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Posted here because: It's cross-posted from AO3. Was originally sticking to only posting this there, but I figured there might be readers on this site that may be interested in it.

Constructive Criticism: I'd prefer to receive constructive criticism from experienced readers (preferably betas). I received a critical guest review and I wanted to respond to the poster to see their perspective, but I couldn't because they were a guest. If you have something constructive to offer, please email missfluffycookies ( gmail dot com) instead so I can respond directly to these criticisms and see what suggestions should be applied.

Story title: The original title of this piece is actually "Between These Worlds and Experiences, These Understandings and Memories". Alas, it went beyond this site's character limit for titles, so I removed "and Experiences". Not too much of a loss, I suppose.

Update Schedule: Expect a new prompt every 4 to 8 days. I can fall out of that range, whether it's an earlier update or a later one, but not by too much. So basically, expect rough weekly updates.

(Updated) Warnings: Rating originally was T, then switched to M, and back to T, because this wasn't netting much reception on here with the M rating (this site's default filter hides M-rated stories, unfortunately). There still are M-rated elements, of course, but not all of the drabbles have them. Warnings will be provided for the ones that do. I know this makes me look silly, given how my warning from before was very keen on the mature topic stuff, but I just want more people to be aware of the fact this series exists. I feel that the M rating was preventing that, and looking back on the rating, it really only applies to certain drabbles. Of course, whether or not you wanna read this series is entirely up to ya. ;)

Formatting: Formatting could be iffy on here compared to the AO3 version because I use Google Docs to draft my stuff. While converting from Docs to AO3 is a cinch because it's a matter of simple copy and paste, converting Docs format to this site's format is more complex. I have to download the stuff here and pray that the original format is mostly intact — proofreading for formatting errors for a simple cross-post that contains lengthy prompts is too much for my lazy behind. So if something reads weirdly or the formatting seems messed up, my apologies. To guarantee you're reading the proper formatting, I recommend looking at the AO3 version.

Settings: Canon-wise with regards to settings, only Dissidia 012, the original Dissidia, and canon divergences from those games are featured in these drabbles. So don't expect anything NT-related. I much prefer writing OG Lightning's characterization and that's the version of her that really makes this ship shine. Other than that, also expect the occasional pure AU to pop up.

Tangible things always felt right to her. It's no different when Kain touches her.

I - Physicality

Sucking in a long, worn breath that's glutted with sea salt and wet stone, Lightning sits in a cradle of midnight-soaked grass.

Resolute and sharp, her fingers glide along the leathery handle of the knife she's kept inside of her pouch for so long. She twists it around, sees all the curvy and keen angles of the clean steel; the practical cutting edges that taunt the corners of her tired mind, reminding her of yet another thing she still doesn't understand. Serah. It's a name, and it's probably something important, but that's all she gets out of the bastard of remembrance.

Captured starlight and firelight gleams along the knife's blade as it beckons the whole universe to a narrow glint of aluminum. On the flat of the steel, she sees herself: a physical, hollow shell of the person she once was. Moistureless blood inhabits the crags of an emotionless face. There's new grit and old grit on night-lit flesh and the threadbare material of her overcoat and turtleneck. Dark-dented crescents seize the undersides of cold, imperial eyes.

I'm such a damn mess.

It's so damn hard to get everything about herself. Who the hell am I?

Her face doesn't contort in doubt. She can't succumb to that weakness. But now, suddenly, she wants more than ever to ram a blade down some Chaos warrior's throat, to free herself from the grasp of rest and abandon this stupid, dim campfire.

But then — But fucking then, she thinks — there is the rustle of fine grass at her side, and she's about to snatch the hilt of Blazefire Saber out, spring up and blow whoever-it-is face's right off, when that low, familiar baritone runs through her eardrums.

"Are you so restless that you would kill me without a thought?" With a rough snort, he sits up, and the pointed outlines of his helm are shadows that make him seem more beast than man.

Rolling her eyes because she knows he can't quite glimpse her from his distance, she focuses on the auburn light of the delicate fire, scooting closer to it. Needles of grass rub her knees and shins from underneath, but she doesn't mind them at all. She likes sharp things, tangible things. Trustful and true, they feel right to her.

"Maybe," she replies, and her tone is strong, bold, and exhausted all at once. "You were out for a while, Highwind. Got a little quiet around here."

"So you're tired, then." And then she wants to seethe. He can decipher bits and pieces of her well, and it still unbalances her somewhat, despite all her layers. He's been doing it for so long, it's a routine. And even then, he still doesn't have all of her walls down, everything about her down. She doesn't, either.

Rubbing the knife's hilt with steady digits, she rests it in the lap of her begrimed thighs, eyes it without end. "Whatever. You sound tired yourself. Go back to sleep."

"I'll not sleep when I've just awoken. Why would I?" There's the crackle of florae as he speaks, the growth of a shadow that soon overtakes her. It's not long until she senses he's right beside her, knifing her down with the waxy red beads of his weird-ass helmet. "Besides, I'd much rather spend my time conversing with a fair dame, even if she has the mouth of a crude seafarer and a strange fixation for causing others harm."

Flicking the dagger around her firm grip, Lightning wonders if sleeping with his helm — How does he even do that? — gave him some sort of boost on his typical smartass comments or some crap like that. "I'm not some 'fair dame'. You know that."

Even though she's not looking at him, she can tell he's smirking. Prideful as ever, but when she does gaze at him, there's some form of admission in the way he readjusts his sitting position. "So I do," he says, steadfast. "But enough of that. Have you been sulking again, vile lady?"

Lightning's lips curve for a biting retort, but there's nothing that comes to mind. Not when he's actually right in his understanding of her this time around. Not when she's so fucking exhausted and thinks that this whole cycle of him digging into her noggin and her predicting some of his attempts and sensing his mannerisms is starting to get old, annoyingly repetitive, even though there's still much he has to unravel about her and her about him.

Maybe it's just the tiredness that makes her feel that way. She's been up all this night, and even though the fringes of her anger will her to lash out at something, this time around, she can't find herself stomping off to find something to kill now. It's too late to do that because he's awake, and if she tries to, he'll get in her way, waste her time, and she knows she's exhausted as hell and that this will take out whatever bits of energy she has left.

Finally finding something to say, she feels her expression resolve into that neat keenness it should always be in when she's around others. "I've been thinking about a fuck-ton of things."

"Oh? More battle-born memo—"

"Yes, Highwind, more memories," she spits back. "Saw that one coming a mile away. Nothing new to talk about."

He makes a slow grunt that's stuffed with newfound mirth and fresh persistence. "Nothing new? Come now, Lightning," — he shifts around, leans in closer so that his breath sends an echoing warmth down her ear, down her spine, and in the few slithers of firelight that trace his silhouette, she can see the crevices of dented armor, how deep those blanched-out scars that peek out from split metal are — "you and I know we've much left to uncover about ourselves."

Lightning scowls, concedes. Point taken. But this isn't the place, the time, the world to do that, and he should know this. They only have so much time to banter, to peel off one veil out of millions at a time. Not that she really cared about knowing much about him, but there was something strangely, stupidly enamoring about the way that he'd always spend his free time with her, even if it drove her crazy half of the time.

"We're fighting a war. We don't have time for that. You're already enough of a piece of work as it is."

Kain chuckles. The sound is a little faint, cutting through the sordid, small silence they have. "Perhaps we do not. Not if I don't try to dig a little deeper, that is."

A pink eyebrow arcs upward. What? For every time he does or says something predictable, he always throws out something atypical to make up for it. It drives her nuts all the time.

"What?" The knife in her hands is a forgotten artifact, lost to time.

"Do I have to spell it out in bold letters somewhere? Come now, Lightning," he says again, a cruel, mocking twist pulling up a corner of his chapped lips. He takes off his helmet in a smooth movement, shakes out the fine, sleeky ponytailed hair. "I expect more from a rude, shrewd damsel such as yourself. This babble of ours is tiresome, isn't it?"

It's confusing because that sophistic jargon of his usually gets on her nerves, but she lets the anger go, considers. And in the blink of an eye, she realizes exactly what he means, takes in an arduous breath, resists the urge to shake her head at his wise-seeming ass.

He reaches out to her, but his hand stops before it makes contact with her countenance, and his unveiled eyes seek entry, capturing her own. Couple of days ago, she would send him a fuck no, swat his hand away without a thought. But there is some sort of acknowledgment that curdles in her blood tonight. They can keep playing this damn game of trying to see what makes each other tick, or take the next step and pick up the pace, maybe even help her understand her own self more.

Stability. Sharp things, tangible things. Something to feel and act on when I'm confused as hell.

She feels her icy eyes melt just a little, feels a wall in her collapse. She's probably gonna regret this. But even then, she'll be better off with another physical thing to lean on. And she won't have to worry about that nonsensical chit-chat of his. Not as much as now, anyways. Permission granted, bastard.

Wasting no time, eager fingers run along her grimy, finely-arced cheekbone. He leans into her, molds into her smaller, feminine form. Somewhere, that hauntingly cold survival knife she held falls off her knees, but she doesn't care. Without thinking, she crooks an arm around his neck while steely arms seize her waist. She is curved backward in a slender crescent, flexible and potent. His steeled knees straddle her own, tease her with a coldness that makes her shiver in unbridled pleasure.

No more stupid blabber that either confuses her or not. Just the sound of her flesh on his, the chilling touches of his armor on her skin.

Just hard, solid, true things over words that could be false, careless.