that moment when you realize you haven’t actually written the episode review that’s been rolling around you head all week
need to do that tomorrow, um.
need to do that tomorrow, um.
man all of this excellent rvb fic on my dash makes me want to go write something
where did the ideas go
Hm. RoosterTumblr, I have some free time and am in the mood to write fic. Any prompts? Hit me. Note that this does not guarantee I will do it, or that it’ll be any more than a couple sentences.
I was going to write this idea for Valentine’s Day, but I didn’t get to it and then Chii wrote this so I kind of set it aside. Finally figured out a way to frame it, though, so here we go.
Prompt was ”Te escribo poemas de mi pun~o y letra/ Te envio canciones de cuatro cuarenta” (I write you original poems with my own words/ I send you songs by 4-40 [a band who wrote very romantic songs])”, from nana-princess. Reposted like this since it’s longer.
York still looks like he’s about to bust a gut laughing, but he’s keeping it back, for the most part, on account of that scowl twisting Wash’s lips, and he really doesn’t want a black eye like the one Wash is sporting.
“Come on, man, you can’t just leave me hanging like that.” York grabs an icepack out of the medkit, eyebrows rising in that way Wash has come to learn means he’s about to get teased to hell and back.
“Yes I can,” Wash says, sullen.
“Nuh-uh, that’s not how this works.” Wash reaches for the icepack and scowls even more when York holds it out of his reach, stepping back. “See, I’m like your wingman, here, so you gotta let me know how it went. Those are the rules.”
“—What? Those aren’t the— just hand it over, asshole, come on—”
He’s told him time and time again, but Wash’s problem is still that he’s goddamn predictable, and York doesn’t even have to think to sidestep him and leave Wash to barrel straight into the wall.
“You want to try that again?” York says sweetly.
“Too bad.” He does feel bad for the guy, though, and York reaches out with one cold hand to clasp Wash’s shoulder, grinning when he jerks back. “Come on, Wash. Promise I won’t tell anybody.”
Wash stares at him.
“…I’ll leave out that it was you? Come on, man, I’m dying here!”
“You’re going to die if you tell anyone,” Wash grumbles. “Give me the ice pack.”
“Are you gonna tell me?”
“Yes, York, just hurry up, this hurts like a— son of a bitch!”
York gives in and snickers at the look on Wash’s face, half-covered by the pack he’d tossed at his head, and he’s pretty sure he hears a whine about it being the fifth worst throw he’s ever seen or something before Wash sighs and presses it to his eye and gives York a look with the other.
“Son of a bitch,” Wash says again, and rolls his eyes as he shoves a hand into his pocket. “Just don’t read—”
York takes the crumpled piece of paper with a grin, smoothing it out and reading it aloud before Wash can protest any more. “Roses are red, violets are blue, I’ll punch the Director if you let me screw—”
He dissolves into peals of laughter before he can make it through the last word, and Wash just presses his other hand to his face, wincing.
“This is the worst Valentine’s Day ever. Of all time.”