#legends of tomorrow ficlet | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starqueensthings · 10 months

Text

Colder Weather: Part One

Summary: a two-chapter (nice try, Holly! It’s three) ficlet that follows Post-Stassis/Pirate Kix as he navigates the see-saw of an unexpected love that he doesn't think he deserves, and the trauma of his past.

Pairing: Kix x Fem!Reader

POV/WC/Rating: 2nd, 4570, Teen + up

Warnings: extensive references of survivors guilt, grief, and mentions of previous character death. Seggsy time is implied but not described. This is emotional (it needs to be, so I'm not sorry)

A/N: the context of this ficlet won’t make much sense unless you’re decently familiar with the legends version of Kix’s life post-war (it might even be canon now? Not sure…). If you haven't listened to the song that inspired this little ficlet, I highly recommend you give it a listen; it's truly a lyrical masterpiece.

Chapter One | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter Two | ao3

“I want to see you again, but I’m stuck in colder weather. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Can I call you then? [...] Well, it’s a winding road when you’re in the lost-and-found. You’re a lover, I’m a runner, and we go round and round. I love you, but I leave you. I don’t want to, but I need you.” Colder Weather by Zac Brown Band

You’d long since memorized his movements; long since perfected this dance, having performed the passionate choreography of this duet with him countless times.

It always began with the sound of his speeder bike nearing your quiet cottage; the roaring of the engine muffled only partially by the towering hedges surrounding your acre of secluded paradise. That rumble so artificial amongst the constant tittering of nature that it took a mere fraction of a second to recognize it, and even less time to send a fervor coursing through your veins so rigorously that your hands simply abandoned whatever task that had been keeping them occupied.

Triggered by the sound of his approach, your feet took you earnestly through the front door and out into the gravel drive. A small smile, often concealed by the expanse of a thick, dark beard, tugged his handsome features upwards as he swung a leg over the seat of his bike, helmet clutched absently in one hand and arms stretched wide in a motion so welcoming, even the sheer power of the Force couldn’t have kept you from leaping into them.

He never failed to match your enthusiasm, scooping you clean off your slippered feet and into the familiar tight embrace that you’d spent weeks longing to be secured in. Hushed coos of “Mesh’la” amongst other breathy salutations were words that never needed voicing; the way his eyes danced reverently across your features spoke more volumes than any muttered term of endearment, any hushed apology for his absence. Watching the crease between his brows soften at the soft brush of your thumb against his cheek was a feeling that could have sustained life for all eternity; every caress of your fingers atop his skin powered by an ineffable desire to remind yourself of him, to remind him of you.

But there was nothing that consumed you as entirely as the dance itself… nothing that quite melted your mind like the way he laid you down on the soft cotton of that old patchwork quilt; the way that he stripped himself of his rigid encasement; the way his eyes locked on yours, twinkling with an unspoken promise that he was about to make up for his repeated extended absences… all the transmissions that he’d failed to respond to… the commitment that he continuously denied you.

And while even the ghost of his touch still set your very nerves alight, time had seen the unpredictability of his visits robbed of their spontaneity; lust replaced with a devastating love; passion diminished by the anticipation of his impending departure. The dance had become less of a dance, and more of a contemptuous game: how many seconds would lapse in the forlorn quiet between when the heat of his skin departed yours, and the door swung closed behind him? How many shaky breaths would leave your lungs in the too-short span of time that it took for the shadow of the unseen monster, forever-perched atop his shoulders, to rob his eyes of the twinkle only freshly illuminated by the return of your embrace?

The answer: always too few.

He would only ever grant himself a dozen-or-so deep breaths to dwell in the lingering serenity once the cresting waves of pleasure had subsided, the heaving of his chest eventually stilling to match the motionlessness of the incipient dawn.

Unable to withstand the suffocating languor, a poignant sigh would trigger the initiation of his exodus, body following the command from his anguished mind to climb from the bed and methodically redress himself in that disguising, blue plastoid kit. A tender, whiskery kiss was always your parting gift. Lips void of the passion that had seen them so ravenously devour yours only minutes prior, now gently atop your forehead in a wordless goodbye-for-now; the roar of the engine echoing amongst the whispering pines the perfect soundtrack to the disappointment that pulled shameful tears from your eyes.

Yet… sometimes… on nights like tonight, an inexplicable force inside of him would demand that he dawdle, and if the urge to flee stalled on its way from brain to body for long enough, he’d roll toward you, fold his arm underneath his head, and trail a gentle fingertip along all his favourite parts of your body: the fleshy space between neck and shoulder where he often sought the comforting fragrance of your skin; the shallow dimples on your lower back, perched just above the rolling swells of muscle that he could barely keep his hands off of; the gaps between your fingers that so-perfectly housed his, as if they were ten adjacent pieces of a puzzle crafted by divine artistry.

Time had yet to reveal any explanation for the mystifying tenderness of his touch… it didn’t seem possible that such rough hands could trail so gently against your skin, yet his calloused fingers could have been draped in velvet for how softly they graced your most sensitive areas. And his pillow talk? It was poetry. His honeyed voice would utter whispered stories of glorious mountain ranges on far away planets while the delicate strokes of his fingertips ghosted atop the swells of your hips. He’d speak of the freckles smattered across your cheeks, and how they almost perfectly mirrored the night sky in Wild Space where the stars were so many, that astronomy had become an obsolete science, the citizens opting to merely look upon them for their unrivalled celestial magnificence. And when he would speak of the vibrant array of wild flowers that adorned the meadows of Felucia, he’d scoop your hand into his and kiss each individual knuckle, as if the immense power to blossom such beauty dwelled inside the fingers interlaced with his.

But they were rare, those quiet moments, their emergence so ephemeral that even the span of a somnolent blink would have seen them escape your awareness and vanish into the past, and they were as devastating as they were infrequent. Laced not with the dread of his imminent departure, those near silent moments of deep connection were saturated in a hope so ensnaring that its warmth momentarily overshadowed the pain of his repeated abandonment, and you became enraptured by the could-be’s… the if-only’s… the maybe’s.

Maybe… maybe tonight would be the night that the orange glow emerging atop the horizon did not trigger his departure. Perhaps this would be the time that he’d stay and spend the morning with you, his muscular arms locked around your chest as you ceased to fight the blissful drowsiness engulfing your bodies, dozing together in the first rays of the ambient light. Perhaps he’d be so comfortable, there in your arms, that the ever-present impulse to run, forever-clenched like an iron fist around his soul, would be finally suffocated by the sheer power of your love for him.

Those optimistic moments often saw you rambling, thoughts slipping easily from mind to mouth in a desperate attempt to keep him connected to you; resolute in keeping him both physically and mentally present; urgently trying to protect him from the monster on his shoulders long enough for him to realize that everything he could ever want was lying peacefully beside him. Periodically, if your chosen topic was one he found particularly amusing, his eyes would crinkle under the embrace of a smile, and — if the universe deemed you worthy that night — a hoarse chuckle would pour from his lips. Despite your continued pleas to the stars, it was a sound that graced your ears with a tragic infrequence, yet the way its radiance illuminated your soul had you shamelessly begging the universe that it continue to spill from his lips for all eternity.

But despite the prophetic bond that kept him returning to your side, only once had the bliss of your union softened his guard enough to let something… slip. Only once had he mentioned a brother: Jesse, a man spoken of thoughtlessly as Kix snickered through the recollection of a frantic speeder ride across the plains of Saleucami. But the music of his laughter utterly vanished upon voicing the name that he never meant to speak, the silence that filled its wake so polluted in unexpressed grief, that even the hushed sounds of your breath felt inappropriate, and despite having watched the light leave his eyes so often in the past, you’d never seen it replaced with a darkness as deep and as sorrowful as then.

“Tell me about him,” you probed instantly, hopeful that the delicate touch of your hand on his shoulder would be enough to ground him there in the bed with you; hopeful that the soft caress of your fingers would prevent him from conceding to his anguish, tossing the sheet aside and leaving you with nothing but the familiar sight of his retreating back and the bittersweet smell of him lingering on your pillow.

A ringing silence encompassed the room, broken only by the occasional chirp of an uninterested cricket nestled in the tall tufts of grass just outside the window, and the soft brush of dry leaves twirling amongst themselves in the warm gusts of midsummer’s breeze.

Speaking his brother’s name had rendered Kix momentarily muted and seemingly paralyzed, his eyes wide and affixed on an image that cruel memory had imprinted upon the ceiling above him. His breaths quickened, shoulder rising and falling rhythmically against your palm while his nostrils flared against the same onslaught of turmoil also knitting his brows together.

“Kix?” you probed in a soft whisper, fingers raising from the swell of his shoulder to gently stroke his hair. Those waves of black, sparsely peppered with the beginnings of grey, almost entirely concealed the remnants of a tattoo… letters… pieces of a phrase that he’d consistently evaded divulging. The ink, seemingly unblemished by time, looked as if it had only recently been embedded into his olive skin, yet his repeated, vague explanation of ‘I was a dumb kid’, suggested it was a choice made long ago; a decision made deep in a past he refused to speak of.

“Tell me about Jesse, my love…” you implored to his continued silence, watching with bated breath as the muscles in his jaw contracted in near perfect cadence with the bounding pulse in his neck.

“My brother…” Kix muttered, wrenching his eyes away from the ghost hovering over top of him, his solemn gaze dancing around the room in every direction but yours. “He… he died a long time ago. They all did.”

Your fingers faltered in their gentle strokes only for a breath, the impact of his words sending a crippling wave of aghast sadness throughout your body. “Who did?” It left your lips in barely more than a whisper, the unexpressed heartbreak lingering in the air robbing your tone of the intense curiosity that he so often shirked from and dissuaded, but despite the feigned composure precariously wrapped around your words, he offered no response. “Babe?” you pressed, your fingers abandoning their soothing dance along his temple to trail under his chin and weave themselves into the dark bristles of his beard. Hyperaware of the fragility of that moment, you gently cupped his jaw and turned his hagridden face toward you. “Who is ‘they’?”

His eyes finally met yours, darkened by apprehension and a deep sorrow that had yet to be explained. “My family.”

It was like nothing you’d ever heard before, the tension in his voice. Those two choked words constricted by a heavy lump in his throat, immediately transformed the gruff and callous pirate that you knew into a man so momentarily fragile that even the soft cotton sheets draped atop your bodies felt too abrasive. Even more unexpected was the mist gathering earnestly in his eyes, reflecting the moonlight beaming in the window as if suddenly encased in a dome of sparkling crystal.

Whatever was left of the feeble breath housed in your lungs escaped your parted lips in a devastated huff, your stomach torquing uncomfortably as your thoughts began to whirr frantically around your mind. Resisting the transcendent urge to lock him in an embrace, you merely swallowed the lump forming in your own throat and hastily blinked the wetness from your eyes. Like the quiet moment that he’d gifted you tonight, you were all-too aware that his vulnerability was fleeting; at risk of dismantling completely should you misstep. But this was the knowledge that you’d be aching to know your months… years; this was the monster on his shoulders that tore him from your bed… from your home so devastatingly often. You were desperate to know it all… desperate to know him.

“Your… your family?” Two stammering words were all that you could force from your parted lips as he wrenched his jaw from your grasp and turned his gaze back toward the ceiling, grinding his knuckles aggressively into his eyes.

A heavy sigh was his only response, teeth clicking from how tightly he ground them as he seemingly tried to rub the image of his dead family from his sight. You swallowed heavily again and perched yourself up on an elbow, leaning in to him with every intention of planting a protective kiss to his temple.

It might have been the shift of your posture that triggered it, or more likely, his patience diminished by your continued probes for information that he wasn’t willing to share, but a sudden banishment of lassitude saw him instantly tossing the sheet from his naked form and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Horrified and disappointed, you hurried to mirror his movements, kicking away the bunched cotton from your knees and pushing yourself to a kneeling position on the mattress directly behind him. Your lids narrowed to near-closed against the sudden ignition of the lamp on the nightstand, but neither the pain nor the spots now floating in your vision were enough to stop you from firmly wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him firmly against your chest. It wasn’t until you pressed your lips softly against his back, did he seem to notice your touch, and even then, his only acknowledgement was to peer, frowning, over his shoulder in your direction.

“Please, love,” you breathed against his skin. “Don’t run. Just talk to me.”

A soft sigh forced his shoulders into a defeated slump, and the tender drape of his hand atop his navel where yours were tightly clasped, lacked much of the warmth and intention that typically swaddled his touch.

“They were… tortured.” His head drooped sadly toward his chest, the previously urgent mission of collecting his clothes from their scattered placement on the floor, momentarily deferred.

It was the initial shock that he’d even answered you that forced your lips to still against his skin, forgoing the ever-present urge to pepper him with chaste kisses for the sake of listening to the response that he’d previously deemed you unworthy of getting, but it was the horrifying implications of his explanation that forced your eyes open and the pain that drenched his words as they left his scowling lips that sent an all-consuming chill down your spine.

“All of them,” he continued quietly to his lap, absently drumming his fingers against the back of your hand. “Just— just stripped of their will, their identities… and made to carry out the commands of a sick, sick man. They never stood a chance. No one could survive that.”

He permitted himself one last, poignant sigh, the emptying of his lungs pulling his posture away from your still poised kiss, and it wasn’t until his palm departed yours, fracturing the wreath of your arms around his waist, that you returned to some semblance of awareness. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, beating against his back where the diffused glow of the lamp failed to soften the appearance of several misshapen scars along his shoulder; scars that you’d seen countless times previously, and had paid only little attention to.

Robbed of coherent thought by the repulsion surging through your veins, and rendered utterly speechless by the knowledge that you’d so desperately craved, you dropped your gaze to your knees, unmoving eyes watching them thrown intermittently into shadow as Kix moved about beside the bed, redressing himself in a suit of black compression, and the rigid, scuffed armament.

It was the soft scrape of plastoid against wood that broke you from your revolted torpor, his lean frame now completely encompassed in the blue suit that you despised, his helmet retrieved from the nightstand and hanging slackly from a gloved hand at his side. The sight of his impending departure returned you to a jarring cognizance and sent you frantically scrambling from the bed, bare feet ignoring the bite of the cold floor as you dashed toward the chair beside the window and collected the robe that you’d unceremoniously tossed onto it hours previously.

“Wait, Kix!”

You clumsily thrust your fists into the arms of the silk garment, your entire body laced with an exigent need to reach the doorway before he did. He couldn’t leave this time, not now… not now that he was finally opening up, finally sharing something other than trivial grievances about his crew members. He needed to know what you thought… how you felt. You had to tell him that none of it mattered to you… none of it made any difference. Except it did. It made all the difference. You thought you loved him then. That was nothing compared to now. And there was nothing that would stop you from loving him; not a past full of trauma, not tears leaking from his eyes, not the whispers that he denied hearing when the room got too quiet. None of it made a difference to you except that it did, and you would willingly spend the rest of your life banishing the ghosts that haunted his every move if he would just let you.

“Can’t— can’t you stay this time?” you pleaded from your perch in the doorway, hastily tying a knot in the sash of your robe. “Even just a little longer?”

The snort that left his nose at the sight of your position, arms wide and clutching each side of the door frame in some pitiful semblance of a barricade, was anything but genuine, betrayed by the failure of the smile on his lips to crinkle his eyes. “Come on, Mesh’la,” he cooed, absently shifting the armoured belt around his waist. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” you argued, refusing to let the softness of his gaze weaken any of your resolve. “You just don’t. There’s a difference and you know that.”

The desperate sadness that encompassed your words surprised both sets of ears; you hadn’t intended for the sentiment to leave your lips drenched in such disappointment, yet his departure tonight felt more like a robbery than it ever had; stealing a fractured piece of you and leaving nothing but a shadow behind to replace it.

That small smile slipped from his features and he froze, upturned helmet held slackly at his side as he hung his head to his chest again. Your heart drummed heavily in your ears, the lump in your throat threatening to all but suffocate you as he stepped slowly forward, the old wood floor beneath you creaking and shifting under the weight of his heavy boots.

“Please don’t start this again, Mesh’la,” he begged in a whisper, tenderly tucking a displaced lock of hair behind your ear as his eyes flickered back and forth between yours. “We’ve been over this. I… I don’t want this for you. You deserve a better life than what I ca—”

“I want this life,” you choked, chin threatening to quiver under the intense duress of your welling disappointment. “I promise— no, listen!— I promise, Kix. I love you more than everything that you’ve been through. In spite of it all… because of it all. Just trust me. Stay with me this time. Let me— let me prove it to you. Let me sho—”

“I know you love me, Mesh’la,” he interrupted, gently cupping your trembling chin and guiding your jaw upwards to look directly into your eyes. “I have never doubted it for a second. In another time… another life, I’d be able to give you back the love you deserve, but… I’m too sad of a man, now. I’m too angry… too volatile… too restless. No matter where I go or what I do, I can’t stomach my past, and I love you enough to not let you suf—”

“I’ll suffer if I choose to!” you blurted, voice thickening in earnest. “I’ll suffer with you. It’s my choice, and I choose you, so just choose m—”

“Why?” he interjected, releasing your jaw and perching his hand on his hip. “Hmm? Why am I your choice? Why do you waste your time with a pirate like me when there are decent men lining up around the planet for your hand? Men that will shower you with gifts and affection? Men that won’t selfishly come and go as they please, like I do?”

“My time with you isn’t wasted, Kix,” you spluttered, eyelids unable to contain the flood of tears blurring your vision, banishing them to the heat of your flushed cheeks. “You don’t listen. I want every minute to be a minute with you. Every hour, every day. Stop running away from what happened to you; stop running from me. We— we can have a real life together.”

The aversion of his gaze to the floor did not stop you. You were too resolute in your convictions; too certain that if he just listened to you, he would finally understand. “I’ll make you caf every morning,” you continued, pulling your hands from the doorframe to hold his. “And… we can shower together every day if we want to. You can make the water as hot as you want, and I won’t complain… I promise. We— we can grow berries in the field out back, on the other side of the tree line. You know, in that clearing where the flowers grow? The spot that gets all the afternoon sun? And… and we can brew our own wine. We—”

“Please stop.”

He was pleading with you in more ways than just the despondent words that left his lips; his dark eyes watching in something near agony as the tears abandoned your cheeks for the draped silk of your robe, but you were deaf to the desperation in his voice and blind to the anguish in his eyes as vivid images of what could-be erupted like a tragic film in your mind.

“We can climb onto the roof and look at the stars on clear nights,” you persisted, releasing his palm and guiding your trembling hands onto the rough and worn plastoid of his shoulder bells. “And when it’s not, we’ll snuggle on the couch and listen to music. We’ll get drunk… and giggle about stupid shit… and make love in every room… an—”

“Please, Mesh’la.” He clamped his eyes closed, cowering beneath your watery gaze and gently tugging your hands from his shoulders, pausing to hold them weakly in his own for a breath before dropping them completely. “You have to sto—”

“No, Kix!” you refused, stomping your cold, bare foot on the floor below you. “You stop! Stop saying you don’t want this life for us, because you do!”

“OF COURSE I DO!”

Your hands flew back to brace yourself in the doorway, shoulders jerking with fright, choked breaths freezing in your lungs. He’d never shouted like that before… and if he had, it certainly hadn’t been in your presence. Never once had you seen his eyes shrink behind lids so narrowed that the even the bridge of his nose scrunched to assist in their efforts. You’d never seen his thick, expressive brows contract so tightly and shoot toward the messy curls of his hairline in such earnest, and you’d never seen a look quite like that in his eyes… the frenzied look of a man desperate to be understood.

“Of— of course I want all of that,” he continued, his tone softening slightly as the ghost of his outburst rang back at him from the quiet corners. “But it’s not that simple. You don’t understand. I want it, Mesh’la, but I shouldn’t have it. I can’t have it. Why… why do I deserve the promise of a quiet life, when they never even had a chance at one? Why should I be the only one gifted with a happy ending, when they were robbed of theirs? If they can’t have it, then I ca—”

His voice cracked… fractured under the duress of the emotion simmering too near the surface, and it echoed more poignantly around the room than the hoarse shout which preceded it. That quiet moment, as you watched his shoulders sag in complete and utter dejection, with his head slowly shaking against a myriad of thoughts that he refused to speak, you would have withstood nearly anything to ensure the music of his voice never cracked like that again. You would have agreed to stand near-naked in the doorway for all eternity, willing to shoulder any amount of shouting, any verbal reprovement… anything if it promised him true peace from the sorrow that robbed him of his voice… of his life.

The threat of a sob forced your face into your clammy palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes until tiny, glimmering phosphenes erupted in your vision. Why couldn’t it all be as beautiful as those silly little dancing lights, brought to life with just a slight pressure from a small hand? Why could people not be free to dance about in darkness, as they are? Why must our darkness diminish our light? Why are those pretty dancing lights, free from the plague of guilt and sorrow, forever permitted to slumber until external pressure brings them to life, an occasion in which they shine so marvelously?

The thunk of his boots and the creak of the floor signaled his slow approach. “I have to go, Cyare,” he mumbled into the space beside your ear, his free hand dusting soft strokes up and down your forearm.

You exposed your tear-streaked face and stared blankly across the room, unwilling to nod and acknowledge the disappointment. So this wasn’t going to be the time that he stayed.

“You know I love you,” he muttered into your hairline before planting a soft kiss on your temple, but the disillusionment had numbed you almost entirely, and you felt nothing of his lips on your skin, nor the brush of his body slipping past you through the door… you heard none of his footsteps fading down the hallway… nothing of the door closing behind him as he disappeared into the diminishing darkness outside… nor did you hear the roar of his speeder engine reverberating around the corners of your secluded paradise, all too eager and willing to rob you of him again.

tags: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @dystopicjumpsuit @523rdrebel

#starqueenswrittenworks #kix x reader #kix x you #pirate!Kix x reader #Kix fanfic #clone wars fanfiction #clone wars fanfic

96 notes · View notes

inkedroplets · 2 months

Text

fanfic writer questions

Thanks so much for the tag @sideguitars

1- How many works do you have on AO3?

Twenty. A good mix of one-shots and longer fics that I will finish someday...

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

534,441

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Supergirl but I've dabbled with Legends of Tomorrow and have a few unpublished fics for different fandoms that I might share

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

A Rich Girl With Issues (I swear I'm almost done with the last chapter. The flu kicked my ass but I'm finishing up. My weird Lena becomes a vigilante fic. I still am amazed that people like it as much as they do)

Maybe I'm Too Afraid to Admit It (Kind of cute Kara realizes she has feelings for Lena. I really don't know why this one resonated with so many people)

Somewhere You Can't Follow (My weird (and poorly written) Legends and Supergirl crossover. I would love to go back and actually rewrite large bits of this but the dialogue is on point, at least. Oh and Lena gets to see her mom again so that's a plus)

Denial is Not Just a River in Egypt (I have no memory of this place fic)

Nothing Gold Can Stay (My one and only kidfic but I love it to pieces)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do and I don't. I'm a lot more offline than I was when I first started writing and if too much time passes, I feel weird about responding since I feel like I'm bothering people but I am trying to be better about it. Because I really do cherish each one

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably nothing I've posted yet would count but I do have one that I plan to post soon-ish that's so angsty I took a year to decide whether or not to share it.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I think all of my one-shots have pretty standard happy endings. I think I'll say that either Rich Girl or Nothing Gold Can Stay will have the happiest endings (in my opinion) Wait (a little longer) and see

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I'll get the occasional weird comment. Nothing out of the ordinary. I did get a really rude bookmark once that kind of made me laugh. They hated the story yet still chose to bookmark it which is a choice.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I dabble in it. There's a snippet floating around somewhere on tumblr that I'm too lazy to find. I'll share it once I finish the first chapter. It's a bit out of my wheelhouse but its fun? Very different kind of writing than what I'm used to.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I write a lot of crossovers. I think when I write fic, I want to see something a little strange and unique that I can't find elsewhere. I'm working on a fic now where Kara meets Matt Murdock, that's not an interaction I ever envisioned myself writing.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so? To be fair, I haven't ever cared enough to check. I don't think I'm popular enough to get a fic stolen xD

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! Someone translated one of my fics into Russian. I was incredibly flattered that they liked it enough to do so.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, and I think it's mostly because I'm quite a selfish writer? I know what and how I want to write so collaboration is quite difficult. Maybe I still have some leftover trauma from all the group projects of my past.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

Supercorp, if that wasn't very, very obvious.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I'll finish them all!

16. What are your writing strengths?

I really don't know and that's not just me being modest. I don't really think I do anything particularly well?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Being succinct. Every ficlet wants to be a multi-chaptered story and every multi-chaptered story wants to be a novel

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I think if implemented well it can be a great addition. If it's merely tacked on, however... I feel it not only doesn't add anything to the story but it makes the reader aware that they're reading a story. A bit of the magic is lost in the clunky execution.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

On AO3 Supercorp but I've dabbled in fandom for years and years. There's ancient Xena fic somewhere in my mother's basement

20. Favorite fic you've written?

Probably has to be Rich Girl but I really am fond of Swear Not by the Moon, as well. I've really enjoyed expanding the scope of Supergirl's world a bit and watching the characters slowly grow over the course of the story

No-pressure tags, of course: I never know who to tag in these until I finish these but if you like @rustingcat @vox-ex @sazernac

#ask game #this was a long one

20 notes · View notes

batshieroglyphics · 3 months

Text

FICLET: Make the Most of Freedom & Pleasure ~ DC's The Flash ~ Teen

Title: Make the Most of Freedom & Pleasure Fandom: DC's The Flash & The Legends of Tomorrow Author: Batsutousai Rating: Teen Warnings: verbal and emotional abuse against Mick, dubcon kiss, homophobic/white supremist characters getting pummelled Prompt: N/A Summary: After teaming up to stop the Dominators, Barry decides Mick needs a break from the other Legends.

Rory turned to stare at him, both eyebrows raised high in either disbelief or a silent question. Barry huffed, then asked, "What do you do for fun?" "Steal stuff," Rory replied, right before the engine turned over. Barry rolled his eyes; he really should have expected that answer, was maybe a little surprised the answer hadn't been setting things on fire. "Right. What do you do that isn't likely to land you in prison less than twenty-four hours after receiving a presidential pardon?" Rory grunted, put the car in gear, and they started moving towards the road. "Punch Nazis."

Read it on Archive of Our Own! (Please note that you will require an AO3 account of your own to read. Please let me know if you need an invite code.)

#flashwave #fandom:dc tv #fandom:the flash #fandom:legends of tomorrow #pairing:barry allen x mick rory #holiday card fics #one shot

5 notes · View notes

aenariasbookshelf · 1 year

Text

you say you want (me) (part seven of ?)

title: you say you want (me) (part seven of ?)

author: Aenaria

rating: G

Weekly prompt: Cherry week at the @darcylewisbingohq

Characters: Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers

tags/warnings: Darcy/Steve, soulmate AU

Summary: In a world where having a soulmate mark is the norm for most people, Darcy Lewis is one of the rare few unmarked people. Of course, this doesn’t stop her from finding the right partner.

Previous parts can be found here: https://www.tumblr.com/aenariasbookshelf/719213889614708736

I really should put these ficlets into some sort of order and get them posted to AO3, shouldn't I?

“I can’t believe you’re taking me to Staten fucking Island for a date.”

“No, I took you to Brooklyn for a date, we’re making a quick stop for dessert before heading back to the compound. Besides, you said you liked Italian ice; this place supposedly has some of the best around.”

Darcy just rolls her eyes bemusedly as she hops out of the passenger seat of the inconspicuous black SUV. Steve shuts the door behind her and they begin to walk down the street to where the Italian ice place of legend is. He slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, providing a little bit of extra warmth in the chill of the fall evening.

The place is surprisingly crowded, people waiting on various lines inching towards the ordering counter. Steve tugs his baseball cap just a little bit lower and makes sure that the lensless glasses are still on his face. Darcy privately thinks it’s the dumbest disguise ever, but it seems to work better than imagined. But also, maybe it’s because people don’t expect to see someone as famous and well known as Captain America doing something as normal as going out to dinner or getting some ice cream. Which is both a curse and a blessing in itself.

Still, Darcy notices a couple of sly glances tossed their way that she’s not quite sure what to make of. So she just stays curled into Steve’s side as they wait their turn.

This being New York (even if they are in a part that Darcy would barely consider a part of the city) however, no one says anything and soon enough they’re walking back to the car, icy cold treats in hand. She licks at the ice, orange creamsicle flavors melting on her tongue, cold and creamy and a nice little kick of nostalgia. For just a moment, she’s a child on the boardwalk with her parents, tucking into some Italian ice after spending a long day baking on the beach, getting sand in every crevice and her hair tangled from salt water.

Maybe next summer she can take Steve to the beach also. He needs a vacation more than anyone she knows.

There’s a soft noise next to her, and she sees Steve looking down at her, a soft smile on his face, pink lips made even redder from the cherry ice he’s been eating. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

“I’m thinking I want to, when it’s warmer out, show you the beach where I grew up. And we can just spend a day there being lazy and warm and there’s nothing more important than the water in front of us and the sun in the sky.” Fanciful, yes, but that’s her deepest secret, after all.

That for all her feelings about soulmates being an entire and utter racket, Darcy Lewis is still a romantic at heart.

“In the summer then,” Steve nods. “We’ll make a tradition out of it.” There’s a little flush on his cheeks, just barely visible under the yellow glow of a street light, but it’s the same shade as the cherry on his lips.

“In the summer,” Darcy agrees, grinning. “In the meantime - it’s a Friday night. Neither one of us is working tomorrow. We don’t really need to rush back to the compound, do we?”

Steve shakes his head slowly. “No, no rush at all,” he smirks.

When he bends down to kiss her, he tastes like cherries.

#darcy lewis x steve rogers #darcy lewis #steve rogers #shieldshock #fic #my fic #darcy lewis bingo #mcu

18 notes · View notes

walkinginland · 1 year

Text

let the ransomed be free

a little the song of achilles ficlet

Patroclus and Achilles hold hands in the underworld. that’s it that’s the fic.

title from The Oh Hellos’ “Thus Always to Tyrants”

Time passes differently under the earth. It is marked by different measures, decided by different powers. Gods and suns wheeling in the sky above are not permitted here below. Kings who counted their days by dreams of their own glory, now cut short here alone, with no one to mark the loss of their pride.

Two souls entwined together, two souls knowing peace for the first time in their too short too long lives. Two souls whose time on earth was always at a precipice, could now have fields stretching without limits at their fingertips.

Fingers curled in hair, against skin and soul and bone. Pushing against fate and time and the whims of gods and kings. Brushing along the map of love laid in foundations of children and grown in war.

(your fingerprints are your own until you carve them into the gentle touch of another. they become another’s when reverence molds them deeper than stories in stone)

It had been so long. So long, and yet what was time to the two of them? They had been kept apart by the lack of marks on stone, their fingerprints waiting to mark skin and memory in a way far more eternal than a gravestone etching could ever be. Their story carved into pictures and history and scars that should have never been. Their joy and grief a more beautiful legend than any carved record of war.

There was peace here though, in this place. The peace of the dead, the peace of the reunited. The peace that the both of them had sought after for so long above ground, cupped here in their hands at last.

******

The first thing I think is Achilles.

I don’t know how long it has been since that first thought now. Time moves differently here, under these dark trees and besides this silent river. The changing of seasons and the passing of human lives pass us by as noiselessly as the shades across the fields; we do not disturb them, and they do not trouble us.

And the first thing I think is Achilles. When I woke that first time, when I wake every time after. And every time, he is there, with fingers in my hair or brushing against my cheek, smiling that teasing grin that was such a relief even now. There had been a time when I thought to never see it again. I had seen that foreign, horrifying numbness settle onto his face, rooting itself deeper and deeper that day under the sun. Deeper from the moments he was watching me ride away over that hill to the moment he handed his life over and took peace in exchange. He had waited for me on that hill, and then he waited for me under it. He had waited so much longer than I had promised him.

I had promised him tomorrow and it took so much longer to come than a day.

I had been brought to him so many times, followed him to the ends of the earth. When we were but children and I stumbled to his side in his father’s house, wandering and lost through the forest; the sea bearing me to his marriage bed, bearing us to war. I was brought back to him lifeless. Brought through the shadows to meet him in golden light.

I followed and followed and followed. And he waited. In his room, in the mountain forest, in a home by a bed not wanted, in death. He waited.

That time of following, of waiting grows dimmer here with each passing day. Memory has a different hold under the earth, and we were content to let that time of pain and secrets and uncertainty go, to let it run through our fingers like water.

We finally had our tomorrow here, in this place with no shame. No need to hide, not in too thin tents or marriages. After all, if the gods could be with whoever they wished, those of us in the underworld could do the same. We made our home among the shades in a quiet meadow, and in each other. Calluses of spear and needle eased, smoothed over by the touch of skin and gentle timeless time.

We rested in the open here, leaning back against the pale grass, tucked into each other’s sides. My head kept in the hollow of his shoulder, one of his hands buried in my curls and the other holding mine across his stomach. His long fingers wove between my own, playing a melody even with no lyre in his hands, a song only he could hear.

“Patroclus?”

“Hm?” I rolled my head against his shoulder, catching a glimpse of his face out of the corner of my eye.

He didn’t say anything more, simply pulled me closer, a quiet smile on that quick mouth. I pressed my lips to the place where his neck and shoulder met, pressing a kiss there before tucking my head in closer. I knew what he meant. He had no need to say more. He had my name, and coming from him it was so much more than sound.

His smile widened as his fingers continued sorting through my hair, and light sparked in the darkness, golden in the hope of every touch.

*****

No story is all happiness. No matter what two 16-year-olds may swear to each other in a moment by the banks of a sunlit river, far distant and far above and far before fate or war cast a shadow on shadow on shadow over their peace. Before, when their lives stretched out before them with no horizons. Before this shadow, their shadow, their grand and quiet tragedy painted through years and separation and carried on poet’s tongues.

So, no, no life or pair of souls can be all that pride dreams them to be. But they can be something so much more than fickle pride allows.

(your soul is your own until you place it in the hands of another. it is yours until it bleeds together with another’s love and creates something altogether new.)

And so, the fates perhaps did not allow both happiness and fame. But they are here now. They are tangled fingers and legs and hearts by a far darker stream. They are quiet eons and joyous hearts, stretching beyond moments to an eternity of pouring light. And what could happiness mean beyond that?

***********

thanks for reading!! also on ao3 right here

#the song of achilles #tsoa #the song of achilles fanfic #my writing #tsoa fic #dragged this fic out letter by letter like pulling teeth lmao #BUT WE MADE IT #we made it OOF #BUT i think i like it? maybe? i've stared at it too long

25 notes · View notes

thomas-jefferson-miku-binder · 6 months

Note

cali!! tomorrow will be a long long day for me, so i trust your judgement with the following question: do you have lol fics recommendations on ao3 🥺? i will take literally anything to read at this point in time ngl

omg of course! although i should warn you that im morr of a short fic guy, so most of these will not be very long

this is a rivelia fic that i love very much. angsty but soooo worth it if thats your thing. i would also recommend other stuff by this author, so definitely check that out (they write mostly about akalynn)

another rivelia fic (im obsessed with them). this one mentions self-harm tho so be careful if thats not something you want to engage with

this one is veeeeery heavy. mention of abuse. is basically a character exploration of arcane viktor and his relationship with singed, that it’s read as a sexually predatory one. i cannot express enough how good this is, but i totally get if thats too heavy (although the subject is very well approached by the author imo)

amaaaaazing cassivir fic. 10/10. character study on cassiopeia’s betrayal

this is a very silly one. plot what plot. but its so well written and the smut is chef’s kiss so if thats your thing and if you can bear with the premise its a combination of incredibly funny and nice porn lol

recently recommended this one to @emluckyowl and she absolutely loved it so might as well throw it in. its a renata/seraphine modern setting sugar baby fic and its so good. i didnt finish it because i just dont have time for it lately but i did very much enjoy the chapters i read. its also fine if age difference makes you uncomfortable, because renata is much older than 23 years old seraphine, but the way it’s written its super instigating. also the exploration of the power imbalance is veeeery good. also i should mention theres some minor jilco which i dont like but thankfully its not very significant

talon katarina character study

silly hero/villain vikjayce + tfgraves fic. definitely check morr stuff by this author, they have tons of vikjayce and tfgraves fics, although i havent read all of them

tfgraves

tah has amaaaazing ficlets and i personally love the mfkatarina + quinnsona ones very much. check their work out

these are qhat i can think of now going through my bookmarks, but i might add a few extra later. also everyone!! feel free to reblog with your own recs! and ty for trusting me! some of these are very heavy so i dont know if they’ll fit your taste, but i thought it might be good to risk it considering theyre so well-written. wish you the best of luck tomorrow!

#league of legends #cali speaks

6 notes · View notes

avatarskywalker78 · 2 years

Text

Get to know me!! I was tagged by @secondclassfangirl so thank you very much for that!!

Favourite colour: Emerald green

Currently reading: A collection of Thunderbirds Are Go ficlets

Last song: The Moment of Truth by Survivor

Last series: Thunderbirds TOS

Last movie: Les Bicyclettes de Belsize

Sweet, spicy or savoury: Sweet and savoury - I cannot handle even very mild spice, unfortunately

What I’m working on: An Angel and Riley fic, an AU that starts out with Angel not fighting Riley in The Yoko Factor, and instead seeing someone dealing with a lot and possibly going to go down a dark path if he’s not careful, and since his business is about helping people, he decides to try and take the guy under his wing. I’m also working on the second part of The Shieldmaiden Saga - I’m on chapter 2 at the moment - and also trying to get on with my Legends of Tomorrow series, the next one focusing on Rex Tyler as he tries to stop the past versions of his friends from being horribly murdered by the Reverse-Flash.

I also have a few Karate Kid/Cobra Kai ones in the works, including a couple Mike Barnes ones - one of which is a sequel to my KK3 AU, which is going to show Mike’s recovery at Miyagi-Do and his growing friendship with Daniel. Plus my Thunderbirds TOS fic, which is developing and which now has two OCs.

Tagging (if you're interested): @bodhrancomedy @bookersebastien @queensabriel @the0dduckling @ploppythespaceship @purpleyin @purplecyborgnewt and @cyclone-rachel

#Thanks for tagging!#Get to know me

2 notes · View notes

sophiainspace · 3 years

Note

Mick & Zari 2.0 + social media

My Zari 2.0 voice seriously needs work, but I couldn’t resist a ficlet for this…

Someone bangs loudly on Zari’s door one evening. When she finally extracts herself from Catchat and opens it, she comes face to face with Mick. He’s managing to look even more sullen than usual. “The Rogues are on the internet,” he grumbles.

Zari blinks at him. “The who?”

“My old crew. I wanna know what they’re up to. Explain it to me.”

She tilts her head at him. “And what makes you think I won’t leave you in the dark out of respect for their privacy?”

Mick laughs. “Privacy? You? Nah. Anyway, it’s all public. It’s… whatsit. Social murderer.”

“Media,” Zari corrects patiently, because she knows Mick only does that as a defense mechanism, and she understands the need for shields and masks. “You seriously want to see what an old crew is doing? Why do you care?”

Shuffling from foot to foot, Mick shrugs. “They’re kinda like the Legends. You know - family. One of ‘em might as well be my baby sister. I helped raise her for long enough.” His gaze drops to the ground. “She put a thing on Twitter.”

Zari feels herself grin. “Oh! You want to spy on your little sibling using the considerable power of social networking. That, I can help with. Come in.”

Mick frowns as he follows Zari into her cabin. “I’m not good with the internet.”

“You write books, don’t you?” She opens her laptop. Probably better to start with a decent computer screen, than on a fiddly phone. She doesn’t even know if Mick knows how to use one of those.

“Yeah. On a typewriter.”

Zari sighs - she can already tell that this is going to be another evening like the torturous night she spent trying to explain TikTok to John - and opens Twitter, setting the temporal software to access the feed from September 2021. She pats the empty seat beside hers. Mick sits down at once, all awkward limbs in the small-ish chair, which is kind of adorable. “Okay. What’s her username?”

“Huh.” Mick stares up at the ceiling. “Gideon, what was the name on the thing she sent me?”

“Golden_Girl_85,” comes Gideon’s amused voice.

Zari pauses. She knows that username, a little too well. “Golden Glider is your surrogate baby sister?”

Mick sits forward in his seat. “Yeah. How d’you know her?”

Probably best not to tell Mick that Lisa Snart is quite the Twitter celebrity, in his time. Nor is Zari going to mention that she used to look up influencers through history for ideas, and ended up with a serious crush on the Golden Glider of the 2020s. “Oh, news compliations from your time, that kind of thing.” She fills out the search field, bringing up Lisa’s latest posts. “Is that the tweet she sent?”

Peering at the screen, Mick shrugs. “Couldn’t open it. Looks about right.”

Dressed in a gorgeous gold-studded leather jacket and perfect understated makeup, Lisa Snart is beaming at the camera, holding open a big duffel bag. If it were anyone else, Zari would be asking if those were real diamonds. She doesn’t bother. “She needs Instagram,” Zari murmurs appreciatively. “Or Catchat, but that won’t be a thing for a while, for her. Shame.” She catches Mick looking at her like he’s about to start glaring. “Well, that’s her account,” she says quickly. “I’d like to say it’s unwise of her to post stolen goods, but I have a feeling she knows how to cover her tracks.”

A rare smile breaks out on Mick’s face. It’s almost proud. “Damn right, she does.” He pokes the screen. “So I just go to Twitter and I can see her stuff, right there?”

“Yeah, if you can remember her username, but what you really need is to follow her.” Zari’s fingers fly across the keyboard, even as she’s internally bemoaning the lack of decent voice control. Ridiculous 2020s computers. “Let me set you up with an account. Hmm.” She smirks at Mick. “What do you want for a username? Firestarter_70?”

“I hate you for knowing when I was born,” he grumbles.

She pats his arm. “You couldn’t hate me if you tried, sweetie. And soon you’ll have just as much delicious free access to everyone else’s personal information.” She turns the screen so he can see his profile better. Well, he did turn up without his reading glasses. “There. One Twitter account, nice and anonymous. Now you can stalk as many of your old co-workers as you want.”

Mick narrows his eyes. “I want one of those little pictures.”

Zari manages not to smile. “A user icon? Sure. A photo, or something symbolic?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, scanning through search results for Heat Wave. She’s delighted to find a very artistic hand-painted image of the heat gun. She is not going to explain fan art to Mick. “There.”

Mick nods. “Ahhh. Good.”

“I’m glad you approve. And now I’ll just set you up to follow Golden Glider, and then we’re—”

“And the others.”

Zari sighs. “You want to follow the other - what did you call them - Rogues?”

Another firm nod. “That’s right.”

Her cursor hovers over the search field. “Got any usernames?”

Mick grunts. “One’s called Weather Wizard. And there’s Axel - can’t remember his code name. And Boo.”

Well, those are some ridiculous names. “You have a friend called Boo,” Zari echoes flatly.

“Ain’t her whole name. Peek-A-Boo.”

Any minute now, Zari is going to give up sighing, and take up growling like Mick. “Let’s see who Golden Glider is following.”

Mick’s eyes are wide at the screen. At least he’s entertained. “And then - what’s it called, the one Len liked. Facebook.”

Scrolling through Lisa’s following list, Zari gives Mick a defeated nod. “Fine. I can show you how Facebook works. Well, I can try. It’s a graveyard in my time.” She laughs. “It’s near enough a graveyard in your time, but I’ll give it a go.”

Mick nods in approval. “And what’s the one Rosa’s got… Instagram? She wouldn’t stop going on about it when I was in Central City last.”

Zari tries to imagine Mick Rory on Instagram. She has a hard-to-ignore fear that this is not going to go well. “Fine. If you promise not to post there.”

The put-out grunt is kind of cute. “Why can’t I post? Maybe I got pictures to show people.”

“Because you will offend the entire world, all at once,” Zari tells him absently. “Probably with something unhelpfully misogynistic, and not everyone knows you well enough to see the good heart under all that posturing. Do you know someone called Ragdoll?”

Mick yelps and covers his eyes. “No pictures of that clown!”

He doesn’t look much like a clown to Zari. More like a very skilled contortionist. Still, filing away the potentially useful knowledge that Mick isn’t keen on clowns, Zari keeps scrolling.

Two hours later, they’ve found all the various accounts of the Rogues, and Mick is using Facebook like he was born for it. Which, given his age, seems about right.

“Now TikTok,” he demands, bouncing in his seat. “The weasel told me he’s got a video there. If he gets a video, I want a video.”

Fascinated to have found out exactly where the limits of her patience are, Zari shows Mick out.

#headcanon ask game #mick rory #zari tarazi #gen #my fic #legends of tomorrow ficlet #none of us can queue this alone

45 notes · View notes

margoshansons · 4 years

Text

Ship Broken: Ficlet

Title: What If I’m Just Broken?

Summary: after discovering her new disability, Sara reaches out to a friend for help.

pairing: WonderCanary

notes: I had this thought immediately after seeing what happened to Sara in the current episode. I really hope it actually amounts to something and isn’t “just for the rules” like a lot of the tropes its used for.

warning: angst, self-loathing, depression

*** SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT ***

A voice called out to her. She could barely catch the outline of the figure, but it looked vaguely familiar. Her shoulders spazzed, jolting her briefly out of the vision and back into her bed.

Her breathing was shallow, soft water dripping down her face, hand reaching up to touch what she had lost. Darkness enveloped her. Sleeping was the only way she could see anymore. But when she slept...she shook the thoughts away, turning to the side, her toes barely grazing the floor. She was close to it.

Her hand patted the cotton sheets, searching for the edge of the bed, pressing herself upward when her fingers curled around it. Her balance wavered, and she threw her arms up to keep herself standing. When she stood up she finally realized what little spacial awareness she held. It was different than the league. She had spent years there, just like her home. But here, on the Waverider. Things were always moving. She had no time to focus on where everything was. Her body just...knew it.

She supposed that was what she had to go off of. She felt like an idiot as she reached her hands out in front of her, taking baby steps to avoid tripping over the clothes she had haphazardly tossed on the floor, dragging them with her until she collided with the metal, finally finding the doorknob and pushing it open.

From there she followed the wires. She had been meaning to get them fixed for ages. Had even badgered Behrad about it. But now she was grateful that he was always too stoned to do it. The piping was a welcome change of texture and when it transitioned to metal, she knew she had reached the Bridge.

“Gideon--” shame overwhelmed her as she stuck her hands out again, trying to feel for anything she remembered.

“A few steps more Miss Lance,” The AI replied, “You’re almost--” “I can do this myself!” Sara snapped, her fingers finally grasping the top of one of the chairs, hopping around until she finally settled. “I just...I need you to contact Alex,”

“It is the middle of the night Captain--”

“Would you just do it?!” Sara snapped again, gently laying her forehead in her hands. Her eyes were open and yet all she saw was darkness. She hated it. Hated that she couldn’t get up properly. Hated that she couldn’t see the bright silver of the Waverider anymore, or her teammates, or even the dark green of the temporal zone. Hated that everytime she moved she had to reach out in front of her like a child learning to walk for the first time.

She was useless now. How could she be an effective leader when she couldn’t even see?

A beeping was heard over Gideon’s network and a sleepy voice brought her back to life.

“Hello...?”

“Alex?” Sara asked, unaware of how sharp her hearing had gotten, “Is that you?”

“Sara?” Alex responded, sounding like she had just woken up, “What’s going on? is the team okay?” “who is it?” Ray’s voice was tinny but it was there, and it suddenly struck just how much she missed them.

“Hey guys,” Sara spoke, trying to keep herself from getting too choked up, “I’m uh, I’m sorry for the late call but...I didn’t know who else to turn to,”

“Sara, what happened?” Alex’s concern soothed her. God how she missed her. “Are you okay? Is the team--” “The Team’s fine,” Sara cut her off, voice shaking as she tried to find a way to get the words out, “Alex I’m--I don’t--I can’t--”

“Sara, what’s wrong?”

The dam broke, and hot water burned a trail down her cheeks, hand gently crawling up her throat until the pads of her fingers met her lips, unable to stop the sob from leaving her mouth, “I’m blind, I can’t see anymore,”

“Oh my god,” was the last thing she heard from Alex before the dial tone rang, and Sara let it all out.

Fuck. She hates me. Hates me for waking her up and tearing her away from Ray. Hates me for burdening her with Legends stuff when she wanted to leave. Hates me for being so fucking--

“Sara?” It sounded so close. Almost right by her side, and she shot up at the sound of the Amazon’s voice. Apparently it was too fast, because as soon as she took a wide step, she fell forward, unable to see the ground as she plummeted towards it. only darkness.

Arms caught her. Arms that she recognized. Alex really was here. She had dropped everything and come back. “Whoa, hold on, I got you,” Alex reassured her, helping her get her footing back, “I’m leading you back to the seat okay?” Sara nodded, letting Alex guide her.

Fuck she had missed her so much. It felt like ages since she had left. Since she and Ray had both left. “Is Ray--?”

“No,” Alex gently brought Sara’s weight back down in the seat, brushing her hand across the former assassin’s face. The touch was soothing, and Sara felt her shoulders relax, “He knows though, he’s at home right now, looking after the kids,”

“Kids?”

A chuckle met her confusion, “Right, I forgot we didn’t really tell anyone,” Alex continued to chuckle to herself, thumb scraping across the back of Sara’s hand, “We had another kid, a daughter, we named her Minerva Sara,”

She broke out into a smile, her cheeks hurting from the unfamiliar gesture.

“Minnie for short,” Alex explained, her hand never leaving Sara’s.

“That’s-- Alex I’m so happy for you guys,” Sara’s words caught in her mouth, unable to focus on anything except the fact that she couldn’t see how happy her best friend was. She wanted to see her face so badly. To look her in the eye and tell her that she was gonna be the best Aunt the kid would ever have. But she couldn’t even do that.

She wouldn’t ever be able to see her best friends’ kids. To hold them without worrying about dropping them.

She could practically feel the pitying gaze Alex was giving her, and something bubbled in her chest, tearing her hand out of the Amazon’s.

“Sara what--”

“It’s not fair,” She spat, unable to hold anything back, “It’s not fair that you’re happy and thriving and with your family and I’m stuck here unable to do anything at all!”

She wanted to take the words back as soon as she said them. Instead they continued. “I don’t want your pity, and I don’t need it. I’ll figure this out like I always do,”

“Sara--”

Her sobs cut off Alex’s response again and she felt her neck bob forward, head falling forward into her arms, muscles squeezing around her now defective eyes as she began to hyperventilate, arms wrapping around her shoulders. It only made her more nervous.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” Alex spoke up, whispering her actions into Sara’s ear, sounding like a mother teaching her child where to put their hands, “Hey, I’m here, I got you,” Sara felt a hand wrap around her head, pulling her into the crook of Alex’s neck, squeezing tightly, “And we’ll get through this, I promise.”

Sara squeezed back, nuzzling further into Alex’s shoulder. She hoped she was right.

*** a/n: I hope I did okay with my portrayal! I don’t know what it’s like to be blind at all, so please feel free to correct my mistakes by shooting me a DM!

permanent taglist: @witchofinterest @abbysarcane @foxesandmagic @perfectlystiles @darknightfrombeyond @twinmasks @ocfairygodmother @kcnobls @erzascarlettitania @iron-parkr

the leftover children taglist: @the-october-reviewer @raging-violets @randomestfandoms-ocs @mystic-scripture @randomfandoming1

#ocappreciation #allaboutocs #arrowverseocs #queerocs #oc: alexandra prince #brotp: i'm gonna stand by you #dyn: wondercanary #ship: salex #fic: cosmic strings #series: the leftover children #legends of tomorrow oc #legends of tomorrow ficlet #oc ficlet #my ocs #my fics

20 notes · View notes