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#fic i wrote
sabrecmc · 2 months
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Frequency--Steve Rogers/Tony Stark--NOW COMPLETE https://archiveofourown.org/works/38510290/chapters/96251923
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Fourteen-year-old Tony Stark finds Captain America’s broken radio in his father’s safe and decides to repair it. It works, because of course it does, he fixed it, after all, and he gets to talk to a group of soldiers who can’t share much about what they are doing, which is fine by Tony because while it is true that he is technically a student at MIT, he maybe wasn’t entirely upfront about everything. This presents a problem when he develops feelings–okay, fine, a massive crush–on one of the soldiers.
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Katya dies. Katya lives. Katya fakes her own death, which is a metaphor for dying, even if she survives. Note that we never see Katya after her fake death is reported to Goncharov, because the movie is not interested in Katya’s survival; it is interested in her loss. Note that it can be argued this lacuna is of no particular significance, given that we never see her before that, either, because the movie doesn’t exist. Note that Goncharov never sees her, really: note how often in their scenes his eyes are somewhere else, how rarely their conversations fall into the familiar visual rhythm of shot/reverse shot (compare with his exchanges with Andrey, particularly just before the scene on the bridge). Note how often this has been true, on screen and off it: that a husband never really sees his wife. Note how often the effect of cinema as an art form has been to document that men never really see women. They see their mothers, they see sex, they see their desires and their failures, their potential and their shame, their delusions of grandeur and their grubby biographies laid out side by side. They see the airbrushed ad campaign and the unsmooth reality of flesh laid out side by side and they look at the lie and say That one, I want that one, and then they win an Oscar for it. They see themselves. Narcissus at the pond. (There is a story from an ancient land, a story of a love more passionate and powerful than the human desire to survive: A girl loved a boy. A boy loved himself. He couldn’t understand that she was always trying to talk to him; she couldn’t understand that he would never try to speak to her. Their love killed them both.) Note that moment at the start of the bridge scene, before everything falls apart, where we see their reflections in the water, just long enough to note that his eyes are on his wavering image, and so are hers. Note that Goncharov doesn’t see her, because he doesn’t see women as people. Note that Goncharov doesn’t see her because he’s not in the movie because the movie doesn’t exist. Note that actually it’s Goncharov and Andrey on the bridge, because Katya by that point is dead.
did i lose it and write like two thousand words of uh idk some cross between an experimental prose poem and a deranged shitpost about tumblr's current favorite inside joke? well that's none of your business but if you are nosy then yes i did post it on ao3 because of my personal spiritual policy against censoring my own derangement
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ghoulodont · 4 months
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Held at a Knife's Point
Dewdrop invites Rain on an unconventional date.
Relationship: Raindrop / Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Tags: Ear Piercing, Ghoul Lore (just a little), sweet & supportive Dew Words: 3511
Read below or on AO3
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Dewdrop asks him as they’re cleaning up after a practice session that day, just the two of them in the instrument storage room.
“By the way, I’m going into the city tomorrow, want to come with me?”
The abbey’s locale meets most of their day-to-day retail needs, but for some things, more specialized purchases, they tend to go to the nearest major city. There’s a big record store they all like to browse, and a music store that stocks all sorts of gear that’s better tried in person.
“Sure,” Rain says. “Guitar pedals?”
“Getting my ear pierced.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“You could get one too, if you want.”
Rain reaches up and touches his own ear without any conscious intention. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“No pressure, you could come with me either way.”
“No, I mean, I’m just not sure what kind I would get.” Dew has a few piercings already, in a scattering of different places across his ears — a body part which is quite intricate, actually. It seems there might be dozens of possibilities. Rain runs his fingers over the loops and curves of his own, as of yet unaltered.
“I think you should get one here.” Dew reaches up and places his fingertip on a spot just inside the round inner hollow of Rain’s ear. If that hollow were a globe, a planet rotating on the long axis of his ear, Dew’s finger could be on its equator. 
Rain puts his own finger there, nestled against Dew’s for a moment. 
Dew pulls his hand away, then leans back a bit and watches Rain as if he’s visualizing, considering how it would look on him.
“Won’t it get in the way of the in-ear monitor?” Rain asks.
Dew hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think it will. You could always change the jewelry if it did, though. To something flat.”
Rain pinches his ear between his fingernails. It stings. He imagines what it would feel like if they went all the way through.
“You can get whatever you like, though.” Dew puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “You don’t have to get anything at all. It’s up to you.”
“What are you getting?”
“One that goes across, like this.” He pulls one hand back out of his pocket and drags his finger horizontally across the flat plane of Rain’s upper ear.   Rain places his own fingers on that blank canvas of a space. His and Dew’s hands bump together. “Through..?”
“Here,” Dew gently pinches the rim of Rain’s ear between his fingertip and the pad of his thumb, above where it attaches to his head in the front, then a similar place on the opposite edge. “And here. The jewelry goes across.” He drags his finger horizontally again, connecting the two points.
“Oh.” Rain rolls the rim of his ear between his fingers. It’s fleshier, the cartilage thinner.
“You can think about it, yeah? No pressure or anything.”
He’ll think about it, sure, but he’s already made up his mind.
Around noon the next day, the two of them board a train into the city. As it pulls out of the station, the trees and houses next to the tracks start to creep by, then accelerate faster and faster until Rain can’t focus his eyes on any single feature anymore. Once the train makes it far enough from the residential area, the trees fall away to reveal the slow-moving landscape beyond.
“Have you decided?” In the next seat over, Dew is watching out the window too.
“Yeah. I’m going to get what you suggested.”
“Nice.”
“By the way, are they going to notice...” Rain taps the pointed tip of his ear.
“Nah, just don’t mention it and she won’t say anything.”
“Really?”
Dew hums in assent. “It’s like the horns.”
“Even up close?”
“Yep. The power of confirmation bias or something.”
Despite whatever power that allows them to function in human society, be it mystical or psychological, Rain still feels skeptical. For a human to look directly at his ear, touch it, even alter it, seems riskier than going to the grocery store, or any other day-to-day activity he’s used to. But Dew has done this before, so it must be okay.
Their destination is a fifteen minute walk from the train station. Dew knows the way without any maps or directions. They pass restaurants and cafes, department stores, shops selling clothes and furniture. Eventually they arrive at an unassuming storefront — a door listing operating hours next to a single display window, set into brown stone. Dew pushes open the door and holds it for Rain to follow behind.
Inside, a woman behind a display case greets them. Rain finds himself distracted by his surroundings while Dew talks to her. The store is bright, artificial light compensating for the cloudy weather and shadows of buildings through the window. It’s neat, too, orderly and immaculately clean, every surface polished and free of dust. The ambiance is something between high end retail and a dentist’s office.
“Do you have time for a walk-in?” Dew places his hand on Rain’s upper arm. Rain smiles politely as he’s being displayed.
“Of course.”
Dew seems to have some sort of ability to get things he wants. He doesn’t beg or argue, at least not in this context — he might pout lightheartedly in private, with Rain, with the other ghouls, but that’s the extent of it. When he isn’t pulling his punches, he just asks for things directly with a high rate of success.
The woman turns to Rain. “What are you thinking of getting?”
“Oh, um—” He points to the spot on his ear that Dew pressed his finger against yesterday. If he really focuses on it, he can still feel the heat there. “Just here.”
“Great. For your jewelry, you can pick from any of these,” she says, tapping a fingernail on one of the glass cases between them. “Or any of the ones over there, if you’re looking for something fancier.”
Of course, standing in the middle of what he now understands to be a very specialized jewelry store, he should have anticipated this would be part of the process, but it still catches him off guard. All of Dew’s jewelry is plain silver, little round beads and hoops. It would seem he always skips this step.
Rain peers into the case in front of him. Within it are rows and rows of gems and charms, arranged in orderly grids on stark display stands. There are faceted jewels in a rainbow of colors, all kinds of decorative metal shapes, intricate designs, gold and silver, large and small and every size in between. His head spins.
A cloudy gray-green stone, smooth and round and flecked with black, catches his eye where it’s lined up amid other natural-looking options. It gleams, almost iridescent, blue and bronze, when he moves his head.
He points with one finger against the glass. “The gray one.”
She reaches in through the back of the case and pulls out the display stand. She points at the stone. “This one?”
Rain nods.
She plucks it from its slot on the stand. It glints again under the LED ceiling fixtures, reflecting light from within, like an animal’s eye, a deer in the headlights.
Before she disappears into the back of the shop to prepare things, she hands them each a form on a clipboard. The two of them sit next to each other on a leather couch and fill out their names and demographic details, and confirm their willingness to participate by signing at the bottom of the page. It barely takes a fraction of the time that she’s gone, leaving them waiting and unoccupied. Rain taps his feet nervously. Dew bumps their shoulders together.
When the piercer returns, she leads them into a smaller room with a counter along one side and a black padded table in the center. It’s windowless, but just as bright as the front, and just as clean.
“Whoever is going first, you can have a seat up here.” She gestures to the table.
Rain glances over at Dew, who is already looking at him, watching his face.
“Want me to..?” Dew speaks softly.
Rain nods. This will be a first for him either way.
Dew hops up onto the table. He folds his hands loosely in his lap. His boots dangle above the tile floor.
At the counter, the piercer peels open blue and white sterile envelopes with gloved hands and lets their contents fall onto a paper-lined tray table next to her. She picks supplies from drawers and sundry jars — gauze, alcohol wipes, a marker, a small cork like the kind used as a stopper for a bottle. She wheels the tray over to where Dew is sitting.
She scrubs his ear with alcohol, then marks two spots on it with a purple pen — the same two spots he showed Rain yesterday. She offers Dew a hand mirror. He examines his ear, holding the mirror off to the side, and then nods.
From her prepared supplies she picks up a needle, unadorned steel and intimidatingly thick, the broad teardrop shape of its beveled end clearly visible from a distance. With her other hand she picks up a cork. She lines them both up against Dew’s ear, the needle on one side and the cork on the other, framing one purple mark.
“Breathe in,” she tells Dew.
He complies, his chest rising slightly.
“Breathe out.”
He does, his chest sinking back down.
As soon as he begins to exhale, she presses the needle through his ear and into the cork on the other side. Dew doesn’t even blink. She slides a metal bar into the newly created hole in his ear, using it to push the end of the needle all the way through.
She repositions the cork and the needle on either side of the second purple mark and repeats the same process — inhale, exhale, needle, jewelry. She screws a metal ball on each end of the bar, which is now threaded through both sides of his upper ear.
“All set.” She peels off her gloves.
Dew hops down from the table and checks out his ear in a large mirror hanging on the wall. The bar is longer than the width of flesh that it spans, sticking out a bit on either side. The entire top half of his ear is pink. It clearly looks new, fresh, but conceptually it fits in well with the other metal there. In time, once those indications of newness dissipate, it will look like it’s always been there, just like the rest.
Dew returns to where Rain is standing, off to the side of the table, out of the way.
“Ready?” The piercer is putting on a new pair of gloves.
Rain is the one who is supposed to be ready. He doesn’t feel ready, but time is moving forward on its own. He sits on the padded table, now in Dew’s place, with Dew where Rain was before, their positions swapped.
When the piercer brings over the tray, it has the same things as it did for Dew’s piercing — gauze, alcohol, a marker, a cork, a needle. She tips Rain’s head slightly with her gloved hands and draws a dot on his ear with the marker.
She passes him the hand mirror. “Let me know if this looks good.”
He tries to imagine the purple dot replaced by a piece of metal and stone. He can’t really close the conceptual gap — it’s just a dot. Regardless, he nods.
“Great.” She picks up the needle and the cork.
Rain’s breath catches in his throat. The needle is so much bigger up close. He glances up at Dew and imagines standing where he is again. The distance isn’t far, but somehow it made a huge difference.
Dew steps forward and closes that distance without saying anything. He eases the mirror from Rain’s tight grip and places it on the table. Then he offers his own hand, palm up and welcoming, in its stead.
Even just the invitation is a relief, a logical and straightforward improvement to the situation that Rain wouldn’t have thought of by himself in this state. He takes Dew’s hand in a firm grip. It’s warm, and the pressure is grounding.
The piercer brings her hands to the side of his face. She’s working so close to his head he can’t see anything, only the blur of her glove in his peripheral vision and her expression of concentration off to his side.
“Breathe in,” she instructs.
Rain can feel the sharp tip of the needle where she places it against his skin, just resting there lightly, painlessly. He knows what’s going to happen. He breathes in.
“Breathe out.”
He breathes out.
More than pain, there’s pressure. And more than pressure, there’s sound — a loud pop, almost a crunch, of the needle penetrating his cartilage.
She takes something from the table nearby and performs what he assumes must be the same dance between needle and jewelry as she did for Dew. He still can’t see what’s happening, only hear the rustle of nitrile as her fingers move.
Dew gives his hand one tight squeeze and then releases it.
“Feeling okay?”
“Yeah.” Actually, he feels giddy. It’s unclear if it’s just from the sudden relief after a very long day of anticipating an impending unknown, or if it’s a rush of endorphins precipitated by the needle itself.
“Want to take a look?” She takes a step back and nods at the mirror on the wall. Her gloves snap as she peels them off.
Rain slides off the table and walks the two steps to the mirror. He leans in and tilts the side of his head toward it, holding his hair back with one hand. There, in the inner shell of his ear, right where he pointed to, and exactly where the purple mark was, is the gray-green stone from earlier. It shines when he tips his head just a few degrees.
He leans back, standing up normally. He realizes that his face, outside of his control, has composed itself into an expression of pleasant surprise, with his jaw dropped just slightly and his eyes bright. At this distance, the jewelry is subtle — not too flashy or too colorful or too large. He lets his hair fall the way it normally does, tucked partially behind his ear, and it’s barely noticeable until it glints with his motion.
Behind him, Dew is watching the mirror too.
The piercer leads them to the cash register at the front of the shop. Cool midday sun is shining through the window now, brightening the space even more. Rain pulls his wallet out of his pocket but Dew waves it away and taps his card on the reader before Rain has a chance to protest, or to see what the total is.
The piercer sees them off with a paper copy of the aftercare instructions for their piercings. Dew folds it neatly in thirds and slides it into an interior pocket of his jacket, and then the two of them set out for the train station.
They stop for ice cream on their way. It’s too early in the year for it, really; the sun warms the ground but there’s a petulant breeze in the cool air. Packed-down piles of plowed snow remain unmelted on street corners, tucked into alleys, at the end of the occasional parking lot, all dripping sluggishly onto damp asphalt. Sidewalks are littered with a crusty patchwork of the same.
Nevertheless, Rain’s eyes linger on the shop window as they walk by. The freezer case with its cheery selection of flavors, assorted colors in big tubs marked by little handwritten labels, is visible within. When he turns his head back towards the direction they’re walking, Dew’s eye contact tugs on him with an unspoken question. Both of their steps falter, and then they’re turning around.
A bell hanging from the door greets them with a hearty jingle as they step inside. The interior of the store is warm, almost stiflingly so, and empty of other customers. The syrupy smell of waffle cones is so dense it might as well be visible in the air, condensing near the ceiling in cotton candy clouds. Sweat forms on the back of Rain’s neck like liquid caramel beading on the surface of a torched crème brûlée. His limbs sag like pulled taffy.
After they make their selections and after Dew pays — for both of them, again, as if they’re on their first date instead of their hundredth, as if they’re counting, as if an ordinal number could represent an infinitesimal sum of continuous time — they file past bistro tables and metal chairs tucked along one wall and head back out the door, which bids them farewell with the same jingle.
The early springtime air is a refreshing contrast, freezing the sugary haze on their jackets and in their hair. They trade spoonfuls of ice cream while waiting at the crosswalk. Rain ducks his head down just slightly to reach Dew’s raised spoon. The traffic signal changes.
Rain’s ear is starting to ache now, pulsing out a nagging heat in time with his heartbeat. Without much forethought he places the cold ice cream cup, held in fingers that are rapidly becoming numb, against his ear. Immediately, he jerks it away with a sharp, involuntary inhale.
Dew chuckles. His eyes are warm, glimmering with a knowing spark.
“Ow,” is all Rain can think to say.
“Yeah,” Dew laughs. When he speaks again, he’s suddenly much more serious. “Not that bad though, right?”
Rain glances over and Dew is looking at him with his brow furrowed, and with the big, sad eyes that he can never quite replicate when he tries to as a joke. Rain considers how best to downplay his reaction. “It’s...” he starts, and finally settles on, “distracting.”
Dew nods once. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he provide any other indication of what he thinks about that.
A couple blocks later, he makes a sudden turn into a pharmacy.
“Wait, where—” Rain stutters as he follows his lead. Dew never mentioned making another stop.
“Just want to grab something.”
The two of them weave through a maze of aisles stocked with neat rows of medicines and first aid supplies and vitamins. Dew leads them to the selection of over-the-counter pain relievers. The thing Dew wanted to grab, apparently, is a package of ibuprofen, which he bends down to select from a lower shelf.
They return to the front of the store to check out. On the way, Dew grabs a bottle of water from behind the glass door of a refrigerator case. It swings closed with a snap.
Back outside, Dew pauses mere steps from the door. He slides open the flimsy cardboard flap of the ibuprofen box and pulls the blister pack of pills from within. He holds the plastic and foil sheet out towards Rain.
The chain of cause and effect snaps into a straight line, orderly like the rows of pills in the package. Rain thought that he succeeded in alleviating this particular concern. “Wait, it’s not that bad.”
“It’s not a big deal, and it’s good for the swelling anyway.” Dew presses the sheet closer.
Resigned, Rain holds out his hand to take it.
Instead of handing over the entire sheet, Dew holds it over Rain’s outstretched palm and presses one dose out of the individual cells with his thumb, breaking through the foil backing. Then he twists off the top of the water bottle and hands it to him as well.
Rain swallows the ibuprofen with a sip of water. He sighs quietly. He feels sort of like a party foul, the one who needs their hair held back in the bathroom at a bar, maybe. The one who couldn’t handle what they signed up for.
Next to him, Dew pops another dose of ibuprofen out into his own palm, then drops it into his mouth. He reaches out for the water bottle. It takes Rain a second to catch up with what’s happening and hand it back. Dew drinks from the bottle and then screws the cap back on. He stuffs the remaining ibuprofen into his jacket pocket. 
When Dew looks back up, Rain is still staring, gears in his head turning. His eyebrows are probably raised just a little, he realizes.
Dew shrugs at him, nonchalant.
When they start walking again, Rain reaches out and bumps the back of his hand against Dew’s. Rain doesn’t need to say anything; Dew clasps their hands together without hesitation.
He pulls his and Rain’s hands into his pocket. It’s a comfortable fit with the two of them, not too tight — Dew’s jacket is oversized in every aspect, including, or maybe especially, the pockets. There’s nothing else inside this one, just them. It’s warm from Dew’s body heat.
Rain squeezes their hands closer together.
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klove0511 · 2 months
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It's Rest I Want Masterpost
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Title: It's Rest I Want
Rating: T
Word count: 26,978
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/Ruby (mentioned)
Warnings: Major Character Death
Additional tags: Grief/Mourning, Temporary Character Death, Pre-Slash, ghost!sam, Heavy Angst, Suicidal Ideation (mentioned), Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Season 2 AU, the Winchesters use their words (eventually), Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending
Author's note : At long last, the sequel is here! I had a blast writing this, and I am SO excited to finally get to post it. Thank you to the mods of the @spnproshipbang, because without your encouragement and this event this fic would still just be an idea. A huge thank you to my artist @imnot-evenhere. Their art is amazing, and you should go check it out. And finally, thank you to my betas @hello-starlingfics, @missroserose, and @samanddean76. Any mistakes left are all mine.
Summary: After John's betrayal results in Sam's death, Dean follows in the Winchester family tradition and swears vengeance on his father. The question is: is Sam really gone?
Link to AO3
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Epilogue
Link to art post
Link to The Only Way Out AO3 | Tumblr
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softnasty · 10 months
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#wipwednesdayyy
i was toying around with the idea of writing luke&leia dream sharing through the force then seeing this art really solidified that idea in my brain and i wrote... 1.3k for it yesterday?! coming to an ao3 near you very soon, hopefully.
____
Leia dreams of ships she's never seen before. They take off and land on sand in a desert of some kind, dust flying around in their wake. She's never seen those ships flying over Alderaan — she would remember, she's out there every day, unless her parents need her to attend some boring political function or another, watching ships and identifying them with Lola.
She's quite knowledgeable for a ten-year old, the librarian tells her when she comes in with a doodle of a ship she's seen in her dreams. Leia didn't draw the twin suns she saw in her dream because she'd researched that on her own and she was fairly certain she'd found them but it felt — it didn't feel possible, that she'd dreamed of a planet at the very edge of the galaxy, one she'd never heard about and certainly never seen holos of. It didn't feel possible but it felt real. Leia has the headstrong stubbornness and impulsiveness of a ten-year old child who's very self-aware of her smarts and her wisdom. Her parents keep telling her that she'll learn balance, eventually, that this steadfast confidence will begin to chip away and leave space for some nuance.
But for now, Leia faces the librarian, hands on her hips and her doodle on the counter, all relentless Alderaan poise as she asks about a ship she's seen in her dreams that she knows exist, on some Outer Rim desert planet where sand gets everywhere and twin suns co-exist.
****
There's a boy, the next few times Leia dreams.
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shittyness · 4 months
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP, Evolution SMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Charles | Grian, The Watchers (Evolution SMP), Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Xisumavoid (Video Blogging RPF), ZombieCleo (Video Blogging RPF), Oliver Brotherhood | Mumbo Jumbo, Hermitcraft Ensemble, Scott Major | Smajor1995 Additional Tags: grian's a watcher, So is Pearl, angst i think, good ending, Charles | Grian and Pearl | PearlescentMoon are Siblings, by blood?, who knows! Summary:
an au where grian never escaped the watchers. they took his memories and trapped him deep in the end, at some point he manages to get in a server but he doesn't really know the line between good and bad.
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bookwermthings · 4 months
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Fic I wrote
Very short
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ncarnesir · 4 months
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Somewhere Only We Know
Finished my first full fic today, a Darklina story taking place in an AU where Aleksander and Alina are about the same age and met when they were kids. It's part one of a trilogy that will take you through their lives. This piece focus on how they met and started their journey together.
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This is a Sword Art Online art piece I (badly) recolored. All credits goes to its artist!
Chapters: 10/10
Fandom: Shadow and Bone (TV), Demon in the Wood (Graphic Novel)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Characters: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova, Alina Starkov, Baghra (The Grisha Trilogy), Alina Starkov's Father, Alina Starkov's Mother, Original Grisha Character(s)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Angst, crazy parents, Bad Parenting, Aleksander and Alina are the same age, young aleksander, young Alina, kids can be just as mean and scary as their parents, it gets dark but it ends well, lord of the flies vibes at some point, Child Mistreatment, Child Abandonment, mention of murder including of children, Hurt/Comfort, They're so fluffy together, Soft The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova, Alina doesn't know she's the Sun Summoner (yet), origine story in an alternate reality, cute idiots finding their first friend, and falling for each other too, Heavy Angst, Trigger warnings for chapter 9, Miscarriage, death of multiple characters (not Alina-Aleks-Baghra), killing to fend for oneself, Canon Typical Violence, non fatal drowning, blood and burns and bones crushing
Series: Part 1 of Sunshine and Moonlight
Summary: When Aleksander was thirteen he did not go to a settlement near Fjerda together with Baghra. Instead they went somewhere south, in the mountains of Shu Han to spend the winter together with a powerful Inferni called Ochmaa, and her more than crazy family. And who he met there changed his life completely.
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s-bean200 · 1 month
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Not Quite Dead (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alfie/Neige, Implied Neige/Casper, Alfie/Casper Characters: Alfie Dellon, Neige - Character, Casper Novotny Additional Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, mostly canon but I am making my own stuff up lol, Nostalgic Neige, Neige collector of things, poorly translated pet names, Pet Names, Little silly, Sassy Alfie, Trauma, Panic Attacks Series: Part 2 of NQD Fics in a similar non-canon compliant AU Summary:
Alfie knew Neige kept a record of stories his presence had inspired but he wasn't expecting that record to be...cheap souvenirs. Now Alfie was staring down a room full of cryptid merch that all vaguely resembled his lover, and somehow each item managed to hold powerful memories for that lover. Fucking weird but that was his life now.
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seepunkrun · 1 year
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Author: Punk Fandom: Star Trek: Alternative Original Series Pairing: Kirk/Spock Rating: G Content notes: no standard notes apply Disclaimer: These are not the voyages of the Starship Enterprise.
Size: 230 words
Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, Humor, OTW15 | OTW 15th Anniversary Fanwork Challenge, 15 Sentence Fic, My First Work in This Fandom
Summary: In which Mr. Spock unwittingly discovers rural Iowa is as strange a place as any other in the universe.
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punchelf · 1 year
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Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Raubahn Aldynn/Warrior of Light, Raubahn Aldynn & Pipin Tarupin Characters: Original Final Fantasy XIV Characters, A Goobbue Named Edgar, Pipin Tarupin Additional Tags: Patch 4.0: Stormblood Spoilers, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Idiots in Love, Marriage Proposal, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Rhalgr's Reach Trauma, Major Character Injury, BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, im not sorry, this is a stormblood fic and i'm a raubahn shipper, we're experiencing emotions like men, no beta we just die Series: Part 6 of Alexithymia Summary:
First comes love, then comes war.
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sabrecmc · 7 months
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THE PUNCHLINE
The Punchline--Steve Rogers/Tony Stark--Archive of Our Own
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When Brock fake proposes to Steve as a prank, a handsome stranger steps in and makes Steve's night a whole lot better.
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[fic]: you don't have to wait until you die (1/2)
In a perfect world, he would step outside the wards to grab a coffee and maybe a sandwich before crossing to the library on the far side of the campus to get started on grading these papers. He wrapped up his coursework in the spring, but Juno’s suggested Thanksgiving for a first draft of his proposal, so back to school season has hit with a fucking vengeance this year. Ideally, he’d spend a few hours holed up in a carrel making a solid dent, then retreat to his tiny apartment for a quiet evening of more grading so that he could use the rest of his week to work through at least some of the readings she’d flagged for him and get ready to broach the possibility of an actual topic when they meet on Friday. They both know he’s going to do something with inanimate cultivation, but he hasn’t managed to get more specific than that yet, and it’s getting to be time. With five solid days of academic productivity behind him, he could devote his weekend to focusing, fingers crossed, on Eliot, hopefully back by then from wherever the fuck his diplomatic journeyings have taken him.
In reality, of course, he’s a thirty-three–year-old man who lives with roommates, October rent is due, and the Baba Yaga waits for no one, so he heads to the bike rack outside Whittaker, turns on some Interpol, and unlocks his bike, thinking: I have got to fucking move.
(Or: Five years later, Quentin tries to get some work done.)
the first part of an epilogue to help i'm alive (because, you know, the series wasn't long enough already)! this is, truly and above all, a chance to check in with quentin a few years down the line, in his thirties, still working it out. featuring: pedagogical musings; time management dilemmas; musical guests; little old ladies; thesis woes; new york city real estate; side effects of some material hauntings; fillorian politics; quentin's mom; and, as per series tradition, emotionally elaborate phone sex. mostly, though, it's a good vibes story. it's a story about good vibes. ~16k, E, quentin/eliot duh with some bonus quentin/margo time.
read on ao3.
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ghoulodont · 6 months
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With the Bathwater
Rain offers to take a weight off Dewdrop's shoulders. Part of the Blur Turns to Haze series, but can be read on its own.
Relationship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Tags: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Fluff, eepy dew Words: 1808
Read below or on AO3
It’s still early in the evening, but Dewdrop’s energy seems to be flagging. He’s lying on his side on his bed, curled in on himself loosely. He’s blinking slowly like a contented cat, letting his eyes stay closed a fraction of a second longer each time.
Rain, sitting on the bed next to him, is frozen, held in place by a desire not to disturb the present calm. They’re trapped together in an ambiguous place between sleep and wakefulness. Realistically, Dew would be more comfortable under the covers, but Rain is caught in the paradox of avoiding the short uphill climb that would lead to the easy descent of restful sleep.
So he gives Dew a few more minutes before prompting him, “You going to call it a night?”
Dew shakes his head, or makes some semblance of the gesture, the best he can with his head pressed against the mattress. He rolls onto his back and, laboriously, sits himself up. “I was going to take a shower.” He leans back, propping himself up with one arm extended behind him. “I need to wash my hair. I feel gross.”
“You’re not gross.”
“I just meant… I feel gross.” He drags his hand through his hair. It gathers together between his fingers, stiffer than it usually is, more substantial. Then he holds his empty hand in front of him, palm up, like he’s displaying something. There’s nothing there, just the suggestion of a sensation.
“Oh.”
Dew sighs. He makes no move to get up, to head for the bathroom.
“Do you want…”
Dew tips his head to one side.
“Do you want me to help?”
His eyebrows raise, a barely perceptible twitch. “You mean…?”
“To do it for you? Only if you want.”
He pauses, silent for a moment that feels like forever, before he speaks again. “I’d like that.”
Rain stands, released from the lingering air of meticulous stillness. Dew stands too; he sways slightly in place before he starts walking to the bathroom. Rain follows.
In the bathroom, Rain turns on the shower. He spins the handle until it’s set almost as hot as it will go — Dew’s preference. Standing at the edge of his peripheral vision, Dew pulls his shirt over his head.
They’ve showered together before, but they’ve never really done this before — taking their clothes off in the bathroom for the sole purpose of showering with each other, as the main event. Dew’s shirt drops from his fingers and crumples to the floor.
Rain pulls his own shirt off, steps out of his pants. He feels the water with his hand. It’s hot. He knew it would be; steam is starting to fill the room.
They step into the shower, Dew first and Rain after him. Dew stands facing the wall, directly under the water, his head tipped forward so that it runs off his forehead in a flat sheet that splatters noisily against the floor. Then he takes a small step back, moving out of the spray, and flips his sopping wet hair out of his face with one hand. Behind him, Rain is barely getting wet at all, which is fine. It’s not why he’s here.
Dew picks up the shampoo bottle. Almost immediately, it slips from his grasp; he drops it on the shower floor, the hollow plastic clattering a cacophonous thunder on the tile. His shoulders first rise towards his ears in response to the jarring sound, then sink in a forceful, frustrated sigh, inaudible over the sound of running water.
“Let me,” Rain offers — or reminds, really. This was the idea in the first place. He picks up the shampoo from where it’s come to rest after skittering across the slippery surface, somewhere near his right foot. He uncaps the bottle and pours some of its contents into his open palm. Dew, still facing away, fidgets in place, bending one knee slightly, shifting his weight.
Rain brings his hands to Dew’s wet hair, slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a skittish animal, and presses the shampoo into it with gentle strokes of his hands. He works it into a lather with his fingertips, rubbing small circles into Dew’s scalp.
Dew is so pliable, tilting his head in accordance with the gentle pressure applied to it. Rain rubs behind his ears, at the base of his horns, along the junction where his skull meets his neck. A hefty blob of shampoo foam drops to the floor with a quiet plop.
“They increased my dose,” Dew says, breaking the relative silence between them. “Last night. Feels like starting over.” He’s offering a handful of vague, disjoint half-statements, expending the minimum energy required to get his point across, leaving Rain to fill in the gaps.
“Like the first day? I saw you, it looked like you were sleepwalking.”
“I feel like I’m sleepwalking.”
Rain hums. He drops his hands to Dew’s shoulders and guides him to turn around so his back is to the water. Dew’s eyes are closed. With gentle fingers against his scalp again, Rain tips his head back into the stream.
He rakes his fingers through Dew’s hair, plowing furrows in the dense foam, creating channels into which the water rushes and whisks it away. He strokes Dew’s hair back with his hands, squeezing the water from it over and over, until all the shampoo rinsed out. He picks up the bottle of body wash. Dew opens his eyes just a sliver, peeking out past damp lashes.
Rain snaps open the flimsy plastic flip-top lid of the body wash. Once again, Dew is remarkably pliable, allowing Rain to lather soap all over him, providing easy access to all his limbs, shuffling around as needed. He braces a hand against the tiled wall for balance.
Rain guides him back under the water falling from the shower head. It quickly rinses off the majority of the soap suds, driving rivers through a landscape of rolling hills formed by a thin coating of white foam. Bubbles gather at the drain in a heap, holding on to the last moments of their life before they succumb to the flow of water.
He brushes his hands over Dew’s skin, slippery with a residual coating of soap. He pushes the running water across his shoulders, neck, arms, down his back, over his legs. The slipperiness washes away, dissipates until only the feeling of wet skin remains. Even so, he continues, pushing clean water away to be replaced by more clean water, again and again.
“Rain.” Dew’s voice is quiet, mixing in with the sound of water droplets hitting the shower floor.
Rain’s hands pause, frozen in place on Dew’s body, held against either side of his ribcage.
“This is nice, but can we go lie down now?”
“Of course.” Rain drops his hands away.
Before Rain can lean forward and turn off the shower, Dew turns around. He places his hands on Rain’s sides, just above his hip bones, an echo of the position they paused in just moments ago.
The water is hitting the back of Dew’s head now, like earlier, but this time he’s looking up, looking at Rain. A rivulet of water runs down the side of his face. The image evokes some dramatic romance movie scene, a climactic moment where the love interests are caught in a torrential downpour.
Rain feels his lips pull into a smile, an involuntary expression betraying his thoughts. He’s not sure he could put a word to this emotion. There’s a fondness at the forefront, a familiar, deep sea of warmth he feels whenever he looks at Dew. The salt breeze of it carries the vague, ambiguously masculine scent of his body wash, some wood smell. Cedar, maybe.
The sea is deeper than before, more vast, impossibly so, its waters all-encompassing. Its shimmering surface ripples with so many more feelings, thoughts, ideas, a kaleidoscopic interface with the ambient air. Comfort. Worry. Humor in the inadvertent romance movie parallel. Appreciation for the trust Dew is putting in him right now.
“Thank you,” Dew says.
Rain pushes a stray lock of wet hair away from Dew’s face. “Of course.”
He turns off the shower, the steady thrum of water quickly diminishing to a slow, rhythmic drip. Dew steps out and wraps himself with a towel, draping it around his shoulders like a blanket. He shuffles out of the bathroom.
Rain hastily dries himself off and puts his clothes back on, retrieving them from where he discarded them on the tile floor. When he returns to the main room of Dew’s dorm, he finds Dew curled up on the bed again, still wrapped in the towel.
Rain picks out some clothes from the dresser — boxers and an old t-shirt. Dew lets the towel fall against the covers as he sits up. Rain slips the neck of the shirt over his head. It’s large on him, the worn fabric draping loosely against his torso. Dew puts his underwear on himself. Rain uses the fallen towel to blot Dew’s still soaking wet hair dry.
When he’s satisfied with the state of Dew’s hair, Rain removes the towel. Dew flops back onto the bed and lies there for a moment, perfectly still save for the rise and fall of his chest, but then he drags himself up and heads back into the bathroom. Rain busies himself tidying up — hanging the used towels to dry, gathering Dew’s clothes from their pile on the floor and putting them with his dirty laundry.
In the bathroom, Dew brushes his teeth, leaning heavily against the sink. When he’s done, he pads back into the other room, flops onto his bed, and crawls under the covers.
He nestles his head into the pillow, then looks up at Rain. “Stay?”
“Oh, um, it’s— it’s kind of early…”
Dew stares at him like his mental gears have jammed trying to process that statement. His tired eyes look like they can’t perceive a world in which any of its inhabitants wouldn’t want to go to sleep right now.
Rain kicks himself for saying something like that. Of course he can stay. “Until you fall asleep.”
Dew snorts. “It’ll be, like, two seconds.” He pulls the edge of the duvet to his chin.
Rain lies down next to him, on top of the covers to maximize his chances of sneaking away later without waking him up. There’s not much of a point, really; if Dew is feeling the way he did a few days ago, like he said earlier, he’ll be dead to the world soon. Still, he arranges himself carefully, thoughtfully, rolling over so he’s face to face with Dew.
Dew’s eyes are closed, his breathing even. Is he already asleep?
“Goodnight,” Rain whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a breath.
“Goodnight,” Dew whispers back, eyes still closed.
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klove0511 · 2 months
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It's Rest I Want Epilogue
John Winchester lay on the rack, trying to catch his breath. He'd lost track of how long it had been. Too long. His vocal chords had been shredded from screaming ages ago; but it didn't stop him from shrieking with every new cut. 
“What do you say, John?” Alistair purred. “This can all stop. All I need is one little word.”
It had been so long. All he wanted was for the pain to stop. To rest, just for a little while.
“Last chance, John. Will you? Hmm?” It wasn’t. The demon would ask again tomorrow. Always tomorrow. 
All he had to do was hold out one more day. One more hour, one more cut. Except he didn’t think he could. Not anymore. “You'll stop?” he rasped. “You— you promise?”
“Of course. All you have to do is pick up the knife.” The satisfaction in the demon’s voice made him sick.
He stared at the knife sitting on the table next to him. The ebony handle gleamed, slick with his blood. He was already intimately familiar with that knife and what it could do. Just one little word, and he could rest. He swallowed. He was a broken man, and Alistair knew it. Then he said, “Yes,” and closed his hand on the blade.
Dean stretched his back, enjoying the warmth from the sun. Early May in Sioux Falls was pleasant, and today the sky was a clear blue. Nature was happier than he was, but it wasn't so bad. He had one more car to finish, then he'd head over to Bobby's for a drink. The old hunter had made him promise that he wouldn't spend Sam's birthday alone, and Dean didn’t particularly want to spend the evening with anyone who hadn’t known Sam. 
“Winchester! You coming to happy hour tonight?” Mike called from across the shop.
Dean looked over at his boss, grimy as the rest of them, and waved him off. He'd told them no already, but they hadn't known why. All they knew was that he was quieter than usual. They'd been trying to get him to go drinking with them all day, speculating that he was nursing a broken heart. They were closer than they knew, but he wasn't going to tell them that, either.
Mike shrugged, exchanging a concerned look with one of the other guys. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“You know it. Hey, you coming to Dave's place Saturday for the barbeque?” Dean said, intending to offer a ride. Mike's house was on the way, and it wouldn't be the first time they'd carpooled. 
“Nah, the kids have a soccer game. I'll be at the next one.” 
Dean finished up his last job and cleaned up. It wasn't hunting, but it was satisfying work, repairing broken machines. Mike was a good boss. He went straight to Bobby's, knowing he wouldn't care if Dean showed up a little grungy. Better than going back to his place first. He was doing better these days, but he also knew that if he went home first he wouldn't want to leave again. Not today.
“Good to see you, kid. It's been too long,” Bobby said, moving aside so Dean could enter. 
It hadn't been that long. He'd stopped by, what, last month? Maybe March. “Work's keeping me busy. You know how it goes.”
Bobby leveled a stare at him. “Work, or work?”
“Just the shop, I swear. We've been slammed; Mike's talking about hiring an extra guy or two. Not that I know how that's going to help when we don't have any spare bays.”
“No kidding. You were his first new hire in ten years. Now he wants more?” Bobby led them to the kitchen where Dean could smell something good cooking. He grabbed two glasses and plates while Bobby pulled out a bottle of whiskey. 
Dean set the table and said, “What can I say? Word must have gotten out about his awesome new mechanic.”
“Well, he's lucky to have you, and I'm sure he knows it.” Bobby served up the pot roast, and they sat down.
Mostly they made small talk over dinner. Dean filled Bobby in on the shop gossip, and Bobby picked Dean's brain on some hunts he was researching. Later in the study, Dean flipped through one of Bobby's books, trying to find a match for the monster one of Bobby's contacts was hunting. He had to laugh. “I never figured I'd turn into you.”
“How's that now?” Bobby grumbled, paging through a book of his own.
“I don't know. Figured this sort of thing was more Sam's gig. I always expected to go out on the job.” 
Bobby's hands stilled. He watched Dean carefully, which annoyed the hell out of Dean.
“I'm not going to break. Seriously, Bobby, I'm ok. I mean. I'm not, right? I'm never going to be ok with the fact that— But it's not like it was.” He didn't know how to say it in a way that Bobby would understand. 
Bobby sighed. “I know you are. I guess I just didn't expect to hear you talk like that.”
“Like what?”
Bobby cocked his head and smiled a little. “Like you're retired from the job. Semi-retired, anyway. I know about that shifter you got back in April.”
Dean shrugged. “It was causing problems in my neighborhood, so I took care of it. It's not like I'm going looking for trouble.”
“I know you ain't.” Bobby paused, debating whether or not to say this next part. “I'm real proud of you, Dean. And I know Sam would be, too.”
There wasn't anything to say to that. He was pretty sure Bobby was right: Sam would be proud. He'd always been the one who insisted there was a life outside of hunting. 
“How’s that girl you been seeing?” Bobby asked after a bit.
Dean grunted in surprise. “Ruby? I don’t know. Think I might break it off.” He squirmed under Bobby’s parental gaze. “It’s weird, ok? She reminds me of Sam.”
Bobby guffawed. “Shit. I would’ve thought that would be a point in her favor.” Horror gripped him, and it must have shown because Bobby said, gentler, “It ain’t no secret how you felt. I got eyes, don’t I?”
“Bobby, no. You gotta know I would never–”
Bobby cut him off. “Course I know. I ain’t saying you molested the kid. Just that every time I caught you with a girl it was some know-it-all, lanky brunette who didn’t like being told no. I ain’t an idjit.”
Dean slumped in his chair, relieved but still uncomfortable. “Still think I might call it off.“
Bobby grunted. “It’s ok to move on, too. He’d want you to be happy.”
Wincing, Dean said, “Not sure happy is in the cards. But you’re right. I don’t think he’d want me to be alone.”
“Ruby ain’t the one, though?”
Dean shrugged and gestured helplessly. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something isn’t working.” Dean finished the book he was working through and yawned. “This guy need his information tonight?”
“You got work in the morning?” Bobby said.
Dean nodded but added, “I can stay if it's urgent.”
“Get out of here, boy. I got this. Whatever it is hunts in 6 day cycles, and we got 4 more days before it kills again. You go on home; take care of yourself.”
It felt bad, leaving Bobby hanging, but he hadn't actually asked Dean for help. Dean had been looking for an excuse to stay away from his empty apartment a little longer and offered to help a while. If it was really urgent, or Bobby was really lost, he would have pulled Dean in earlier. It didn't happen much, and he remembered how scared Bobby had been of asking at all. Like Dean was going to load up and hit the road at the reminder that monsters existed. But no; he'd done his time, and he was starting to accept that. The parts of it he missed weren't the parts he could get back, anyway.
He yawned again. Being a respectable member of society sucked. “If you're sure. You'll call if you need me?”
“Course I will. See you around, Dean.”
His apartment was dark and quiet when he got back. The secondhand couch was worn and soft, and just a little bit saggy in the middle. On the whole, the place was spartan, like he was waiting for something before he could move in. He wondered if it would ever feel like home. Tossing his keys on the counter, he bypassed the kitchen and went straight to getting ready for bed. Going through the motions by rote, he brushed his teeth, changed his clothes. In the bedroom he kept a—well, he wasn't sure what to call it. Almost like a shrine to Sammy. Sam's favorite knife, an old book Dean had found in the Impala, a soccer trophy he'd uncovered in one of their dad's storage lockers, all arranged neatly on his desk next to the photos he had of Sam. There weren't very many. He thumbed the worn photo of him and Sam that was on top, the one Bobby had snapped, catching Sam with his head tipped back in a belly laugh. “Happy birthday, Sammy,” he murmured, turning off the lamp and climbing into bed.
A minute or two later, there was a knock on his door. Confused and annoyed, he flicked the light back on and went to the door, fully intending to chew out anyone who thought a social call at midnight was a good idea. He threw open the door, freezing when he saw who was on the other side.
“Hi, Dean,” Sam said. He looked exactly like he had the last time Dean had seen him, only this time he was solid, real. Alive. “We've got work to do.”
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softnasty · 1 year
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is #wipwednesday a thing on tumblr…? used to do it semi-regularly on twitter when i was in mdzs fandom but it's been soooo long now. anyway. bit of rebelcaptain that i already shared in the discord 👀 politics au fun vibes lessssgo
When Jyn defects and goes to be Gerrera's campaign manager, the second thing Cassian does — after asking Kay how the fuck that's even happening, with the ironclad NDAs and non-compete clauses that they all have, right, no special treatment? — is realizing how this means that Jyn unilaterally put an end to their thrice honored tradition of hooking up at the yearly Alliance Intergalactic Conference. The third thing he does is asking Kay to review the fine print again — it doesn't fly well: Kay asks him if he's doubting his legal skills and flings his law school diploma at him, frame and all, when Cassian dares to say that he took two law classes back in college so like, maybe he could have a look as well to make sure?
[more under the cut!]
He doesn't even mention that he only took Intro to Business Law and Intro to Media Law like, almost ten years ago at this point. Figures that probably wouldn't help his case after the diploma flinging and Kay shutting the door to his office right in his face. Cassian doesn't do anything else after that. Sits on his hands and waits for the shitstorm to inevitably hit.
It's 7:30am in Coruscant. He's had five hours of sleep (generous, his running average for the month is around four point five), two coffees (one iced, one hot — decadent and self-indulgent, for no reason at all) and a diploma thrown at his face (painful and honestly irresponsible as the unofficial poster boy of Mothma's campaign — Kay should know better). He's had worse mornings. Better ones, too, when Jyn was still by his side, sitting at the desk across from his instead of parsecs away after throwing away a job she'd held for nearly five years and whatever fraught relationship she'd had with Cassian.
It's fine. Cassian needs to make it to 8am to pull the first opinion polls number on this shitshow and prep Mothma for the press. Then he needs to make it to 8:35am when she'll go on live television and announce whoever the fuck as new campaign manager. Then—
Kay opens the door to his office again.
"Did Jyn mention any of this to you?"
Cassian gives him a look. Searches for something he could throw at him. The heaviest thing on his desk is his laptop and he really needs that.
"What the fuck do you think? What kind of relationship do you think we have, Kay?"
He flings a balled-up sheet of paper at Kay and misses. Kay closes the door to his office again.
7:32am. Yeah. Cassian's had better mornings for sure.
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