#I read this not knowing it was by the same author as four letter word

[clothlog]

Cinderwings!!!

[fairysluna]

the reward.

You come back home after two weeks, and with the victory in your shoulders. Cregan, who was still recovering from his wounds, is esger to thank you for what you've done.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING — Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader.

TAGS/TW — smut (clit play, praise, cunninglus, humping, public sex), cursing, mentions of murder, blood. If something is missing pls let me know!

AUTHOR’S NOTE — this is based on this ask (thx anon, ily). Just so you know, reader gave birth to Elion four weeks before this happened. I didn't proof read it, so if there's any mistakes I'm sorry.

WORD COUNT — 3.2k.

FEEDBACK, SHARES AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!!

When the big wooden doors were opened, all eyes fell on the two silhouettes that walked inside the main hall in the castle of Winterfell. Cregan stood up from his chair almost immediately, his eyes widening with surprise at the sight, and feeling the relief calming down his senses after he finally proved you were not dead.

Two weeks have passed since the last time he heard about you; two weeks in which he was losing his mind for not being able to get up from the bed and go to search for you. Your letters had ceased suddenly and unexpectedly, creating worry not only on your husband but also in the castle. And yet there you were; your hair was covered in ashes and dirt, your face having traces of dried blood and sweat. You were wearing armor which covered your chest, leather pants shaping your legs, the scabbard on your hips was dripping with blood coming from the blade of your sword. By your side, the stern and serious frame of your beloved brother Aemond was standing in the same conditions as you.

But everyone’s eyes were fixed on the giant’s head hanging from your hand. You walked inside the room with pride, your chin up as everyone bowed for you. Your husband was taken aback, for there was too much information in front of him at that moment, it was such a bizarre scene.

Cregan took a sharp breath as he stared at you once you stood in front of him, only a big, long table separating your bodies. The giant’s head was dropped by your hand on top of it, and the man looked down at you with a weird glance on his face. He analyzed your whole shape, from head to toe; from your messy battle braids to your ash-covered shoes. Cregan caught himself feeling some kind of unexplainable sensation of lust in his veins; and you were the only one who was capable of recognizing it.

“My dear husband,” you started, and all the whispers shut down almost immediately. “I’ve brought you a gift. I’m not certain whether this was the one who harmed you, but take it as a symbol… no one hurts those who I love.”

He looked to the head, then at your brother, and lastly at you. He took a deep breath, as if he was about to utter some words, but Lord Karstark opened his mouth.

“Princess,” he said, shock reflected in his voice, “what- how were you able to-?”

“My husband gifted me a fine Valyrian blade a few years ago,” you explained, looking right in the eye of the tall man to whom you call your lover. “Giants are above the size of a regular man, which is what makes them easy to behead from a dragon's back. I couldn't kill them all, but I killed enough to make them yield.”

“They yielded?” Cregan finally spoke, to which you nod.

“Yes, my lord, they did,” the mere pronunciation of those two words almost sent Cregan to outer space. Your voice sounded so deep and seductive without even trying. The man was almost drooling because of you. “They returned beyond the wall as they promised to never cross it again. Those who dared to defy our terms died by the flames of Aegarax, which worked as a warning to let them know what would happen if they disobeyed.”

“We had a few losses, my lord” Aemond interrupted in the conversation, and still Cregan was unable to take his eyes off of you. “They were brave men, killed in battle by those savages. Allow me to present them with honor with a feast in celebration for our victory. It is also well deserved for those who survive.”

“Let it be done, brother,” Cregan said. "We might as well celebrate your bravery, and your efforts for bringing my wife safely back to my arms."

“Ser Aron, please put the giant's head on display for the people to see. It is a sign of peace now,” you ordered.

“Of course, princess,” he bowed swiftly before getting close enough to the head to pick it up and walking with it out of the Hall.

“My lord, if I may, I would like to go and spend some time with my nephews and niece before tonight’s celebration,” Aemond asked, using that polite and courteous tone that was so typical of him.

Cregan nodded, “of course, brother,” he said.

Aemond walked to your way and left a soft kiss on your forehead before squeezing your shoulder and leaving the hall towards the nursery room where you children were. The silence ruled over the room as everyone was expecting for either you or Cregan to speak further into the matter, but all they received was the comfortable silence you and your husband shared as your hazes would refuse to look away. The lack of each other’s presence these last weeks had clearly made a big impact in your lives, for there was an invisible magnet that was pulling you both closer and closer to each other. Your bodies craved each other's touch in a way that would even make you look desperate.

“We won the war, my lord husband,” you said, a slight smirk crossing your lips as you noticed his jaw clenched. “Mayhaps we should celebrate, don’t you think?”

Your eyes gazed upon his face, begging and pleading for something you knew only him could provide you. The nights in the camp were cold and lonely, making you long for your husband’s warmth. Your breathing trembled at the mere thought of his big hands roaming around your body in order to touch those places that he knew so well.

“Everyone,” Cregan raised his voice in order to be heard by all the people present in the room. His low tone echoed around the room. “Leave, now.”

The lords, knights and soldiers were soon walking towards the exit doors as Cregan walked around the table and reached your side. Your smaller frame looked so fragile in front of him even when your body was covered with that hard material which had some scratches in it. Cregan looked up and down to your state, and he inevitably bit his lip as his hand reached for your hip and pulled you closer to him. A small gasp left you, starting to feel his breathing against your skin. Soon you find yourself being a prisoner of his arms, for they surrounded your body and held you tight against his broad chest.

“The children have been missing you terribly,” he whispered, so close to your lips that you were able to feel his breath against them.

You gave a quick peak to your surroundings just when the door was closed and the last man left the room. Your gaze fell upon your husband’s face once again and a little smile appeared on your face. Your hands went to his broad chest as his started to go down your body until reaching your arse.

You were dirty, sweaty, a complete mess, and yet Cregan thought that you had never looked more desirable.

“Only them?” You asked, teasingly playing with the laces of his coat until it fell down surrounding his shoes.

“No,” he shook his hand, pulling you closer and making you feel his hardness through the fabric of his pants. You sighed, eyes already getting blurry with the aching lust between your legs. “I was scared… frightened.” His lips brushing against your jaw. “I thought I had lost you, I forced myself to heal faster only to go and look for you, my love.”

“No need, I’m already here…” You replied. Your eyes would not dare to leave his as your hand reached his growing erection. “I’m here, and I will never leave you again-”

You were barely able to finish the sentence before his delicious lips trapped yours in a lustful kiss that took your breath away. The missed touch had your heart jumping in your chest with excitement, love and lust. His hands grabbed your checks in order to keep your face close enough to devour your mouth with hunger and desire. He was craving for you as much as you were for him.

"Seeing you like this," he murmurs between kisses, his fingers going to the laces that were holding your pants. "I'm so fucking lucky to call you mine. My wife, my love, my princess."

"I did it all for you," you confessed in a whine, pulling his hair strong enough to make him moan. You pulled away as your fist was holding his locks with a bit of roughness that he loved to see in you. "I would make this entire world burn just for you."

His eyes sparkled with devotion as he softened his grip around your face. His gray eyes staring at yours with a glow you were already used to seeing on him whenever he laid eyes on you. The shadow of a tender smile appeared on his face before he leaned to kiss you again. It was softer, more delicate, leaving part of the lust of your bodies behind just to have a more intimate moment. His tongue entered your mouth elegantly, twirling against yours while you sighed and closed your eyes. The warmth within your chest gave you a feeling of comfort that you had not felt since you left Winterfell; gods, you missed him so much.

When he pulled away, he stared down at you. His thumb caressing your cheeks, wiping the dried blood out of your beautiful face. He could not help but smile, all of this was for him. You did it all for him. His heart would only beat faster on the realization of you unleashing the dragon inside you just for his protection.

There was something about that wild and dangerous side of you that made Cregan drool like a hungry puppy.

"I love you," he said, and you smiled.

"I love you," you replied.

But then the lust in his eyes returned, and you knew the soft moment had vanished. His hands went to your hips as he turned you around and bent you over the table. You chuckled softly at his action, feeling how he would rub himself against you as if he was trying to find some relief. You closed your eyes, leaning your head against his chest.

"My little dragon," he murmured against your ear, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. A soft moan was heard from you. "Fuck- I missed those pretty sounds so much."

You felt how he suddenly stepped back, and it was impossible for you to retain the loud gasp that escaped from your lips once Cregan pulled your pants down, dragging your small clothes with it. The coldness of the air caused shivers in your spine, especially after you noticed him kneeling behind you and his big hands spreading your arse cheeks. His thumbs exploring and touching your folds as he could only growl at the sight, your cunt was already dripping, glistening with your arousal.

Cregan leaned, close enough to brush his nose against your labia, teasing as he smelled your sweet scent and his mouth waters. That sweet, so delicious smell had been missed by him, and he could not wait to let himself drink from you until his lips felt sore. At that point, your legs were shaking with the anticipation of his mouth devouring as if you were his last meal.

"You've been such a good little wife, my princess," he whispered, his hot breath reaching your moist folds and making you whine. "Taking revenge for your husband, and bringing victory to our home."

His thumb started to tease your needy clit, proving small touches that were far from being enough to cause the much needed sensation of relief. You bit your lip, sighing with frustration. Your hips moving backwards as you desperately tried to reach a more intense touch, but Cregan would make you wait.

"So, so good…" he muttered, dropping light kisses in the flesh of your ass, "I'm gonna give my wife the reward she deserves, how about that?"

"Oh, fuck, please, my love," you breathed heavily, closing your eyes as the despair only grew within you. "I need you so much."

"Shh… I should be the one begging," Cregan replied.

You felt the fingertips of his thumbs spreading your labia before his tongue lapped at your sensitive folds. A moan, much louder than the ones before, was heard, and your eyes immediately went close at the delicious feeling of his tongue licking all your slick. He was eating you like a hungry man, after being deprived of you for so long he was despairingly trying to make it worth the wait. He had missed your taste, your smell, the way you would clench around his tongue, and how prettily your moans would sound.

The sound of his tongue against your wetness as he drank from you was beyond obscene. A mixture of his spit and your slick would slip down your thighs, making it messier and filthier that it already is. Your nails were digging on the wood of the ancient table beneath you, and your whimpers were getting louder.

His nose was teasing your entrance, causing the pleasure to become almost unbearable. With the birth of your third child and the weeks you spent apart, you had not been exposed to this kind of pleasure for a really long time, and you almost forgot how good it felt when your dutiful husband took care of you.

Once his tongue left your clit and started to go to your clenching hole, his fingers went to your swollen pearl, indulging the pleasure and making you see stars. You were a mumbling mess, not caring about keeping it quiet because you knew how much your husband loved to hear you, and you loved to make him know how good he was making you feel.

"Fuck, I'm- I'm getting so close, love," you rapidly said, breathy words leaving your throat as you moaned. "Your tongue feels so fucking good- oh, fuck! just like that…"

Your words seemed to only fuel his desire, for his eagerness only increased. He shook his head from side to side, his tongue never leaving your folds. You were able to feel the tightness in your lower belly as your legs started to shake. His whole face buried in you in order to give you the pleasure that you needed and deserved.

With a squeal, you felt your juices oozing out of you and falling into Cregan's tongue. You were able to hear him moan, his heavy breathing against your cunt as he was eagerly trying to get all your release inside his mouth.

Your body fell on top of the table, your eyes remaining closed as you tried to regularize your unsteady breathing. Cregan stood up, caressing the exposed flesh of your thighs as he leaned over your frame to kiss your cheek.

"We have the best cooks in the North, and yet their dishes will never be as delicious as your sweet cunt, my love," you both shared a breathy laugh after his words, your cheeks inevitably getting reddish and warm. "Come here."

His arms lift you up without issue, so effortlessly as always. He shifted your position until you were facing him, sitting on the table and with your legs surrounding his hips. His nose brushed against yours, and your hands went to his pants. He immediately stopped you.

"We can't," he said, "the Maester said we need to wait at least three fortnights."

"I can please you in other ways too, you know that," you reminded him.

"No, I just wanted to thank you-"

"And I want to thank you too," you interrupted him, removing his hand and keeping untying the laces of his pants until you removed them, freeing his shaft from the tightness of the fabric. "For all that you've done for us…"

"My love-"

"Be quiet," you silenced him. Your legs pushed him closer to you until his cock was pressed against your pearl. You both moaned at the feeling. "You know what to do now… please, don't make me beg."

"You little, needy thing…" he muttered before starting to move his hips. His mouth dropped open at the feeling of your lips wrapping around his length, it felt so warm and good. "Fuck, my love, I can't wait to be inside you once again." He confessed.

You smirked, "yeah?"

"Oh, Gods, yes…" his face was buried on the crook of your neck as your hand went to his cock to press it against your core. "As soon as you heal I'll fuck another babe inside you. Would you like that?"

"Y-yes," you nodded, your eyes looking directly at him as he sped his movements. "I can't- fuck… I

I can't wait to feel you inside me again. Filling me up so- oh, fuck, so good."

Cregan moaned at your words, getting harsher with his movements. His sack hitting against your slick, as he kept rubbing himself against you, growing desperate to spill himself on you. Your lips soon met on a needy kiss that silenced all the obscene sounds that were coming out of your mouths. It was messy, but none of you care, already drunk in the pleasure.

He pulled away at the same time that a whine left his lips. He grabbed his shaft and started to swiftly stroke it as he kept rubbing the tip on your clit. You came again, moaning his name before he coated your folds with thick drops of his pearly seed. His head fell backwards, his eyes rolling with pleasure as he hissed and groaned. You held your weight with your forearms as you looked at the mess he did on you.

Cregan soon held you tight, hiding his face on your neck once again. You chuckled softly, tiredly, caressing his hair and kissing whatever part of him you could reach.

"Don't ever leave me," he begged, "I can't do this without you."

"I won't, I promise," you replied in a whisper, smiling so bright.

He reached for your lips once again, kissing you gently and lovingly. It was brief, but as soon as he pulled away, he pressed his forehead against yours, enjoying the closeness of your bodies.

"But now I need to go and see my babies," you said, kissing his lips one last time before pulling back.

"Let me help you to clean you up," he quickly moved around, pulling his pants up to start looking for something that could work.

He found a clean cloak and went towards you. You let him help you, seeing how careful and delicate he always was with you. You smiled at him, and once he was ready, he made you stand up and lifted your pants. Next thing he did was throwing the cloak he used with you to the fire in the fireplace.

He grabbed your hand and walked with you towards the exit door, but before you were able to cross it, he stopped you to kiss you once more.

"I love you," he said again.

You bit your lip, hiding the enormous smile on yojr face.

"I love you."

BOLD MEANS I COULDN’T TAG YOU.

GENERAL TAG LIST — @borikenlove @aemondsversion @jvpit3rs @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore @valeskafics @clairacassidy @aemondx @randomdragonfires @theminesofmoria @gothtargaryen @melsunshine @urmomsgirlfriend1

CREGAN TAG LIST — @satansdarlin @aelora-a @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @xfancyuu @megatardisbaby

[floralcyanide]

— ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴊᴀᴠɪ ɪɪ (nsfw)

After being with Javi romantically for 6 months, you finally meet again when he is discharged from the military.

part one

↝ pairing: Javier "Javi" Rivera/ Fem!Reader

↝ warnings: smut (mdni!), unprotected sex, unsafe sex, penetrative sex, oral (f receiving), nipple play, fingering, long distance, read has anxiety (again)

↝ word count: 3k

↝ author’s note: here is part two! I hope you all enjoy (: I may continue this in the future but idk yet. let me know what you think.

masterlist ⋇ divider credit: @cafekitsune

this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Javi asks you to be his girlfriend the following February through one last letter. The two of you have opted to talk over the phone now. It’s the best possible scenario- one you never could have imagined- to have ended up in a relationship with someone you genuinely cared about and liked. It’s also a plus that you have a lot in common and are comfortable with each other. The more time passes, the more something seems to be missing. After four months of really talking romantically and two months of dating, you realize it’s the physical factor. It doesn’t bother you too much, but it is something you wish you could do with Javi. Whether it’s kissing or holding hands, or other things- you want that. But not with anyone else but him. 

Javi always talks about how he wishes he could hold and touch you. He even gets a little explicit in letters he sends about how exactly he’d touch you. Every time you think about it, you shiver and have to clamp your legs together. It wasn’t until you had a wet dream about Javi that you started thinking about what sex would be like with him. It wasn’t really something that had crossed your mind when you first started talking or even became an item. But that random dream had you frazzled and made you start thinking about it more often. That’s around the time you and Javi started flirting heavily over the phone and through your writing. 

The two of you had decided to meet up again sometime in the fall, possibly around September or October. Those plans are scrapped when you get a phone call one night in August as you settle for bed. 

“Javi? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything is all good. I just wanted to call you with good news.”

“Oh really? What’s up?” you immediately sit up in bed.

“I’m being discharged for a project in Oklahoma the government wants me to do. I can’t go into detail yet, but I’ll be coming around your area again to stay with my aunt and uncle until I find somewhere out west to live, courtesy of the U.S. Government,” Javi says, and you grow excited.

“That’s great to hear! Did you want to meet up when you get back?”

“Of course, baby. Would you mind picking me up from the airport? I can snag a hotel for a few days before heading to my family’s place. Sound okay with you?”

“Sounds perfect!”

Javi calls again the next day with more details on when he’d be returning. He’s flying into the same airport where the two of you met, so you don’t have to drive far. He says it’ll be a week from now when he arrives, and you’re beyond ecstatic. Deciding to be bold, you shop around for something cute to wear underneath your clothes for when you meet up with Javi. Perhaps something in his favorite color? You’re giddy just thinking about spending time with your boyfriend. Your best friend nearly keeled over when you told them about Javi finally asking you to be his girl.

“Ah, yes, at last, the curse is broken!” they had joked, and you immediately smacked their arm in response.

But they were right. Your dry spell had finally come to an end. 

The week flies by, much to your surprise, and before you know it, you’re trying to decide what to pack. You decide on mostly comfy clothes and some decent stuff in case Javi wants to take you out. After including some toiletries, you climb into bed and get some rest for your drive tomorrow. 

You nearly oversleep by accident, your warning alarm going off and letting you know you had just 15 minutes before you needed to leave. You scramble out of bed and hurry to the bathroom to wash up and wake up before getting hurriedly dressed. Deciding on doing your makeup while waiting at the airport, you pack that up and ensure you have everything before dashing out of your front door. Taking some deep breaths once in the car, you blast your music and start traveling. After grabbing some coffee, of course. Traffic is thankfully not too shabby on your way to the airport, and since it’s not the holidays, you find parking quite easily. Immediately upon finishing your journey through TSA, you go to a secluded family restroom to make yourself presentable. Some mascara here and blush there with a dash of concealer, and you’re looking a little more lively than before. You find the gate where Javi will leave his plane and take a seat, deciding to doom scroll on the social media of your choice. 

It’s finally around the time for Javi to arrive, and sure enough, a text pops up saying he’s landed. You sit up in your seat and try to remain calm. Last time, meeting Javi was pretty scary, but this time, you’re more excited than anything. Not only because you know him and are comfortable around him but because you get to experience him as your lover. When people begin filing out of the gate, you anxiously await Javi. You spot his head of curls right away, a giant grin spreading across your face. Javi sees you, and his expression mirrors yours. He beckons you to come to him. You all but run and immediately jump into his open arms, wrapping yourself around him. Burying your face into his neck, you realize that you’ll be coming out of the gates from now on when you visit Javi in Oklahoma. 

You pull away from each other and move out of the crowd and back to where you were sitting. Javi cradles your face in his hands, staring deeply into your eyes. Back on New Year’s Eve, you had wanted Javi to kiss you so badly, but not as badly as you’ve been wanting it here lately. Not as badly as you want it right now. Javi leans in and closes the space between the two of you, bringing his lips to yours in a soft, brief kiss. You smile as you pull away, Javi’s hands still on your face.

“There’s more where that came from, I promise,” Javi winks, “Let’s get to baggage claim and get the hell out of here.”

“Say less.”

Javi had a lot of luggage with him this time- as much as he could bring with him, anyway. The rest of his belongings would be shipped to where his aunt and uncle reside. After loading up the luggage cart, the two of you exit the airport and head to the parking garage, an airport employee following close behind. Once your car has everything in it, the employee wishes you a good day and heads off with the cart. You and Javi climb into your car and head in the direction of the hotel, Javi telling you where to turn every now and then. You let him pick the music despite the short duration, but he appreciates it anyway. Once you arrive at the hotel, you grab your bag and Javi grabs his that had everything he needed right away. Everything else is packed away. You’re suddenly super nervous as Javi works on checking in. You try to brush it off quickly as the two of you head to the elevator. Javi reaches over and grabs your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. Your nervousness seems to melt away at the gesture. 

Javi lets you know he’s taking a shower the second you step inside the room.

“I will be searching for something to watch while you do that,” you say, “I’ll probably hop in after you.”

“Why not save some water and shower with me?” Javi wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You roll your eyes, finding the closest pillow and throwing it squarely into his face, “Easy there, tiger.”

“I’m just playing,” Javi chuckles, tossing the pillow back at you, “We can have fun later.”

The nervousness creeps back in, but you push it aside and go through the action movie category as you hear the shower turn on. Settling on a movie you’ve seen several times, you get comfy on the bed. You update your best friend, telling them that if you don’t respond for a while, you’re busy with your boyfriend.

“Have fun in Pound Town, bestie! (;” they text, and you snort.

“I will savor every minute of it!” you respond.

“Use protection!!!!! I don’t want any nieces or nephews yet.”

You toss your phone to the side and decide to go ahead and get your comfy clothes ready, along with your toiletries and the cute underwear you picked out. An idea pops into your head as you pick out one of your shirts. You decide to sneak one of Javi’s out of his bag to wear instead, choosing a rather large one. Moments later, the shower turns off, and the bathroom door opens, revealing Javi with nothing but a towel on. 

“It’s all yours, baby,” he smiles at you, and you go to walk past him into the bathroom, but he stops you by grabbing your hips.

Javi leans down to give you a more passionate kiss than the one at the airport. The smell of his soap entices you, almost dizzying you to the point that you can’t pull away. Eventually, you have to in order to catch your breath and take your turn to rinse off. You close the door behind you and collect yourself for a moment before turning the shower on. You avoid washing your hair or getting your face wet, as you showered last night and also didn’t want to ruin your makeup. So, you just quickly wash your body, hop out of the shower stall, and moisturize before getting dressed. You stare at yourself in the slightly foggy mirror, trying to see how you look in the lingerie you got. You try not to psych yourself out and decide you’ve spent enough time in the bathroom, pulling on your shorts and Javi’s t-shirt. 

Exiting the ensuite, you spot Javi on the bed where you were earlier, watching the movie you had turned on. Javi does a double take when you walk toward the bed, a face-splitting grin on his face when he realizes you’re wearing one of his shirts. 

“Nice shirt,” he smirks.

“Thanks. It’s my boyfriend’s,” you climb onto the bed and kiss Javi’s cheek before settling next to him. 

“Well, he’s a very lucky guy,” Javi jokes, repositioning himself to lay his head in your lap.

“Indeed he is,” you say, your hand wandering into Javi’s hair.

Javi moves his face slightly, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “Can he show you how lucky he is?”

“That depends,” you say, tapping your chin with your finger, “How would he show me?”

“By doing this,” Javi kisses your skin again before spreading both of your legs apart, laying in between them and kissing along your inner thighs.

“And this,” he pushes himself up by his arms on either side of you, angling his head toward yours and leaning in for a kiss.

The kiss isn’t short or teasing this time- it’s hot and passionate. You allow Javi to dominate your mouth with his tongue, letting him explore as he lays you back against the pillows behind you. His hands slide under the shirt you’re wearing, running themselves against your warm skin before moving upward. Much to Javi’s delight, there’s a thin lace covering your breasts so that he can provoke the peaks on them with just a light rubbing of his thumbs. You groan into the kiss as Javi teases your nipples through the bralette repeatedly, his body pressed to yours. Javi pulls away from the kiss to move his head underneath the shirt and unclasp the bra from behind, allowing it to move off your breasts. He pushes it to your collarbone so he has full access to you. Javi tests the waters by kitten licking one of your nipples, to which you arch your back. He places a hand on the curve of your back to hold you steady as he toys with the other peak lightly between the fingers of his free hand. Simultaneously, he stimulates your nipples with a feather-light touch and a nip here and there, causing you to throb helplessly between your legs. 

Javi gradually gets rougher the louder you become and the squirmier you get. He’ll sometimes twist your nipple before soothing it with his tongue or roll it between his teeth to make you jerk your hips into his ribs. Just when you think you’re going to lose your mind from the pleasure of Javi playing with you, he pulls out of the shirt.

“And don’t forget that he’d show you how lucky is by doing this, too,” Javi slips his fingers underneath the waistband of your shorts, “Only if you want him to, though.”

“Please,” you whimper, “I want you to touch me, Javi. I’ve been wanting it for so long.”

“I’ll take care of you, baby girl. Don’t worry about it,” Javi pecks you on the lips as he slides down your shorts, revealing the dampened underwear in his favorite color.

“Like it?” you smirk.

“I love it,” Javi moves his thumb over the wet patch, making you hiss.

He slowly pulls the garment down your legs and off completely before spreading your legs apart, relishing in how wet you’ve become from his touch. Javi pushes the side of your knee into the bed as he moves the other one to your chest, opening you up fully to him. He wastes no time gathering your slick with his tongue and circling your clit with it, causing you to gasp. Javi has to bare down on your knees to keep you still as he suckles the bundle of nerves. He lets go of one to spread you open further with his fingers, exposing your clit fully to him. Javi flattens his tongue and shakes his head from side to side before flicking the bud around with the tip of his tongue again. He delves it inside of your weeping cunt, testing to see how wet you are before pushing a finger inside. Feeling how drenched you are and how easily you’re taking just one, he adds another, curling them against your walls. You’re probably being a little too loud with how good you feel, but you don’t care and neither does Javi. The combination of his mouth and fingers is doing wonders for you right now. 

“Do you want me inside you?” Javi pauses momentarily, making sure to ask before going all in.

“Yes,” you say, “Don’t make me beg, please. Not this time, anyway.”

Javi chuckles, removing his fingers from you and sitting up on his knees, keeping you in the same position, “Noted.”

After removing his clothing, Javi wastes no time pumping himself a few times before lining up with your entrance. You hope all of him will fit, judging by his size. As he slowly presses inside, you bite your lip and take it. It’s definitely been a while for you, but you take it in stride. Before you know it, Javi is fully sheathed inside you, your cunt sucking him in already. He pulls out before guiding himself back in, the feeling causing your eyes to roll back into your head and your lips to form an ‘o’ shape. Javi curses as he repeats the action, this time a little quicker and harder. He forms a rhythm in no time, pounding you into the bed steadily. He reaches down and rubs your clit in soft, teasing circles as he fucks you. You cry out his name, grasping onto his biceps desperately. 

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this,” you manage to say despite your gasps for air, “I’ve thought about it a little too much.”

“Don’t think I haven’t imagined this every time I had a moment alone on base,” Javi says.

“Is it everything you hoped for?” you ask.

“Much better than I had hoped, actually,” he smiles.

Your leg is hitched atop Javi’s shoulder now, allowing him a better angle. You’re nearly in tears from how good it all feels, the flames of pleasure licking at your belly dangerously. You can feel the knot in your stomach getting close to coming undone.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn, and Javi pinches your clit slightly before he snaps his hips forward harshly, urging you closer to your orgasm.

“Me too, baby,” he says, not letting up on his pace one bit.

As Javi rubs your clit again, your cunt clenched around him as you cum, your body on fire. He follows close behind, collapsing into you as you both ride out your climaxes. Javi carefully pulls out of you before rolling over next to you and pulling you into his chest. He plays with your hair as the two of you catch your breath. You’re a little disheveled- your bra is still hiked up your chest, and you’re still sporting Javi’s shirt. You decide to sit up and take off both, but Javi stops you.

“Keep the shirt on. It looks good on you,” he looks at you fondly.

You spend the rest of the day watching movies and ordering takeout, enjoying each other’s company. The next few days are like a dream, spending time with Javi and going out and doing things. The two of you decide to remain long distance and see where things go. If the relationship grows stronger, you’re going to think about possibly moving to Oklahoma once you’re done with university. It depends on what happens between you and Javi for the next few months. 

Either way, you’re beyond happy right now. All thanks to writing a random pen pal in the military, you’ve possibly found who you’re spending your life with. It can’t get much better than that.

[endless-ineffabilities]

The Bolter (part four)

Steve Rogers x f!reader / (Bucky Barnes x f!reader)

synopsis : Steve carries out his decision to return to Peggy, aiming to live out the rest of his days with her. But this means he's leaving everything behind - he's leaving you. Did he make the right choice? Will there be anything left with you to come back to?

in this chapter : Steve realises where home is, both in 2017 and in the 1950s. The reader bolts, faced with the memory of the woman Steve cherishes. Bucky starts to find himself drawn to you.

themes/warnings : pining, unrequited love, angst

word count : 2.6k

main masterlist ▪︎ series masterlist

2017, a year after the Avengers' Civil War

It had been nearly four months of the arrangement that you and Steve shared. Hiding away in some remote cabin in Alaska.

Time was running out. You both knew you had to get a move on soon, as you can't stay in one place for too long.

If only you actually stayed put, and didn't cause Steve to worry almost every other week.

He quickly realized that you came and went when you pleased. A habit you must have picked up from your profession, one that Steve was sure would drive him to madness.

He was glaring at the newspaper he picked up from the nearest town when he made a supply run.

Your name was printed in bold lettering, along with your moniker, Huntress. Wanted for conspiring against the State, it read. You had been spotted in some other city, a blurred-out CCTV snapshot of your face included on the page.

If seen, please alert your local authorities. Suspected to be in hiding with Steve Rogers, famously known as Captain America. Reward to be disclosed.

Captain America. Steve never thought there would come a time when that name would leave a bad taste in his mouth, until now. He wondered what excuse you would have this time. Which person was it that you just needed to help? What was this important thing that justified suddenly leaving without telling Steve?

Steve hated your absence, but he knew he was being a hypocrite. He admired how eager you were to help your friends. If he was in your place, he would probably do the same.

He had begun thinking of the next plan. He knew he would always be welcome in Wakanda, but he didn't want to abuse their generosity. It would subject them to intense scrunity in the international political arena and they were already doing more than enough with just taking Bucky in.

No matter the next step, wherever the location, Steve found himself thinking of you. He would always think in terms of we, not I.

Where would we go next? Where would we be safe?

You were free to go wherever you wanted, of course. The others have been roaming different corners of the world, and maybe it was even safer that way, to spread out in those circumstances.

You could choose to go alone to a different hideout, and of course he would have to accept that.

But Steve didn't want you to leave him.

Why? What was he to you? What were you to him? Steve thought of how he never had the best timing. He knew there was something there, and you had to know it too.

He felt it whenever you would smile at him as he handed you your cup of coffee. He felt it in how comfortable it was when you would both read in silence at the opposite ends of the couch in the living room. He felt it in how much you cared, in how you understood his strong tether to Bucky.

And that small cabin was the biggest testament to it all. It was absurd, how much it felt like a home to Steve.

A home, while he was being hunted down and scorned by the country whose values he so proudly stood for and represented. A place of refuge, while everything else was in shambles.

He knew it was all because of you.

If only you would be quick in coming back home.

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You didn't mean to leave abruptly again, without giving any notice.

Really, you swore you didn't.

You were also lying to yourself. Because you knew it was all because of what Steve mentioned a few nights prior.

Or rather, who.

It was all going well, you thought. You were getting to know your dangerously attractive housemate quite well. So much so, that you had decided he would be the first one you'd call if you ever got into trouble or needed a shoulder to cry on.

Natasha would understand, of course. She had been in contact, updating on her whereabouts, and also checking in on her apparent ship.

"Ship? Here in the woods?" You had been visibly confused, stupidly glancing out the window as if that very ship would materialise.

"No, you idiot. Ship... relationship. A couple. All the kids are using it these days."

Oh. You debated acting oblivious but you knew that would never fly with someone like Natasha. Nothing really got past her, and you had to admit, your excitement flared up a little bit every time she hinted at something between you and Steve.

Nat was one of the shrewdest people you ever met, and she didn't have the habit of stirring things for no reason.

So you believed her, and you hoped.

In that cabin, in that isolated little bubble, Steve was really all you had and vice versa. Selfishly, you wished you never had to leave. You found yourself imagining that you were an actual couple, maybe even married. That you had chosen to live together in that place, and that circumstances did not just force you together.

That image quickly came crashing down, the curtains closing in the middle of a play. Because that was all it was - make believe.

You and Steve were sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace one late night, your mind going haywire because his knee was pressed against yours. Your heartbeat skipping because he would pat your leg once in a while.

Maybe it was a Steve thing. Maybe it was just a gesture people make when they tell stories to their friends. But friends wouldn't lean in so close, would they?

He eagerly shared about his life in the 30s, when he was an asthmatic hundred-pound determined youngster. When he'd only ever been Steve. He kept a box of personal things that reminded him of his era, and the two of you perused through them. You smiled at the brochure from a museum exhibit that featured him and Bucky. Tried flicking on rusty old lighters. Jokingly saluted him while putting on the pins that were circulated when he was first introduced to the public as Captain America.

Your delusional self thought you noticed his focus drifting to your lips almost every time you replied to him, and that he got that look in his eyes.

But you reached in the box and picked up what looked like a compass. You pried it open, and one glance at his face told you everything.

In it was an image of Peggy Carter, you recognised. You knew all about her and her work for SHIELD. You knew her and Steve had been acquainted back in their day, but you didn't know how much.

He leaned back almost immediately, his touch no longer on you, looking like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"Peggy Carter, right?" you offered eventually, balancing the compass in your palm. From what you can recall, she had passed recently. But clearly her ghost was still haunting Steve.

"Y-yeah," he stammered, strangely unable to look you in the eye. "I met her just before I was put to the serum, actually."

Well, that's definitely something. She knew him when he was just Steve, and she saw him. That must have left a mark.

"So... can you tell me about her?" you asked to fill the silence. To quell the barage of intrusive thoughts you had.

Steve noticed the difference in your posture, straightened back and stiff smile. You had been freely laughing moments ago, and he had been too. He wouldn't be able to remember what he said after that, distracted by the sudden coldness in your expression. He must have said something about Peggy being good at her job. About how big of an impact she made on SHIELD.

You didn't want to ask about the obvious thing, and you didn't have to. You could see it in his eyes.

You were also responding on auto-pilot. Like you were simply making small talk. The mood had changed, and you hated yourself for not looking into Steve's file with more detail. There must have been clues there about his past relationship with Peggy.

But if you had known... then what?

You would have fallen for him anyway. But at least, you would be aware that you were falling for someone who wasn't yours to keep.

Because if there ever was something, Peggy's unfading light is one you don't want to compete with.

You let the conversation go on for a few minutes more, to not arouse his suspicion, before making some excuse about being tired and needing sleep.

Hold on, you heard him plead. Maybe you can show him one of the movies you kept telling him about? The one with the Anakin character you liked?

You did your best not to cave in.

Even if all you wanted was to crumble, and kiss him hard enough that any remnants of Peggy Carter still lingering would dissipate.

When you heard that your friend Mason needed some help getting Secretary Ross off his tail, you jumped on the opportunity to leave. Even though Natasha already said she would be on it.

Of course, she saw right through you.

The task was quick and easy and soon enough, the three of you were sitting on lawn chairs in front of her cozy trailer in Norway, when Mason cheekily commented on the little arrangement you had with the Captain America.

"How do you do it?" he joked. "Being under the same roof as him, and not getting some of that? I mean, I know you're all international criminals right now, but even criminals need some loving once in a while."

"Leave her alone," Natasha quipped, pointing at him.

"We're friends," you said defensively, to which Nat raised her eyebrows at you.

"Sure, hon," she said, before taking a swig of her beer. "Shouldn't you be making your way back to him? Steve must be worried."

You shrugged, but you knew she was right. It didn't feel right being away from him like that. Running away like you were a teenager acting out.

It took you only two days to come back, with the help of one of Mason's many smuggled helicopters.

You felt his presence immediately once you stepped foot in the cabin.

Days old newspapers sprawled on the kitchen counter. Fresh coffee on the pot. The surprising but pleasant smell of baked goods coming from inside the oven.

He materialised from your periphery, wiping his hands clean on a towel. Clean-shaven once more, your eyes getting drawn to his pink lips now in clear view.

"Did you - "

"Oh, yeah," he said, gesturing towards the oven. "I tried making you something. Nat called me and said you were on your way back."

That traitor.

But then Steve added, "Welcome back," with that sheepish smile on his face, and you forgot what you were supposed to be pretending to be annoyed at Nat for.

It was comfortable, familiar, like home, when you both silently enjoyed the blueberry muffins he prepared.

You expected him to lecture you, to remind you of the dangers of running off by yourself again. But he took a gentler approach.

It felt good when he made sure you were okay, asking the same question but in three iterations. Are you okay? Did everything go well? Does anything hurt at all?

Did he know why you left so abruptly? Did he suspect anything?

Later that evening, he brought up the fact that perhaps you both should be moving on to another safe place.

You felt his eyes glued onto you, gauging your reaction.

Taking a deep breath, you said, "Okay."

Steve had been practicing what to say, how to ask you, while you were away. He would suggest that you were safer together. That the two of you could go see Bucky for a time. That it was probably smarter for you to stick with someone like him - if you ever got caught, he could use himself as leverage, negotiate in order to lighten your sentence.

But all that was no longer needed, because you asked, "Where will we go?", without wavering.

We.

It turned out Steve wasn't going to lose his home, after all.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The 1950s, six months after Steve's arrival

Steve is certain that there must be something wrong with him.

Maybe he's just been in the fray for far too long, going from one fight to the next, that now he is supposed to settle and be at peace - he can't.

It disappoints him. He's frustrated with himself. He's become angry.

It's not fair. How does he still feel like a man out of time for someone who has returned back to where he supposedly came from. Back to where he belongs.

Peggy has noticed his frustration, so she suggested they head down to a local fancy restaurant once a week.

A recurring date of sorts, giving them the chance to spend one-on-one time together. They had both been busy - Peggy with SHIELD, Steve with his newfound job managing a local community centre.

His job was simple enough, definitely less demanding than what he's used to, and he's satisfied that he still gets to be of service. He's also refurbishing their home. Doing everything to keep busy.

Everything to keep you out of his mind.

But Hunter would stroll in when he would fit the new wooden panels for the back porch.

Hunter, his dog. Named so because Steve had the thought that Huntress would appreciate the tribute.

You would, but you aren't there.

He's supposed to be at peace now. He's supposed to finally feel at home.

But he wasn't called the man out of time for no reason, and he's come to accept that maybe they had been onto something.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

2024, six months after Steve's departure

Bucky's date is going well. At least he thinks so. Not that he would have much knowledge on how these things go nowadays.

His first date as himself, James Barnes, since the 1940s. Leah's a lovely girl, but it was mostly due to yours and Yori's instigating that he caved in and asked her out.

Well, he didn't really ask. You did. But Leah was kind enough to accept.

The conversation is fine, flowing smoothly, a couple beers shared between the two.

Leah asks how old he is, and he replies dryly, "106."

Bucky isn't sure she got it, but it's better this way. She doesn't need to know who he is, or what he's done. She wouldn't understand.

As they play a round of Battleship, Bucky wonders if you would be good at this game, if you would playfully stare into his eyes much like Leah is doing.

He thinks of how much he likes your eyes, and the way you look at him.

But he is 106 after all, so he's not some fool. He suspects that he might be a stand-in for his revered lost bestfriend. Do you see him, and only him, or is he partially hidden behind Steve's shadow?

Do you keep him around, because he reminds you of him?

Bucky decides he's not ready to know the answer to those questions. Not just yet.

Leah makes another move. He lets her win.

He calls you right after the date. You did say that he should tell you all about it.

"So how was it?" you eagerly ask right away, not even bothering with a hello.

Bucky finds himself smiling at your voice, pausing on the sidewalk on the way back to his apartment, "Have you played Battleship before?"

Read chapter five here ~

taglist (let me know if you wish to be added!) : @vicmc624 @littleliyah16 @babezawa @klammykayla @justsebstan @blue--ingenue @numblytemporary @bradshawass @delicious-xx @mrsevans90 @heartarianagran @tinystarfishgalaxy @kyoquixote @mochibochinochi @spngingerbread21 @zbeez-outlet @rena15 @raging-panda @marveldaydreamer

Happy TTPD release day! I just knew The Bolter would be one of my favourites!!!

The final scene is in reference to the first episode of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Lil bit of a spoiler!!!! -- We'll see them all back together in the middle of that series.

There will only two-three more chapters of jumping back and forth in time. I'm also worried I'll confuse myself with the timeline. If the months/years aren't aligned with MCU canon, please ignore it.

Also - if not in the next one, then there will definitely be smut in chapter six. But with who???? Steve or Bucky? I'll let you guys speculate... 👀

[thetriumphantpanda]

rainy days | frankie morales

Summary | It has never been your favourite day, but he always knows how to make it better.

Pairing | Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Word Count |

Warnings | Mentions of depression and sadness, negative feelings around birthdays, Frankie makes it all better, two idiots truly in love, allusions to smut but nothing explicit.

Authors Note | To my darling Jo, @undercoverpena - whilst this is my entry to your birthday celebration (I got the colour old rose, apologies for the tenuous link to brief you're about to read), it is also my love letter to you. To the woman you are. To the friend you have become. A love letter to the fact that you can be soft and emotional and have flaws and still be worthy of all the love in the world. Because you are. I have said it many times in recent days, but it is the truth, that I love you unconditionally and I am forever grateful for your friendship and love. I am here for you. I see you. I understand you. And I love you. Happy Birthday darling woman.

He knows it isn’t your favourite day of the year. One that is usually meant to bring joy and happiness and love is instead one that fills you with dread. Worried people would forget, having to force a smile at gifts that show that they really don’t know you at all.

He knows not to push it either. He’s good at that. Knowing the battles to pick and those to leave. You suppose that’s why you love him so much. The way he’s comfortable to sit in your hurt with you, not immediately jumping into fixing it, because it’s been years and you don’t think he could truly unravel everything behind the feelings. But he’s there, with a strong arm around you and a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t need words, just his presence to say I’m here, I see you and I love you regardless.

It rains, because of course it does, weather to match mood, drowning out any hopes of the walk he’d promised. You distract yourself, cleaning mainly, even though the kitchen counters are spotless and the vacuum has been used more times in the past week than it has in the previous two years since you bought it. Distraction mainly, but now, with nothing to do, you sit. Listen to the fat raindrops and odd rumble of thunder. You reread the same four pages of your book, hopelessly trying to stop checking your phone for missed calls or messages of glad tidings.

The doorbell rings, startling you. Clad in a big jumper, leggings and socks, hair scraped back, you open the door, roar of rain rushing in, to find him standing there. Your man. Your Frankie. He’s soaked to the bone, t-shirt wet and cap dripping, but he’s smiling, both hands behind his back.

“You’ll catch your death, Morales,” you chastise lightly, moving aside for him to step into the warmth of your house, but he makes no effort to move, “Are you coming in?”

It almost makes you laugh when he starts talking, like a scene from the old romcoms you used to watch, but you let him do it anyway. His right hand moves first, a beautiful bouquet of flowers, a dusty rose colour, which he hands to you. They remind you of the paint swatches, the way he’d patiently waited at the store for you to pick it. And then painted eleven swatches on the living room wall until you settled on one. Old rose.

“Hermosa,” he breathes, “Feliz cumpleaños.”

He bends, warm lips to your cheek, finally stepping across the threshold into your home, the place he spends more time in than his own home, his other secret revealed in the shape of a basket, woven, with a telltale red and white gingham poking out.

“Damn the rain,” he says, “and damn this misery, I know we can’t have this outside, but I know you hate eating outside anyway.”

He holds the basket up to you, lets you open the top. It’s full to the brim with food, all of your favourite things from your favourite places you’ve been with him in the past year. Pastries from the coffee shop where you had your first date, fruit from the farmer’s market you visit each Sunday, sandwiches from the shop you always stop at when you visit him at work to make sure he’s eating - it’s all there, in black and white, the moments you’ve shared, tiny, edible pieces of his love and care for you, that’s he’s the first person to ever truly see you, to ever truly know you. It makes your eyes water and your nose sniffle.

You press up on tiptoes and gently slant your lips over his, trying to tell him without words how much this means, how much you truly do love him.

You spread a blanket on the floor, unpack the food and sit for hours, eating and talking and kissing, until it goes dark outside. It still rains as he clears up, lightening now illuminating the sky, it rains as he leads you upstairs and undressed you, and thunder cracks along with your gasps and moans when he buries himself inside you.

It eases late, after he’s woken you in the dead of night with his mouth fused to your cunt. Draped across his chest, silence, save for the two of your breathing, you realise that this is all you need. One man who will do the most for you. One man who will continue, day in and day out, that he truly loves you. Maybe it won’t fix the disdain for your birthday, maybe it won’t fix anything else, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he found you and he loves you.

“Muchas gracias,” you whisper softly against his skin, “Te amo, mi amor.”

“Te amo, querida.”

[ivystoryweaver]

With You part 12

<-prev next-> || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist

Summary: You and your husband adjust to life with Jake in the mix and Marc gone quiet.

Pairings: Steven Grant x gn!reader, Jake Lockley x gn!reader, Marc Spector x gn!reader. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 3k

Content: fluff, some angst, spicy times (more under the cut)

Warnings: cursing, references to Marc's trama/past, food prep and talk about food (I know this can be triggering for some) sex implied, foreplay, handjob, but language is not overly explicit and is gn. Probably inaccurate DID, based on the show.

Steven arrived home from work, having narrowly escaped a London downpour. Setting his bag down right inside the door, he shed his damp jacket and kicked off his shoes, thinking Marc might pipe up and scold him at any moment.

Marc was the neat one. Like military neat. Like, don't leave a mess or mom will make you regret it, neat. Like erase your existence from your alter...from the authorities...from the world, neat.

Steven was the messy one. Scatterbrained, he'd been called by a boss or two. It wasn't so much scatterbrained as it was a bit of unaware brain sharing.

But he hadn't shared much of anything with Marc lately. Not since Khonshu had stripped him of his armor mid-fight and almost gotten him killed. That was two weeks ago.

Padding over to his fish tank, Steven placed his hands on his knees, bending forward to take a look at his tiny little school. There were four fishies now, which almost seemed appropriate. One for Steven, Marc, you and now Jake.

Narrowing his eyes, Steven scrutinized the colorful little creatures before reaching for some fish food.

"All right then, time to eat," he chimed. Dumping a few flakes into the water, he smiled at their eager nibbles, until his eyes caught his own reflection.

"You there?" He asked, not actually addressing anyone, but definitely thinking of Marc. "No? ...didn't think so."

With a sigh, Steven sauntered to the kitchen to start the kettle. The flat was dark - the thunderstorm outside made sure of it, and he worried, for a moment, about you trudging home in these conditions.

"Should be alright," he mused to himself, the way he was prone to do. "Not due home for a couple hours yet."

He stopped short when he saw a note on the kitchen counter. It was not unlike the several notes you had left for Jake, on the bedside table. Same envelope at least.

"What's this, then?" he mused, picking it up.

The letters, displayed in your handwriting, spelled 'Marc'.

"Hm. Left you a note. Best come read it," Steven tried to tell his alter. Hearing nothing, he chewed on his lip for a moment before turning the envelope over in his hand.

The contents really did belong to Marc, but Steven felt that maybe had had the best chance of actually communicating with him. So he opened the letter and began to read aloud.

"Hope you don't mind, but I'm going to be reading this," Steven said to no one, because apparently no one was listening. "If you're not going to look at it, you should at least hear it."

'Dear Marc, I can't remember the last time we've gone so long without seeing one another, or at least speaking. Even on your longest missions, it never felt like this. If I could go back to the last time I saw you huddled on the kitchen floor, I would have never let you out of my arms. I would have never ranted about what Jake should do, or how much I hate Khonshu. I would've just held on and told you the truth over and over - that you're everything. That it didn't matter to me if you wore the suit again without telling me because I trust you, and because you can make your own decisions. I've always trusted your judgment. You are the real Moon Knight and you had every right to put on the suit if you felt like you wanted or needed to. I would have told you I support you 100%, that you're needed, that you're loved - that my anger and my bright ideas about how we should march right up to Khonshu and punch his bony beak didn't matter, not when you were feeling so shut out, so displaced, so thrown backwards in time, made to feel any less than. You are not less than Steven. You are not less than Jake. Or me. And you sure as hell are not less than an ancient deity who needs a modern day human body to roam the streets of London. It is he who needs you. And I need you. I need you, Marc. I need to see you again so badly, I can't even breathe sometimes. Not at night, after Steven falls asleep, not in the shower sometimes, or at work, when someone asks after you. I need you so much. Please, this isn't about making you feel guilty. You're my husband. You are the love of my life. I know you're resting now. I know you're taking the time you need. Steven is taking good care of you. But when you're ready, please, please come back to me. I love you so much.'

Running a hand over his chin, Steven folded the letter and put it back where he found it. Peering at his reflection in the microwave, Steven waited...hoping...

But it was quiet.

The next night, you made it home first. Steven had spoiled you rotten the previous, stormy evening. He claimed he was treating you to some warm soup and a hot bath because you were drenched when you arrived home.

But you knew it was because he read your letter and wanted to cheer you up. In fact, you believed that Steven missed Marc too. They didn't always co-front - you typically were only with one of them at a time, but they did talk all the time, and what you had sworn to Marc one afternoon on the rooftop was true: he was Steven's best friend in all the world.

So, a comforting bath and cuddles in bed made you both feel worlds better.

Tonight you wanted to show Steven a little love right back. It was really too bad that you found yourself elbow deep in making vegan fajitas when you heard the front door, because you desperately wanted a big hug.

"I'm in here, babe!" You called, dripping your way over to the sink to wash up.

Steven would have normally spouted off a greeting, two terms of endearment and one fun fact by the time he reached you, but as you turned to see him leaning against the door frame, you only heard the sound of your name...in an American accent.

Your heart rate tripled - your face flamed hot...then you saw your husband's dark curls were covered by a flat cap.

Holy shit. "Jake?"

"Hola," he winked, folding his arms over his chest. Noticing your apparent distress - and automatically assuming he was the cause, the corners of his mouth turned downward.

"Mi amor?" He questioned, his eyes going wide like a child getting in trouble.

"Jake!" You breathed, rushing up to throw your arms around him.

His body sagged in relief, melting into yours until he found the strength to wrap his bigger, stronger arms around your frame.

"Oh my god, oh my god," you gasped, gripping him desperately. "You're here, I can't believe it."

Surprised but thrilled at how relieved and happy you seemed, Jake nuzzled the spot right above your ear, running his hands up and down your back soothingly.

"I hope it's all right," he whispered, his hot breath tickling your ear.

Easing back, you gazed up into his deep brown eyes. "What do you mean? Of course it's all right."

Chewing on his lip worriedly, he shrugged one shoulder adorably, still holding on to you. "It's not a bad time, is it? You're not...supposed to be with Steven? Or anyone?"

You melted. "Baby, it's your body. If you're here, you're here. You don't need my permission." Gently caressing his cheek, you shook your head in wonder. "I just - I don't think I've ever seen you before midnight."

Glancing down at his outfit, you realized you didn't recognize his clothing as Steven or Marc's. Your heart swelled, seeing this new piece of him - a faded, denim jacket over a striped t-shirt.

"And I've never seen you wear anything except Steven's PJ's or your driving uniform," you added, brushing your hand over his.

"Or nothing at all," he cheekily added, biting his lip, waiting for your reaction.

You grinned like a fool, giggling as he swooped you up into a tender kiss. He sampled your lips one at a time, sucking gently, taunting you - until you licked hotly into his mouth, sinking your fingers into his curls. This knocked the cap off his head, which made him growl in response.

Two strong hands dragged your thighs around his waist and in a few long strides, he planted you on the countertop with an 'umph!'

"Sorry," he murmured, his forehead touching yours affectionately as he squeezed your hips, settling right between your spread thighs.

"Was that an offer?" you whispered, referring to him wearing nothing at all. Peppering his smiling lips with little kisses and driving him absolutely crazy, you added, "Is that why you're here?"

Easing back slowly, he swallowed. "I just wanted to see you," he earnestly admitted, a little uncertainty creasing his forehead. "I thought...maybe we could have dinner together. Is that okay?"

He was pretty new to this whole...you thing. Being married...sort of. Making an effort to...be with you. And not just sleep beside you. So he wasn't entirely sure if he was barging in to a special evening with Steven. He also wondered if you were hoping he was Marc. Actually, he was pretty certain that the surprise on your face when he first called your name was you mistaking him for Marc, for just a second.

"Come here," you softly cooed, pulling on his jacket to drag his mouth back to yours. Brushing your lips over his, you used your legs to urge his body flush against your center. "Yes, we can have dinner together..." which reminded you - you were mid-fajita prep when Jake arrived.

Tapping him cutely on the nose, you kissed his mouth one more time. "To be continued."

As you carried on with food prep, a different energy sizzled in the kitchen with Jake, most notably because he was a different person. Marc cooked with you plenty of times. In fact, he probably cooked more often than anyone and he was pretty good at it.

Cooking with Marc was precise, detailed - he knew what he wanted to do and you willingly played a supporting role. The two of you moved with practiced synchrony, like a well-rehearsed dance.

With Steven, it was all about experimentation. As a vegan, Steven was used to substituting ingredients and making things up on the fly. He also left a huge, hilarious mess behind, and typically ended up wearing a portion of his recipe.

For this reason, you had bought Steven an apron that said, 'Team Herbivore' which made Marc roll his eyes every time he saw it. Not because of the slogan but because it had three cute little veggies with smiling faces on it.

With Jake, there was no precise exchange of places, nor an experimental mess. Jake moved right with you from behind, loosely caging you in, picking up a spoon you would set down, stirring while you reached for a knife. You chopped and he added spices. He didn't even ask.

Once your hand was knife free and scraping veggies into the skillet, he was nuzzling into your neck and humming.

You lost your concentration a few times because he was just so close.

"This okay?" He would ask periodically, slipping his hand around your waist to sway with you.

"Where did you learn to cook?" You giggled, melting at the sound of his apparent singing voice?

He paused, going a little stiff.

Hoping you hadn't hit a nerve, you turned around slowly to find him smiling wistfully. "I used to watch my mom."

Your eyes widened as you tried to figure out what to say. Marc had never mentioned cooking with his mom, or her really cooking much at all. He had mentioned going to bed hungry though.

"I know...how she was," Jake softly interjected into your buzzing thoughts. "Especially with Marc." His gaze dropped as he eased back a step. "But sometimes, she would sing in Spanish. And cook. Sometimes I helped."

Reaching for his hand, you gently squeezed. "I didn't know you guys spoke Spanish until we met," you admitted, trying your best to connect a little more with Jake. "That sounds like a wonderful memory."

"One of the few," he sighed. Almost shyly meeting your eyes, he smiled warmly. "I've never told anyone that - or anything...about her."

Using your hold on his hand to pull him closer, you slid one arm around his waist. "You can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

"Mm-hmm," he hummed back, nodding over your shoulder toward the sizzling skillet. "Better stir, mi vida."

Jake's seasonings were totally on point and dinner was delicious. The two of you cleaned up the kitchen and headed to the living room to relax. You noticed Jake sat a little awkwardly on the sofa - in total contrast to the smooth, panther like movements you were accustomed to, late at night, in your bedroom.

"Jake, you okay?" You asked him, grabbing your current reading material and settling down beside him.

He nodded unconvincingly. This was wildly foreign to him. Jake only did a few things in this world: protect, kill when he had to, serve Khonshu, sleep and fuck. He didn't even eat that often - his alters usually saw to most of the body's physical care.

"What...what do you do? At night? What should I do?" He adorably asked.

You almost laughed, it was so cute, but you didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Well...Marc and I play card games or do puzzles. We watch baseball games or old action movies - "

"You like baseball?" He asked, his eyes lighting up.

"I do," you confirmed with a smile. "The time change is a little weird from here to Chicago or New York, but we watch some afternoon games, or we watch older games."

He nodded, absorbing the information as you went on.

"Steven and I read together, or he reads to me. We like documentaries too. Sometimes I help him study for school." You chuckled, wondering if this all sounded boring to such a night owl like Jake. "Sometimes we have word search races - like, to see who can finish the fastest."

"I do crosswords in my car sometimes," Jake shrugged, as if he totally understood the appeal. "Do you like crosswords?"

"Mm-hmm," you grinned.

It was on. The two of you found a crossword website online and printed out two copies of the same puzzle. Turning on your phone's stopwatch, the race was on.

Jake kicked your ass.

"Let's go again," he chimed, finding another crossword on the laptop. "Loser has to take of their clothes."

You gasped, pretending to be offended. "Mr. Lockley," you playfully scolded.

Hearing you call him Mister anything had him shutting the laptop and scooping you up in his arms, almost racing to the bedroom. "Fuck it," he chuckled. "I surrender, I'll take off my clothes."

You howled with laughter as he deposited you on the bed and kicked off his shoes. Next came his socks - then he went for his belt. Shit, he wasn't kidding.

Crawling backwards on the bed, you settled back to enjoy the show, propped up on a pile of pillows.

Jake had peeled off his jacket while you were cooking, so once his pants were loose, he tugged off his t-shirt. You licked your lips at the way his abdomen flexed at the motion, and almost mewled at the way the shirt's collar mussed his curls. Then he paused, checking for a reaction before removing his pants.

"Don't let me stop you...Mr. Lockley," you teased, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

The corner of his mouth curled as he pushed his pants and boxers all the way down. Leaning forward to kick them off his feet, a loose curl fell across his forehead.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him naked and ready for you. Climbing onto the bed on his hands and knees, he hovered over you, reveling in the way your eyes devoured him.

"Your turn," he purred, teasing you with a nibble to your lips.

Running your hands all over his smooth skin, you felt between his legs, teasing his length with your fingertips.

Hissing in pleasure, he more than willingly allowed you to have your way, licking wickedly into your mouth while grinding into your palm.

"Do you really read and study all the time, mi vida?" He groaned out, rolling his hips in time with your strokes. "Or is this more your idea of fun?"

"Definitely this," you breathed against his mouth. "A fucking lot of this."

Spending the evening with Jake was a balm to your tender heart. You had seen him since the night Khonshu healed him - since your first night together - but only late at night, for a quick conversation, or for a repeat performance.

So spending an entire, domestic evening with him, ending up between the sheets for hours, before falling asleep draped across his naked body - you were in heaven. Maybe Jake really was going to ease into your life - actually be in a relationship with you.

Your heart swelled with love for your husband - for all the lovely, wonderful parts of the system he was. You would have to grab some extra ingredients from the store and plan another vegan fajita night for Steven, since Jake enjoyed the first batch. Not that Steven minded, angel that he was.

Which only left Marc.

Even with your heart so full and alive, there was still a gaping hole. As always, you tried not to put the other two in the middle of any situation, or treat them like messengers to try to get to Marc. But they were more than ready with updates.

Steven had confessed to reading the letter, and trying to talk out loud to Marc several times a day. Jake said the same, finally asking you if maybe it was his fault that Marc was so absent - so silent.

The three of you agreed that Marc just needed some time. As always, you decided not to take it personally. This was about him.

You beat Steven home again the following evening, and this time, waiting on the kitchen counter, was an envelope bearing your name.

next->

@stormydaysxx @laaundromat @kindlover @deezisnotreal @stevenknightmarc @imonmykneessir @marvelouslovely-barnes @evilbubu @usualsworld @rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra @this--is--music @i-still-dont-like-your-face @avengersinitiative2012 @lockleywife @poppyflower-22 @thursdaywritings @scoliobean @peregrine-nation @local-mr-frog @ren-ni @valkyrie05x @randomhoex @tsukkie-daisuke @flyestvenustrap @spxctorsslxt @cicithemess2000  @bitchotine 

dividers by saradika

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part X

Rosie the Riveter

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Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 2.9k

Author’s Note: I'm so sorry for how long it's taken me to update this story! One of my goals for 2024 is to get this series completed. Although it's taken me so long to update, Bobby and Peach are never far from my mind and are always in my heart. I hope you enjoy this latest installment of their story!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story.

The title of this chapter is obviously a tribute to the iconic figure of Rosie the Riveter. But it was also inspired by the song of the same name by The Four Vagabonds, which you can listen to here!

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, Clara (@luminousnotmatter). She was the first person to listen to all my endless ramblings about this universe, and she has never stopped supporting me or believing that I can get it finished. Thank you, Clara!

Warnings: Alternating POV, references to casualties of war and grief, slight angst, lots and lots of fluff.

July 8, 1943

My Dearest Peach,

I want to start by saying that I’m terribly sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to your last letter. I think I’ve worn down the paper to nearly nothing with how many times I’ve read it, but it’s been hard to get a free moment to sit and write you the response you deserve. Things are really heating up over here, and we have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down to start a new letter, only for us to be called up just as I set my pen to the paper.

To set your mind at ease, I want you to know that I’m alright. I’m not sure how much information they’re sharing with you all back home, but I know one of the fellas got a letter from his wife recently and she told him that three different families on their street got notified that their boys had been killed in action in just one week. It made her real scared that she was going to be the next one getting a knock on the door. I won’t lie to you, Peach, because I don’t think that’s fair—we’re losing a lot of men over here. It’s scary to think that any day now, it could be me they’re sending a flag home for.

I hate to start this letter off so morbidly, but there’s been something weighing on my mind lately, especially since my buddy got that letter from his wife. If anything happens to me over here, you won’t know. They’ll tell my family, sure, but not you. And I can’t stand the thought of you waiting for another letter that isn’t going to come. So I’ve spoken to Paul, Tommy Boy, and Benny about it. If anything happens to me over here, Peach, they’re going to write to you and let you know. It gives me some comfort to think that their words will be a little softer and kinder than the formality of Uncle Sam.

I hope this doesn’t make you sad, Peach, although I admit it makes me a bit sad to write. The truth is, I’m quite alright right now, like I said, and I don’t plan on letting anything happen to me over here. We have to take that drive to Folly Beach and get ice cream on the pier, after all. I tell you, that thought alone is enough to get me through even the hardest days over here.

Alright, enough of all this. Time to get back to your lovely letter. They’re calling us for dinner right now, but as soon as I’m finished, I’m coming right back to continue this letter. Nothing’s going to stop me from getting it to you.

I’m back, Peach. All the fellas were teasing me in the galley because of how quickly I scarfed down my dinner, but I didn’t care because I knew I was getting back to you and your sweet words, and that means a whole lot more than the crummy food they’re serving over here. Boy, I tell you, I sure do miss home-cooked meals. They even had—I’m not lying, I promise—they even had peach cobbler for dessert tonight. It made me think of you, but I’m sure it’s nowhere near as good as the cobbler your family makes, so I didn’t even bother giving it a taste.

Now I do have to say that you’re right, of course. I hate hearing you call yourself shy and mousey. If that’s the way you feel when I call myself boring, then I certainly promise I won’t ever do it again. It’s a deal—neither of us will talk about ourselves like that anymore.

Nothing you say could ever sound silly to me, Peach. Even though we only got to spend a few hours in each other’s company, your letters have made me feel like we’ve known each other for years and years. I’m honored that I’ve been able to make you feel seen. I do see you, Peach. You’re the most beautiful, interesting, intelligent girl I’ve ever known, and I hope you can see that in yourself. For what it’s worth, you’ve helped me to come out of my shell, too. Paul was just saying the other day that I look like a new man—that I’m standing taller and seem more confident than he’s ever seen in all the years he’s known me. I had just finished reading one of your letters when he said that. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. You’re turning me into a new man, Peach, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I’m glad that you passed along my well wishes to Emily. Even though part of me still thinks her fiancé is a dunce, I do wish them all the best. Has she heard from Eddie? I don’t know where he’s stationed, but if you’d like to find out and send the information to me, I can try to keep an ear out. How has the wedding planning been going? I’m still confident you’re going to make the prettiest bridesmaid.

I did pass along your invitation in my last letter home to my family, and my mother said she would certainly inquire after the Sheridan residence should she ever happen to find herself in Charleston. I think she’s happy that you and I are still writing to each other. She’s even happier about the thought of swapping recipes with you. Watch out—if the two of you ever do meet, I think she’ll hold you hostage in the kitchen all day.

Now I am very proud to hear about all the fine work you and Dottie have been doing with your Victory Garden. I’m sure there must have been a lot of progress since you last wrote to me! I eagerly await news about the beans, carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I’m sure you’ve been able to make lots of hearty soups and healthy salads. My mouth is watering at the notion. Like I said, the food in the galley has been pretty crummy lately.

I’m sorry to hear there’s been some trouble back home. I’m sure it can’t be easy for anyone, with all the rationing and the fear and the worry. I promise that we’re doing our best over here to bring this war to an end quickly so that life can return to normal for all of you over there. For us, too. We really can’t wait to be home again.

Peach, I want you to know that it is our duty, our honor, and, quite frankly, our privilege to be fighting for you over here. I know the other fellas would agree with me saying so. So I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything at home to “earn” us fighting for you. That said, I think it’s incredible that you want to contribute to the war effort in that way. I’m sure you haven’t been waiting for my response or my approval—which you shouldn’t, by the way—but I give a wholehearted yes to you applying for that position at the air station. We just recently saw Mr. Norman Rockwell’s illustration of Rosie the Riveter on the cover of the Post, and I have to say that I think you’d wear those coveralls a hundred times better.

I’m so proud of you, Peach. I want you to know that.

Speaking of the war effort, we have a couple big campaigns coming up very soon. I can’t say much more than that, but your well wishes and prayers for success would be very much appreciated. I’m always thankful for them.

Until next time, Peach! I’m already counting down the days until your next letter arrives.

Most Truly Yours,

Bobby

P.S. I almost forgot! I told Paul how much you loved the fact that he sends drawings home to Clara and Paul, Jr.—by the way, that reminds me, how is little Frankie doing?—and he was more than happy to create a few illustrations for you. He did a couple portraits—one of me and one of you, based off your beautiful photograph. He said to apologize that he’s too much of an amateur to capture all of your beauty. He did say that he thought he did a fine enough job capturing my likeness—I’m telling you, Peach, I think my friends officially like you better than they like me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

July 31, 1943

My Dearest Bobby,

Please don’t ever feel like you need to apologize for how long it takes you to write back to me. I can only imagine how difficult it is to find the time to write with everything that must be happening over there, and yet you always find the time to pen the most thoughtful and wonderful letters. I cherish each and every one of them, and I promise that I’m more than content to read your old letters as I await the new ones.

I’m so sorry to hear about how many of our boys we’re losing. Just last week, our neighbors, the Pattersons—you remember I mentioned Mrs. Patterson had helped me and Dottie with our Victory Garden?—received news that their son, Clarence was killed in action in France. It was devastating. Dottie and I had just been coming home from the grocery store when we saw the officer standing on their front steps with a telegram in hand. We knew what that meant. Mrs. Patterson has been inconsolable since. Mr. Patterson is equally devastated, but I think he’s trying to be strong for her. Dottie and I have been taking turns cooking meals for them and spending some time over at their house. We just want them to know that they’re not alone.

I admit, Bobby, that every time I hear news of someone else being lost in this war, I immediately think of you. It feels selfish, but I’m always so relieved when the news is about someone else and not you. I don’t know how I would bear it. I pray every day that I never have to receive that letter from Paul or Tommy Boy or Benny, but I am touched that you’ve thought about how I could be notified. Oh, Bobby, I hope more than anything that your parents never have to experience what the Pattersons are going through.

But you’re right—you’re going to come home safely. We have too many plans for you to do otherwise!

I’m sorry to hear that the food aboard your carrier has been so crummy lately. I wish that I could whip up a home-cooked feast and send it in the mail with my letters. Every time I sit down to dinner now, I think of all of you, and I count my blessings. Things aren’t perfect on the homefront, but I know that we certainly have no room to complain with all you boys are going through. I promise to have a peach cobbler waiting for you when you come home—and a pumpkin pie, for good measure.

If I’m turning you into a new man, Bobby, then you simply must know that you’re turning me into a new woman as well. I hardly remember the girl that I was before I met you. Can you believe that it’s been over a year now since our paths first crossed? I feel like my life is totally different now. The way that I see myself, the way I interact with others, the way that I’m not so terrified to step out of my comfort zone anymore—so much of that is thanks to you, Bobby. I’m still me, of course. But I feel like I’m a stronger, braver version of myself now. I like it, too.

It’s so kind of you to offer to keep an ear out for Eddie’s infantry! Emily received a letter from him around the same time that I received my letter from you, and he seems to be doing well, same as you, thank goodness. Eddie is part of the 1st Infantry Division. Emily said that last she knew, he was stationed somewhere near the Rhineland. The wedding planning has been going very well. Pretty much everything is set now—all we need is the groom. Emily can’t wait for Eddie to come home for good. Once he does, they’ll be able to officially set the date. Us bridesmaids are going to be wearing lilac-colored dresses. Dottie says she already knows how she’s going to style my hair. I hope that you’re home, too, when the wedding finally happens. Emily said that I could invite you to be my date. Only if you’d like that, of course.

I would be very happy to be kept hostage in the kitchen with your mother! I’m sure there’s so much I could learn from her, and it sounds like a splendid way to spend the day. I look forward to meeting her one of these days!

Oh, the Victory Garden, Bobby! You wouldn’t believe how it’s grown! Trust me, no one is more shocked than me and Dottie. Well, maybe Paddy. He knows firsthand what brown thumbs my sister and I normally have. At first, we weren’t so sure what was going to happen—the cucumbers seemed a bit small and some of the tomatoes didn’t really take. But by the end of June, everything was thriving! It’s been such a joy to watch, and I have to admit, both Dottie and I are feeling extremely accomplished. Frankie loves to spend time in the garden with us, although he spends a bit more time digging in the dirt than helping us pick vegetables, I’m afraid. Now that we’re in the middle of summer, we’re experimenting with zucchini and eggplant. We might also try radishes and turnips. We’re turning into quite the farmers! If your mother has any recipes to share, we’d be more than grateful and happy to try them out!

Now I admit that I’ve saved the most exciting news for last. At the beginning of June, I decided to go for it and I applied for the position at the air station in Goose Creek, the one Paddy told me about. I’m sure being his sister-in-law gave me a bit of an advantage, but it only took a couple days for me to hear back from them. I got the job! I’ve officially been working on the assembly line since the middle of June. It’s hard work, and I’ve never been so tired in all my life, but I have to say that I’m really proud of the work we’re doing. It’s funny that you mention Rosie the Riveter—my job these past few weeks has actually been to fasten pieces of the planes we’re assembling with rivets! So I guess you could call me Peach the Riveter. Doesn’t have quite the same ring though, does it?

I know that the chances are small that anything I’m helping to build is going to reach you specifically, Bobby, but I can’t help but smile every time we finish a new part, or get a new plane put together. I imagine you and Paul, or Tommy Boy or Benny hopping inside and it brings me more pleasure and pride than I could possibly explain. I feel like I’m doing something important, something meaningful and special. If spending hours riveting until my fingers turn numb brings you home even a day faster, then it will all have been worth it. And it gives me a real sense of purpose, driving to work each day with Paddy. I feel proud of myself.

I’ve made some new friends at work, too! Florence and Virginia—we call them Florie and Ginny—are the loveliest, kindest girls. They had already been working on the assembly line for a few months before I got the job, so they’ve been showing me the ropes and teaching me everything they know. They’ve made me feel so welcome, so a part of things. I have to admit that I was terrified my first week or so, terrified that I was going to mess something up or make a fool of myself. But I’ve settled in quite well, thankfully.

It means a lot to me to know that I have your support, Bobby. Truly, it does. Thinking of you and all that you’re doing to protect us is what really motivated me to take this job, so thank you.

Of course I’m sending all my best wishes for the campaigns you have coming up! Wherever you are right now, I pray that you’re safe and that your missions are successful.

You’re so brave, Bobby. Have I told you that lately? Even if I have, you deserve to hear it again. I’m so, so proud of you. You’re my hero.

I hope this letter gets to you soon. I wish it could grow wings and fly to you. I know time is going to pass so slowly until I’m holding a new letter from you in my hands. But until then, Bobby, I’m thinking of you and holding you in my heart.

Most Truly and Affectionately Yours,

Peach

P.S. Paul is quite the artist!!! I now have his portraits hanging right beside the photographs you sent me. Please tell him how talented I think he is, and how much I love the drawings he made for me! I was especially touched by the little note he wrote me on the back of your portrait. I hope he’s doing well. Send my best to him and Tommy Boy and Benny!

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[alavestineneas]

Home

pairing: catohadley x fem!reder

summary: He doesn't know why her flower dress comes to mind—it's a contrast to the hard truth of reality. He lost a friend here, but Cato would need to learn how to lose much more if he wanted to get the hell out of here. And he does, no matter the price. warnings: canon-typical violence; mentions of meat (as in reader owns a butcher shop); trauma and poverty word count: 6k

author's note: hello beautiful people! In honour of my birthday, I am posting about this bad boy today. Hope you like it - it was such a fun thing to write! Enjoy!

The stones under his worn boots are changing quickly; they are coloured in all shades of grey, sometimes with funny black dots on their rounded bellies. Cato would stop and collect a few if it wasn't for the important task at hand: Mom sent him to the butcher's, letting him take the thinly metaled coins for the first time, which are now snugly stored in the pockets of his raggy coat. He has the order memorized; Mom always buys the same. Three pig legs for the soup, which are then added to the porridge she cooks, and two bottles of the cheapest milk on the counter. It's good for the bones in his body, she says, and Cato believes her. Soon, he will start school; he has to be strong to get the chance to try out for the academy.

The butcher's is just around the corner; it's the only shop in their block that is always open. And, although the signboard is already faded, it is still his favourite place to visit. The door opens with a creek, and a small bell over Cato's head sings its cheerful melody. He takes a few steps inside, the colourful counters greeting him with all kinds of meat and sausages. He reads the curved writing on each of the signs carefully, trying out the way the letters come together in words. The sound of rushed steps is the only thing that breaks his mesmerization. They are soon changed by the grunting of the wood chair on the old tiled floor, and then, finally, a head pops up from behind the stands.

''Good afternoon!'' A pair of curious eyes stare at him, a smile missing a few teeth serving as a second greeting. ''What can I do for you today?'' the girl asks, changing her cheerful demeanour to a more serious, business-like tone.

Cato straightens up, his fingers finding the coins. He is a grown-up now; no other four-year-old he knows is allowed to go to the butcher's by themselves. ''I am here to buy meat.''

The girl laughs, her hair shaking with her mirth.

Cato feels the redness creep to his ears—of course, he is here to buy meat; everyone does. ''Why are you behind there anyway?'' he mutters, crossing his hands in front of himself. He thinks the girl should stop now; it's really not nice to laugh at others.

''Grandpa went to trade for bread and left me as the captain here,'' the girl boasts.

''That's a shame.'' Partly because Cato liked Grandpa Marc—he always sneaked a few pieces of candy for him and his brothers at home—and partly because he didn't like the little know-it-all. ''I would like three pig legs and two bottles of the cheapest milk,'' he declares in one breath, careful not to mess up. He isn't sure he can take another wave of her laughter.

''Sure,'' the girl nods, packing the meat in a big brown bag. Cato patiently waits as she moves her chair to reach the milk shelves, stopping before them. ''Which one again?''

''Shirley's.''

The girl doesn't move; the flowers on the back of her dress are still facing him.

''Shirley's,'' he repeats a little louder. Cato feels silly again; he doesn't like the mean girl and the way she teases him. ''Are you stupid? The one with the blue cap is Shirley's.''

''Right,'' she finally grabs it, moving to the register. Her hands work quickly, wrapping the goods and putting them together. ''The meat is this much money, '' she scrambles the numbers on the piece of paper lying nearby, ''and milk is this much.''

Cato goes over the symbols, carefully counting the total in his head. ''Here,'' he says, reaching for the money. ''And you wrote the two here wrong—it should be facing the other way, like a swan.''

''Oh. Sorry about that. Is this with change?'' She points to the colourful coins on the wood.

''Don't you know how to count? You need to give me 50 cents in change.''

''I do!'' she argues, her hand slapping the counter. ''I was just, hm, testing you!''

''Sure. Then why are you giving me two dollars back now?'' Cato raises an eyebrow. Part of him wants to laugh at her, just like she did moments ago. But he doesn't. Instead, he swaps the coins for the right amount, giving her the money back. ''Here you go. All good.''

''Thank you! Have a nice day!''

Cato nods, grabbing the bag and exiting the shop with a light heart. He did what his mom asked him to; she will be very happy to know that. The air is warm, and the soft wind is hitting him right in the face. In no time, Cato is home; the door is never locked. He places the bag on the kitchen table; Mom will see it when she puts the baby to sleep. His third brother - the other two are sleeping on the big bed in the children's room. That used to be his, but now he is a big boy—he sleeps on the couch in the living room, right near the kitchen. He likes it here; the baby's crying is not as loud, and he can see Mom as often as he wants to when she cooks.

There's not much to do right now; it's the ''quiet hours'' in Hadley's house. Usually, Cato would go play outside at this time, but instead, he grabbed the big book from the kids' shelf. There, with big, red letters, are all of the alphabets and numbers. It was his favourite. Cato remembers how mom would sit with him on her lap, her soft finger circling every picture. ''This is one. Look, it has a tiny nose, just like you do! Here, give me your hand—that's one finger you have, little gentleman!''

Cato throws one last glance at the closed door to the parent's room—he decides that mom won't be mad at him if he plays not in front of the house for once—and grabs the book, leaving the still place. This time, he grabs a few of the prettiest rocks on his way—he builds bridges and castles with them in the small creek behind their house. The butcher's is still empty when he gets there; the girl sits on the tall chair, drawing on the paper.

''What are you drawing?'' Cato asks, trying to see, but the counter is too tall for him to reach.

The girl doesn't look surprised to see him here; it's like he never left in the first place. ''It's worms. Papa worm, mama worm, and little worm. They are having dinner.''

''What are they eating? Meat?''

''No,'' she said, shaking her head. ''Meat is expensive; they have no money. They're eating a dirt pie. Here,'' the girl climbs off the chair, sitting down on the floor instead. Cato sits down near her, looking over her shoulder. ''They have small plates and spoons.''

''My dad doesn't like pies. He likes potatoes more.'' Cato thinks meat is better than pies and potatoes, but he doesn't tell Dad that. The girl tells the truth: meat is expensive.

''Where is he? At work?''

''Yeah, at the factory.'' Most people work at the factory—that's what Cato's dad says. They go when it's dark outside and Cato is still sleeping, and they return when the clock shows all zeros. Then, his dad eats while his mom drinks tea, and they whisper about something. ''And yours?''

The girl shrugs. ''I don't have one. It's just Grandpa and me. What is this?'' She points to the book in Cato's hands, and he finally remembers why he came.

''That's my book. It has numbers. Do you want to see?''

The girl beside him nods, and Cato smiles. He opens the book and proudly shows off the beautiful pictures. The girl likes them; she listens carefully to what Cato has to say about each letter. He likes it when he doesn't laugh at him.

-

''Good morning, Grandpa Marc!'' Cato greets the man behind the counter, cutting up yet another piece of meat. It's early, but he already stands in the butcher's, his dad's old bag on his shoulder. They can't be late for the academy.

''I'm coming, I'm coming!'' YN shouts, biting into the apple in one of her hands and tucking in her shirt with the other. ''Bye, Pa, see you!''

They both passed the exam for the academy; only four people from their neighbourhood did. They got the chance only because they were ''exceptional'' students, the only four whose training was free for now. The debt will be paid by them volunteering or after the academy through their future salaries. Cato knows that no one is actually able to pay it off; he will volunteer as soon as possible. YN will go; they agreed to go in different years.

That's how it always was with them—they walked to the academy and home together, trained, and learned together. Cato helped Grandpa in the shop, and YN often looked after his brothers. It was the endless stream of jokes from everyone around—you never saw one without the other, not even on the rating board. That was until year nine.

''I decided I'm not going to sit with you at lunch,'' Cato tells the girl walking beside him on the dusty road.

YN doesn't answer right away; she watches her feet instead. ''Let me guess—you will be with the mayor's son and his pack?''

''As a matter of fact, yes. They are my friends, and they invited me to sit with them.'' It annoys him the tone she is using.

''They are not your friends, Cato. They only do that, so you will volunteer for them when the time comes.'' YN is angry; her hands on the straps of the backpack are tightly clenched.

''So what? I'm going to volunteer anyway, so why not sit with them? There is nothing to do here, and they are always hanging out at movies or something.''

''Oh, so that's what it is about.'' YN stops, turning to him. ''You want to be one of them now.''

''Of course, I fucking do!'' Cato exclaims. ''We are dirt poor, YN. I don't want to live all my life in this shithole.''

YN's face changes; her eyes look at him as if for the first time. ''This is home, Cato. This is where we belong.''

''I don't. And I will find a way out of here, and you can stay in this mud as much as you like, but I will not let you drag me down with you.''

She slaps him. The hit is heavy; they are both trained to take blows, but it stings him more than it should. Cato watches as YN leaves, her quick steps echoing on the empty street in the morning fog. He doesn't know why her flower dress comes to mind—it's a contrast to the hard truth of reality. He lost a friend here, but Cato would need to learn how to lose much more if he wanted to get the hell out of here. And he does, no matter the price.

-

YN can live without him as much as he does, she tells herself. She didn't decide to ruin the friendship, so she won't be the one to apologize, no matter how long the silence lasts. If he thinks that she will run back to him after four months of not talking, he is wrong. YN is fine; she still has two friends at the academy, she still has her grandpa and the beautiful sun above her head. It smiles at her every time she walks home alone, filling in the small gap in her chest with its golden rays. Her new companion.

What she doesn't expect is a group of people in front of the shop; they shout and argue, running around with ice and water in their hands. YN runs too; something happens. Fear rises in her stomach and travels to her throat when she sees the white coat of the doctor standing near the counter, a concerned expression on his face. ''I'm sorry,'' he tells her. YN clutches her bag, trying so hard not to cry as the crowd of familiar faces surrounds her.

He fell while trying to reach for the shelf, and a customer found him unconscious on the floor. Grandpa broke seven bones in his body and damaged his head. They are taking him to the hospital for, god knows, how long. The doctor places a hand on her shoulder; the cost of surgery is covered by the state, but she needs money for the medicine. They don't have any.

YN spends an hour crying into her pillow before pulling herself together—she is alone. It's not some stupid game they play—they pretend to win for years in the generated arenas in some big green boxes—it's life. The most brutal arena of all. So, she does what any fifteen-year-old would do—she washes her face with ice-cold water and grabs the keys from the shop. She has to speak with a few people.

-

The door to Hadley's home is never locked; nobody closes it in their neighbourhood, but YN still knocks out of respect. Cato opens it; she is surprised he is here and not with his new friends. He wants to say something, but YN has no time for him.

''Is your dad home?'' YN asks, trying to look over his shoulder.

Cato nods. ''Come in. Mom, it's YN.'' He shouts, closing the door behind her.

''Ah, YN. How is Grandpa Marc?'' She is cooking something—a big pot boiling with the best smell one could imagine.

The woman's concerned face stirs something in YN, so she fights the urge to cry and swallows her tears instead. ''Alive

''Come sit with us; we were just preparing to eat.''

YN wants nothing more than a plate of something warm, but she declines. She came here not to lessen the portion of someone; nobody here has money to make extra food. ''Thank you, but I need to speak with Mister Janus.''

''Spill it.'' Mr. Janus nods, standing up from the couch.

''Can we speak outside?'' YN asks, feeling a pair of blue eyes on her.

''Of course,'' Mister Janus shares a look with his wife before stepping outside. ''What happened, kid?''

YN takes some air inside her lungs. ''Is there a place for me at the factory for the night shifts?'' The man opens his mouth to argue, but YN is quicker. ''I know I am young, but I am strong from all the training, and I know a lot of useful things. I can reach where most men can't, and I will do anything you ask me to, I promise.''

Mister Janus sighed. ''I know you are good, but what about the academy? Night shift is six to six; you won't have time to get enough sleep and do the homework.''

''I quit the academy.''

''What?'' Mister Janus's face changes. ''YN, why? It's the only chance for you to survive.''

''Work is the only way for me to survive. Poverty and an empty stomach will kill me much faster than some games. I need the job, Mister Janus, please. If you don't give it to me, I will look for it elsewhere.''

The man thinks, his forehead creased with worry. ''Fine, kid. But be careful—get enough rest and don't push yourself too hard. We are here to help if you need us to.''

''Thank you, thank you so much!'' YN smiles, a few tears escaping her eyes. She hugs the man tightly, a glimmer of hope finally appearing. ''Thank you, Mister Janus; I will not let you down!''

Mistes Janus smiles back, patting her back. ''Go before it gets too dark; I'll see you tomorrow at five thirty.''

He watches as YN turns the corner of the street before returning to the warmth of his house. How much do these kids have to endure in this world?

-

YN didn't push herself too hard; she simply did what she was supposed to do. At six, she returned to the shop after the shift at the factory—butcher's opened at eight—so she had two hours to wash the dirt and sweat away with the old basin and a little warm water from the kettle and to master something edible on the stove. When that was done, she would dissect the meat and check the dates on milk bottles; the soon-gone bad would go to the sale section, and the new ones took their place. Then, the doors of the butcher's opened—people still needed to eat, and YN wasn't about to let them starve because of her own ''tiredness.''

The heaviest flow was in the morning, with the shop becoming quieter in the afternoon—that's when she took most of her sleep in, resting her head on the wooden counter and closing her eyes for a second. Oftentimes, customers would find her like this—they gently shook her shoulder and woke her up before ordering. Each time, YN felt shame creep to her cheeks, but each time, no one said a word to her; they just smiled, thanked her, and left the shop with a big brown bag in her hands.

That's how the rest of the year passed, with it becoming slightly easier when Grandpa was finally discharged from the hospital. His right arm didn't move like it used to, and it was hard for him to walk, but it was still better to have someone home to return to. Besides, he insisted on still serving the customers, so YN had an opportunity to sleep in her own bed for a few hours before a new portion of cut meat was delivered.

That's what she thought about standing in the main square in a crowd of children—how much meat she needed to cut before her shift. Grandpa was also here; some man had to hold him up so he wouldn't fall from being on his legs for too long, but he could at least enjoy the fresh air, which YN was grateful about.

The reaping was going quickly; the girl named was from the academy, so they didn't have to go through all that volunteering. YN didn't know her personally, but she saw her a couple of times; she was good with knives. As for the boys, it didn't go as smoothly—some poor eleven-year-old's name was called out, and he burst out crying on the spot.

''I volunteer!'' the voice boomed through the street, and YN turned with everyone to see who it was, although, in her head, she knew the answer.

Cato. He walked to the stage calmly, his legs conquering the steps in no time. He looked determined and happy, but YN knew better—that's what they taught them to present. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Killers. She hears distant cries from the crowd behind her—it's probably Miss Hadley. YN clenches her jaw, her teeth grinding together until her head rings. It isn't the time for her to break.

-

Cato can't bear to watch his mother's puffy face as she clenches her arms around him, whispering something like a prayer into his chest. His father is silent, a lonely tear escaping his eye as he holds Cato's youngest brother closer. The twins are also here; both of them are at the academy, so they have a faint idea of what he is doing. They tell him he will win because of how big he is, and that will be very easy. Cato smiles at them reassuringly—if only it were that easy.

''Dad,'' he nods in the direction of his crying mother.

''Come on, darling, you will upset him before the games,'' his father tells her, carefully pulling her way and placing a hand on Cato's shoulder. ''Stay strong, my boy. We will all be rooting for you every second you are in that arena; don't forget that.''

''Thank you, dad. Boys,'' he watches as twins show each other away, trying to get to bed first. He hugs them both; he has two hands for a reason. ''Behave and don't bother mom too much, or I'll have to kick your ass once I get back,'' he whispers into their heads.

The youngest one waves goodbye, blowing him a kiss. Cato smiles, watching his family leave the room. He wants to remember this moment forever, to put it in his pocket, and to never let it go. He knows why he is doing this—for them to have a better chance at life, for his father to finally have a day off, and for his mom to have new pots she secretly gazed at when she thought he wasn't looking.

''Hadley. Seven minutes.'' The peacekeeper announces, opening the door once more, even though Cato doesn't expect anyone else. Well, he hoped she would come—he really wanted her to—but he believed she never would. YN is not the type. Still, she is here. Closing the door behind her, in a simple blue jumpsuit and a nice scarf around her head.

''Hi,'' she nods. ''I came to say goodbye.''

Cato's heart skips a beat—those words hit harder than seeing himself on the big screens, with a tribute written under them. Soon, he may be dead; she will watch him on her small TV in the living room.

YN speaks quickly, almost in a rush. ''I know we don't speak anymore, but I know how you fight—you are capable of winning more than everyone else out there. Please, just don't think too much about what you are doing; just do it, okay?''

''Yeah, I'll try.'' He finds it weird that she doesn't want him to think, but Cato doesn't question why—she does know him better than anyone, having been training for a lot of years side by side.

''You have to return; your family needs you.''

''Don't worry too much about them; we already got the money for my volunteering from the mayor. They will be fine; dad can still work, and twins could help out. You have enough on your shoulders as it is. How is Grandpa Marc?''

''Better. He can't move like he used to and still needs help with walking and eating, but other than that, it's good. Although he is devastated that I didn't let him handle the meat, you should've seen how he tried to sneak a few knives at night.''

Cato's lips turn into a smile. ''That does sound like him.''

''Oh, I almost forgot. Here,'' YN rumbles in her pockets before taking a few pieces of candy out. ''We thought you should have a few.''

''You are kidding me? Lucky-talkies? I haven't had one in ages!''

YN laughs at his excitement, carefully placing the sweets in his hand. ''I know. They are as hard as they used to be; don't chip your tooth; it'll look bad at the promotion.''

Cato chuckles, pocketing the candy before his mentors have a chance to take it away. ''Thanks, YN. For everything.''

''I'll give you as much as you want if you don't die in there. Just try to stay alive, okay?''

''Easier said than done. But I'll try.''

YN smiles. Their time is up. The peacekeeper opens the door for her, his gun tangling dangerously around his neck. She doesn't turn around as she exits; her walk is steady. Cato thinks that he caught her shoulders shaking, but it could be just a twist of his tired brain.

-

The days after that are agony. YN doesn't know if it was her tiredness that finally caught her in a narrow corner or the grim reality of her life—it was definitely both. Even her favourite silent friend didn't cheer her up like it used to—the sun shone almost violently, burning her skin and leaving her body dizzy. The rotten cycle was now worsened by the non-stopping playing of what seemed to be a thousand screens, with stomach-curling screams echoing from time to time. They were everywhere—at the shop and their small flat above it, on the main square she passed each day, and, what was worse, they were at the factory, where she couldn't pretend to watch even for a second.

The work she does is heavy—carving the stones on the machinery bigger than her; her muscles were constantly aching, begging for a break. The suit she wore was too tight and too hot, and the annoying voice of the announcer blared through the speakers, stealing the air in her lungs. YN wanted nothing but to make it stop—for the world to go silent and still, even if just for a moment. But wonders didn't happen with people like her, so she continued to work, pushing herself through her gritted teeth.

''Welcome, welcome to what seems to be the last day in this beautiful arena!'' The blue-haired man spoke, his accent making YN's head hurt even more. ''To remind our dear viewers all across the Panem, here is a small recap from my colleague and sometimes friend, Claudius.''

''Thank you, Caesar. We are left with only three tributes on day eighteen—the first, of course, being Cato from District 2. His strategy has proved efficient so far; no doubt, he is one of the best contestants we've seen in a long time. And then, much to my surprise, a pair of tributes from District 12 are still in the games—their love story truly captivated the audience. Let's see what this day, or should we say night, brings us today and who will have the odds in their favour in the end.''

YN doesn't react to their comments; it feels wrong to compare herself to the kids out there, being selfish enough to think she deserves a break. She should be counting her lucky stars; it isn't her there, going through the bodies of the competitors one by one. Cato received body armour from the sponsors; that was good. He also lost his district partner; YN remembers her now; she was in his ''new'' friend group. She feels sorry for the girl; her death was awful, and her screaming Cato's name will forever be engraved in YN's memory.

''Aha, here he is! Our gladiator from District 2—he is running from—what's that?—wolves! Look at that speed—he surely is a good runner!''

YN turns her attention to the giant screen—surely enough, Cato is running from some monstrous creatures. He is bloodied; his skin is covered in bruises. YN prays it all will stop soon and he will get home safe. He doesn't even flinch when the arrow shot by twelve hits his chest; he just keeps running towards the Cornucopia.

''Please,'' YN whispers. He can't die, not when he has survived for so long.

''Look at them—all of the tributes managed to get on the Cornucopia just in time! Oh, here is a clever move from Cato's side: having Peeta in a headlock is a classic move. Now, he is sort of a ''human shield''. Brilliant!''

"Go on, shoot.'' Cato's voice booms through the speakers, sending shivers down YN's back. She missed hearing his voice, but it didn't even sound like him anymore. Like a stranger talking from the inside of what looked like her friend. '' And we both go down, and you win. Go on. I'm dead, anyway! I always was, right? I didn't know that until now. Isn't that what they want, huh?''

What the fuck was he doing? YN's mind raced—why won't he just kill him and get it over with? She doesn't notice how her hands begin to shake and how everyone else in the room seems to be eyeing her.

''No! I can still do this. I can still do this. One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Not that it matters."

''Kill him! For fuck's sake, just kill him!'' YN stands up, her nerves getting the best of her. Her voice echoes—she didn't mean to say it out loud.

''No talking!'' The peacekeeper in front of her shouts, his hand steady on the gun.

YN turns to face him slowly. Who was he to tell her to shut up when it was her friend who was dying right before her eyes? She feels her hands clench into fists; she will be able to take him down in a fight, maybe even kill him. YN was willing to try, at least.

''She won't talk no more,'' one of the older men in the group mutters, his voice bitter. ''Sit down, child.''

YN wants to argue, wants to scream or run until the bullet catches up to her, but she doesn't. What use would her dead body be to her grandpa? So she sits down, biting her cheek until her mouth fills with a familiar iron taste. Everything she wants to say, she tastes in her throat instead.

''Wait, can we zoom in on here?'' One of the announcers asks. ''Here, yes, what exactly are they staring at? It fell from Cato's pocket, right?''

'''Well, Claudius, it looks like a candy wrap to me. The real question is: why does Cato have one in the first place? He didn't strike me as a big sweets fan. ''

''Well, whatever it is, it seems to have changed his mind—look at how masterfully he throws Peeta down, like a feather! Oh, and now he is lurching for the girl on fire!''

A loud snap is heard through the speakers, and the girl falls, lifeless. YN covers her face with her hands, the dirt from them leaving a mark on her sweaty face. A choir of relieved exhales rings through the room.

''Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have our 75th victor!''

- 

It's hard, the first thing Cato realizes. Being here, breathing in the air that feels like spikes inside his lungs—everything was supposed to be easy, but it's so far from that. They have a nice house now; it has a room for each of his brothers, and even twins don't have to share anymore. His dad doesn't work; it's not fitting for victor's family to do so, so he takes up gardening instead. If a few years ago Cato heard that his father would ramble about how badly roses had grown on this soil, he would've checked himself into a mental asylum.

He isn't very loved in the Capitol, but his mentors said it was for the best. Cato believes them, but it stings a little. He wanted glory but got disgusted instead. It was not a fair trade, but at least his debt is paid, as is his brothers'. Money could buy a lot of things, just like he predicted, but it couldn't buy him peace. Cato has nothing ahead of him; he can't study like his peers do, can't work, can't live, and pretend it didn't happen. It very much did—when he closes his eyes, he can still smell the blood on his hands.

That's why he is here instead of Victor's village, eating ice cream on the empty main square in the warm evening. It's funny to think how he wanted to try it, collecting the money his father let him have for almost a year before ordering his first chocolate scoop. It was the tastiest thing he had ever eaten; now, it tasted just like every other one.

He hears the nearing footsteps—the people are returning from the day shift in the factories. Cato nods to a few of them—old neighbours, parents of classmates, or dad's friends. The men are all different—short and tall, ginger, blond and brunette—but they all bear the same expression that Capitoleers called ''a district 2 glare'' once. Cato used to get angry when he heard it, but now his face is no different—the word is a heavy thing to endure.

His eyes drift to the only person looking up and not on the road ahead—of course, it's YN. She thinks about something only she and the sun know, her steps mirroring those of the people ahead. One of the men notices him watching; he gently shoves her shoulder, whispering something in her ear before pointing in the direction of his seat. Suddenly, Cato wants to hide the ice cream in his hand and run away, but he doesn't.

''Enjoying your victory, Mister Hadley?'' Her voice is loud and filled with teasing, and a few men snicker at them.

Cato isn't angry; he deserves it, quite frankly. ''Always was known for the sweet tooth,'' he shrugs. ''As a matter of fact, are you free any time soon?'' He asks when the crowd is far enough away.

YN raises an eyebrow at him. ''Why is that? You know I work.''

''I was hoping you and your grandpa could come by sometime. Mom is awfully lonely, and the boys would love to see you, too.''

She nods. ''I am free on Sunday, but Grandpa is still a little shy about eating in front of people.''

''I'll ask mom to cook a soup then—it's better?'' He would cook the damn soup himself if it meant seeing her for longer than five minutes. If it meant not being alone in that house, that reeked of the arena.

''Yes, I think we can do that. What about 12? We could be a little late with all that walking.''

''Thank you; it's perfect.''

YN smiles at him. For the first time since he won, someone smiled at him. Cato smiles back, although he is sure it comes out more as a grin. YN doesn't notice or pretends to do so.

- 

''Oh, come in! Janus, come right down; the guests are here!''

YN and her grandpa are greeted with Miss Hadley's voice, her warm hands wrapping first around her, and then the older man. YN smiles; she missed just sitting down for a meal without having to worry about how much money she was going to need for the next one. The boys have grown. They shout, each trying to be the first to show her their own rooms and the cool things they have. YN tries not to get lost in the maze of toys, balls, books, and a thousand other different things, while Grandpa talks with Mr. Janus.

When the boys start to embark on what feels like a fifth circle around the house, Miss Hadley puts an end to it. ''That's enough! YN, darling, come sit here—what would you like to eat?''

The table is full of different things. There are so many that they could eat for a few weeks and be full. YN doesn't think she saw that many vegetables and fruits in her life. She asks for what everyone is having and is happy to have her plate full. Grandpa also seems to be enjoying himself; he insists on wearing his best shirt for the occasion and now listens attentively to what the twins have to say. They make a good team, YN thinks—twins finally found free ears that are not yet tired of them, and there is nothing that Grandpa loves more than a good story.

When the dinner is over, YN speaks, talking to Miss Hadley beside her. ''Thank you for the invitation; your house is just lovely.''

''Cato made us clean every corner of it before you came—I didn't even have time to play outside!'' The youngest boy whines, pouting slightly.

YN chuckles as she watches colour gather at Cato's ears, his eyes glued to the dish in front of him. ''Well, it was definitely worth it—I had the most marvelous time with you here. And the food was delicious! But I am afraid we have to go; Grandpa should walk when it's still light outside.''

''We will take you home,'' Cato announces, nodding to the twins to put on their shoes. They do so happily, grabbing them and their jackets before Grandpa has a chance to stand up and stick to his side like glue.

The evening is pleasant; the wind is quite chilly, but Cato doesn't mind. The only sound on the street is twins arguing over who will help Grandpa Marc with his cane for the next two minutes.

''Thank you for coming,'' he says, looking at the woman walking beside him.

''Of course. We had a good time, - I hope you did too. How's life been? We haven't talked in a while.''

''Good,'' Cato lies. ''And yours?''

''Better. Since your dad quit, I got the day shift; it pays better, and I can finally get rid of those horrible dark circles.''

Cato nods. ''I've been thinking a lot about our past these days, especially our childhood. It feels like a lifetime ago.''

''Things change,'' YN shrugs. ''We've grown and become different people since then. I would've never imagined working at the factory, but here I am. And you win the games—that was your dream.''

''Don't you miss it? How easy were things back then?''

YN smiles. ''They never were easy, I think; we just couldn't understand them properly. Besides, not much changed, if you think about it.''

''Maybe not for you.''

''Why?'' YN turns to look at him.

Cato swallows. ''YN, they made me different. The games, all those kills—they changed me.''

''You did what you had to survive. It doesn't matter now that you are here.''

''You think I don't notice how people tiptoe around me now? How can Mom stand to look at me for more than a minute? How do boys try to avoid me at all costs? And dad—he doesn't even speak to me! ''

YN is silent. Cato curses in his mind—he shouldn't have said that. He takes a deep breath. ''I'm sorry. It just feels weird. It's like I don't have a home to return to and can't get into a new one. Just hanging there, mid-air.''

''When Grandpa was in the hospital, that's how it felt. I was too young to be alone, but there was no choice but to watch as everything I once loved fell into ruins. I was supposed to be going to movies, partying, and sneaking out, not juggling the bills from medication and the shop. But life decided otherwise. So, I built my own home within myself—one that nothing could tear down or take away.''

''I don't think there is anything left to build on. I'm not like you; everything anyone sees when they look at me is a monster .''

''I don't.'' YN stops. ''I see the boy who brought me a pretty big book with pictures so I could give the change correctly; I see a man who volunteered for his family to have a chance at a better life. I see you, real you, not the role mentors or Capitol made you play. Just Cato.''

''Can I hug you?'' His voice is barely above a whisper.

YN doesn't answer - she just takes a step closer into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder.

''I'm sorry; I am so sorry for everything I've done," Cato mutters, his hands trembling as he holds onto YN tightly. ''I should've said it sooner. ''

''It doesn't matter now. We survived this; we are still here, you and I.''

Cato nods; his tears mix with hers, pooling in patches on his shirt. They are different—children who were forced to grow up too early in a world that wasn't for them. ''I think I never lost it—my home. It was always here, with you, on this street. Isn't it funny? All those years of searching, only to return here, where we truly belong?''

''The butcher's, you mean? If you wanted more candy, you could've just asked,'' YN smiles, whipping away her red eyes.

-

''Fucking finally,'' an aged voice mutters from behind the corner.

''Grandpa Marc!'' the twins turn to him, surprised.

The old man just smiles, his wrinkled face appearing younger with joy. ''Don't tell YN I said that. She'll never let me live it down."

The twins giggle, their happy laughter echoing on the street. A few moments later, Grandpa Marc joins in, his breathy laugh adding to the chorus. It's not the first time the street leading to the butcher's was woken up by sounds of joy, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last.

[wyn-n-tonic]

What Lovers Do

Pairing: Bob Floyd x f!reader Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: Awkward first time sex. Blood. Author's Note: I was talking with my friends about what sleeping with Bob might be like as a first time after it's been a LONG TIME since sex and this happened. You're welcome. Or I'm sorry. Whichever one you find the most fitting for you.

A new letter to add to the pile, every single one saved since you first started sending them. 

Everybody called it old fashioned and silly. Told us we have computers and cellphones now and that the Navy isn’t prison, he’d have access. But there’s something that’s just stuck about it, about the joke that you’d write him every day until he sent one saying he was coming home

On one of the phone calls taken through timezones and half closed eyes, he said he liked it. He looks forward to mail call each day and he looks forward to coming back to base to find so many waiting for him that he gets to read like a book. He thinks, you think, that it tempered the hormones and the newness of it all.

A United States Postal Service version of courtship.

And now he’s coming home.

The boy you crushed over as a child on the swings while your mothers sipped coffee on the deck. The first boy you ever kissed with no knowledge of what kissing was or what it meant. In one of those letters, he brought it up.

Remember that time I kissed you when we were four?

You did, you do. He said it was what people who loved each other did, mommies and daddies. You were playing house, it made sense and, yes, you loved him. In the way that children understand love that is.

You understood this was a person in your life, you saw him all the time. For you, that made sense. He made sense and when he wasn’t there anymore, it didn’t make sense why you and your parents couldn’t go with him and his. Why they couldn’t stay.

And now he’s coming home. Three months after you started talking again. Three months after you walked into a dinner, a small party, thrown by your parents to welcome his back and found a grown up version of that very same boy from before.

He accompanied you to the store to get more wine and then out the door back out to those swings that were never taken down. Then in a walk around the neighborhood that turned into a drive around town that turned into talking on the phone and letters. 

When the letters started, you weren’t even a thing. Truthfully, really, you don’t even know if you’re a thing now. It was there on the tip of both of your tongues, the idea was present. The letter he sent asking if you remembered the kiss is the same one where he confessed that he’d been harboring a crush his whole life. He said it was easier to tell you that way because, if you didn’t feel the same, you didn’t have to answer and he could suffer the rejection on a delayed timeframe instead of hearing the click of the phone as you hung it up. 

The letter says today, which is not what he said on the phone last night. Today, at five, on a plane coming from San Diego. Except it’s six and you just read it and there’s no chance you can get to the airport and he’s not answering his phone. So all you can do is pace and check your make up over and over again attempting to have control over something. Sure, you could clean but you’ve already told him how messy you are and these are not cleaning nerves. 

Truthfully, these aren’t even nerves you’ve had since prom night with another guy you didn’t particularly like in the back of a car you didn’t particularly feel comfortable in.

Three knocks then and one more glance in the mirror checking for a run in black tights, a stain on the white sweater or a rip in the skirt. Maybe smudged lipstick. Just anything to prolong answering the door if it can get these nerves down.

Because this is Bob, the one who makes sense. The one who, really, has always made sense. These nerves shouldn’t be here, there’s nothing about him to be nervous over.

Except you haven’t kissed him since you were four and the letter he sent said he couldn’t wait to do just that, that he felt like there was so much lost time to make up for.

Another knock and then the phone rings, both of them him.

Him, at the door, the lip pulled between his teeth quickly released as he drops the hand holding the phone up to his ear. “I'm sorry I didn’t come sooner, I needed to”—he swallows—“grow a pair.”

“Grow a pair?”

He shrugs, shoulder dropping just as fast as it was raised. “Couldn’t figure out if I should bring you flowers or be prepared to finally get that rejection.”

“So where are the flowers?”

He looks down at his hands and then back up, light catching his glasses and then his crooked smile. “None of them were good enough for you.”

“I’m not going to reject you,” you tell him, leaning against the door. “And I think that anything you brought me would’ve been good enough.”

“Well, I brought myself. How’s that?” His eyes squint a little on that, flicking up and down your body and not for the first time since you opened the door.

Which makes you realize that you’re still just standing there.

And it’s cold.

And he’s pretty.

And he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you; like he’s had this low simmering hunger growing in his belly for God knows how long. “Do you want to come in?”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“You're perfect,” you tell him, stepping aside to give room for his body to come through the door. “How was your flight? Have you eaten? Do you want—“ 

It didn’t really hit, at the dinner, how tall he was. You were just so excited to see him and to know that he was excited to see you, his height didn’t even register but he’s big. Big and leaning over you with his lips pressed softly against yours.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked,” he whispers when he pulls away. “I just needed to do it because I would’ve been too nervous otherwise.”

Everything feels almost on fire with how close he is, the heat in the house suddenly becoming too much. You wish he’d done that in the open door instead of waiting for it to close.

“I only just got your letter today,” you tell him, ignoring his nerves in some kind of ploy to ignore your own. “I didn’t have time to clean or shop, I don’t have anything to cook for you.”

That makes him laugh, lips stretching across your cheek to let the noise tumble out against you. “Gorgeous girl, let me take you out to dinner the way I’ve been imagining I’d get to all this time.” 

“You want to take me out?” Thank god you read the letter before you washed your face.

“Want to do a lot more than take you out to dinner.” He looks like he wants you to be his dinner. “But I’m trying to behave myself, I already know I’m coming off really strong.”

He’s not coming off strong at all, you’re just not really comprehending it. Not when he holds your hands so gently.

Not in the car, where he insists he’ll drive.

Not when he’s staring at you across the table.

It just makes sense and it’s fine. It’s good, actually. It’s comforting to sit beside him, his eyes roaming every inch that he can, and know that you don’t have to spill all your secrets because all the talking and the catching up you did all these months, through phone lines and fancy stationery, took care of that for you.

But it’s also still nerve shaking, the way he looks at you with so much reverence. It’s a respect that’s enduring even back inside your apartment, where he’s dropped his bags with an apology that he didn’t mean to be presumptuous but he also didn’t want to be caught with his dick in his hands, completely unprepared, if it turned out it wasn’t presumptuous at all.

“This is weird,” you finally tell him, pulling as far back as you can from where he’s pinning you to the mattress.

“Too strong?” He’s set his glasses to the side, on the table by your bed next to your book and the letters. You’ve been beneath him for the better part of an hour, kissing like teenagers in the back of a car.

Your head shakes. “I’ve just never slept with a guy on the first date.”

Bob’s chest is heaving, smooth skin stretched over lean muscle and he runs a hand through his hair (which really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is but—holy shit) and smiles. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want to.”

“Are you sure?” 

He said once, in one of the letters, how people look at him and assume things about him. He looks scrawny in his uniform, geeky in his glasses; he’s got a consistent haircut and a baby face that always makes him look like it’s school picture day.

To everybody else, Bob is green—inexperienced.

And he uses that to his advantage with his quiet demeanor and his big hands and his capability.

Robert Floyd is very capable at what he’s doing as he unhooks the bra stretched tight across your back.

“You have a lot of sex, do you?” You ask, pulling away from him again. 

His face is red, a blush that splashes out in random patterns across his face and chest, and he shrugs. “I’ve had my fair share,” he says, “the uniform does a majority of the work.”

“You're doing a lot of work right now.”

That makes a smile spread across his face. “A beautiful woman like you, everybody would be a fool not to put in work for you.”

“That's very sweet of you, Bob.” All that confidence you felt in the phone calls and the letters has long faded to make room for the heat running up your own cheeks. ���Nobody’s ever really worked for me.” 

His smile falters. “Is that self deprecating, sweetheart?” He doesn’t like the self deprecating, he hasn’t liked learning all the ways you pulled in on yourself over the years.

The look he gives you is a weight in the pit of your stomach, warm and blooming but also cold like steel. You can feel yourself pulling in on yourself and away from him the way you’ve feared you would. “Just a fact,” you tell him, trying to shrug it off the way you’re trying to shrug beneath his hold. “It’s been a while for me, I don’t really…” Your head shakes. “I haven’t been with anybody since college.” 

“Really?” How anybody could suggest the man pulling away to sit up completely is inexperienced is beyond you. “I mean, if that’s what you wanted.”

It was but it isn’t like you didn’t have the chance. Which is what you tell him but what turned you off is how people reacted to it—just like him now. Separating himself with assurances that it’s okay. Of course it’s okay but it doesn’t make you less than or untouchable. 

“You act like my grown back virginity is contagious, Bob.” 

He huffs a laugh. “You can’t grow it back and, besides, it can’t have been that long ago. College was not that long ago.” 

As subtly as you can, you attempt to put your bra back into place while reminding him you’re both closer to thirty than not. “It’s been quite a few years.”

“Not even one?” 

Briefly, you consider asking him to go, to pick up his bags and come back tomorrow after you’ve both slept and showered. Instead, you say, “I lost my mind once or… you know, that’s what I call it. I downloaded one of those apps and swiped until something stuck.”

“Until something stuck?” He asks. He’s asking a lot, you’ve asked practically nothing. “What does that mean?”

“It means that”—you’ve given up on the bra, pulling it off and through your sleeve instead—“I swiped until I found a guy who looked kind of like the pictures my mom showed me from your mom’s Facebook and I…thought of you.”

His eyes don’t even follow the bra as you toss it to the side, breathing deep beneath his gaze as he puts it together with crimson brushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. 

A beat.

Maybe two.

He’s still staring you down but not saying much else and that weight drops again, like a strong man game at the carnival. It went up with the hit to ring the bell in the middle of your chest before it slammed back to start with the same force you gave it. “Say something, Bobby.” 

“I-uh—“ He clears his throat and runs his thumb along his bottom lip before taking a deep breath. “I visited once just to see if I’d maybe run into you and, you know, I did… kinda. You were with some guy and I”—he clears his throat again—“may or may not have jerked off so hard my dick hurt for two weeks straight about it.” 

Oh.

“What did the guy look like?”

“Well”—he leans forward, voice dropped low—“he kinda looked like me.” 

It’s amazing how black his eyes can be when it looks like he’s got a trick or five up his sleeve. Only he’s shirtless and doesn’t leave you waiting for long, body launching across the distance between you to push you over and down again.

And it’s not quite like a weight in your belly now so much as a weight on your belly, heat radiating through his rough palms as they sneak higher and higher up your torso. 

“I'm kind of scared to have sex with you,” he whispers against your lips, answering the question before you can even why, saying, “I'm afraid I won’t live up to your fantasies.”

“I'm afraid I won’t live up to yours.”

It’s not even a sentence he fully lets you finish, lips dragging across your jaw and hips pushing down against yours and the bunched up skirt. Bob Floyd is so not inexperienced.

He’s just subtle and private, even going so far as to close the bedroom door despite the fact that you live alone. This unassuming, private, quiet man who closes doors and says please and thank you as he’s asking for your shirt to go and pulling your tights down and off.

No bra, no shirts and no glances down your body because that would mean taking his lips off of you. But when he does dip low next to your ear to ask if he can look at you, it’s the easiest yes of your life. 

It’s not nervous, you don’t want to cover yourself back up. It feels as good to be looked at him as it feels to have him on you. And, again, you have no idea how anybody could ever see this man as inexperienced or—what did he say?—Baby on Board is so beyond you.

“You're still really dressed,” you tell him, poking the belt buckle that looks close to snapping with the tip of your big toe. “You should take this off.” 

His eyes fall to the space between your legs again and he smiles. “You're still wearing your skirt.” And the panties he didn’t take with the tights. “If we’re being completely fair here.”

“This is weird,” you say for the second time tonight. “We used to play in sandboxes together and now—“

“Now I’m trying to make good on my promise that kissing is what people who love each other do, sweetheart,” he says, hooking his fingers into the elastic waistband, “so ladies first on this one.”

Ladies first, another thing to add to all his manners. All his manners and the dirtiest mouth. Because you can hand it to his colleagues on one front—he does not look like a man who knows the word cunt and he certainly doesn’t look like he’s ever used it.

And it’s working but it’s not enough to combat the nerves. Especially when he lifts himself up enough again to undo his belt, it’s like your whole body tightens up again.

“We don’t have to, “ he says for what feels like the seventeenth time. “We can just snuggle”—he laughs and shrugs—“or I could fuck off.”

“I don’t want you to fuck off,” you tell him. “I very much would not be naked if I did.” 

Not even an hour ago, he was saying he didn’t want to be caught with his dick in his hands and now that’s exactly where it is. Dick in his hands, smile on his face. He’s beautiful.

“Can you even see me right now?” You ask him, grasping for something to cover the nerves.

He affirms that he can as he pushes himself back down against you, mouthing opening against yours and every muscle in your body tensing up beneath him. It’s some combination of nerves for how much you like him and nerves over how long it’s been.

It always hurt before and you know it’s not supposed to but it hurts now, too. He hurts but you tell him it doesn’t after you try your best for some air in the space between your bodies—your lips. It’ll get better, you promise him that it will and that you’re just nervous every time. 

Really, it should. It does. Performance anxiety or not, it’s easy to relax around his presence and his gentle hands and the soft press of his lips as he gives into the way you grab at him.

Grasp at him, pull at him.

All of him and any little bit of him. There’s so much time and so many feelings to make up for. So many songs he could’ve broken your heart to already every time he had to say goodbye. 

“What are these?” He asks, the drag of his knuckles against the heat of your face. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Baby.” All his worry in one word as he pulls away and out to sit up and pull you with him. 

“Am I bleeding?” You ask, afraid to look down but aware of what every other experience has held thus far and exactly what the partner at the time sounded like when they pointed it out.

It makes you want to run when he looks down and nods. “I did hurt you.”

Your head shakes and he pulls you even closer, large hands grabbing to hold on as you’re shaking and cold until you’re close enough for just little whispered words. So quiet and warm as he tells you over and over again that it’s okay.

Of course it is, it’s Bob. The one who makes sense—who’s always made sense.

You tell him it happens sometimes—it happens every time—but that doesn’t seem to calm the guilt he’s feeling. 

“You want me to kiss it better?” He asks, voice somehow even lower like you’re not the only two people in the apartment. 

“I don’t want to.”

Bob brushes his fingertips along the swell of your cheek and asks, “do you really not want to or are you afraid that I’m afraid of a little blood?”

“Both,” you tell him, fairly certain the smile across your face is the reason he even asked that question to begin with. “It was a long day before I got your letter, I think that maybe I-I need sleep and”—you laugh—“maybe a fucking muscle relaxer or a Xanax. I hate to think I’ve made you feel unattractive o-or not good.”

“You didn’t,” he confirms and his hair is so messy with how many times you’ve run your fingers through it. “I could’ve been slower—“

“It wasn’t fast.”

“Still,” he says before offering to change the sheets. “Tell me where they are and you can go shower, I’ll join you in there.”

Parting leaves you pacing again, back and forth in the bathroom. Only, this time, you’re naked and ignoring the ache between your legs as you wash the make up off instead of fixing what was there over and over again.

In the reflection, you watch as he strips the bed. It may have been years but so many nights have ended like this but only for you. And it was usually tear soaked and lonely as you stripped the bed yourself and made it back up again. 

Now, though, he’s here. He’s stayed here instead of leaving, whether by your own insistence or his—he didn’t leave.

His smile is the kind you could get used to, the comfort he has in this space around you already to be naked and open. This comes from all those letters and long, sleepless nights on your of the line, yeah. But it also comes from the childhood you spent together and the years that you didn’t.

In the shower, you pull him down and to your lips before he can even think about leaning over. The first one to kiss him this time, void of all nerves you’ve carried for hours up to just minutes ago.

He said it years ago, beneath the swings in your backyard. “This is what people who love each other do.” 

[loulouwrites]

PROSE . ALFIE SOLOMONS

summary: alfie found comfort in her letters during his darkest moments, even if they were never meant for him warnings: angst, war, death, ptsd, a bit of politics, happy ending, unedited for now word count: 2.2k a/n: a short lil story x

Lieutenant Adam Weiss would read those letters over and over, a smile on his muddy face whenever he pulled the envelopes from his pockets, almost as if the words made him forget where he was.

The letters were creased and the envelopes were worn, mud caked the sides and gritty fingerprints decorated the edges from where he would run his hand down the pages. Some of the letters were longer than others, ranging from one page to four, front and back.

Captain Alfie Solomons watched the boy pull out a fresh letter, amazed he received so many. Delivering letters to frontline soldiers was not a priority in the war, nor should it be, men waited months for notes from their family, but somehow, Adam always received his - he must have been the luckiest lad in France.

People didn't write to Alfie.

His parents were long gone, his sisters had husbands they would rather scribble away to, and the few friends he had were scattered throughout Europe, fighting the same fight he was - one none of them quite understood.

Adam's smile felt like an assault on the captain, the grin he wore reminiscent of a time before, a time that didn't exist anymore. The lieutenant had never shared who the letters were from, he kept them tucked into his breast pocket, only pulling them out when everybody else was busied with other, more important tasks.

"Who's writing you these letters?" Alfie asked the boy, trying to stretch his legs the best he could in the cramped quarters below ground.

Adam's grin faded from his face, and he shrugged non-committally, tucking the letter away.

"Just a girl I know," he said, face bashful.

"A girl you know," Alfie nodded. He was surprised he had never met Adam before the war, they were both raised in the same area, both Jewish, of a similar age, yet their paths had never crossed. "A pretty girl?"

"Just a girl," Adam scowled, crossing his arms across his chest.

The sound of gunfire interruped whatever Alfie was about to say next.

Lieutenant Adam Weiss succumbed to injuries sustained in the battlefield two weeks before the armistice was signed. He died at the age of 24, with a hole in his head, and even more in the chest.

Alfie didn't feel much when he died, there had been so much death that he feared he had become immune to it, and he was never particularly close to the man. Yet, it didn't stop him from taking the letters from the dead man's pocket before his body was dragged away.

He had no intention of reading the letters that were now kept in his own breast pocket, he wasn't even sure why he took them in the first place, but the weight of them comforted him.

More letters arrived the day after Adam died, a small envelope addressed to him at the bottom of the pile, and Alfie took that one too, snatching it from the boy who delivered them before he could question it.

It was a lot quieter these days, men were being picked off one by one, and those that were still alive, found little to talk about. At first, they would joke about finally being away from their wives, or make lewd comments about the nurses, but now, there was nothing, it was if they couldn't remember their lives before.

Alfie opened the letter before he could stop himself, the cursive handwriting was so neat, not a word had been crossed out, suggesting the author had taken their time with every word, possibly rewriting it completely whenever she made a mistake, a showing of her care, not just for the letters, but for Adam too.

He carefully read the well wishes and pleasantries. The one page letter was not particularly engaging or poetic, but the talk of day to day life in London was comforting to Alfie in the most painful way.

His eyes led to the bottom of the page, where the writing got slightly messy, and the words were slanted more than they were in the beginning.

Revolution is in the air, and peace is on the horizon. You will be home soon, hopefully before the month draws to a close, and we will celebrate your birthday together, as we have always done.

The slaughter will end, and you will be home.

Your dearest, and only friend.

She didn't sign it, there was no need to, he supposed, the letter was not for him, it was for the boy dead on the battlefield, and he already knew her name.

Alfie scoffed as he reread her words.

The slaughter will end.

Bullshit.

The armistice was signed less than two weeks later. The girl from the letters was right, the slaughter had ended and peace had come - though the men returning were forever changed.

Alfie wondered whether word about Adam had reached her, it should have by now. He considered tracking her down and telling her himself, he was the boy's captain, after all, but he had no fight in him to search for a nameless girl in London - he was tired.

The journey to London was long, they had heard them like cattle onto boats and trains, the men silently sitting in their misery, no celebration to be had.

The time allowed Alfie to read the other letters he had been carrying. He read them in no particular order, skimming through the cursive writing, more to distract himself from the sadness filling the train carriage, than anything else.

Mr Feldman brought me flowers again, he thinks I'm his dead wife.

Your mother came over for shabbat, she cried a lot.

I still go to the bakery we used to go after school, the bread isn't as nice now that Issaac isn't there to make it.

James proposed to me - again. It is the fifth time I have declined. He doesn't understand why I have no intention to marry a ten year old.

The girl talked a lot about what was happening at home, Alfie appreciated that, other than well wishes and the odd scathing political rant, she rarely mentioned the war, the men reading letters didn't need reminding of the war, the needed to be reminded of home.

Life returned to a new normal in the years following the war. Alfie was able to forget the war better than most, maybe because the violence didn't end for him. He went from a war in France to a war in London, and he enjoyed every minute of it.

Tensions rose, men died, and Alfie survived - as it was, as it always would be.

He sat in his office a lot, when everybody had left for the day, he would pull out the stack of letters from the second drawer of his desk, and read them over again, as if he couldn't recite them word for word at his point.

He had a favourite, one that was now more creased than the others, and had more bends in the edges, read far more often than others.

I had an argument with my mother, again. I shall not bore you with the details, but I am certain the war will end soon, that the trend sweeping the East will come here and you shall return home.

We will go to Abraham's bakery the day you step off the train and eat the pineapple cake you like so much, we will then go to Finsbury Gardens and spend the rest of the day there, and we shall end the day at the pub, I haven't been allowed in without my male companion.

May you remain safe and well, and may you return home soon.

Your only and closest friend.

The girl was not a particularly poetic writer, yet Alfie was more enthralled by her prose than he ever had been by Shakespeare or Austin, because alone in the dark of his office, he could lie to himself, and believe those letters were for him.

He fiddled with the papers in his hand as he stood outside of the bakery. It had just opened, and people ushered in and out, their eyes avoiding his.

He had built quite the reputation for himself upon his return.

The bell above the door dinged when he walked in, and the lady at the counter looked away from the customer she was serving to wave at him.

He hovered behind the girl in front as she chatted to the woman, laughing and pointing to various cakes and pastries.

"Sir?" The woman waved a hand up and down to get his attention, and Alfie snapped out of whatever daze he was in, clearing his throat out of embarrassment.

"Urm...yeah," he muttered, looking down at the paper in his hands. He could recite this letter word for word, why couldn't he remember the cake now?

The baker and customer watched him as his eyes flickered to the page and back up to smile apologetically at them.

"I can help," the girl smiled at him, holding a hand out for the letter. "I'm a good reader."

She thought he couldn't fucking read.

"I can read," he defended, and she held her hands up jokingly. His eyes skimmed the words, failing to find the one he needed.

What kind of fucking cake was it?

And why did he even fucking care?

"For fuck's sake," he muttered, holding the letter out to the girl. "There's a type of cake in there, can you find it?"

She let out a small laugh as she took the paper with a smile on her face. He watched as she began to read it thoughtfully, her smile slowly dropping from her face and her eyebrows pulled together. Her head snapped up, and she held the letter up, a scowl on her face.

"Where did you get this?" Her tone wasn't something Alfie could place, a mixture between shock and confusion, and something else entirely.

He was never one to be lost for words, but he couldn't string a sentence together for the life of him, what the fuck was happening?

He must have been quiet for too long, because the girl fled the bakery, brushing his shoulder as she pushed past him, the letter still in her hand.

His favourite letter.

His body reacted quicker than his brain did, and he rushed after her, jogging to catch up with her as she stormed down the street.

"Oi," he called out when he was close enough for her to hear, "give me my fuckin' letter back."

She stopped in her tracks, spinning around to face him, pushing a hand to his chest when he was close enough to touch.

"It is not your letter," she spat. "Where did you get it?"

"The fuck are you chattin' about? You stole it from me."

"And you stole it from Adam," the girl shrieked, turning to storm away again, but Alfie was faster, grabbing her arm to stop her.

"Fuckin' hell," he smiled despite himself. "You're the girl from the letters."

"Who the fuck are you?" She cried, pulling her arm out of his grip.

"My name is Alfie Solomons," he held his arms out in defense, watching as her eyes widened at his introduction.

He really did have a reputation.

"I was Adam's captain in France," he reached down to take the letter from her hand, and she didn't put up a fight when he pulled it from her grip. "I took the letters off Adam when he died."

"Why?" She whispered, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

"Couldn't tell ya, love," he shrugged. "Maybe because they made him very happy."

Her face scrunched up as if she were in pain at his words, and she breathed a deep breath to quell the tears in her eyes.

"They made him happy?" She breathed out, Alfie nodding in confirmation.

"It was annoying, really," he joked. "They made me happy too, even if I did steal 'em."

She huffed a laugh in response, dabbing at her eyes with her gloved hands before gesturing to letter he now held in his hands.

"Keep it," she sighed. "It was pineapple cake, by the way."

She went to turn away, but Alfie spoke before she could.

"Tell me to fuck off if you want, but would you fancy goin' to Finsbury Gardens?"

She looked at him blankly, and Alfie was certain she was going to say no, to tell him to fuck off with his letter and leave her alone.

"Okay," she nodded eventually. "But only if you take me to the pub after, I need a new male companion."

"It'd be my pleasure, love."

[writingonleaves]

will you take a moment? promise me this (that you'll stand by me forever) - the blue au

universe: the blue au (clementine sandoval x hughes brothers x nico hischier)

warnings: swearing, mentions of death, more sadness than i intended originally, mentions of covid during one particular part, so so much fluff!!

title + based on: "long live" by taylor swift, "i'll always remember you" by hannah montana, "ribs" by lorde, "vienna" by billy joel, "home" by edward sharpe & the magnetic zeros and "a letter to my younger self" by ambar lucid. title from "long live"

word count: 14k

author's note: graduation / draft moments that technically take place before the first installment. though you should read the first part for context if you haven't yet! romance who? we ride and die with found family. i def made myself cry a few times writing this. happy american thanksgiving to all those who celebrate. hold your family and loved ones close. hope you all enjoy and please let me know what you think <3

2018 - dallas, texas 

i wish you love, i wish you luck

for you, the world just opens up

- “i’ll always remember you” by hannah montana

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dallas. The time is currently 12:26 p.m. and the current temperature outside is a very toasty 91 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Clementine tunes out after that. 91 degrees? She’s gonna die when she gets out of the airport. 

As soon as she exits the plane, she follows the signs to the baggage claim, waiting for her luggage that isn’t only for this next week, but is for the entire summer as well before she returns to UCLA in the fall. After the draft, she’s heading back to Massachusetts to work in a clinic for the summer. 

Fuck, she just had her last final three days ago. She feels like it never stops. Sometimes she wishes it would. 

But she shakes her head to herself, watching as her bag comes closer. None of that now. She’s about to celebrate one of her favorite people making their dream come true. She smiles to herself as she wheels her suitcase and adjusts the straps of her backpack, not quite running but pretty close to it as she walks through the arrivals terminal of Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. 

“Clementine!” She whips her head over to see Ellen’s unmistakable blonde hair and wide smile, waving enthusiastically. Next to her is Maeve, her own mother with a more subdued smile, her carry-on suitcase beside her. They had scheduled their flights so that they’d land around the same time. To Clementine’s absolute delight, she sees Jack and Luke right before Luke comes flying at her. 

“Oof,” she groans as Luke hugs her tightly, burying his head into her shoulder. “God. You need to stop growing.”

“Never,” he mutters into her neck before letting go with a bright smile. “Hi Clemmy!”

She grins back. “Hi Lukey. I’ve missed you.”

“My turn!” She laughs as Jack shoves his brother aside and sways her around. He messed up her hair before pulling away. “I’m so pumped you’re here.”

“Me too, Jackson.” Both moms finally get to where they are and she hugs Ellen before hugging her own mother. “When did you land?”

“About an hour ago.”

Clementine cringes. “Yeah, we were delayed back at LAX. Sorry.”

Ellen waves her apology away as they start heading out of the airport, Jack grabbing her suitcase and Luke grabbing Maeve’s. “No worries. We’re just excited you both are here.”

“El, we wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Maeve says. And her mom’s right, Clementine thinks. Quinn’s getting drafted into the NHL. She can’t remember a time when this wasn’t his dream. 

“How have you been? How’s college?” Jack asks. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

“We literally all FaceTimed last week,” Luke says while avoiding Jack’s slap. 

“It’s not the same,” Jack whines. Clementine rolls her eyes at his tone, but he kinda has a point. FaceTimes and texts are never the same as their in-person debriefs, which have become fewer and more in-depth since all four of them are in different-ish places now (though Jack and Luke technically still live under the same roof and Quinn isn’t that far). 

Clementine feels a pang in her heart, knowing that the amount of debriefs will only get fewer and fewer as the years go on. 

“College is good,” she automatically squints against the sun the second they get outside. “Same old, same old. Didn’t fail any classes somehow, which is always a win.”

Ellen snorts. “Honey, you’re literally the smartest girl I know. I don’t think failing is in your vocabulary.”

“No, literally.” Luke adds. 

“Aw, not true. Thank you, but not true. And this weekend isn’t about me.” Clementine whips out her arm in front of Jack’s front so that he doesn’t get run over by a car. “I didn’t expect to see you two until dinner.”

Jack shrugs. “We were gonna tag along with Dad, but we already did to some of his stuff yesterday and it was so boring.”

Clementine snorts. “Well, he’s technically kind of working this weekend, no?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would be that boring,” Jack says. 

“You two better get used to it then,” she swings an arm around both Jack and Luke’s shoulders. “Especially you, Jacky. This is gonna be you next year.”

Jack groans, but Clementine knows he secretly loves it. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. You’re gonna be here, right?”

“Where?”

“Next year. At the draft.”

“What? Of course I will.” How dare he think differently? “And whenever Luke’s is. You guys are silly for thinking otherwise.”

“But what if you’re too busy saving lives?”

“It doesn't matter where I am. I’ll be there,” Clementine promises, as they all climb into the car. 

“Clem’s right, boys.” Maeve says, turning around from the passenger seat as Ellen starts the engine. “You can’t get rid of us that easily.” Luke responds by putting his chin on Maeve’s shoulder as she reaches up to tap his cheek fondly. “Have you all gotten the chance to see Quinn much?”

“Here and there,” Ellen says. “Media and last minute meetings with teams have been keeping him busy though.”

Clementine has naturally always known more about the hockey world than the average person purely from her circumstances, but within the last month or so — mostly when she’s been procrastinating on studying for final exams — she’s been poking around online to see people’s pre-draft predictions. Obviously, she knows they’re just speculations, but she wanted to get an idea of what the general world has been thinking of Quinn. She thinks he’s the best at everything, but she’s aware she’s incredibly biased. 

She hasn’t really talked to Quinn, or the other two, about it, knowing that it’s all they’ve been thinking or hearing about and there’s no use adding onto the noise. But Clementine wants to be prepared. From her research, people have Quinn going to places from Arizona to Vancouver to Ottawa. She’s seen Detroit a good amount. One or two said New York or Chicago. 

But at the end of the day, truly, it doesn't matter. For her at least. He’s getting drafted into the National Hockey League and Clementine brought two waterproof mascaras to prepare. 

“God, El.” Maeve puts a hand on her best friend’s shoulder. “You must be so proud.”

“It’s definitely a big week,” Ellen says. Jack puts his head on Clementine’s shoulder because she somehow ended up in the middle seat. But she doesn’t shove him off like she usually would. 

Every time she sees these boys — this family — again, she feels more grateful to have them.

“Thanks for picking us up,” Clementine says. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Oh, it was nothing.” Ellen says. “Now tell us about college, honey. Only one more year to go! Well, of undergrad at least.”

…..

Later that night, they’re about to go inside a nice restaurant for dinner when Clementine squeals, launching herself at Quinn. She feels his laughter as she squeezes tight and she holds on longer than normal. 

“Hey Clem,” he says. 

She pulls back and smiles, before hugging him again. “Hi Q.”

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, as Clementine lets go to let him hug Maeve, who sways him. Clementine thinks she sees her mother’s eyes water. 

Clementine turns to beam at Jim. “Hi Jimmy!”

“Hey sunshine,” he says with a laugh, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek. “Glad you and your mom made it.”

“Of course.” They all file into the restaurant and take their seats. She sits inbetween Quinn and Ellen with Jack directly across from her. She narrows her eyes when he kicks her foot and purposefully avoids her eye contact. 

She turns to Quinn with a wide smile. “Look at you. You’re such a star.”

Quinn laughs nervously. “What are you talking about?”

“We’re here. In Dallas. To watch you get drafted. This is a big deal!”

“Are you gonna cry?” Luke teases. 

Clementine snorts. “Of course I am. Stupid question, Lukey. I’m gonna be crying all weekend.” She wraps an arm around Quinn and leans in for a side hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to come to see you play at Michigan this year. I’ll try my best next season.”

“What?” Quinn asks, genuinely confused. “It’s okay. I-I didn’t expect you to. You’re busy at school.”

She shrugs, thanking the waitress for pouring out her glass of water before turning back to Quinn. “I want to, though. Jack and Luke and even Trevor keep texting me that I need to come to one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Quinn says. And Clementine knows he means it too, the sweet boy. “I’m serious. You already stream the games and that’s completely unnecessary.”

“Sorry I want to support my best friend slash brother.”

Quinn pouts, “Well now I feel like an asshole.”

Clementine just smirks as everyone looks over the menu.

Dinner is simply wonderful. The food is yummy but the company is even better, as she finds herself laughing loudly at all of Ellen’s classic stories and Maeve bouncing off of her old friend seamlessly. Clementine just giggles under her breath as she watches Jim sit there in amusement and sometimes exasperation, ordering a second beer before their main courses even come. The boys are the boys, lively as ever and filled with love. The feeling of anticipation and excitement in the air has Clementine just putting her chin on her hand, observing the love around her. 

Her father would’ve loved this. 

As if he knows that she’s about to go too deep in her thoughts, Luke pulls on her ponytail. She shoots him a look as she’s swallowing her bite of gnocchi. “What?”

He beams. “Nothing.”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles nonetheless. Luke will always be her baby, but it’s moments like this when she realizes that he’s growing up so fast. As Quinn laughs at something his dad said and she watches Luke’s eyes drift towards him, she bites her lip. Soon enough, it’ll be Luke in his oldest brother’s shoes seeing what team will draft him. 

She blinks as a hand waves in front of her. “Earth to Clee,” Jack says. 

“What’s up?”

Jack gives her a hopeful look. “Can I try some of your pasta?”

“Cut me a piece of your steak and then we’ll talk.”

…..

The next few days, Clementine and her mom explore Dallas. Ellen, Jack and Luke join them when they can, Jim comes on the rare time that he doesn’t have meetings and Quinn is just too busy to join at all. Clementine’s surprised Ellen, Jack and Luke are even tagging along with them. But she welcomes it. 

Until Jack is nudging her way too close to the edge of the sidewalk and she stumbles. Luke just laughs and both Ellen and Maeve don’t see it because they’re walking up ahead. Assholes. 

The day of the draft comes quickly, and her and her mom are staying in the same hotel the Hughes family is. They get ready right after lunch, as Maeve and Clementine take charge of being the communication liaison for the rest of the Hughes family who’s here on this special day to let Ellen and Jim handle what they need to. Ever since the day Ellen introduced Maeve to her family, Maeve’s become one of them. Clementine smiles as she watches Geegs, Ellen’s mom, and her mom hug, opening her own arms happily when it’s her turn. 

“Hi Sweetie.”

“Hi Geegs,” she lets the older woman place her hands on her cheeks. 

“You look more like your father the older you get. Beautiful.”

Clementine swallows as she reaches up to squeeze her pseudo-grandma’s wrists, before turning to greet the various other family members. Most of them she knows, some she doesn’t. Many she hasn’t seen since she went to college. 

She volunteers to wait downstairs for everyone to come while her mom makes a few trips to and from the hotel room where Ellen, Jim, Quinn, Jack and Luke are. Once she’s 99% sure everyone is at the hotel, she makes the trip up to the room herself. In the elevator mirror, she glances at her outfit. A blush pink wrap dress with white heeled sandals. She’s decided to keep her hair down, a hair elastic around her wrist that will no doubt be used the second she steps outside into the Dallas heat. Earrings that Ellen gave her for her 18th birthday are dangling from her ears.

And of course, the three friendship bracelets tied around her left wrist. They don’t match any part of her outfit, but it doesn’t matter. She rubs over them with her right thumb as the elevator door opens. 

When she knocks on the door, it’s swung open immediately by one of their many cousins. Emily, who can’t be more than five years old, immediately wraps her arms around Clementine’s legs.

Clementine laughs, maneuvering carefully so that she can shut the door behind her before bending down to fully hug the girl. “Hi Em.”

“Hi Clee!”

“How are you?” Clementine stands back up. “You look so pretty.”

“Thank you,” Emily reaches out to tug at Clementine’s hand and she obliges. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“Really?” Clementine asks skeptically as she follows the young girl down the short hallway.

“Well, maybe just me.” They come to a stop and there’s a big call of her name echoed throughout the room. Clementine smiles bashfully. The Hughes extended family has always been nice to her, but this isn’t her day. She eyes the camera out of the corner of her eye and blinks.

Sometimes she forgets that the three boys she calls her brothers have outside attention on them. Which is dumb, because duh. But she forgets they’re not just… Quinny, Jacky and Lukey. 

Though today, out of all days, nothing will let her forget. She thinks she’s okay with that. 

The sound of Luke calling out her name puts her a bit more at ease. “I was starting to think you got lost.” She rolls her eyes, ignoring him as she gets pulled into hugs. 

She eventually stops in front of her mother, who just raises an eyebrow and lowers her voice. “You have the cufflinks?”

She nods, blindly reaching into her purse and feeling around for her small gift for Quinn. “Yeah. I’ll give it to him when he starts getting dressed.”

Jim, who overhears the exchange between mother and daughter, eyes them suspiciously. “Cufflinks? Mae, you already got him-”

“Not from me,” Maeve sings with a mischievous smile. “Technically, this one is all Clem.” Jim rolls his eyes as Clementine smiles innocently, before she gets pulled into a conversation with Lara, one of the aunts. 

She notices immediately when Quinn is ducking into the attached bedroom to change and quickly scurries in his direction. She stops in the doorway, watching as Quinn starts unzipping the garment bag that’s holding the suit that Maeve gifted him for this very day. “You have a second?” Clementine says. 

Quinn turns around quickly with a small smile. “Of course.” Clementine walks in and reaches into the outside pocket, taking out the small black pouch. Immediately, Quinn is shaking his head. “Clem, no.”

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“I don’t have to. Clem, the fact that you’re here and I’m wearing a suit your mom made me. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”

Clementine pouts, “It’s never enough. Open it.” With a skeptical look, he carefully takes the pouch for her hands and opens it. He gently lays the cufflinks out on the palm of his hand. They’re silver, a Q and an H written out in cursive on each. “It’s nothing too crazy, but-”

“It’s perfect,” Quinn breathes out. He closes his fest and looks up, pulling Clementine into a very tight hug. “Thank you so much.”

She can feel herself starting to tear up. Dammit. “I’m so…god, I don’t know.”

He pulls away and laughs. “You’re already crying?”

“I’m trying not to,” she whines, watching as he puts the cufflinks back into the pouch and places them on a nearby table. She clears her throat. “I’ll let you get ready.”

She smiles at him one last time before turning around to walk out of the room. “Clem?” He says. 

She whips her head back around. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” 

She swallows and puts a hand up. “Don’t,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. He laughs and she laughs with him. “I love you too, Quinny. So much.”

He nods and she leaves the room and enters the other bedroom. Immediately, she’s met with Jack. He takes one look at her watery eyes and cackles. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Jack’s eyes widen as he clasps his watch around his wrist. “Little ears!”

“You’re a big boy. You can handle it.” She sits down on the edge of the bed across from him, eyeing his formal attire. Only his blazer is missing. She softens. “You look great.”

Jack beams. “Thanks, Clee! You do too.”

“You think?” She says playfully, smoothing down her dress. 

“Yes,” he says genuinely, causing her to look at him. “You look beautiful.”

She just smiles, making grabby hands at him. Jack obliges, collapsing into her for a tight hug that has a tear falling down Clementine’s face. A few other ones slip out as Luke walks in and immediately wraps himself around the two. 

The ride to the arena is quick, Maeve in charge of driving her daughter, Aunt Lara, Uncle Rich and Emily. Once they’re parked, Maeve sees a text from Ellen saying that that the Hughes family who were riding on the bus also just got there and asks if she and Clementine can meet them for a second before they all go their separate ways — the Hughes family to their spots and the others to the designed family and friends area on the other side of the arena. Maeve furrows her eyebrows, muttering about what her old friend could possibly want, but obliges.

Clementine hears the crowd before she sees them, knowing that Quinn is somewhere in the thrall. Before Clementine and Maeve can be confused about where they go, they see Ellen waving them over. 

“What’s up? Did you forget something?” Maeve asks. 

Ellen shakes her head with a smile. Suspicious. “No. Come on. They just opened the doors.”

“What?” Maeve and Clementine ask in unison as they follow Ellen. 

“Surprise! You two are sitting with us.”

“El-”

“Nope,” Ellen glares at Maeve. “No arguments. Quinn wanted you both with him when his name gets called, and it’s his day, so what he says goes.”

Clementine snorts. Dirty move pulling that. But she knows Ellen knows exactly what she’s doing. 

“Are you sure?” Clementine asks softly. 

Ellen pulls her into a side hug as they walk into the building together. “Of course, honey. You’re family. You know that.”

The only three people who are actually in their seats when the three of them go up to their row are Jack, Luke and Geegs, who all just smile and direct them both to their designated seats — Clementine inbetween Jack and Geegs while Maeve is inbetween Ellen and Jim. Maeve sits on the other side of Geegs, the seat momentarily open and Ellen immediately leaves because she’s getting signaled to do media.

Thank god that she doesn’t have to do that, Clementine thinks. She thinks she’d rather die. 

Clementina takes her seat and narrows her eyes playfully at Jack and Luke. “You little secret keepers.”

Luke laughs as Jack smirks. “Good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, looking around and taking in her surroundings for the first time. “This is bananas.”

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” Luke says. And yeah, it is cool. And wonderful. But also scary? And Clementine’s not the one being drafted. 

Clementine sees Quinn and the Tkachuk brothers coming up to where they are. She’s only met Brady and Matthew a handful of times, but everytime has been as lovely as the last. Brady is immediately occupied by Jack and Luke so Clementine turns to Matthew, standing up and giving him a quick hug. 

“Hey Clementine. Long time no see,” Matthew says into her ear. 

Clementine chuckles. “Hi Matty. It’s good to see you.”

“You look beautiful. Most stunning woman in the room.”

She rolls her eyes. Fucking charmer. “The flirting didn’t work when we were 17. It’s not gonna work when we’re 20.”

Matthew pouts playfully. “At least I tried.” He smiles genuinely. “You excited? It’s a big day.”

“Yeah. It’s quite something.” They both look at Quinn and Brady and she nudges Matthew. “Big day for you guys too. I bet your parents are excited.”

“Yeah, they are. I’m sure you’ll see them later. Last I heard you were in college?”

“I am. Just finished my junior year at UCLA. One more to go.”

Matthew whistles. “Damn. You still wanna be a doctor?”

“That’s the plan.”

He shakes his head with a smirk. “Smartest Hughes by far.” She just shoves his shoulder playfully.

“Clem!” Brady interrupts them by corralling her into a hug, causing Matthew to almost fall. 

Clementine giggles. “Hey Brady. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Brady beams. Clementine finds him absolutely endearing. 

“Whatever team calls your name is lucky to have you.” Brady just keeps smiling and it’s so damn infectious.

Ellen and Jim return and Brady and Matthew take that as a signal that they should head back to their seats. Clementine smiles as the boys all exchange hugs — Quinn and Brady’s lasting longer than all the others — and settles back into her seat. Geegs offers her a bottle of water and Clementine thanks her with a grin. 

“I’m nervous,” she mutters to Geegs, so the boys can’t hear and make fun of her. 

“Me too, sweetie.” She says, patting her leg in such a grandmotherly way that makes Clementine miss her own. She catches Clementine looking down the row at Jack, Luke and Quinn, in that order and takes her hand to squeeze it. “They’re always gonna need you, you know?”

She whips her head back, Geegs with a light smile on her face. “What do you mean?” Clementine asks. 

“It doesn’t matter what team all three of them will eventually get drafted to, they’re always gonna need their big sister.” 

Immediately, Clementine shakes her head, trying not to fucking cry at an event that has nothing to do with her. “They’ve been doing just fine on their own.”

“Sweetie.” Geegs just says, looking at her with that look. 

And Clementine realizes the last time she saw that look, three years ago, a day before she was on a flight to LA, her father dying nine months prior but it feeling like yesterday. She had broken down in her childhood bedroom in Toronto, where everyone was downstairs about to have a farewell dinner to send her off. Geegs had seen her first before getting Maeve and Ellen, and then the three women were just holding Clementine and letting her cry. She had gone on a ramble about leaving home and going to LA and how she misses her dad and how her brothers are going to be so far away and are gonna forget about her. It was a lot for her at that time and the three most important women in her life helped her through it. 

She just leans her head on Geegs’s shoulder, before placing a kiss on her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweet girl.” 

Geegs is about to say more before Jack starts incessantly tapping on Clementine’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes but catches Geegs’s knowing look before turning. “What?” Jack pouts at the snap in her tone and Clementine sighs. “Oh don’t give me that.”

“Why not? It works everytime.”

“What’s up?”

He just nudges her shoulder. “Just, I don’t know, wanna make sure you’re good.”

Clementine smiles, leaning her head on his shoulder as he rests his arm around the back of her seat. “I’m perfect.”

“You sure?”

She bites her lip. “Yeah. I just, I don’t know, not trying to bring down the mood but, I wish Dad was here, you know? He would’ve loved all this.”

Jack swallows and she feels him lean his head atop of hers. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “I was thinking that this morning, when we were all at the hotel and everything. I wish he was here too.”

She sneaks a look at Quinn, who’s chatting with his mom. “He would’ve been so proud.”

Jack hums. “Love you, Clee.”

It’s the second time she’s heard that from someone in the Hughes family in two minutes, but it still makes her emotional all the same. “Love you too, Jacky.” She breathes out and tries to gather herself. “God, can we get this show on the road? I’m getting antsy.”

Jack snorts. “Already? It’s gonna be a long night for you then.”

She narrows her eyes. “Careful. If you want me to sneak you a sip of alcohol later, you have to be nice to me.”

Jack huffs. “I can’t wait until the day I’m legal. The drinking age being 19 here is ruining my vibe.”

“Got a couple more years until that, buddy.” And then the arena lights start dimming and a tribute for the Humboldt Broncos tragedy starts. 

It begins. 

When Quinn’s name gets called seventh overall to the Vancouver Canucks, Clementine jumps out of her seat and immediately starts crying as she watches him hug his brothers, before hugging her tightly.

“I’m so proud of you, Q.” She mutters into his shoulder.

“Thanks, Clem.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” And she lets go to let him hug his grandmother. 

Clementine catches Ellen’s gaze right after Quinn hugs his mother and they share a watery smile, as she watches Maeve squeeze Quinn and kiss him on the cheek. As she watches him go down the stairs and give Brady a hug — she cheered extra loud when Ottawa called his name out earlier — she takes a deep shaky breath but laughs when Luke urges her to take Quinn’s seat. She sits down and squeezes Ellen’s hand, before Ellen kisses her on the cheek. 

Clementine is so overwhelmed and proud and excited for what’s to come, while also being very emotional about how much hard work it took for Quinn to get here. She’s had a front seat on seeing him grow up and it’s been the most incredible ride. 

Later, when they finally all meet up with Quinn again at one of the suites in the arena, she’s about half a vodka cranberry in and just watches all his admirers greet him, the Canucks jersey and hat adorning him nicely. When he finally comes up to her, she beams. 

Quinn laughs as he hugs her, “Already starting to drink?”

“It’s a big day,” she says, pulling away to look him up and down. “Holy shit, dude.”

“Careful. I’m mic’ed up.”

She rolls her eyes. “They can bleep that out. I’m so happy for you. How you feeling?”

“Good, good.” That’s all the words they exchange before other family members rightfully step in to offer their congratulations.

She knows it won’t fully sink in until later, probably when he makes his NHL debut. But what a special day that will live in Clementine’s memory forever.

(It’s not until they’re transferring the celebration to a nearby restaurant / bar does Clementine remember. She literally stops in her tracks, and Quinn, who’s walking beside her and was talking about all the media stuff he had to do, looks at her, confused. 

“Everything good?” He asks. 

Clementine digs into her purse to pull out an envelope. “Yeah. I just almost forgot.”

He takes the envelope, still confused. “What’s this?”

“It’s from Dad.” Quinn blinks at the familiar scribble of his name. “I’ve been keeping it safe this whole time.”

“Fuck, Clem. I-what’s in it?”

She shrugs. “Whatever he wanted to say to you during this moment. I got one when I graduated high school. I’m almost certain your parents probably got theirs today or will eventually from my mom.” She smiles sadly as Quinn sniffs, still staring at the envelope. “Read it later,” she urges softly. “It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

Quinn nods, putting it inside his suit jacket as they continue walking. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” He pauses for a few seconds before hugging Clementine the tightest he’s hugged her today. “Thank you.”

“I’m just the messenger,” Clementine says, but she hugs him back. “I know he’s so proud of you, wherever he is.”

Quinn just nods into her shoulder and Clementine feels like they’re kids again)

2019 - los angeles, california

you’re the only friend i need

sharing beds like little kids

and laughing till our ribs get tired

but that will never be enough

- “ribs” by lorde

Clementine’s trying to stifle a yawn as the speeches start. At least they got over the majority of the speeches yesterday during all-university commencement. 

She knows her mom, Ellen and Jim are in the crowd somewhere, from the selfie she got from them as she was waiting to walk to her seat. Thankfully it’s not that hot out, especially for LA, otherwise she’d be more restless than she already is in her lace white dress. Having a ceremony outside is kinda nice, actually, especially with the wind brushing around her legs. 

She walks on the stage, shakes the dean’s hand, gets her diploma and doesn’t faceplant at all, so she takes that as a win. She cheers for her friends when they walk across, and she’s still trying to wrap her head around the fact that four years have gone by so slowly yet so quickly. It’s been filled with great and tough moments, but she’s grateful despite it all. 

They throw their hats up and she embraces her friends, thinking about how they’re all gonna be spread out around the country in just a few months. Clementine’s staying in California, at least, heading to Stanford for medical school in the fall, but it’ll be so different. 

But that’s the beauty of it all, right?

After exchanging a few texts with her mom to establish a meeting place, she briskly walks over to the area, eager to see her family. But she stops in her tracks when she sees Quinn, Jack and Luke. 

They’re not supposed to be here. She blinks, wondering if she’s imagining it. But she hears Luke scream her name and it’s real. All in various colors of a button up and slacks and they’re fucking here. 

“Oh my god,” she says to herself before running over — as fast as she can in these heels — and absolutely crashing into Luke. Her cap falls off but she can’t even care. Jack’s next and hearing his laugh so close to her ear makes her fully start sobbing. By the time Quinn is swaying her side to side and handing her a huge bouquet of flowers “from all three of us,” she’s afraid her eyeliner is ruined. 

She quickly hugs her mom, Ellen and Jim, accepting two more smaller bouquets and turns back to the boys. “You guys are not-how are you here?”

“This was the plan all along,” Quinn laughs. “Come on, Clem. We weren’t gonna miss this.”

“B-but you’re supposed to be, I don’t know, somewhere! Jack, you’re supposed to be doing whatever the hell people do a week before their draft. And Luke, I swear you told me you had a tournament.”

Everyone’s laughing at her disbelief. “Just a few white lies here and there,” Jack says with a proud smile. “Quinn’s right. We wouldn’t miss this.”

“Congratulations, Clemmy!” Luke beams and Clementine wants to squeeze his fucking cheeks. “You didn’t trip walking across the stage.”

“And isn’t that a relief,” Jim jokes. 

Clementines points at the parents in mock accusation after adjusting her hold on all the flowers and her diploma. “You guys knew about this all along, didn’t you?”

“Of course we did,” Maeve rolls her eyes with a grin. “They’ve been planning this for months. Jack literally said he wouldn’t go to Worlds if it was at the same time as your graduation.”

She whacks him lightly across the back of his head with her diploma. “Stupid.”

“Hey!” Jack whines, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Okay, pictures! Before Clem completely cries her makeup off.” Ellen exclaims as they all laugh. Pictures take way too long but Clementine can’t even complain, even when Jack blows raspberries on her and she wants to strangle him. 

As they all walk around campus, Clementine giving an unofficial tour, she points out her old residences, where she used to study, where she’s cried, where she’s laughed. This campus means so much to her and houses so many memories that they’re not a part of. She also gets updates since the last time she saw them over her brief winter break. Luke officially committed to the NTDP, Quinn made his debut with the Canucks that she’s still upset she couldn’t make it for, both Quinn and Jack went to the World Championships, not to mention that Jack’s draft is literally in a week.  

They’re so interested in hearing about her last semester of college and congratulate her officially on Stanford even though Clementine thinks that’s nothing compared to what they’re accomplishing. She voices that, and Quinn immediately gives her a disapproving look that is kinda funny coming from someone younger than her and Luke rolls his eyes with the bold sass of a 15 year old.

Maybe that’s a good thing, Clementine thinks as Jack starts saying how he always talks to his friends about how his “smart, cool older sister” is gonna be a doctor and go to one of the top schools in the country. They all have their talents and they see each other’s accomplishments as the coolest thing in the world. 

She knows not everyone has that kind of support system. She is so blessed that she does, especially today. 

She’s surprised even more when she’s told her mom booked a reservation for one of her favorite farm to table places nearby for dinner, and she indulges herself with two glasses of wine, turning a blind eye when Quinn sneaks a sip. She glares when Luke tries though. Quinn’s at least closer to legal age. 

As she gets healthily tipsy, giggling at every single thing being said and Quinn subtly filling up her glass of water, a tear slips out again. Luckily, no one notices because she wipes it away very quickly.

Everything’s moving so fast. She wishes it would slow down. 

2019 - vancouver, british columbia 

slow down, you’re doing fine

you can’t be everything you wanna be before your time

although it’s so romantic on the borderline tonight

- “vienna” by billy joel

Clementine likes to think she’s more prepared this time around. But deep down, she asks herself if she really is. 

The vibe leading up to this draft compared to last year has been a bit different. While there was a good amount of focus on Quinn last year, it’s ramped so much higher this time around for Jack. She’s heard all about the hype. The draft of the Americans. The draft where Jack’s projected to go first.

And she really applauds Jack for handling it as well as he has. Clementine turns 22 in two weeks and she doesn’t think she could be as collected as Jack is at 18. But then again, all three brothers have been preparing for something like this their whole lives. 

Her and her mother are sitting with the family again with the draftees and this time it’s not a surprise. Maeve once again bought Jack’s suit and Clementine gifted him a watch this morning, and also gave him the letter from Miguel because she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t almost forget like she did for Quinn’s. Jack had just given her the longest hug. 

Jack’s been smiles all morning, confidence radiating off his skin. Clementine knows that most of that is genuine  — Jack has always worn his fearlessness the most outwardly compared to his brothers. So when he says he isn’t nervous, she believes him.

At least this time she has a clearer idea of where Jack will be. It’s either going to be New Jersey or New York. She, and everyone in the hockey world, would be shocked if he ended up in Chicago. 

New Jersey would be extra special. Her dad grew up there. So she hopes all the prediction articles she’s read are correct.

So now here they are. A different country and arena this time around. She’s sitting next to Luke and Geegs and there’s a lot more media that’s paying attention to them. Like right now, where it’s only her and Geegs at their seats because the entire Hughes family is doing media. Being on the bus with them this time around instead of driving to the arena herself, Clementine got more of a look into the behind the scenes stuff before the draft starts. She watched with pride as Jack walked down the carpet, signing autographs and probably charming every single person out there. 

As she walked into Rogers Arena, she got more nervous, smoothing down her olive green dress with her sweaty palms. She’s wearing the same white sandals she wore last year because of some sentimental thought she had in her head while figuring out her outfit. Friendship bracelets are on, hair is fully up this time in a high curled ponytail and her head’s all over the place.

But she also is distracted as Jack has wanted to introduce her to everyone. She’s met a lot of the kids in the program at least once, but it’s been awhile and it feels like she’s meeting them again. Everyone except for Alex, who has crashed some of Jack’s FaceTimes with her since he’s lived with the Hughes’ the last two years. Because of that, she’s inadvertently adopted him as another younger brother of sorts. Cole has the widest smile on his face and Clementine just wants to put him in her pocket. Trevor’s laugh is so contagious that Clementine understands why Jack always says him and Trevor are almost the same person. 

As she watches all of them together, she feels sad that she’s had to miss out on stuff like this, watching her younger brothers find their friends and their way and her only appearing in the stories the boys tell but not actually being in the stories. But what can she do? She chose to go to California for school. She’s choosing to stay in California for school. All with their full support and encouragement. 

That doesn’t mean she can’t be sad that she’s missing things back home. Wherever that is.

She snaps herself out of it though, those pangs of sadness she’s felt throughout the morning. It’s not fair on her emotions that she literally just packed her own stuff up from UCLA a week ago and now is here for one of Jack’s biggest moments. He’s so excited. She doesn’t want to cloud that. 

Jack’s ability to be so happy and excited is one of the best things about him.

Once everyone’s back to their seats, she’s bouncing her leg. Without looking, Quinn just puts a hand on her thigh to calm her down and she wonders for the 100th time in the last week when the fuck he got so observant and mature. 

(He always has been. Clementine’s just in a state of constant denial lately.) 

Jack gets picked first overall to the New Jersey Devils and Clementine, to no one’s surprise, starts crying. 

“Let’s go, baby!” He practically screams into her ear as he hugs her.

She laughs through her tears. “Congrats, Jacky. Love you.”

“Love you more, Clee.”

Jack walks down and makes his way onto the stage and Clementine is having the most intense case of deja vu in her life. Maeve hands her a tissue and she knows that some camera is capturing her wiping her eyes carefully. Hopefully the camera captures her whacking Quinn as he makes fun of her as well. She puts her hands over her heart watching Jack shake Gary Bettman’s hand. She can feel her dad’s love and happiness as if he’s here. 

And maybe he is, even if not physically. He’s here somewhere.  

(Hearing “Coming Home” by Diddy - Dirty Money and Skylar Grey playing as Jack walked down had Clementine wanting to slam her head through a wall. She knows Jack probably didn’t put too much thought into the song, but as she hears Skylar’s voice crooning on about letting the rain wash the pain away and coming home and forgiving mistakes, what else is she supposed to feel?)

She watches one by one as Jack’s friends get drafted with a big smile while enjoying the quiet commentary that Jim is offering. She’s still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Jack will probably be playing in the NHL this year and she still clearly remembers him hiding her shoes when they were younger. 

Clementine laughs as Jack launches himself at her when she sees him later, laughs even more when he and his buddies are being stupid and so boy-like that it makes her heart ache. At some point, someone has control of the aux and “The Spins” by Mac Miller starts playing and Clementine feels fond. Quinn appears beside her and she leans into him. 

“Is this how you feel all the time when you see us?” He asks. 

She breathes out. “Yup.” 

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Me neither, Q.” 

He chuckles. “The curse of being an older sibling.”

“You have no fucking idea.” 

“The first thought I had when his name was called was that Miguel would’ve screamed.” 

She snorts. “Probably true. I gave Jack his letter this morning.”

“I know. I accidentally walked in just as he was finishing reading it.” He pauses suddenly. “Will you come watch when I come to play the Sharks?” 

She looks over at the vulnerable look in his eyes. “Of course.” She realizes then where Quinn’s fears are going. Michigan is only an hour and a half away from Jersey by plane, while Vancouver is four hours away by plane. She’s gonna be the closest to him out of the seven of them. “Of course I will, Quinn. Always.”

“Thanks,” Quinn replies, voice a bit rough. She just presses a kiss to his cheek.

…..

The next morning, Clementine’s woken up by a knock on the door. She groans, but the knocks keep happening so she kicks herself off the bed, throws on a UCLA sweatshirt over herself and opens the door. Jack’s standing at the doorway, hair all over the place and t-shirt and shorts wrinkly. 

“What the fuck, Jack?” She asks bluntly. 

“Sorry.” At least he looks apologetic. “Shit, sorry. I’m just a bit restless.”

“Get in. Quietly. We can talk on the balcony.” Jack gives her a thankful smile as he follows her into the room. They tiptoe past so that Maeve doesn’t wake up, Clementine grabbing her phone along the way. 

She groans as he closes the balcony door and she sinks down into one of the seats. “Jack, it’s 8 in the goddamn morning. Did you not see Ellen and I knocking back shots yesterday?”

Jack snorts. “Who didn’t? I’m pretty sure at least 10 people were filming.”

“What can I say? Your family and friends think I’m entertaining.” She yawns. “What’s up, superstar? What’s got your mind racing at this ungodly hour?”

He shrugs and Clementine wants to roll her eyes. But her semi-awake brain reminds her that this is how all three of them, but especially Jack, has always been. When there’s something bothering him, she always gives him time and lets him come to her. 

A few minutes of silence, before:

“I’m not in over my head, right?”

“About?”

“Everything.”

Clementine blinks. Frankly, she’s too tired and hungover to be a big sister right now. But she’ll try her best. “Jack Rowden Hughes. Don’t tell me you were just drafted number one in the National Hockey League, which is something that had been predicted for at least two years now, and are telling me you’re in over your head.”

He flinches. “Don’t full name me. It’s too early for that.”

She kicks him in the ribs. “You’re a good player, Jack. Which is honestly probably an understatement. I’ve seen you play since you were literally a child. It’s almost freaky how good you are.”

“But you have to say that.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Clementine says. “I don’t have the time and energy to be bullshitting people anymore, especially you.”

Jack looks down at his hands. “I guess the expectations have always been there, especially recently. But it’s so much more now and that’s kinda scary, Clee.”

“Everything new is always gonna be scary,” Clementine says softly, the breeze waving with her words. “Always. I don’t care how ready for it you’ve been. I’ve been wanting to be a doctor since I was 16. You think I’m not scared to go to Stanford in the fall?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “B-but you’re so smart. You’re gonna be fine.”

“And you’re so talented. So you’re gonna be fine.” She says pointedly. “Realistically, no one can predict the future. Of course I hope that you and Quinn have a great rookie year and a long, successful career ahead of you. Same with Lukey when it’s his turn. But inevitably, there’s gonna be hard moments. That’s just life. You and I both know that. Hell, we’ve been through that together. Will people talk shit about your hard moments more than mine? Yeah, unfortunately, which I hate and wish I could change. But those people, you need to remember, don’t know you. The people who do know you and who love you whether you have skates on your feet or not? Those are the people you should be listening to. And we all love you and are so, so proud of you, Jacky.”

He scooches his chair over and leans his head on her shoulder. “How do you always know what to say?”

“I think I’ve known you all long enough just to know what to say so that you’ll listen to me.” She plays with his hair, staring out into the harbor the hotel borders. “You got all the time in the world to be who you want to be, Jack. And maybe sometimes that requires being in your head a bit. But you’ll come out okay in the end. You always have.”

She swears she feels a few of his tears drip onto her shirt. “I love you, Clee. I know I say it a lot but I mean it everytime.”

“I know you do.”

“I cried when you got your diploma last week.”

“I know. Luke told me.”

“Traitor,” he says with no heat. He throws his legs over her lap and tucks himself into her. “I-I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she parrots back.

He looks up at her from where he’s tucked his head under her chin and Clementine smiles sadly. He looks so young when he does that. He pouts. “You look sad.”

“I’m not sad.” 

He gives her a look. “Clementine Ana Sandoval.”

“Hey. You can’t do that,” she protests weakly. He waits. “I’m not sad, really. It’s just been an emotional week. In a happy way.”

“You can still be emotional in a happy way and be sad.”

She smiles. “I guess you’re right.” She kisses the top of his head. “I am so proud of you, Jack. Truly. I love you so much.”

“I love you the most, Clee. I’m serious.”

She looks at him with a smile, because she knows there’s just no way. He smiles back brightly in the morning light. 

His lips quiver and she frowns. “We’re gonna be so far apart now.” He whispers.

“We haven’t lived close to each other in awhile.”

“But it’s gonna be even farther.”

“Like I told Quinn, whenever you come play at San Jose, I’ll be there. I promise.”

“And what if I need you other times?”

“When have you called me and I haven’t picked up? Or haven’t called back within the hour?” Silence from him, because he knows she has a point. “Doesn’t matter how far apart we are. I’ll always be there for you.”

He nods, once to indicate that he heard, twice to inject those words into his veins. He kisses her cheek and she bites her lip. She’ll always love him. 

(They end up dozing off. Maeve wakes up and is very confused when she looks to see her daughter’s empty bed. Her gaze shifts to the balcony beyond the glass door and she smiles, watching Clementine and Jack’s chests fall and rise in sync. 

Maeve snaps a picture and sends it to Ellen, before getting out of bed to shower. She’ll give them some more time to rest.)

2021 - canton, michigan

laugh until we think we’ll die

barefoot on a summer night

never could be sweeter than with you

- “home” by edward sharpe & the magnetic zeros

The second her mom pulls into the Hughes’s driveway after 13 hours of being in the car, Clementine immediately runs to Ellen, who’s standing by the doorway waiting to greet them.

She breathes in Ellen’s familiar citrus perfume and melts into her arms. A year and a half into the pandemic has felt like 30 years, and Clementine just feels lucky that she can be here. She steps aside to let Maeve and Ellen embrace, getting the luggage from the car. 

“Where are Jimmy and the boys?” Maeve asks as they all gather in the kitchen and Ellen starts reheating some lasagna.

“Playing golf. They’ll be back soon.”

All three of them are collectively a bottle of white wine in deep when they hear a call pull into the driveway. Clementine can hear the moment the boys see the Massachusetts license plate because she hears Luke scream “Maeve and Clemmy are here!” and three car doors slamming before they barrel into the house. 

Clementine just waves her fingers and giggles. Quinn reaches her first, hugging her and lifting her off the stool as she laughs into his neck. Luke’s next — has he grown even more? — and she places three consecutive kisses on his cheek. Jack’s smile is as bright as ever and she threads one hand in his hair as he spins her around. 

Then finally, Jim, who’s been patiently waiting his turn. When she hugs him, she turns her cheek so that it’s against his chest. He places a fatherly kiss in her hair and she feels like a little girl again. 

In her wine drunk stage, she happily listens to the boys babble on about whatever, Maeve chiming in from time to time with stories about what it’s like trying to teach ten year olds over Zoom. At one point, Jack spits out a mouthful of beer and Quinn’s grimacing while Clementine grabs a paper towel without missing a beat in her retelling of how she should’ve gotten an A on a final paper she submitted last semester. 

(Jack had rolled his eyes, muttering “fucking overachiever” under his breath which Clementine glared at him for. Mr. Number One Pick shouldn’t be talking) 

It sucks that Luke won’t be able to get the same draft experience his brothers did, but in a way, it’s a wonderful compromise. He gets to be at home surrounded by his family and friends. Sure, media is still somehow finding their way in because it’s the draft and because he’s a Hughes but it won’t be nearly as much as it has been before. 

Clementine finds a bit of comfort in knowing that Luke won’t immediately jump into the NHL like Jack did. Not that she doesn’t want him to. She wants them to get everything they want in life. But Luke is her baby. He’s perpetually eight years old in her mind. 

And this isn’t the time to dwell on this, but Jack’s rookie year was so tough on him. She’ll never forget getting a call at 2 am his time, absolutely hyperventilating over the phone. After that, she demanded he call her once every week for at least two months after. Luckily, Quinn had a great rookie year and Jack’s second year was better, but goodness, she needs a bit more time to prepare before she starts getting middle of the night calls from three Hughes brothers involving a world she’s still learning about day by day. 

The next week is relaxing and lovely, Clementine having nothing to do for the first time in awhile having taken two weeks off from her summer job at Boston Children’s for this. She lets herself sleep in, takes naps in the backyard and on the boat, moves around slowly in the kitchen to help prepare dinner and cherishes the sounds of Quinn, Jack and Luke’s laughter echoing through the house. 

…..

The night before the draft, Clementine feels a bit restless. She tosses aside her blanket and tiptoes downstairs in a Michigan sweatshirt that she’s stolen at some point this week. Wiping her eyes, she quietly opens cabinets and pokes through the pantry, concluding that the Hughes household has all the ingredients she needs to make brown sugar cookies. Luckily, sound doesn’t travel much in this house, she’s learned. Clementine starts to get to work. 

By the time she’s waiting for the oven to finish preheating so she can put cookies into the oven, she hears footsteps coming down the stairs. She’s about to open her mouth to apologize but snaps it shut when she sees Quinn, all cozied up in a black t-shirt and gray sweats, hair absolutely all over the place. 

He blinks. “Why are you awake?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Quinn scans over the three trays of cookies waiting to go in. “Didn’t both our moms bake a gigantic cake today?”

“Yup.”

He hums. The oven beeps and before she can react, he slides the trays in. As he shuts the oven door, Clementine pours him a glass of water as she sets a timer on her phone.

“Why are you awake at this hour, Quinny?”

Quinn shrugs. “I was up to use the bathroom. Thought I heard something downstairs and wanted to check it out.”

She yawns. “Yeah, sorry.”

“I didn’t know you baked.”

“Newer habit. One of my roommates, Allie, you’ve met Allie over FaceTime, she’s a stress baker. Whenever exam season hit, there were baked goods all over our apartment. Picked up on a thing or two.”

Quinn hums. “What’s Allie up to this summer?”

“She just started her residency in Florida.”

“So she graduated?”

“Yup. Now I’m all alone.” Quinn rolls his eyes because he knows that’s not true. It isn’t. Clementine still has two other roommates as they continue looking for a third. 

“I still can’t believe you had time to do med school applications as well as a full course load,” Quinn says. “Like, I know you said that’s kinda normal. But how did you have the time?”

Clementine snickers. “I’m not sure how I did. Pure rage and fumes? ”

“I mean, you’re superwoman. You always have been. But damn. There are really no breaks for you, eh?”

“Coming here is a break.”

“Good,” she ruffles his hair. Quinn sighs. “Can’t believe it’s finally little Lukey’s turn.”

“Yeah. I’ve been having a crisis about it all summer. Makes me feel old.”

“You’re only 24?”

“Exactly,” she deadpans. “Old.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. They both look up as someone else comes down the stairs. Alex, who came in just a few hours ago, rubs his eyes with his fists. “What the fuck are you two doing up awake?”

“Clem’s making cookies.”

Alex blinks. “And you are?”

“Keeping her company.”

Alex just shrugs before sitting down across from her. He nods in thanks when Clementine fills up a glass of water for him. “Haven’t really gotten the chance to catch up with you. How’s Stanford?”

Clementine snickers. “Good. Well, as good as it can be in a pandemic. School’s school. First two years were mostly by the textbooks. Next two will be textbooks and clinicals so I’ll be in the hospital. Hopefully.”

“Clinicals?”

“Like, actually working with patients. Or like, observing in the hospital with a supervisor. The good stuff.”

“Sounds smart,” Alex hums. “How do you feel that all your babies will have been drafted 24 hours from now?” 

Fucking asshole. She doesn’t know why Ellen has a soft spot towards Alex when he’s clearly a nuisance. He just laughs at her pout and Quinn shakes his head with a close-lipped smile. “Don’t get her started. It’s 1 a.m.”

Her eyes roll so hard they might as well fall out of her head. “Don’t you have siblings?” He nods. “Are they younger or older?”

“Older. I’m the youngest.”

She huffs and Quinn grins. “That makes sense,” she says. “You don’t get it.”

Alex gets up and pulls Clementine into a quick side hug as he gets more water. “I only got to hear about how you were crying when Quinn and Jack got called. Now I’ll get to see for myself.”

“Careful,” she says wearily. Careful of what, she doesn’t know, but she needs to instill some sort of dominance as the oldest here. Quinn snickers into his sweatshirt. 

Her timer beeps a few minutes later and she shuts it off. Quinn ushers her aside while he grabs the trays and sets them on the counter to cool while Clementine digs around for a large tupperware container to store them. Alex just stares at them hungrily and she can’t even be annoyed. She sees that look in all the Hughes brothers’ eyes all the time in the kitchen. And Alex might as well be a Hughes. 

Once they each finish a cookie, Clementine shoos them both upstairs as she follows behind them to try and go back to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.

…..

The next morning comes quickly. She’s sharing a room and bed with her mother but she’s nowhere to be found. Instead, Clementine gets woken up by Jack jumping on her bed. Thankfully, he avoids anything that could really hurt her, but she still grunts, whacking him in the stomach and shooing him out of the room before beginning to get ready. She can already hear various family and friends coming through the front door downstairs.

She gets dressed in a cream romper she found on sale a month ago and pulls out, of course, the white sandals. She rummages through her backpack to find the letter — the final one she’s in charge of — and quickly debates on when she’ll give it to Luke. 

Now, she decides, putting it on the bedside table. Before the cameras turn on. She slips her phone into the pockets of her romper — she’s pumped they even have pockets — and walks down the stairs. Immediately at the front door, she’s met with Emily. She’s nine now and Clementine just goes on her knees and holds her tightly. Clementine then quickly runs into Ellen, who wants to introduce her to some people — some she’s met a handful of times, some she hasn’t met once.

It’s lovely, in a way, knowing that while their lives are so intertwined, there’s always someone new to meet or someone to reunite with. The support system for all of them is so much larger than she could’ve ever dreamed of, as she grins when Sophia, who she last saw at Quinn’s draft, hugs her tight like they just saw each other yesterday. She’s in her second year at Michigan on the lacrosse team and so smiley and lovely.

Once she spots Luke, she taps his shoulder and he excuses himself from talking to one of Jim’s old friends. Luke’s constant smile this whole week has been small but genuine. As his eyes drift down to the envelope in her hands, she sees him swallow. 

Clementine hands it over and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Later, yeah? When you have a minute.”

Luke just nods expectantly. Like almost everything in life, his brothers have gotten their letters before him. If Clementine sometimes thinks too much about it, it makes her almost sad that Luke’s always had someone do something before him, whether it’s her or Quinn and Jack. But it’s also a blessing, in a way, she thinks, because in her eyes, Luke is the best out of all of them in pretty much every single way possible because he’s seen how the older three have messed up and can take from that. She knows Quinn and Jack agree. 

“Thanks for being here.”

“Of course.” She pulls him into a hug and breathes in. “Is that the cologne I gave you yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“Cute.” Clementine gives him one last squeeze before pulling away. The house is filling up more and more and she knows her time is limited. “If I don’t catch you before, just remember that I love you, okay? And I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Clemmy.”

“I’ll look at the schedule soon and try to come down to see a game when I can.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“Duh. I gotta put all this Michigan merch I have to some use.” 

Luke shrugs. “I don’t know-I just figured, you saw Quinn at Michigan and you’ve seen Quinn and Jack in the show. Why would you come to see something you’ve already seen, you know?”

“Because it’s you, Lukey.” She squeezes his arm. “You’re always going to be my baby brother.”

She feels him relax as he folds himself into her arms again. 

The day passes by in a blur as Clementine is enjoying catching up with everyone. And there’s a feeling of gratitude in that everyone can gather with each other again after so much isolation in different parts of the continent for so long. She sees Josh for the first time in literal years and happily spends time catching up with him. 

For most of the day, she forgets that it’s draft day. She’s just bouncing around, sipping casually on her cider and snacking. The cookies she made the night before are gone very quickly, which makes her laugh to herself. 

Once Luke disappears upstairs to get dressed, she finds herself leaning against a doorway, staring out into the living room that’s filled with people but not really looking at anything. 

“You okay?”

She turns to see her mom, pearl earrings matching her deep red blouse. Clementine grins. “Yeah. Just zoned out for a minute.”

Maeve lets out a heavy breath. “Last one.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s weird. I always knew he’d get here. All of them. But then it happens. And you think you’re prepared, but you’re not.” Clementine perks up. Her mom doesn’t often get into these types of moods, always the fun-loving, energetic woman. Her dad was more the outwardly perceptive one. Maeve just continues with a small smile. “From the most adorable little boys to incredible young men.”

Clementine laughs. “They’ll always be little to me.”

“Take how you feel and multiply that by three hundred and that’s where I’m at as I’ve seen all of you together this week,” Maeve says with a snort. She hooks her chin on Clementine’s shoulder. “Love you, Clementine.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Soon enough, everyone’s gathered in front of the TV, with a few cameras around and someone on standby who’s gonna do an interview right when Luke’s name gets called. On the couch and chairs at the front, from right to left, are Geegs, Ellen, Quinn, Luke, Jack and Jim. Her and Maeve are standing right behind Jim and Alex and Josh are next to Clementine. 

This time, it could be Anaheim or Columbus or Detroit. Maybe San Jose. 

Or it could be New Jersey. 

She knows Jack has been pretty outwardly casual about it — he knows nothing, he’s just hoping. But she knows Jack. He wants his younger brother with him. And it would be lovely for those two to play on the same team. What are the odds? 

(Apparently, pretty good.)

Luke gets drafted to New Jersey fourth overall. The whole house explodes with cheers. She’s never seen Jack so excited. Maeve puts her hands on Jim’s shoulders as Luke is hugging Quinn and Jim turns around, eyes wet. That’s what sets Clementine off crying. When it’s her turn to get a hug from Luke, she rises to her tiptoes and throws her arms around his neck. 

“Congrats, Lukey. Proud of you.”

“Thanks, Clemmy. I love you.”

She smacks a kiss on his cheek. “I love you too.” Luke then hugs Maeve, Alex and Josh before continuing down the line. 

From there, there’s media to be down and they quickly set up. Most of the family stays in the room as the three boys adjust themselves on the couch, ready to answer some questions. After Geegs gives her a big hug and Luke throws on Jack’s Devils jersey, Clementine bites her lip and suddenly spins on her heel, feeling overwhelmed. 

Alex notices, furrowing his eyebrows as he lightly grabs her arm. “You okay?”

Clementine nods with a smile. “Yeah. I’m just gonna get some air.”

Alex just nods. “Okay,” he squeezes her shoulder in a side hug. “Don’t be too long or we’ll all come looking for you.”

“I won’t,” she promises, before quietly slipping out the screen door in the backyard. 

She takes a deep breath, wiping her eyes and deciding to take a little walk around the block. She stares out at the sky, currently painted in hues of pink and purple as the sun is starting to set. Michigan is beautiful. She can understand why they all love it. She fiddles with the three friendship bracelets and her vision blurs as she starts lightly crying again. 

It’s been a long time coming. All of this always has. But like her mom said, it doesn’t mean she’s ready for it. 

After a nice walk, Clementine sits down on the swing in the front yard. She can hear the commotion happening inside the house and in the backyard, but she’s not quite ready to go back in yet. She watches the sun continue setting, thankful that it’s just windy and cool enough to not have the mosquitos attacking her. 

Quinn’s in Vancouver. Jack’s in New Jersey. Both of them are looking to stay long term. Luke will be going to Michigan for at least a year. If Clementine’s inkling is right, it’ll be two, just like Quinn did. And then Luke will be in New Jersey. She’s in California for two more years. And then who knows where for residency afterwards. Ellen and Jim are mainly based in Michigan and her mom’s out in Massachusetts.

Will they ever all live close enough to each other again? Will there ever be more than just the holidays, which started already looking different ages ago when the boys started having tournaments at that time of the year? Will there ever be a time where they’re all able to be together for more than two — maybe three if they’re lucky — times a year? 

She’s accepted by now that no, they probably will never live near each other again or see each other more than they currently do. But she can hope, right? 

Because she’s made a home for herself in a few places now. Massachusetts, where Mom is. California, where she’s been for six years, She hasn’t lived in Toronto for six years now, but that will always be home too. 

But home, Clementine realizes, as she hears Quinn’s contagious laughter filter from the house, is this. Home is Quinn’s subtle loyalty and kindness that knows no bounds. Home is Jack’s contagious vivacity and love that envelopes every room. Home is Luke’s steadfast resilience and empathy that pulls everyone in. Home is Ellen’s warm hugs and Jim’s proud eyes. Home is her own mother’s…everything. 

Home is the way her father lives in all their memories, even six years after he’s gone. All the people he loved the most. That’s home. 

The front door opens. She looks up as Luke walks out and immediately smiles. He looks good in Devils red. “Hey.”

He grins. “Hi. I was looking for you.”

“Just needed some air. Are you done with media and interviews?”

“Yeah,” he slides in next to her. She watches his handle fiddle with the envelope, “Luke” written unmistakingly in Miguel’s handwriting. “I wanted to read this with you.”

Clementine shakes her head. “Nope. I was given very specific instructions. Your-”

“Eyes only,” Luke finishes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But could you stay here while I read it to myself?”

She softens with a smile. “Of course I can.” 

She watches as his shaky hands carefully tear open the envelope, biting her lip as he unfolds the paper. She then purposely looks away as Luke leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the words. She places a hand on his back, rubbing small circles to let him know that she’s here. Once she hears the sound of him folding the paper, she turns to look at him. His lips are quivering and she corrals him into a hug. 

“I wish he was here,” Luke chokes out through tears and Clementine tilts her chin up to the sky to try to hold back her own. “I miss him so much, Clemmy.”

“Me too, Lukey,” she whispers, letting him place his head on her lap. “Me too.”

“It’s so unfair how little time we had with him,” he says and well, Clementine’s fully crying again because yeah, she was 17 when her dad died. But Luke was 11. Not even a teenager. “All I could really think of when I got picked was that Miguel’s from Jersey.”

Clementine smiles. “Yeah.”

“Kinda feels like fate, maybe?”

“Fate sounds good,” she says softly, stroking his cheek with her thumb as she smiles at him. “I really like the sound of that, actually.”

There are footsteps coming closer and Clementine turns behind her to see Quinn with Jack behind him. She gives them a bittersweet smile and nods at them to come sit. Quinn slides in next to her and Jack sits on the other side of Luke. 

“You okay, Moose?” Quinn asks softly.

“Yeah,” Luke says in a scratchy voice. “I’ll come back in in a few minutes.”

“Take your time,” Jack says, exchanging a look with Clementine as she starts playing with Luke’s hair. “No rush.”

“Did all your letters make you feel like this?” Luke asks. 

“Yup.” Jack snorts.

“Yeah.” Quinn sighs. “It still does.”

“I had to reapply my mascara before my grad party,” Clementine says lightly. All four of them chuckle. She swallows, “I love you guys. So much.”

Quinn kisses her on the cheek as Jack reaches out behind Luke to squeeze her shoulder. “We love you more, Clem.” Quinn mutters. 

They stay out on the swing for a little while, just the four of them. Only when the sun sets do they make their way to the backyard to rejoin everyone. Before he gets pulled away again, Clementine holds Luke one last time. 

bonus - 2028 - new york city, new york

ya no quiero que llores

the universe is gonna give you muchas flores

quitate ese miedo

you’ll be a lot more, trust me, yo te entiendo

- “a letter to my younger self” ambar lucid

Clementine really didn’t need everyone to be here. It’s only a lunch after all. 

But “it’s not like we have anything going on anyways,” Quinn had said, the lunch NYU is throwing to mark the end of people’s residencies taking place at the end of June during the off season. So when NYU said she could bring up to eight guests, she didn’t really have a solid argument. 

And here they are now, sitting in a small but beautifully decorated ballroom. Clementine’s wearing a dark purple jumpsuit as she looks around the table. Nico’s to her right, talking happily with Jim on his other side. Then it’s Jack, then Luke, then Quinn, then Ellen and then finally her own mother on Clementine’s left. They’re all dressed up a bit, the guys in button ups and Ellen and Maeve with nice blouses on. It makes Clementine smile.

It’s really not a formal thing. But she’s grateful to have them all here anyways.

“Okay, real talk.” Jack says across the table, grabbing Clementine’s attention. “Your attending physician who stopped by earlier? I would hit.”

Maeve snorts. Ellen sighs and just says his name in disappointment. Jim takes a sip of his beer trying to hide a smile. Quinn and Luke roll their eyes and Nico scoffs. 

“Really?” Clementine says dryly. 

Jack, like the menace he is, just smirks. “Absolutely. I mean, I know you’re engaged or whatever, but if you weren’t…”

“The person she’s engaged to is right here,” Nico says as Jack cackles. 

Clementine rolls her eyes. “Well, Dr. Butterfield is happily married with kids. Sorry to burst your bubble. Though I’m sure Amelie would also not be thrilled.”

Jack waves her off at the mention of his girlfriend. “Amelie would probably agree with me.”

“I don’t know how Amelie deals with you,” Nico shoots back. 

“Settle down,” Clementine says in a monotone voice. Even after so many years, Nico and Jack love finding anything to bicker about off the ice. “Let me eat my pasta in peace.”

“Better listen to Clem, boys,” Jim chuckles. “It’s her day.”

“It’s her month,” Luke clarifies, elbowing Jack. “Are you trying to get uninvited to her wedding?”

“Clee would never!” Jack exclaims. Which is true, but Clementine’s glad Luke is backing her up. 

“Nico would,” Nico grumbles. Good thing they’re not seated next to each other right now or she’s sure Jack would be smacking him. Which is hilarious, considering Jack is one of Nico’s groomsmen. 

Five years. Five years since she walked into Langone for the first time. Five years since she moved into Hoboken with Jack and Luke. She may not live with them anymore, but sometimes, with the amount they’re over her and Nico’s house, it feels like she still does. 

Five years of great moments and really, really tough ones. Five years of highlighters in her mouth, pencils twisted in a bun atop of her head, dark under-eye circles after overnight shifts, delirious conversations with her fellow residents and so, so much coffee. And before that, eight years of school, sometimes forgetting what it was all for. But here she is.

Doctor Clementine Sandoval has a nice ring to it. 

She’s brought out of her own world when she feels Nico squeeze her thigh lightly. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“You zoned out again.”

She hums lightly. Nico always knows when to bring her back to the present. “Thanks.” He just kisses her temple. 

Along with eighteen other new doctors, Clementine’s called up on the stage to receive her certificate. Dr. Butterfield says a few words about her in front of everyone that she thinks are far too kind and she can’t help but laugh when she hears her whole table cheering as her picture’s being taken. 

“You have a lot of loud supporters,” Dr. Butterfield jokes as he shakes her hand. 

She snickers. “You have no idea.”

“They seem lovely. Keep them close.”

“They are. I will.”

“Enjoy your time off. You deserve it. We’ll see you back at NYU in September.”

Clementine beams. “Thanks Doc. I’m looking forward to it.”

After lunch is over, they go outside and take pictures right by Battery Park, where the lunch was held. Unlike the three brothers, she doesn't complain about the amount of pictures Ellen, Jim and Maeve want to take, just grinning and laughing as Nico pokes her side. They split up to drive back to Nico and Clementine’s in Jersey — Ellen, Jim and Maeve in one car and her, Nico, Quinn, Jack and Luke in the other. Nico is somehow roped into driving and Clementine knows he probably regrets that. You put five 25-31 year olds who see each other simultaneously too little and too much in the same car when there’s an annoying amount of traffic and it’s an interesting ride. 

“Someone must be throwing a party,” Clementine comments as they turn onto the cul de sac, cars lining up the curb. She squints at her and Nico’s driveway at two familiar cars. “What are Dougie and Bratter doing here?” Nico just gives her a shrug. The brothers in the back don’t respond either. “What are you guys not telling me?”

“Chill, Clee,” Jack says. “We have no idea what’s going on either. We’ll find out in two seconds anyways. 

She almost believes him. Instead, she falls in step with Nico, who locks the car. “What’s going on?” She mutters.

Nico just smiles, hand on her lower back naturally. “It’s all good. Just trust me.”

And the thing is, she does. She trusts Nico with her life. 

The second she walks through the door, she jumps as a chorus of “congratulations” echoes through the home. She scans the room quickly. The house is decorated with streamers and balloons, there are food and snacks all over and their home looks so filled. 

Maeve, Ellen and Jim beat them here, all looking very proud. Next to them are Quinn, Jack and Luke with big smiles, next to their significant others — Amelie snapping pictures with her camera, Jordyn leaning back into Luke’s chest, and even Grace is here, Quinn’s arm wrapped around her waist that’s starting to show her small, beautiful baby bump. Grace is supposed to be on tour singing in front of a sold-out crowd in Florida right now.

And then there’s Dougie. And Jesper and Nicole and their toddler son. And Timo and Steph. And Erik and Kristen and their kids. And Seamus. And Jonas. And Ethan. And Nate and Dawson and their significant others. And seemingly almost every other Devils player, most present, some past. And then there’s Trevor, Alex and Cole and Clementine feels like she’s 21 again.

Then there’s her family, blood related and not. Her Uncle Thomas and Aunt Mariana — Thomas is Miguel’s younger brother. Her Aunt Aoife, who was in California literally two days ago. Those are the only blood-related family members who live in the US, and they’re all here. Then there’s Lara and John and Emily, who’s somehow 16 now. Other various members of the Hughes extended family who she’s always loved are dispersed around. 

And then a smattering of her friends from UCLA, Stanford and NYU, all cheering enthusiastically. The ones who made all those years filled with light even in the darkest crevices.

The house is filled with so many people she loves. As she turns back to look at Nico, she feels overwhelmed. “What’s all this?” She chokes out.

“To celebrate you,” Nico says with a twinkle in his eye. 

“His idea, by the way.” Emilia calls out with a grin. Clementine has to laugh. Because of course it is. 

“I love you,” she whispers to Nico, pecking him on the lips. 

“I love you.” He repeats back. “Now go celebrate with everyone.”

And celebrate with everyone she does. As she does that, she can’t help but steal glances at Nico from wherever she is in the room. Because she’s been blessed with having a wonderful support system — the people currently in this house prove that — but there’s never been anyone quite like Nico who just loves her so wholly and wants to celebrate her all the time. 

Later that night, after she bids goodbye and a gracious thank you to Jesper and Nicole, who stayed to help clean up, she lets out a deep breath. It’s just her and her brothers and all the significant others now, Ellen, Jim and Maeve having retired up to bed half an hour ago. She collapses on the couch next to Nico. She stays quiet as she listens to Luke and Grace arguing about something that really reminds Clementine that Grace may be married to Quinn, but Grace met Luke first at a bar in New York years ago and has refused to stop making fun of him since then.

It was just her and the boys for so long. She’s so happy that they’ve all found their own counterparts throughout the years. 

“Thank you for today,” she mutters to Nico. “Seriously. It was…thank you.”

“Of course,” Nico says, his thumb going over the ring on her left hand. “You’re so loved, baby. Any chance to remind you of that is worth it to me.” She just leans up to kiss him. 

“Ew,” Luke says, ruining the moment. Jordyn slaps him for that one. 

Clementine scoffs, “Fuck off. We’re literally getting married next month.”

“Okay and?” Even at 25, Luke is still her annoying little brother. “I know today’s your day and all, but sucking face with my captain is not something I really want to see.”

“Then look away.”

Quinn snorts under his breath. “You guys are impossible.”

“Learn to deal with it, Quinny,” Jack smirks. “You have a child coming soon. If they’re anything like Grace, they’re gonna be fighting you all the time.” 

Grace reaches over her husband and shoves Jack. “Watch it, Hughes. Unless you want your backstage pass taken away when you come to my show in two weeks.”

Jack gasps dramatically. “But I haven’t gotten to see you perform in ages!”

“Exactly. So zip it.”

Amelie makes eye contact with Clementine and Nico with an eye roll. “They exhaust me.” And Clementine has to laugh, because they’ve all made the choice to be exhausted by each other.

Soon after, everyone’s tired out from the day’s festivities and starts heading to their respective rooms for the evening. Clementine trails behind everyone, shutting the lights off and making sure the doors are locked. 

She’s about to shut the light off in the living room when she stops, catching sight of a photo frame hung on the wall opposite the couch. They don’t have many frames hung up around the house, but the photos they do have hung up are important.

She stares at her father’s face. The picture was taken when Clementine was fifteen. The three of them were about to go to Thomas and Mariana’s wedding, Maeve in a long blue dress, Miguel in a dashing suit with a matching blue tie and Clementine in a glittery pink dress. They’re all smiling at the camera in front of a sunset. It’s one of Clementine’s favorites. 

Suddenly, her throat closes up as her father’s voice echoes through her brain. “The universe is gonna give you muchas flores,” he always said. All the flowers, he would say. She thinks he said that on the hospital bed on his last day. She’s long forgiven herself for not remembering every word from that day anymore. 

Nico comes from behind and his hands wrap around her shoulders as she grabs his wrists. She then turns her head to the picture right next to it and smiles. It’s of her and Nico almost two years ago on New Year’s Eve, four hours before Nico would get down on one knee and ask her to spend the rest of their lives together. And then lastly, to the right of that picture, a frame with three pictures in one. Her, Quinn, Jack and Luke all during their respective drafts. The same photoset is hanging in their homes as well. 

She feels Nico kiss the back of her head and she smiles, before turning and heading to bed, Nico’s arm around her shoulder.

long live the walls we crashed through

i had the time of my life with you

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  fragilecapric0rn! @fragilecapric0rnn has written 22 fics in the Stranger Things fandom and 21 of them are in the Steddie tag!

@cheatghost recommends the following works by @fragilecapric0rnn:

It Might Be Worth It For Once

clown music at the disco

you can take the heart from your chest to use as a compass when you are lost

Catch Me (I'm Falling)

Anyway, It's About Old Friends

"Sen's body of work is like a truly love letter to the characters. No matter the universe, Steve and Eddie always feel authentic to themselves. Sen's love for classic rom-coms influences a lot of her writing and makes for really romantic, touching stories. It's an absolute delight to dive into a world crafted by this author!" -- @cheatghost

Below the cut, @fragilecapric0rnn answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I think in May of 2022 I was bit by the same bug as everyone else. Before I started writing Steddie, I was on a 4-year fic writing hiatus, and it was like seeing those two interact on screen zapped my brain awake. The chemistry, the potential, the fact that one half of the ship got ripped away from us too soon. All of those components really did something to my brain and I decided I had to write them and I haven’t looked back since!

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

I love a idiots to lovers! These two really have the potential to fit that trope so well!

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Second-chance at romance! If you’ve seen any of my fics, you know that I love and will take any chance to write 90s older steddie, haven’t spoken or seen each other in years, who re-meet and fall in love. It is so them, it is my favorite version of them. It’s the version of them that lives in my head!

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

There are so many good ones to choose from, but I think I have to go with Show Me the Place Where He Inserted the Blade by the incomparable, the magnificently talented and outstanding Cheatghost. Lou, who I am very proud to call a friend, is one of the most talented people I know and I feel very lucky to have had them brought into my life via the Steddie brainrot.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

Is it lame if I say no? LOL. Honestly, I have written almost everything I have felt the need to explore with this pairing. A lot of my ideas moving forward are expansions/continuations of ideas that I already started or have posted before. 

What is your writing process like?

Right now it’s at its most unstructured because I am rawdogging life without my ADHD meds for the first time in 7 years, which has been a whirlwind but I am managing. However, it usually depends on the fic I’m writing! For a lot of my longfic, I have a physical notebook that has an outline and major plot points I want to hit at certain times in my stories. Other times, for the shorter fics/one-shots, I just write them all in one go. It starts with a (usually silly) idea, and then I get possessed by the writing demons, and suddenly, I haven’t moved from my chair in 2 hours and I have four thousand words on my screen. I contain multitudes!

Do you have any writing quirks?

I am a victim of the: One word. One phrase. Lin breaks for emphasis. And I will be doing it until someone who is being paid real money to publish one of my original works tells me to knock it off!

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Again, asking if it’s bad if I say neither? When I first started posting fic again, I was very much writing it all and then posting it over the course of a few days. But now, I tend to write sporadically and post even more sporadically. And I prefer the latter! Fanfiction, and fandom in general, is a collaborative experience in its heart and soul. One of my favorite things about longfic is posting a chapter and seeing what people take away from it, because 9/10 it’ll be different then what the writer thinks they’re going to take away! And the chance to change and rework and let yourself be influenced by other fans of the ship is taken away when you write it all at once and post it all at once.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Anyway, It’s About Old Friends. Even in its unfinished form, it is my magnum opus. My white whale. I have done some of my best writing in it (chapter 2 MY BELOVED) and the fact that its so close to the end is both exciting and terrifying. It is a fic I wrote and continue to write for me, and the fact that other people are reading and enjoying it is a win!

How did you get the idea for It Might Be Worth It For Once?

HA! So, I was chatting with my friend Emily (JudasofSuburbia) about a potential Pornstar!Steve AU offhandedly back in the fall. Then, I got paired with them for a little fic exchange between friends, and it felt natural to take that one off little conversation and turn it into a fic for her. It was one of those fics that started out as a silly idea and then suddenly it’s been six hours and I wrote the whole thing in one go! After some polishing and editing, it became a Pornstar!AU with not as much smut as I expected. It was so fun to write, made even more fun as it was for a dear friend.

When writing Anyway, It's About Old Friends, what was something you didn’t expect?

I didn’t expect it to change and mold and morph in the way that it did. There is a version of this fic where they do hook-up earlier, there’s a version where they re-meet at gay club and not a wedding, there’s a version where Steve marries a Evie and Eddie is Raul. But, this version feels the most right. It’s a story about heartbreak, about finding love (in all it forms) in unexpected places, and it’s about found family most of all. All of that was stumbled on accidentally! My only intention was to write a Steddie-fied When Harry Met Sally fic, and accidentally flashed my heart and soul. Whoops!

What inspired clown music at the disco?

I used to be an opener at a coffee shop and there is something so disorienting and mind altering about having disco music blasting on the speakers at 4am. But, it was in one of those moments, where I was so tired I was nauseous, that the fic idea came to me! I had already been thinking of writing as my first fic, Steve and Eddie accidentally have a Devil’s Sacrament moment at the gay bar, but the line “But it’s Disco Night”, came to me at the ungodly hour of 4 in the morning. What a time!

What was your favorite part to write from you can take the heart from your chest to use as a compass when you are lost?

The Never Have I Ever Scene! It was the first time I wrote the entire party in one scene and it’s chaotic and a little messy but it was one of my favorite parts of the fic. It also made me realize how much I love writing ensemble scenes! Just everyone trying to talk over each other, chaos in its best form.

How do/did you feel writing Catch Me (I'm Falling)?

I wrote this fic in the span of like almost 3 weeks? I was sick and burnt out for most of the time I was writing it, but it was almost a compulsion. I had the idea and I just HAD to write it. No outline, just vibes and Steve Harrington in a cheerleading uniform! I took it down for a while because I was turning it into something else, but then had a change of heart and put it back up. And part of me is glad that I took it down for a moment because people love to be weird about the feminizing Steve’s character, and even though I was writing him as a cheerleader, I tried really hard to keep him earnestly himself, and in character.

What was the most difficult part of writing Anyway, It's About Old Friends?

Writing about San Francisco while being the most homesick I have ever been in my life. Also writing Eddie in those first few chapters as an asshole but not unlikable. I didn’t want him to be “fine” (because no one is fine in this universe, especially not in the beginning) but I also didn’t want him to do or say anything too bad. I think I got a handle on it pretty well.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

In Faces Freedom With A Little Fear, the first scene in the hospital with Steve’s sister. She storms in, threatens federal agents, all for her brother. JJ Harrington you will always be famous!

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

Just my current WIPs! Anyway It’s About Old Friends; the When Harry Met Sally AU of my dreams. Hand on My Stupid Heart; the modern AU, where the UD exists but everyone has iPhones and Steve deals with his bisexuality!

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Shout out to my boys! Kkpwnall, judasofsuburbia, figthefruitfaeth, gideoncharov, cheatghost, fastcardotmp3, snowangeldotmp3 you guys rule and they’re all so talented!!!! Thank you to whoever nominated me! I feel the love and give it back to you tenfold!!!!!!

Thank you to our author, @fragilecapric0rnn, and our nominator, @cheatghost! See more of fragilecapric0rn's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Immortal Beloved - Chapter Two.

Well, here we go with the next instalment, guys. I won't lie, I'm a bit disheartened that chapter one did not do as well as the prologue. I just hope that's because people are busy and haven't gotten around to it yet, rather than 'oh, this sucks, not reading it any longer.' Sadly because of events not too long ago, that's exactly where my worried little mind always goes :( Huge thanks to all of you who have interacted, though. Maybe I can encourage some of you who don't already to leave a comment, or reblog it? It would mean the world to your hardworking author.

Previous chapters - Prologue One

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 3,700

Warnings - Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

“Holy shit.” Patting his pocket quickly, he was mildly dismayed to find himself without the silver letter opener he had stashed in there, the only thing made of the metal he could find that would work as a weapon against the shadow walker stood before him.  

“Do you search for this?” There within her handkerchief covered grasp was the very tool he’d been told to arm himself with, the vampire tilting her head back. “You know what I am now, for you to be carrying the very item that could destroy me within your pockets.”  

Looking at her unflinchingly, the blue of his eyes burned cold through the amber of his eyelashes, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I do.”  

Puzzlement tugged at her grin. “But why? I pose no threat to you, John. I told you this.”  

The caution in him continued to amp, but swirling around it came a feeling of great juxtapose. His first encounter with her had been truly terrifying, appearing before him more beast than woman. As she stood mere inches from him now, there was a gentleness to her quite palpable, the feeling of a storm stilled, the raging rain and howling winds broken by glittering beams of sunshine. He kept the words of Polly and Tommy firmly in mind, though. 

“How’d you know my name?” 

“Your walls are thin, and vampire hearing is quite the thing.” Smiling, she watched as he mirrored it for a flicker of a second, his face swiftly altering, blankness stilling his features. She read him like a book, though. “Your aunt, she is incorrect.”  

“Yeah? What about?”  

“When she spoke of us being evil incarnate. I for one am not.”  

His soft snort was muffled by the blast furnace once again roaring, but she still heard it. He could have snorted in disbelief three streets away from her and the sound would still reach her ancient ears. “You tore four men to pieces last night. That counts as evil in my book.” 

“Then you are evil too, John Shelby. For the weapons you wield, the intent behind the bullets you direct at your enemies, or the razorblades within your cap intended to blind and maim. I could say we are the same.” She had him there, he had to concede. “I saved your life, there was a purpose to my slaying of the Rasmussen men. That, and I happened to be quite famished.”  

He sighed, flicking his cigarette away, returning the toothpick to his mouth. “Look, love. What the fuck do you want, eh?”  

She cocked her head, smiling, reaching for his cheek. “For you to be calm, John. All this coolness towards me is unneeded, I swear to you. I would also like for you to be a gentleman, escort me down to the public house and buy me a glass of wine. I am partial to a nice, dry red.” She held the letter opener forth, gesturing to it with a nod. “A show of faith. Take it. I trust you; I would like for you to trust me as well.” 

They shared a weighted silence, pulled in by one another’s gaze, the vampire speaking once again as her eyes toured him. “Gods, you are so strikingly handsome.” 

She watched as the confidence he carried himself within seemed to slip a little, his cheeks colouring a tad as he looked away for a moment, a tiny slither of shy disbelief fluttering through him.  

He looked back at her with a sniff, his shoulders bobbing lightly. “I ain’t bad.” There within the sharply dressed gangster, the man with the feared surname that preceded him, was the tiniest smidgen of boyish bashfulness. Oh, how she adored it.  

“So,” she began, eyes glittering at him through the gloom of the evening, “that drink?” 

The stroke of her fingernails against his cheek soothed him in a way he couldn’t explain, feeling himself pulled into the glacial vortex that was her eyes as he returned the letter opener to his pocket. “Alright.” He suddenly remembered Arthur’s reaction, coupled with the warnings of Tommy and Polly. “We can’t go in The Garrison, though.” 

“This is of little matter to me,” the vampire began, adjusting the black fur of her collar. “I much prefer The Brasshouse.” 

“You mean the place on Broad Street? Bit far, ain’t it?” 

She smiled, taking his arm. “Not too far at all. Now, hang on tight. We shall arrive in a jiffy.” Suddenly, he felt as if he’d been shot out of a canon, the air whirling past him at great acceleration, his feet finding the floor below after a few seconds. Looking up, he saw the doors of The Brasshouse to his left.  

“How... the fuck did you do that?”  

Her smile flashed a set of pearly white teeth. “You bared witness to the stealth that I move with. The Bentley Motor Company has nothing on me.” She took his arm again, his warmth delicious against her perpetually cool body. “Let us head inside, and perhaps I shall tell you more about myself. I sense you have many questions.” 

She absolutely wasn’t wrong.  

As he entered the cosy surroundings of the pub, with its long, polished oak bar, bare brick walls and tiled floor, he wondered whether he’d completely taken leave of his senses. There he was, escorting a vampire towards the bar, intent on purchasing her the dry red she had made it known she was partial to, against the grave warnings of his family. He was nothing if not a risk taker, though, a man who lived life in the moment, caution thrown to the wind.  

Imagine the stories he could tell his grandchildren; about the time he’d courted a vampire.  

Was it even courting, though? Perhaps such a notion was getting ahead of himself, John realising that for all the thrill seeking within his nature, he should still perhaps not throw his caution to the aforementioned wind entirely. After all, he still had no idea over her intentions towards him. 

“Large whiskey, Irish, and a dry red for the lady.” John instructed the barman, who nodded before bustling away to prepare their drinks.  

All around him, the eyes of the patrons were drawn to his companion, how much she stood out compared to the other female persons there present. Short hair styled in finger waves was all the rage, but the vampire couldn’t have been further from that, with her dark curls tumbling almost to her waist. The stares did not abate once they’d taken their seat in a booth, John noticing one man at the bar practically salivating over her. 

“Oi, mush. This ain’t a museum and she's not on display,” he barked, his frown deepening. “Put your fucking eyes back in your head.” 

The man scoffed, leaning back against the bar in a casual, unbothered manner. “And who are you to tell me what to do, eh lad?” 

“John Shelby.” 

At the mere mention of his famed surname, the man’s face dropped, picking up his drink and moving with his cohorts across the pub, John muttering beneath his breath. 

“That was very gallant of you, but I do not mind being stared at so much. I know that I am somewhat of a curious sight to behold,” she began, running her fingernail around the rim of her glass. “I do not look like other women.” 

His eyes roamed over her, pupils inking into the blue. “No, you don’t.”  

“And you enjoy that,” she asserted, her pretty lips curling, looking at him through the flirtatious flutter of her long eyelashes as she sipped her wine.  

On impulse, he reached forward, wiping the drip of Cabernet from her lip, bringing his thumb to his own mouth and sucking it momentarily. It made her shiver within. “I do,” he finally confirmed, his eyes not leaving hers for a second. Oh, how she loved a man who had the confidence to stare so unblinkingly at her. “Do I get to know your name?”  

“Brynhild.” 

He was taken aback a little. “That’s a strange name,” he began, eyes still fixed firmly on hers, so much so that she shuffled slightly in her seat. He was much too handsome for his own good. “No surname?”  

“It is a very old name. As for surname, I do, but it is not like a surname that is known today. My people used patronymics, and what that means is to combine the father’s name as the prefix, and then either son or dottir as the suffix. I am the daughter of Leif, so therefore my name is Brynhild Leifsdottir.” 

He was fascinated, if not a little confused, closing the gap between them as he leaned across the table. “I think I’m just going to call you Bryn.” 

Her laugh at his dryly delivered assertion tinkled through the air. “That is fine with me. I like that. Nobody has ever shortened it before.” 

“Who were your people? You sound foreign but I can’t place your accent. I’m a fucking clod with nationalities, geography an’ all that.”  

“No, no,” she assured, her hand pressing to his forearm for a moment. “You are correct, for even though my accent has softened, I am not English. I am Norse, or Norwegian. My people were Vikings.”  

His eyes all but fell out of his head. “What, as in the fellas who came over and terrorised a load of monks up north all them years ago?” 

“You say that you are, to use your term, a fucking clod with nationalities and geography, yet you know this correctly, John. Not as much of a clod as you think, hmm? You know your history, also.” 

He shrugged. “Me sister is a right bookworm, she rattled something off about it once and I remembered.” He paused, momentarily wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue. Again, she shivered internally. “I know it’s bloody rude, to ask a lady her age, but...” 

“One thousand and seventy-two. If I am to count my human years, then I am one thousand, one hundred and two years old.” She reached for his mouth, placing two fingers beneath his chin to close it after it had dropped open.  

“Fucking... hell.”  

“And you are?” 

He suddenly felt a little inferior to his companion, that tiny little show of bashfulness making an appearance once more. “Um, twenty-eight.”  

“Ahh, then if you are to discount my vampire years, we would not be so different. I had just turned thirty years of age when I was made what I now am.” His face remained a picture of wide-eyed incredulity. “Does my ancientness bother you?” 

“No, not at all. I’m just... bloody hell. The things you must have seen and learned in your time. Fuck.” He laughed softly, shaking his head in wonder. “You're fascinating, Bryn.” Their chemistry already mingled in the air like magical alchemy. 

She beamed, and he felt his pulse quicken. “You are very complimentary. What else do you wish to learn about me?” 

He sipped his whiskey, returning the tumbler to the table with a soft clunk. “Whatever you want to tell me, love.” He winked, taking her hand and laying a soft kiss to her cool fingers. It took all she had not to reach across the small space and plant her lips to his.  

Everything. She wanted to tell him everything as the blue of his eyes pulled her further to him, her usual aloofness banished to a place she could not reach to pull it back. Not that she wanted to. Bryn scarcely encountered humans who were quite a confident in themselves as John, especially in the face of all that she was. She knew he’d been afraid of her the night before, but that no longer seemed to linger within the body of the well-groomed, handsome young man. 

He was unfazed, he did not cower to her. She was the most powerful apex predator on earth, yet he treated her like a lady. It had been many years since she had experienced that. He’d watched her decapitate a man with her bare hands, he knew of her savagery, yet it dented neither his chivalry nor his flirtation as they fell into long conversation together.  

“To answer your question, yes, I can eat and drink, but they have no nourishing effect upon me. I could drink every last drop of alcohol within this public house also, and it would not affect my equilibrium. I do so merely for the pleasure when it takes me, and to blend in. A woman at a dinner party pushing her meal around with a glass that never empties draws attention, the type I do not always wish to receive. All the food in the world could vanish and I would not be concerned, for truly I only need the blood of humans to survive. Animal blood works too, but not as well. We weaken without our life’s source.”  

John listened keenly as she talked, remaining mostly silent as the evening passed by, his eyes darting to the large clock in the corner every so often, willing it to tick backwards. He’d been there with her for four hours, and he wished for nothing more than another four to follow. “What else about being a vampire make you different from humans?” 

She was only too happy to share that, but there were some secrets she would keep back. Even when in the company of a man who she viewed with as keen interest as she did John, she never gave everything up at once. “My speed, which you have witnessed. My strength is boundless, too. I could – and have – uproot a tree by pushing it, for example. I could also hold a car up one handed and throw a grown man across the room with a mere shove of my hand into his chest.”  

His eyes sparkled. “You’ve done that, ain’t ya?” 

Leaning close, she licked her top lip momentarily, her grin broadening. “Too many times to count.” She paused, cocking her head slightly. “You know exactly what I am and yet, you do not fear me.” 

His shrug was light, finishing his drink. “There’s no point. If you wanted me dead, I’d be gone within a blink, I suppose. It was like being scared when I went to France. If I thought about it too much, then I wouldn’t have been able to do what I was there for and defend me country.” His eyes seemed to dull a little, John clearing his throat before offering a candidness he seldom ever uttered. “It did scare me, though. If I let it.”  

The war hadn’t affected him quite like it had Tommy, John’s perpetual cheer and effervescence shining through the shadows left behind by the harrowing darkness of war. Only very, very occasionally did the Flanders blues bother him. 

She placed her hand atop his, John moving his thumb out from under hers, stroking the soft skin just below her first knuckle. “Anybody who claims not to have felt fear in battle is a liar. I remember it well, thought it was so very long ago.” 

“Some kind of vampire war?” he asked curiously, Bryn shaking her head. 

“No, John. When I was human. I was what is known as a shieldmaiden. I fought side by side upon the battlefield with my Viking brethren. I became extremely adept in burying my axe in the heads of many an Englishman.” 

He looked very impressed at that revelation. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’ve spent your entire existence basically being a fucking killing machine?” 

Her lips pinched as she tried not to find his words as entertaining as she did. Oh, he was such a lovable rouge. Not many would brush off that kind of information, let alone turn it into a joke. “I suppose I have, yes. I tend to be a little more sedate in my penchant for slaughter at my age, though. With age comes a gentleness not seen in younger of my kind. We ah, find a little of our humanity again, you could say.” He fixed her with a comic look of disbelief, raising his eyebrows aloft. “Except for last night, that is.” 

“Decapitation ain’t really sedate or gentle, love.” he hummed, laughing when she finally began to, dropping her gaze for a few moments, beginning to swirl a curl around her finger. “Got ya there, ain’t I?” 

This man, oh, this charming, playful man. He made her feel like a girl again, not an ancient creature of the night, not a barbaric shieldmaiden. Just Brynhild. Just Bryn. “Yes, John. Yes, you do.”  

On they continued to chatter, until last orders were called, John in no hurry to leave as he bought another round of drinks.  

“How much, gaffer, to keep this place open just for the lovely lady and I?”  

The landlord looked a little apprehensive, until he saw the size of the roll of banknotes produced, John beginning to peel them off. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, thumbing away a couple more.  

“That’ll be sufficient, sir. Got to keep it quiet, though, lights off. I’ll fetch some candles.” When it was just John, Bryn and the man who facilitated their elongated stay within the cosy surroundings of The Brasshouse, he finally broached the question that had been at the back of his mind the entire night. 

He kept his tones hushed, moving to her side so that they could share conversation that would not reach earshot of the landlord, sat at the other end of the pub next to the gramophone. “So, why did you do it, then? Take out the Rasmussen fellas, that is.” 

She nodded knowingly, lacing her fingers together before her. “I knew that you would bring the conversation back to that eventually. I suppose it is only fair that I reveal my intentions, especially after the lovely evening you have treated me to.” She was not short of a bob or two, but John had not allowed her to put her hand into her purse once.  

Drawing herself up a little, Bryn began. “I will start by revealing that I initially sought out your family for the purposes of alliance only, but then I witnessed you and felt my cunt do whatever the cunt version of a backflip is, so I will be completely honest there. I have interest in an alliance, and in addition to that, I now have interest in you.” She paused a moment while John’s mirth displayed itself in a long snort before he laughed hard. When women were unexpectedly crass, it never ceased to entertain him. 

“There is an old saying, John. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and gods, the Rasmussen’s are my enemies of the highest order. What they are, they are not merely a criminal enterprise. They are vampire hunters, their lineage spanning longer than mine. From one generation to the next, they have stalked me through the shadows for centuries, after what it is within me that fuels them. You must have noticed by now that they are much stronger than your average person, yes?” 

John nodded, allowing her to continue. “This is because they drink of our blood. In doing so, it will give a human some of the attributes of the vampire they have drank of. Sharper senses, speed, strength and stamina. You can imagine, can you not, the attributes they would gain if they managed to seize me. They would become unstoppable.” 

He looked thoughtful, absorbing her words. “S’cuse me if this sounds like I’m being a thick headed Brummie twat, but what advantage does an alliance with us give you? You’re ancient and powerful. We might be gangsters but still, we’re fucking feeble compared to you.”  

The admission of his lesser strength to her made something unpleasant prickle his insides, but John was no fool even in the face of such inner concession. He could not deny that while he himself sat very high upon the ladder of intimidation, Bryn was perched right upon the top rung. 

“Daylight, John. You have the daylight, whereas I do not. My home, all of my homes, in fact, have been well fortified against break in. This does not mean it cannot still happen, though.” She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering, her fangs snapping out within her closed mouth as the pain danced in her memories. Making them recede, she continued.  

“When residing at my home in London, I am guarded during the daytime by men under the employment of one Alfie Solomons. I believe you are acquainted with him. I offer an exchange basis. I pay most handsomely for such services.”  

He still looked a tad confused. “I think I’m missing something here. Why can’t you just go kill ‘em all? Ain’t like you’re not strong enough to do that.”  

“It matters not how strong I am. The Rasmussen family is great in number, as I am sure you have deduced by now. Their dwellings are well fortified against vampire attack especially, for they know the marks they have had upon their heads by others of my kind. This has not changed throughout history. They have always bred plentifully to remain in good numbers and thus further their cause. I cannot risk happening again what their ancestors put me through.”  

He almost didn’t want to ask, watching the pain swirl in her eyes, the way her nose crinkled slightly, the tightness in her jaw. “What did they do to you, Bryn?” 

Reaching for her wine, she gulped the rest back, wishing alcohol still had a soothing effect on her. “Took me prisoner for over a hundred years.” 

John might not have known about vampires for a long period of time at all, but what he did, he knew that perhaps it stung her pride greater than he could ever imagine to confess such weakness. As he covered her hand with his, he knew on an instinctual level that this rare and radiant woman was one he wanted to pledge his protection to.  

Whether his family would agree was a different matter altogether. 

[foodsies4me]

February Malec fic rec!

Thanking @kalalab for this month's theme which is enemies to lovers! The same rules still apply, about one fic per author, but all of these authors have other brilliant fics you should be reading and if you want to add your own recs in the comments, tags, or reblogs please feel free to do so! 😊

Also, I have tagged the authors whose Tumblr account I know, but if you'd prefer I not tag you, please tell me so! I don't want these to be annoying for the authors.

One-shots:

Rumor Has It by Lecrit: A human AU which is not something I'm generally a fan of, but Lecrit just writes so well that I gobble this up anyway.

Summary:

Magnus widens his eyes at him, silently asking him to just give him this one. Alec simply curves one of his stupidly perfect eyebrows in response, a simple gesture that carries the weight of a call for challenge. “Looks like you’re gonna have to postpone your wedding for now,” Maia giggles next to him. Magnus huffs, flexing his jaw. “Oh, it’s on, Lightwood,” he mouths at him.

Also, because I suck at keeping to my own rules, I'm adding a second fic rec that I maybe love just as much by Lecrit aka the way to a chef's heart. But, in my defense, both fics are great and one is about cooking and baking. I am weak when it comes to food, okay?

Anyway, summary:

After a scorching review on his restaurant in one of the world's most famous food magazines, world class chef Magnus Bane is set on finding the food critic who dared to slander his art and make him change his mind. He doesn't expect someone as stubborn or infuriating as Alec Lightwood

you're the light that i won't let go by oh-la-fraise: Another human AU as well as an Enemies to Lovers with a twist.

Summary:

There were three unspoken rules to the Manhattan Institute of Higher Learning, New York’s premier private K-12 school: 1) Respect that the space under the football bleachers was for sex, and only for sex. 2) Don’t eat the cafeteria meatloaf. 3) Never mention Mr. Bane to Mr. Lightwood or vice versa, unless you wanted the whole class to get extra homework.

careless curses by @alexanderlightweight: I don't know what to say that isn't already stated in the summary except I love it when alexanderlightweight writes dark themes. (Or just writes in general).

Summary:

The Lightwood family has been cursed by death for generations and now, Alec lives with death hovering over him. Sometimes life is the curse and death the reward.

Ten Not-Dates That Magnus Bane Spends Falling In Love with Alec Lightwood by Aria_Lerendeair: Magnus is hilariously done at the start of this fic.

Summary:

Magnus was going to have words with the Clave. They would be decidedly unpleasant words, and they might be accompanied by a few very pointed magic blasts and maybe even curses.  They deserved it. Another Lightwood in charge of the New York Institute?

Multi-chapter fics or series:

All the Costs are Even by tsujiharu: A fic that deserves more love imo, is this Pride and Prejudice retelling. Also, I'm just now realizing that most of these are Human AU's despite me being notorious for generally not liking them, lol.

Summary:

A modern day Pride and Prejudice AU, in which a disgruntled lawyer and an aloof entrepreneur can't seem to get over their pride (and prejudices?) and admit their very obvious attraction to each other.

love is a four-letter word by @la-muerta: Do la-muerta fics need to be recced? Probably not because I suspect most people have read them. Am I still going to to rec them because I love them? Yes! So here is another lovely human AU fic where first impressions maybe aren't what they seem.

Summary:

Magnus knows he's one of the best editors in the business. So when the bigoted director of the publishing house he works for gives their grandson's best friend the promotion Magnus deserved to get, he decides that it's the last straw. Magnus intends to go out with a bang and take his new boss down with him — but he didn't mean for it to happen quite so literally.

Crush On You by @gospi: A FTH fic of 2023 that had me laughing at how salty Alec is about crushing on Magnus. A lot of fun.

Summary:

An ancient, unsuccessful recipe for starting new relationshipsalliances: A dash of rumors. A sprinkle of heritage. A smidgen of jealousy. A dollop of chaotic disasters. A shitload of assumptions. Let it simmer. Enjoy!

My True Love Gave To Me by AlxSteele: Christmas repeats itself endlessly for Magnus and while it's annoying he does end up learning a new side from the awful baked Alec Lightwood. Surprise, he isn't all that awful.

Summary:

Magnus Bane had a plan, a perfect Christmas Eve just like always. Hang out with his friends, bask in the Christmas Spirit. Then everything went wrong. Now he's stuck reliving the same day again and again and again. The bright side? Maybe Alec Lightwood isn't as terrible as Magnus always thought.

A fic that I am sure most people have already read because it is wonderful (which is the reason why I didn't add it last month even though it's a wing fic) is Fall Without Wings by @notcrypticbutcoy. It's a brilliant fic that's all.

Summary:

Or: In which the Nephilim have wings, are taught to loathe Downworlders, and Alec is presented with a conundrum when Magnus Bane saves his life.

[fateandloveentwined]

number of unique chinese characters in a book

So there's this blog I read long ago on the number of unique chinese characters one uses. Say a person writes a 10k chinese novel. But how many characters are discrete?

Classical chinese poems and songs have me doubting my chinese ability as always, and that got me curious about how many chinese characters I know or write on a daily basis.

To answer this (and to very much knock my confidence like an idiot) I put together something to count the number of unique chinese characters in a passage. I use about... 2.8k characters in my general writing.

Then I wondered about the authors I read.

A quick search online suggests that a chinese user knows and uses 1000-3000 characters regularly, and after high school you are supposed to have taken in over 6000 characters -- something I'm pretty sure I didn't do.

That said, I got curious about the number of unique characters these authors I read usually use. That doesn't at all indicate writing competency, but well, it felt interesting regardless so I decided to go play with that a bit.

For reference, jinyong's wuxia novels are around 3.5k to 4.5k unique characters per novel.

you only need 2.5-3k characters to use chinese like natives do, it's not too much really!

methodology rambles feel free to skip to next heading

I recorded some numbers and figures for something to work with with works I enjoyed. Fanfics I also included, which I saved on my computer a long time ago.

I made attempts to analyse the data in a fairer way, looking at the total word count and the highest frequency of "的"s (a very common chinese particle, think the letter "e") used in the passage. That sort of helped, but at the same time there are always outliers that manage to muddle up understanding every single time.

So now, observations. I categorised them into four levels according to the number of unique characters, from lowest to highest.

observations

note: notable novels are highlighted in yellow for easy spotting, and fanfictions are shaded in grey. I added english titles for most of them because I didn't put them in when I first did the screencaptures.

first level: below 3.5k unique characters

Good authors don't always equate an extensive character set. Conversely, there are authors who basically cannot write well (subjective) and still end up with a surprisingly not-low unique character count.

Works like 靜影沉璧、瀟湘水冷、風骨同守 that adopted a more literary, classical chinese writing register had lower unique character counts than the others. This was not what I expected, considering these works were where I found most words I'm unfamiliar with and ended up questioning my chinese reading ability (sorry lol).

I was also surprised with 潭石、水千丞、覆水難收、木蘇里 (mu su li) because their writing are all pretty good, all achieved while using a much smaller lexicon range than what I've expected.

(不問三九 with good writing was also low and in this range, but I forgot to mark hers down so, shrugs.)

second: 3.6k to 4.5k characters

That said, some authors do typically reach a range of around 3.6-3.7k unique characters, which is a pretty wide character set. Supposing adding a book of an author increases the total number of unique characters the author has used, these authors tend to round up at around 4k+ words with 2-4 novels inputted.

With each book added, there would be an increase of a few hundred unique characters, but they tend to level off at about 4.3k etc., and that is likely their maximum unique character count.

Some do level off at around 3.7k though, which indicates a narrower range of lexicon employed.

third level: the weird level

weird because the unique character count increases by leaps and bounds with every new novel of theirs that I added, and we end up perplexed and baffled.

At around 1M to 1.5M words inputted from an author, I thought that the unique character count would be pretty steady already, similar to how the unique character counts for authors at the second level levelled off eventually.

That's not the case for these two authors here. It is perplexing because the settings of their books do not vary greatly, yet the choice of characters and words were, apparently, diverse enough to give a "forever"-going increase in unique character count with every book I added.

This category aggravates me so much I couldn't make head and tail of it honestly lol.

the final level: the eloquent and literate

Of course, in this world there are always very literate individuals, and verbose they may seem, some are good writers. Here are the authors who actually have a vast unique character range.

You may be wondering how this 3.7k differs from the ones in the second level, but bear in mind this is merely the result from a single work of the author, or that the author's book is, like, half the length of the other authors while achieving a far higher unique character count than others.

And there's meatbun at the top of the list; I used both 2ha and Yu Wu for her stats, but her 2ha alone was already higher than Royal Nirvana and any other book I tested, so she goes in this category.

And et voila. All of this may not make sense to you, I'm not even sure about how the reception of this would be, it was a passion project and an interesting evening that I had, and now that I have some (sort of subjective) results I hope to share it out. :)

feel free to hmu for peculiar thought experiments and discussions on this topic!!

this is a repost from another site. i have used too many a username, and am not ready to link together all of them yet (someday) -- if you recognise this and wonder, message me, that's probably another account of mine.

[maxverstappensflatbrim]

Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [30]

chapter thirty, act four: somebody else

masterlist

little Author's note /TW before this act begins. There's going to be alot of talk of drug use and addiction within the chapters coming, if you're not comfortable with these kinds of things please don't read.

August 22nd 2016

“Tom?”

Tommie looks up slowly at Jamie as he stands across the tour bus from her. She knows that tone, he’s breaking bad news to her.

“Jamie..?” She responds in the same tone.

“Um, a letter came to the Dirty Hit office in London for you.” He fiddles with the piece of paper in his hands, the rustling noise soothing her.

“We’re in Japan.” She points out with a raised brow at the long delay of him telling her. They haven’t been to London in months, travelling straight from the US to Asia and completing shows and festivals out here.

He nods, “I know. It came on your birthday, I brought it with me to America but, I just-. I just… didn’t know when the best time would be to give it to you.”

She nods and gets up from the settee to take it from him slowly, “Not getting, like, sued or deported or anything?”

“Deported? From where?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know.”

He shakes his head, “Not getting sued nor deported,” Then he adds as an afterthought as he realises he has no idea what’s actual beyond the licked seal of the letter, “I hope.”

“We’ve stopped for the day off, the guys are down the front waiting.”

Her breath hitches as she turns it over, she recognises the messy writing and spelling mistakes right away. A few letters are smudged from the use of the writer’s left hand and there’s a drop of something stained on one corner, she hopes it's coffee, but it's probably alcohol.

It’s a letter from her father.

She stares at it a few more moments, until she can hear her name being called down the other end of the bus, then she grabs her jacket and shoves the letter into the pocket, deep down to take it out later.

“Come on, Matty’s getting impatient.” Adam tells her, arm around her shoulder as he tugs her along the long corridor through the living space and kitchen area.

“Uh, where we going?”

“He wants to take that speed train he saw a youtube video about, then go to some arcade because he saw a video on how to hack the claw machines.”

She nods, but then stops herself from walking down the steps, pulling back with one hand gripping the railing and the other the letter inside her pocket, “Uh, I’m gonna stay back, I’ll meet you guys later, send me your address…”

“You sure? You alright?” He asks, brows furrowed in that motherly concern he has only for her.

She nods, “Just, didn't sleep well last night, and I can feel a migraine coming on.”

“Do you want me to st-”

“I think alone time will be best,” She says, “Peace and quiet to get rid of it.”

He nods in agreement, “Okay, I’ll grab you those little chocolate snacks you liked in the seven eleven.”

“Thank you, Ads.”

She heads back into the bus, closing the curtain of her bunk and flicking her little Yoda night light on to read the letter.

She clutches the letter, doesn't realise she’s crying- no, sobbing- until the curtains rip open with such a force that the wind blows her hair over her shoulders and she’s looking up to the furrowed brows of Matty looking down at her.

“Baby?”

“M-Matt-”

He’s sitting beside her pulling her into his arms right away, lips to her hairline as he whispers, “What’s wrong, Baby?”

He closes the curtain around them, shutting out the bright lights thinking it’s a panic attack or a sensory overload, “Is it too bright? Too noisy?” He lowers his voice and she shakes her head moving the letter to his hand.

He’s silent as he reads it, eyes scanning the page, squinting to make out the words that have been smudged by her tears.

“That bas-”

He drops the letter to the end of her bunk far away and forgotten until she’s prepared to deal with it, moving his hand to trace softly up and down her back as she clings to him.

“It’s alright, come on, let's lie down.”

She nods into his shoulder, making no effort as he tries to move them so they're lying on their sides facing each other.

Matty lies with his back to the curtain, right on the end almost falling out and she tugs him closer with his opened button up.

“What happened to the train?”

He shrugs, “Didn’t feel like it.” That’s a lie, it’s all he’s talked about for the past two weeks, he’s been researching the speed, watching youtube videos on it. He’s obsessed with this train. 

“Matt?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

He nods, hands still moving up and down her back, he smiles as he feels something start nudging at his leg, “Got an intruder.”

Button, who is now a lot larger than when she used to cuddle between them as a puppy, forces her way between them in the tiny bunk.

“Hey, Buttie.”

She spins around a few times, kicking at Matty to move over as she licks Tommie’s tear stained cheeks.

Matty grins as Tommie gives a wet giggle at the dog, quickly promising with a whisper into her head that she’s okay. Button rests her head in the crook of Tommie’s neck, curled up into the curve of her body and huffs as she gives Matty one last taunting kick. The dog’s not stupid. 

Matty reaches over the dog to take her hand, resting it on the dog's back and interlocking their fingers together. His other hand scratches Button’s head which is just what she wanted, the dog's lips lift and she twists herself so Matty will scratch a certain point of her back for her.

“Go to sleep, baby,” He says quietly, leaving Button for just a few seconds, which the dog is not pleased by, lifting her head to stare blankly at him, Matty ignores button to move some hair out of Tommie’s eyes, then drags his finger down her cheek before returning it to Button’s head.  

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

August 29th 2016

The man across from her shifts awkwardly, he clears his throat and sips the coffee. It’s too strong, makes her nose hurt and stomach churn.

She sits, sipping from a dr pepper can and watches him, waits for him to make the first move.

“Carol-”

“I go by Tommie.” She says, “I always have, even when I was a kid-”

“I know.” He says quietly, “But you’ll always be little Caroline, the little five pound baby who was so small she fit in her grandfather’s palm.”

“How would you know?” She asks, “When mam gave birth you were getting pissed, like usual…”

He sighs, “Caroli-”

“John.”

He swallows, looks down at the stained table in the little London coffee shop they’d agreed to meet at, not far from the flat she and the guys are currently staying at.

“I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Some are unforgivable-”

“Unforgivable?” She scoffs and shakes her head, “Some should’ve landed you in jail a long time ago, John.”

He bows his head, then shakily reaches into his pocket taking out a folded up piece of paper.

There’s a young girl in the photo, wearing cowboy boots and a hard hat, her little red hair hidden by the yellow plastic. She must be around six years old. There’s a scooby-doo scooter that she’s riding one handed, her other hand as a pink ukulele in it.

“This is what kept me going in rehab. Looking at this picture and knowing I ruined her childhood. The thing that kept me going was the knowledge that you were out there doing good, Ca- Tommie.”

Then he pulls his phone out, showing her photos of a toddler, the same pink ukulele sits on the floor in the background, paint chipped with stickers she had put on there herself peeling off. “This is Juliet. Your sister.”

“Does JJ know?”

“JJ lives with us.” He says quietly, “We have a three bedroom house, he’s got his own room, his own stuff. It was his birthday last wee-”

“I know.” She cuts him off, jaw clenched at his audacity, “I never missed one.”

“You’ve missed four.”

“I was ten years old and using my pocket money from nan to buy him birthday presents, John, I think that makes up for it, for escaping when I had the chance.”

He slowly puts the phone away, “I understand, Tommie, that you’re mad at me, at what I did, what I was like- But don’t take it out on everyone else. On JJ, Juliet the rest of the family. You have to understand my point of view. I’d lost my mother, then my father, I was a teenager, I was seventeen when you were born, seventeen, no parents and a newborn child what- What was I supposed to do?” He tilts his head to follow her eyes. 

“I was younger,” She tells him, “I had it worse.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“Your parents died, yeah, that’s bad, that’s horrible, I know I went through it. But my parents neglected me, my own dad beat me, that’s fucking worse.”

“Your mother was no better than me, where was she-”

“Do not bring my mother into this. Yeah, she lived a little but she was there. She made an effort, she worked to give me everything I had, she partied at night, so what? She gave me clothes, food, roof over my head, she gave me love. Yeah, in little bits that I had to scrape the bottom of the fucking barrel for but she gave it.”

“So what?”

“Yeah, ‘so fucking what’, she never hit me.”

He sighs shakily, rubbing a hand over his stubbled double chin, “I’m better, I was sick back then, but I’m better now, I want you to try and understand that.”

“I understand this perfectly,” She lifts her chin, biting her lip when it wobbles, “Mam wasn’t good enough, JJ wasn’t good rough, I wasn't good enough. But some posh slag Iris, from ‘up North’, with a designer vagina ready at your disposal is-”

The only thing that can be heard over the steaming kettles behind the kitchen is a skin on skin slap.

They both pause, John with a hand in the air and her with a hand pressed to her cheek.

His eyes are full of regret, instantly, he flexes his hand and watches her carefully as her hand pushes into her cheek, “Caroline, I’m sorry, I-I… I don’t know where that came f-”

“Same old, dad.” She says quietly. 

“I’m sorry, I-” A tear falls from his eye, “I’m sorry, Caroline. I didn’t- well, I-”

She clenches her jaw so tight the bone there cracks and she has to open her mouth for it to pop back into place, “I preferred it better when you’d just hit me and tell me it was my fault.”

He stands slowly, grabbing his jacket and folding it over his arm, “I want you to know I’m so very proud of you, Tommie. Of everything you’ve become. Everything you’ve done alone.”

She doesn’t look at him, she keeps staring straight forward at the other side of the booth.

“Of the woman you’ve become, the things you’re doing. So, so proud. And I’m sorry that you’ve had to do it all alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

Slamming the door behind her she jumps as someone says her name, “Tom?”

“Cal?”

His brow raises and he walks around the kitchen counter he was leaning against to meet her at the door, “You good?”

“Yeah.” She nods quickly, turning her face away from him, “I’m going to jump in the shower.”

“How was coffee with your friend, what was her name again?”

“Lily.”

“Right, Lily.”

“Got cut short, she had to go back to work.”

He hums, “Maybe you can try again next time you’re in London.” He suggests and she nods in agreement as she hides herself away behind the bathroom door.

“Hey, Tom?” He knocks his knuckles on the door, “Can I talk to you?”

She waits a few moments flushing the toilet chain to buy herself time as she rubs concealer on the forming red hand print.

She opens the door leaning against the frame and places the fakest smile she can manage on her face as she looks up at him, “Hmm?”

“We’ve been asked back in the studio in two weeks to record a single, a radio single, I was going to ask if-”

“Can we talk about this later? After my shower?”

“This is important to me, Tommie.”

“I know,” She says, reaching to place her hand on his arm, “And I am so so proud of you, I promise… I just feel disgusting.”

“Please.” He lowers himself to meet her direct eye line and she nods. 

“Quickly.”

He grins, “Can you come to LA with me? Just a couple days, help me out with writing a song, maybe help with the productions-”

“Cal,” She says quietly, “We’re different genres, you’re country rock, I’m… whatever it is that Mattty feels in the mood for when he gets up that morning.”

He runs his tongue across his teeth, looking away and she sighs, reaching her hand out to touch his arm.

“Let me have my shower then you can tell me all about your single and your ideas maybe you can run some by me.”

He opens his mouth but the door is shut quickly and he leans back against the wall for a few seconds, making his way to the lying room where a brown flowery leather book sits open on the coffee table.

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

Gabby’s brows raise at the quietness of the usual booming apartment. She looks around, setting her bag down on the settee.

“Tom? You in here?”

Matty told her Tommie and Caleb should be there, but it’s not a single sign of life besides the light coming from the bathroom.

Gabby smiles to herself knocking on the door, “Tommie?”

“G-Gab?”

“Yeah, just me, I picked us up some food, Caleb not here?”

“Has he gone?”

Gabby’s brows furrow and she shifts against the door as she looks around, it’s a little messy, just some clothes thrown over the floor and her bag discarded. But she knows Tommie, knows this mess would usually cause her to go off on one of her cleaning tangents. She can tell something is wrong., “Uh, he must've he’s not here. Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah, give me a few minutes, I just got out of the shower.”

“Okay… I’ll set up the table.”

Tommie hums in response, still working on covering the mark on her face. Gabby sets the shopping bags onto the kitchen counter then works to pick up the clothes, she tosses them into the washing basket in the corner of Tommie’s bedroom then hangs her bag up in its place on the coat hanger beside the flat’s front door. 

Tommie dresses quickly, into some of Ross’ trousers she has to roll six times to fit and then one of Adam’s Oasis t-shirts before walking out to meet Gabby in the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” She asks again.

Tommie nods quickly, “Yup. What’s for dinner?”

“Chinese.”

Tommie nods, pulling some cups from a cupboard down for them, filling one with dr pepper and the other with diet coke, passing the diet coke to Gabby as she moves through the kitchen.

Gabby stays silent for a few more seconds, then decides to break it.

“Tommie?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, I know we haven’t known each other very long, but Matty speaks highly of you-” She sighs and touches her arm gently, “You don’t seem yourself today.”

She nods silently and Gabby’s brows furrow as she moves to place one finger on her cheek, her eyes move around her face as if putting the puzzle pieces together, “Did Caleb-?”

“No,” Tommie stands up straight quickly, clutching her hand desperately, “God no, I’d kick that man’s arse in seconds if he touched me like that. It was-”

She hesitates, but looks at the soft, motherly look on Gabby’s face and relaxes back into the counter, “I saw my dad today, first time since 2012 when I left Wales to move up to Manchester with the guys. I said some things I shouldn’t have and he reverted back to his old ways to get me to shut up.”

She rubs her knuckles at her stinging cheek with a shrug, “My fault, I shouldn’t have said-”

Gabby scoffs, a harsh sound that has her leaning even further back, “Do not blame yourself for your father’s ignorance. If he thinks it's okay to lay a hand on his own daughter or any woman for that matter then there is something seriously wrong with him.”

Gabby’s eyes soften then and she moves to stand right in front of her, “Is that why you left?”

Tommie shrugs, picking at a string on her sleeve and Gabby opens the draw beside them, takes out the scissors and cuts the loose thread. Showing it to Tommie before tossing it into the bin and then taking the girl in her arms.

“Want me to go punch him in the balls?”

Tommie giggles, wrapping her arms around Gabby too, “Nah, I kinda wanna see him fuck up a few more kids lives before we take away his reproductive abilities.”

“Sharing is caring and everything?”

“Sharing is caring.”

taglist

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