto the torn fabric. “Keep Powder out of here,” Vander says, looking over Vi’s swollen and bruised face, her features unrecognizable. His fingers tremble only slightly as he slowly moves them to Vi’s throat, pressing two fingers against the skin under her jaw. He nearly bursts into tears when he finds a faint pulse.

Powder’s cries behind him sting in his chest as he hears his sons try their best to keep her away. She shouldn’t see her sister like this. None of them should. “I’m gonna get you help, kid,” he says, standing.

“I want to see Vi!” Powder says in a cry-yell when Vander slips into the back room with her and her brothers. Vander takes a deep breath to keep his emotions in check.

“I’m taking your sister to the hospital,” he says, “I need you all to stay here and look after each other. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“I want to see her,” Powder says, face stained with tears.

“Powder,” Vander says, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you know these two can’t take care of themselves. Even though she’d never admit it, Vi would hate to see anything happen to them.” Powder sniffs and wipes her hand under her nose. “I know you want to see your sister,” Vander continues, “but right now I need you to take care of her brothers so I can take care of her. Ok?”

Powder gives a reluctant head nod. “That’s my girl. And you two,” Vander says, looking at Claggor and Mylo. He doesn’t have the words to thank them. They seem to understand his meaning as they each give him a nod of recognition. Before he slips out the door, he turns back to his kids. “I’ll be back as soon as I can to come get you all.”

***

“I don’t care what it costs, you save my daughter.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Kiramman,” the hospital administrator says in a neutral tone, “Caitlyn is receiving the best care. We’ve called in our specialists to tend to her.”

Tobias squeezes his arm around his wife’s waist. “Caitlyn’s doctors are the best in the hospital,” he reassures Cassandra.

Cool air from the night breezes around them as the hospital’s main doors open and a booming voice calls out. “My daughter needs help.”

Tobias and Cassandra turn to see the hulking figure and the unconscious girl in his arms. She looks so small against his large frame. Tobias sees them first, the wounds on the girl’s face and body. He moves over the man.

“What happened to her?” he asks, looking over Vi’s form.

“She was mugged. Are you a doctor?”

“I am, but I’m not on duty.”

“Then you’re no help to us.” Vander pushes past Tobias, stepping up to the administrator. “Please, she needs a doctor.”

The man eyes Vander and Vi, scanning them from head to toe, looking put-out by their presence. Vander, covered in sweat from the journey, and Vi in her torn clothes covered in blood and dirt certainly stand out next to buttoned up waistcoats and matching silk nightgowns of the Kirammans. Vander knew it would be a risk bringing Vi all the way to Piltover, but the hospitals are far superior to the ones in the under city. “I think you may be in the wrong hospital.”

“I’ll see her,” Tobias says.

“Dr. Kiramman, I don’t-“

“I insist.”

“Tobias, what are you?” Cassandra says, stepping up to her husband. He nods his head in Vi’s direction, just enough to get his wife to look. She scans the girl whose limbs dangle loosely in the large man’s arms, stopping at the familiar headwound. She turns back to her husband and says in a hushed voice, “I’ll make sure Caitlyn receives the best care. You take care of her.”

Tobias presses a kiss to Cassandra’s forehead before turning back to Vander.

“Follow me, Mister?”

“Vander.”

“Vander. I’m Tobias,” he says, pressing a palm to his chest. “Let’s get your daughter patched up.”

***

Vander sits in the lumpy hospital chair next to Vi’s bed as Tobias makes some checks of the machines. “Not that I’m not grateful for what you’ve done,” Vander says, “it just doesn’t seem like it’s enough for her wounds.”

Tobias turns to him with a soft smile on his lips. “I assure you, Vander,” he says, “your daughter’s received the best care in this hospital. She’s going to be ok.”

At that, Vander rises from his seat. “A few bandages and a breathing machine,” he says pointing to Vi and the tubes running from her mouth, “are hardly the best care. When did these specialists see her?”

Tobias, aiming to assuage the man twice his size, holds up his hands in surrender. “I apologize, allow me to explain. Shortly before you arrived, my wife, Cassandra, and I brought in our daughter, Caitlyn, after finding her unconscious on her bedroom floor. She looked like she’d been hit by a bus. We, understandably, had no idea what happened and brought her here where we have quite a bit of influence.” He keeps talking as Vander looks at him with a mix of confusion and impatience on his face. “Then you arrived with Vi here who shares remarkably similar injuries to Caitlyn’s. Now, I don’t know what you believe, but, um.”

“You think my Vi and your Caitlyn are?”

“I do,” Tobias said in earnest. “And if that’s the case, then Vi has been treated by the best doctors in this hospital, my wife has made sure of it.”

Vander scratches at his jaw, a playful smile toying at his lips. “Oh, Vi is gonna get a kick out of this.”

***

“Excuse me, Mister,” Cassandra pauses, unsure of herself with such casualty, “Vander?”

Vander rises from the chair to greet the woman still dressed in her silk nightgown who looks like she’s slept as much as Vander has over the past eighteen hours. He’s glad to know he’s not the only one this is taking a toll on, though he’s surprised to find the woman hasn’t managed to get ahold of a change of clothes, given her dress. Seeming to read Vanders mind, she tugs at the belt around her waistcoat to tighten the knot.

“I’m Cassandra, my husband has been treating your daughter.”

“Yes, come in. I, thank you. Both of you for what you’ve done for Vi.”

Cassandra stands in the doorway, looking uncertain about whether or not she should enter the room, despite Vander’s offer. She glances at Vi before ducking her head and bringing her attention back to Vander.

“I wanted to apologize for the way you and your daughter were treated when you first arrived. I’ve never been a fan of the administration here, but now I have something I can work with, and I assure you, I will be doing something about it.”

Vander isn’t sure what to make of that statement or what to say in response. “Ok,” is all he manages to get out in the awkward silence.

“I believe Tobias has made you aware of our suspicions about our girls?” Cassandra says, breaking the silence. Vander is relieved at the change of topic.

“Yes.”

“Yes. Well, I was thinking they might heal faster if they were nearer to each other,” Cassandra says. “I’d like to have Vi moved, if you’re ok with it.”

Vander looks at Vi who continues to lay in bed without any signs of regaining consciousness. The bruising and swelling of her face are in full effect and he’s not even sure she could open her eyes if she wanted. The air tube covering her nose and mouth, the saline drip attached to the back of her hand, and a slew of other wires running from her fragile body to various machines chokes Vander with the emotions he’s been holding back since Mylo and Claggor first dragged her into their home. At this point, he’d do anything for her to wake up.

“I don’t know much about how any of this works,” he says, turning back to Cassandra, “so I’ll follow your lead if you think it’ll help.”

***

Vi comes to with a pounding in her head and the inability to fully open her eyes. That’s probably a good thing if the brightness behind her swollen eyelids is any indicator to how brights the lights of the space she’s in are. Regardless, she tries to open her eyes anyway.

“Hey, kiddo,” she hears Vander’s rough voice say and feels his calloused hands cover one of her own. She doesn’t have enough strength or energy to adjust to his touch and when she tries to speak, she discovers her very dry mouth is covered by something that stops her. “I’ll get the doc,” Vander speaks again, his voice hiding a slight tremor. “See what we can do about that breather.”

Vi’s not sure how much time passes before she’s jostled awake again, this time her mouth free of the plastic contraption. Her eyes don’t seem to be working any better, but she makes out a blurry figure standing next to where she lays.

“Hi, Vi. I’m Dr. Kiramman.” The man’s voice is soft and surprisingly comforting. “It’s really great to see you awake.”

If Vi didn’t know any better, she’d say his voice shared the slight tremor she heard in Vander’s earlier.

“I’ve got some water here, if you’d like,” he continues. She nods, or at least, thinks she does. When the soft touch of a straw taps against her lips, she parts them and tries her best to get some of the liquid her parched mouth craves. It’s not as easy a task as it used to be and water dribbles down her chin.

“I’ll let Cassandra know.” Vander speaks again. She didn’t even know he was still in the room.

“Actually, Vander,” the man, Dr. Kiramman, says more casually than Vi would expect, “I think we should wait on that. Give Caitlyn a little more time.”

***

Vi wake again, she assumes some time later if her eyesight is anything to go by. She looks around with more ease than the first time she’d tried and her vision isn’t as blurry.

“Hello, again, Vi,” a soothing voice says. She turns to the man in the white coat, stepping up to her bedside. “It’s Dr. Kiramman. How are you feeling?”

“Like I fell off a bridge.”

The man chuckles. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“Vander?”

“Vander’s gone to check on your siblings. I told him I’d stay here with you until he got back.”

A million thoughts race through Vi’s head and she doesn’t know which question she wants to ask first. How long has she been here? How long has Vander been away from Powder? Why would the doctor offer to stay with her?

Her breaths quicken with the growing panic rising in her chest. It’s all a little too much for her right now.

“It’s ok, Vi,” Dr. Kiramman says, his voice calm. “You’re safe.”

Her eyes dart around the room, landing on a figure laying in a bed next to her, wires and machines matching her own.

Vi’s panic subsides, draining out of her as she looks at the girl. Dark hair is all she can make out around the bruising and breathing machine on her face, but she looks to be about Vi’s age.

“This is my daughter,” the man Vi’d forgotten was in the room with her says. “Caitlyn.” Vi turns back to him to see his eyes have glossed over as he tries to hold back tears. He clears his throat. “I do wish you’d have met under different circumstances.”

“What happened to her?” Vi rasps out, her throat suddenly dry as she turns back to look at Caitlyn’s unconscious form.

Dr. Kiramman is quiet for a long while. Vi hardly notices the silence as she takes in as much of Caitlyn’s features as she can. Vi is sure she’s the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen.

“What do you know about soulmates?” Dr. Kiramman finally says.