#fff76

[sunnydrops]

GIVE UP ( @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt # #fff76 ! )  - featuring adore going through her ARC training <3 / word count: 473 / rating: e for everyone !

The sword fell from her grasp. Clattered on the floor while Adore was brought to her knees. Every nerve of her body sung unholy tunes of wreckage. Her bones ached deeper than she’s ever felt-and she’s pulled all nighters in a shitty, cheap chair in her school’s library. That ache hit different. But this? The way her muscles screamed and her blood howled-this was an entirely different monster ripping her apart at the seams.

Her back was on fire. 

Nel gazed down. Her eyes were lush green but when they met Adore’s she felt nothing but the bite of frigid cold turn her sweat to ice.

“Do you surrender?” Nel pressed her blade under Adore’s neck. She breathed heavily. Her throat throbbed from dryness. Her back still burned. “You struggle to even call forth your wings. This is not your battle, beloved.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Adore bit out. Her lipstick smeared lips curled into a snarl. “I don’t need wings to beat you.” 

“Is that so?” Nel dismissed her with a few simple words. And Adore saw red. 

Adore did not know the meaning of giving up. To concede victory before exhausting all possible choices that led to her success? She’d rather lose all her baby hairs. Defeat did not know her, and she did not know it. Losing was not in her vocabulary. Adore did not do failure. Those legacy kids who thought nothing of her. Who saw her as someone clinging onto the affirmative action ladder. Who saw her weaponizing her diversity to get into spaces that were tailored for them, and never for her. As if she didn’t work to the bone to sit where they sat. As if she didn’t learn the trick of the networking trade to make sure her name was always brought up in spaces she had yet to enter. 

She did not need wings. She did not need flight. She was capable, all on her own. She knew this. Victory is etched on her tongue. It’s written into the fibers of her skin. It’s burned into the sharp gaze she reflected back at Nel. Who only raised an eyebrow in response. Whose lips barely twitched. Whose blade pressed an inch deeper into her neck. 

“I like that look,” Nel said. 

“You talk too much,” Adore reached for her sword and pushed herself to a standing position. Her grip on the hilt burned into her palm. 

She would not relent. 

“Again,” Adore commanded. 

Nel looked her over once, her eyes the only part of her body that moved. Moments passed. All Adore could hear was the roaring of her blood. The heavy rattles of her breath as she gathered herself for another brawl. The burning upon her back would not hold her back-she would not allow it. 

And then, without word, Nel charged. 

tag list under cut! 

@cerbyphobic​  @estrella-writings @kowlazovdi @alicewestwater​ @kainablue​ @santinas​ @harehearts​ @witherednightmare

[starculler]

Y’all can blame @liathgray​ for getting me into the SkyBridger ship. Anyway, I’m just trying to figure out how to write them because I’ve never written a Star Wars fic in my life lol. Hope you like it! @flashfictionfridayofficial​ || Read on Ao3

Sweat beads on Ezra’s brow, plastering stray strands of black hair to his face as he pulls out of a roll, half-crouched and balanced on the balls of his feet with his unlit saber held confidently in front of him. His opponent steps back, shrugs, and spins his humming, green saber with a flourish. Ezra grins, more feral than friendly, and re-ignites his own. It cuts through the air, blue light snapping to life with a hiss.

“Give up, Luke,” he says, squeezing the handle on his saber a fraction tighter. “You’re not gonna beat me.”

Luke grins and settles into a defensive stance that Ezra only vaguely recognizes, a form he remembers Kanan showing him, once, but which neither had favored for their styles. Luke brushes long, sun-bleached blond hair － a few early streaks of gray peaking through it － out of his face. He takes his time, breath slow and deep and looking for all the world like the Jedi master he’s supposed to be instead of the sleep-mussed mess Ezra had dragged out of bed that morning. Luke’s mouth pulls into a grin of his own, a wry, cocky twist to his lips like he’s already won as he says:

“Never.”

Ezra lunges. Digging the toes of his shoes into the soft, green grass underfoot, he rockets forward, fast and impulsive as he ever was in his youth. Luke moves to counter his offensive, taking a half step back to widen his stance in preparation for the heavy blow he expects. Wild, giddy anticipation bubbles up his throat, a laugh nearly slipping past his lips, but Ezra holds. He waits. And when he comes in range of Luke’s block, he disengages his saber. Luke’s eyes widen, realization thrusting him into motion, but too late.

Heat sears his back as Ezra ducks under Luke’s hasty swing and spins not-quite-neatly on too-soft earth to redirect his momentum. He reignites his saber and thrusts it into Luke’s blind spot as Luke pivots on his heel. The tip of his saber cuts a line into Luke’s tunic, and Ezra can taste sweet victory on his tongue already.

Something shifts in the air, then, solid but wild, snapping at him like a Loth-wolf at his neck. It holds him in place for a second that might as well be an eternity before it suddenly punches the air from his chest. Throws him back with all the force of a speeder. The world lurches around him, a messy dizzying blur of color, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the wave of nausea it brings at bay. He hits the ground shoulder first with a hiss, and rolls.

His head pounds a roaring drumbeat in his ears and his nostrils flare as he tries to force air back into his lungs. His shoulder throbs in time with his pulse and he thinks he feels a twinge in his ankle when he shifts. It’s only the knowledge that this is a friendly spar － and the sickening curl in his gut － that keeps him down and recovering rather than back up on his feet and ready to fight. He curls his fingers into the grass, still damp from the morning’s light rain shower, sucks in a breath, and gets ready to push himself back up, but the familiar hum of a saber at his throat keeps him in place.

Ezra blinks a few times to clear the residual vertigo and finds his eyes drawn to the painfully bright saber point below his chin. The heat stings his skin, and in any other situation he’d feel panic’s icy claws tearing through his chest. At the moment, however, all he feels is peace. Well, that and the bruises he’ll no doubt be sporting by tomorrow.

“I yield,” he sighs, and Luke disengages his lightsaber. Ezra watches him clip it to his belt, blue eyes bright with mirth even as the rest of him looks a mess, and mutters a petulant “I’m still winning.”

Luke laughs and it pulls an insufferably soft smile out of Ezra, every inch of him warmed by the sight. Ezra pushes himself up with a hiss, the movement jarring his shoulder, and sits, the back of his shirt damp and clinging uncomfortably.

“Did I hurt you?” A little furrow forms between Luke’s brows as he squats by Ezra’s side, reaching out with his flesh hand. “Sorry,” he says, and there’s a weight to it that Ezra knows means he’s talking about more than just the shoulder.

It’s an old insecurity. A pain dulled by years, almost but not entirely forgotten, but one he isn’t inclined to let Luke wallow in. Not when he has so much to weigh him down already － the galaxy’s hero, even after the Empire’s fall and the New Republic’s rise. Ezra grabs Luke’s hand in one of his own, lets Luke’s warmth seep through his skin for a moment before pulling. Luke follows, sinking to his knees and bracing himself on his gloved prosthetic as he leans forward and Ezra shifts. For one long, still moment, they face each other.

Ezra moves first, leans his head into Luke’s, breathing softly as he slowly brings his other hand up to settle on Luke’s neck, forefinger and thumb brushing the sliver of bare skin above his shirt’s high collar.

“You could never,” he breathes, soft and achingly gentle just before he moves to press a gentle kiss to Luke’s lips.

Luke smiles into it, and reciprocates.

[tamalesnsuch]

Temporary Temperance

My first crack at flash fiction Friday 😅 @flashfictionfridayofficial

Her back hurt. Years of slouching with burdens of existence did that, she supposed. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother all those years ago. Then again, maybe it was something akin to buzzing of an old appliance: a slow, auditory warning of imminent death that you learn to ignore with time. Motherly grousing and faulty appliances: what a legacy.

She stood on the subway that smelled of cheese and broken promises, doing the usual dance of averting eye contact and getting jostled by bodies and inertia as she stumbled deeper into the cavernous maw of the metroplex.

An orchestra of sniffles and coughs surrounded her. A miasma of germs always lingered in the subway on a normal day, anyway. She couldn’t afford to get medicine then, and now… well. Maybe she’d go quickly. At least now the smell of Christmas masks the scent of the pandemic panic that usually lingers on her commute.

“Next stop: Mall of America,” a pleasant disembodied voice echoed around the subway car.

A sneeze drowned out the remaining message. He wasn’t wearing a mask. She sighed and put on her name tag. Her breath fogged up her glasses, but she didn’t mind it anymore.

“Temporary temperance,” she whispered to herself as she exited the subway car. She couldn’t be late for her shift again.  

[inexorableblob]

At the Last Moment

For @flashfictionfridayofficial​ after a few weeks I managed to follow up on this prompt, with a short entry, just over a hundred words:

The river was black in the fog before dawn, a dark line snaking through the mist.

I had walked a long distance to reach its edge, prevailed through adversity, yet here and now, I felt my courage falter.  My heart pounded in my chest, my breath ran short, my teeth chattered.

I had thought I would find rest here, that here, that in this place, at this river, after my perilous journey through fire and woe and stinging hatred that I would lay down my burdens and fall into a gentle and peaceful sleep.

And yet with mere footsteps ahead of me, I could not step forward, I could not kneel down, I could not drink.

I could not forget.  I had to remember.