#I’m going to post my drunk Kane AU shit posts here

[captaincatalinasilver]

Bishop literally gives zero fucks, especially when Kane is drunk.

——————

Read the tags lmao , it explains it all. Anyways , asks are open over @theredwineau !

[linskywords]

1M Words Week: 1988 Dragons

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

The second in a series of seven starts of unfinished stories I’m posting to celebrate my having hit 1M words on AO3 (today!!!1!!11!!).

This one is an AU where dragons are real, non-hockey-player Jonny gets turned into one, and hockey-player Patrick finds him in an alley.

The important thing, Patrick thinks as he smuggles the half-grown dragon into his apartment at three in the morning, is that the team can never know about this.

***

Patrick’s not planning to smuggle an illegal dragon when he comes home that night. Obviously not. He’s just out, minding his own business, coming back from a totally respectable evening. Or, fine, maybe he’s a little drunk. But he’d challenge even the soberest of soberers not to be moved by that little dragon face in an alley.

So what if at first he was terrified. Humans are supposed to be terrified of dragons, okay, it’s like survival instinct or whatever. But this little guy, well, he clearly isn’t like the ferals they warn you about on the news. Patrick took one look and leapt back, because he was drunk, not stupid, but the dragon didn’t charge him or go for his throat or anything. He just turned his head, leaned it against the pile of garbage, and keened.

After that, there was no hope for Patrick.

So yeah, he knows how dumb it is. But that’s why he’s smuggling, at three a.m.

This would be easier if he lived in one of those normal-people buildings without a doorman. As it is, Patrick’s going to have to do some quick thinking.

“Oh heyyyy,” he says to the doorman, whose name is Teddy. He’s pretty sure. “Um, do you want to look out here? I saw a…thing.”

Teddy gives him a narrow-eyed look. Teddy definitely thinks he’s drunk. Which, to be fair, is true.

Fortunately for Patrick, Teddy gets paid to not call residents on their questionable drunk antics. “Certainly, Mr. Kane,” he says, and he gets his undoubtedly long-suffering self up from behind the desk and goes to look outside.

Goes right towards Patrick, who definitely didn’t think this through. Patrick angles his body in the hope that it will obscure the suspiciously smoking lump under his jacket. “Um, I meant by the back door!” he yelps, and Teddy gives him a weird look but turns and goes toward the door to the parking garage. Patrick seizes the moment to make a break for the elevators.

The doors slide close, and Patrick slumps a little in relief. Not too far, though, because his balance is definitely thrown off by the dragon in his coat.

The dragon hisses his displeasure at all the rapid movements. It scrabbles at Patrick’s belly when the elevator lurches, and it’s not like it’s actually trying to dig into Patrick’s skin, but dragon claws are no joke, okay?

“Stop it,” Patrick mutters at the dragon. “We’re almost there.”

The dragon bats at the collar of his coat, like it’s making a bid for freedom.

“No, you can’t get out,” Patrick says. “I have neighbors. What if one of them comes into the elevator at three a.m., huh?”

In that case, they’d probably notice the dragon even under Patrick’s coat. But at least it might take them, like, a couple extra seconds to do so.

The elevator finally, <i>finally</i> comes to a stop at Patrick’s floor, and Patrick speed walks down the hall to his condo. There’s a really nosy woman in the condo across the hall, and he wouldn’t put it past her to be away at three in the morning, peering out her peephole just waiting for illegal dragon smugglers to come by. Or something.

The dragon makes a pitiful noise from inside his coat. “Yeah, yeah, just a minute,” Patrick says, and he manages to get the door open and staggers into the kitchen so that he can dump the dragon onto the table.

If the dragon was unhappy inside his coat, it seems to be even less pleased with being dumped on a table. Smoke curls from its nostrils in a distinctly displeased manner. Patrick’s glad he went with the kitchen and not somewhere more flammable, like the living room couch.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says. “First rule. You are not allowed to light anything on fire.”

The dragon huffs a breath.

“I mean it,” Patrick says. “First fire in here, and you’re going straight back outside.”

The dragon looks away and starts preening a wing. Patrick swears it looks unimpressed.

It was hard to tell outside, but it turns out it’s actually a reddish dragon. Reddish-black, maybe. Like, in some lights, it looks like some of its scales are red and others are black, but then if Patrick moves his head they’ll switch, like some kind of holograph.

“Hey, you’re kinda pretty,” Patrick says. He reaches out a hand to touch the dragon’s head, and it snaps at him and hisses. Then it goes back to cleaning its wing.

“Okay, okay, no touching, I got it.” Patrick doesn’t mention that he had to touch the dragon plenty to get it here. “So, you want some food?”

The dragon swings its head back around so fast Patrick’s surprised it doesn’t get injured. “Ha, thought so,” Patrick says with a grin and goes to see what he has in his fridge.

He’s not really sure what dragons eat, but probably meat, right? He has a couple of steaks in the freezer, and he throws one of them into the microwave to defrost. It’s maybe not the healthiest meal, but he doesn’t want to deal with the complications of dragon digestion until he’s done some research.

Speaking of which. He should probably do some of that. He’s not sure if it’s safe to Google dragon care from his laptop, though. What if the government watches that shit? He’s pretty sure the Dragon Containment Bureau doesn’t care <i>that</i> much, but you never know with governments. Maybe he can get an actual book. If they even make one. It’s not like dragon-rearing is a legal activity.

Hm. He’s starting to realize why this was such a dumb thing to do.

The steak is defrosted, so he takes it out of the microwave. It’s still, you know, raw, but that’s probably how dragons like their food, right? “Here you go,” he says, depositing the plate in front of the dragon.

The dragon looks at it. Then at Patrick. Then at the food. Then back at Patrick.

“What?” Patrick says. “Is it the wrong cut for you?”

The dragon rolls its eyes. Honestly. It should not be possible for a dragon to roll its eyes, but it does.

“Well, it’s all I have,” Patrick says. He crosses his arms. “If you want rare manticore, it’ll have to wait for the morning.”

The dragon appears to think it over for a minute. Or maybe just to sulk. It’s hard to tell, with a dragon face. Then it lowers its head and takes a delicate bite. Then another bite, much less delicate and much faster, like all of a sudden it realized it was ravenous and needs to eat the entire steak in the next five seconds.

“Okay, so you do like it,” Patrick says, just as the dragon makes a little yelping sound like pain and flinches hard.

“Oh—oh shit, you’re hurt,” Patrick says, because yeah, that’s probably not what a dragon’s wing is supposed to look like.

The dragon keens softly and turns its head to start doing the thing it was doing to its wing before. So, not grooming, then. Patrick raises a hand to touch, and the dragon hisses again.

“I’m not going to hurt it,” Patrick says. “I just want to see.”

The dragon looks at him for a long moment. Patrick holds its gaze. The dragon’s eyes are a really deep brown, and maybe Patrick’s imagining the pain he can see in them. But finally it moves its head back and lets Patrick get at the wing.

Patrick touch his fingers to the scaly surface. It’s surprisingly warm—the dragon’s whole body was warm when Patrick had it under his jacket, but this is pulsing hotter than that. Like an infected wound. The wing is a thin membrane of flesh strung on a webbing of bone, except for one spot where the flesh is torn and the bone is bent at an angle that really doesn’t look natural.

Patrick touches the wing near the wound. The dragon hisses a little but doesn’t move away. Patrick is suddenly reminded that he’s drunk and utterly without dragon knowledge. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I don’t know how to fix this. And it’s two in the morning, so probably we can’t do anything about it now. But tomorrow—tomorrow we’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

The dragon looks skeptical. It’s not the only one.

[crosbytoews]

hockey rpf fic rec

this is an assortment of all the hockey rpf i have bookmarked. it is organized by pairing. if any of this is not your thing that’s valid but i don’t wanna hear it 

these fics are posted on ao3 and most of them are locked so you will need an ao3 account to access them!

obviously i like everything on here but i bolded the urls of my absolute faves

JAMIE BENN/TYLER SEGUIN

Look at the wonderful mess that we made by sherlockelly

A name-on-wrist soulmate AU where being outed by a same-sex name is still newsworthy if you're in professional sports and is a very real concern for some NHL players. Despite the shifting attitudes, no one in the sport has ever come out publicly.

Tyler has always felt relieved that 'Jamie' could be a male or female name, it makes hiding his sexuality a lot easier. Jamie's not been so lucky.

Door to Door by Ferritin4

"Hey," Jamie says, pounding on the door. "Hey, open up!"

The dogs shut up.

"Hi, shit, sorry," says the stupidly fucking gorgeous man who opens the door in a tank top and boxers. "Shit, were the dogs loud? They get really excited when I come home."

"It’s three in the morning," Jamie says. On cue, a dog pokes its head around the corner to the entryway and bounces over to the — to this guy. It’s followed by another, browner dog, and Jamie has a moment of surrealist sleep-deprived horror where he imagines an infinite string of dogs forever bounding gleefully towards —

"I work two jobs. I’m Tyler," Tyler says, extending his hand. "Do you want to come in?"

Well, he’s not doing anything illegal, Jamie thinks, shaking it, because no criminal in the history of crime has ever willingly invited a cop into their house, and there is no one in the city of Dallas who hasn’t pegged Jamie as a cop within six seconds of meeting him.

Stating the Obvious by StormDancer

In which Tyler transfers to Dallas, makes some friends, and has emotions, none of which he's prepared to deal with.

Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin

King and Lionheart by thehoyden

Sidney’s wedding day doesn’t go quite as he’d planned. When he’d bothered to imagine it at all, he’d thought of a nice June wedding in Nova Scotia, outdoors with the sun streaming down. He hadn’t imagined this hurried affair on the tarmac on a rainy and unseasonably cool day in early September, a month after his twenty-fifth birthday.

And Never Been Kissed by thehoyden

Sid didn’t introduce himself in the hallway, and he certainly doesn’t assume that people know who he is. So it would only be polite to thank Malkin again, this time more personally.

He could write him a letter. An email? No, a letter.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe by Shoshanah-ben-hohim

Amidst rising political tensions between Russia and NATO countries, the KHL and NHL failed to renew their labor agreement this summer. Due to the failed agreement and intense political pressure at home, the Russian NHL players do not return to the NHL.

By March, Geno has played almost a season in Russia, and accepts this is his new reality, no matter how much he misses Sid – until he finds the first child. This sets him and everyone he involves down a dangerous path of international intrigue.

Auston Matthews/Mitch Marner

as long as it's about me by Anonymous 

It takes about the length of their first practice for Toronto media to decide that him and Mitch are best friends. And, like, Auston’s been warned about the press in the city a million times, so he gets it. They want a story. He’d be fine with it, honestly, except for the small issue that Mitch Marner is the most annoying person on the entire planet.

I Never Thought He Wouldn't by MycroftexMachina

Mitch loves people. And usually people love him back. Usually.

we've got each other (and that's a lot) by LottieAnna

“I’m gonna be a groomsman,” Mitch says, then flops dramatically into the chair across from Auston, grabs Auston’s glass of whiskey, and takes a long sip. It burns as it goes down, and he makes a face. “Again.”

JONATHAN TOEWS/PATRICK KANE

don't taze me, bro by staraflur

He doesn’t think Zeus is supposed to have a sword, but their Zeus does. So now Jonny does, because of course he’s in charge. He looks, Patrick is drunk enough to acknowledge, far better than anyone has a right to in a grody old Halloween costume that’s probably soaked up the butt sweat of dozens, if not hundreds, of Theta-presidents past. Jonny wears it, Patrick gets the sword. Win-win.

AKA that time there was a frat AU (of course).

Same Time, Same Place by brutti_ma_buoni

It should be a one-off, an awkward airport first meeting that goes nowhere. But this one goes somewhere. Back to Jonny's, for a start.

It shouldn't go any further, a one-nighter with no strings, and plenty of reasons for Patrick not to go back there. But Patrick won't let it go.

It should be a disaster, a mismatch, a scandal, a shoddy secret regret. But... maybe not?

bring it if you really want it by staraflur

It starts like this:

Well, okay, Patrick has no idea how it actually starts. But as pertains to him (in other words, the important part), it goes a little something like so:

America, being a nation composed in large part of a melting pot of immigrants who may or may not have taken over land already owned by others using less-than-savory means, doesn’t have much of a magical national identity. Much less a magical continental identity. There’s no grand heritage going back thousands of years. Magical families home-schooled all their kids until, like, the 1800’s, and tough for the muggle-born, apparently. Hopefully you got noticed by someone who knew what to do with you before you got burned at the stake. Since you probably can’t control your powers, sport.

Call Me Royal Blue by cupstealer 

He’s always gotten his kicks giving Jonny shit, but never like this. He feels like the first person to combine ice cream and soda—A) in that he has combined two amazing things to make a more amazing thing, and B) in that Jonny is not having it.

Patrick and Jonny haven't been close friends in six years. Nothing a little friendly competition can't fix.

Random Pairings 

Jeff Skinner/Eric Staal

If Heaven’s Hypothetical by impertinence and shoemaster 

Jeff runs away from Toronto and finds himself homeless in Raleigh, where he accidentally starts serving eggs to Eric Staal.

Andrew Ladd/Ryan Kesler

Nothing Worth Knowing by beatperfume and shoemaster

Ryan Kesler hates Andrew Ladd on sight. College AU.

Erik Johnson/Gabriel Landeskog 

A Month of Sundays by Kelfin

Unlike some guys, who freak out when things get even a little bit gay, Erik is fine with this stuff. Erik's not even fazed when Gabe's attempts at flirting with him start to get semi-public, a fact that, by his own judgment, makes him at least five to seven times more tolerant than your average forward-thinking American.

Sidney Crosby/Claude Giroux 

The Battle of Pennsylvania by Robinjay

When they play at Worlds together, Claude Giroux firmly expects a fight to break out. At the very least, he expects derogatory remarks and barely contained fury. Instead of doing any of those things, Sidney Crosby just stares and Claude Giroux loses his damn mind.

In Hours Uncounted by remiges

Claude's grandparents take him to get his first name when he's ten—younger than most people start, but older than his grandparents when they'd had theirs done. His grandmother's skin is threaded red and gold with names, and Claude wants that, wants that sort of history for his own.

Sidney Crosby/Tyler Seguin

All New Kinds of Weather by concinnity and Pennyplainknits

Sidney Crosby, Tyler realizes, has just asked him about hooking up. Sidney fucking Crosby. Tyler blinks at Sid and takes a long drink of water. He has possibly never been as grateful for his slutty reputation as he is in this moment. Because, out of a whole room at least 30% of which would happily give Sid what he’d just, hesitantly, asked for, Sid chose him.

Also there are pancakes.

Alex Galchenyuk/Brendan Gallagher 

ain't never had a love like mine by bluejayys

Anna installs Grindr on his phone while he drives them back to his place, snickering as she fills out his profile.

“In your About Me section I said that you enjoy hockey, can speak three languages, and have been commended by fans for your excellent stick handling,” she says gleefully. Alex wonders when this became his life.

Brent Seabrook/Duncan Keith

Summerboys by stlkrchck

Brent Seabrook has no interest in working at Camp Quaquanantuck the summer before university. Unfortunately, his mom's signed him up, and he has to go. But between a cabin full of campers obsessed with Lady Gaga, a prank war with two other cabins, and his co-counselor Duncan Keith, Brent might just find himself enjoying the summer after all.

Tyson Barrie/Gabriel Landeskog 

Left-Handed Kisses by oflights

The one where Tyson's fooling around with Gabe, already way out of his league, and then finds out he's apparently fooling around with a prince. And he might be a little bit in love with him. It's pretty brutal.

[possibilistfanfiction]

stardust brought to life (we have only just begun)

[museum au part 1/2—lexa works at the museum of natural history & clarke works at the hayden planetarium. lexa’s seen some shit but yknow they get to fall in love, all that jazz. v hap, v gay]

//

stardust brought to life (we have only just begun)

.

what we do know, and what we can assert without further hesitation, is that the universe had a beginning. the universe continues to evolve. and yes, every one of our body’s atoms is traceable to the big bang and to the thermonuclear furnaces within high-mass stars that exploded more than five billion years ago.

– neil degrasse tyson, astrophysics for people in a hurry

//

your shoulder still aches.

you try not to think about that, though, especially right now, because it’s the first snow of the year and it’s beautiful, and clarke waves to you, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. it almost knocks you off your feet, how pretty she is, so you casually lean against the railing so you don’t fall down the stairs.

‘hey lex,’ she says, settling next to you, seemingly happy to stand on the stairs instead of heading to the planetarium where she’s supposed to be.

‘good morning, clarke.’

‘always so formal,’ she says, then tugs on your arm lightly before starting up the stairs. ‘octavia is in the café today, let’s get coffee for free before kane is here and can tell us not to.’

‘clarke—’

she rolls her eyes, tugs on your hand. ‘you can get hot chocolate or tea or whatever if you’re still on your insane kick to give up caffeine.’

‘that’s not—’

she stops and turns toward you, glaring. it’s soft, though, made softer by her tone: ‘it’s the first snow, lexa. live a little.’

you sigh and scuff your boot on the marble stairs once, then nod. ‘whatever. fine.’

clarke laughs and takes off again.

your stomach hurts sometimes too, aches all the way into your chest, into your shoulder, but you try not to think about that either. you think about the size of the universe instead, about how last year there were 23,237 recorded live trees in maine.

clarke doesn’t let go of your hand all the way to the fourth floor, and it maybe hurts a little less.

//

you’re trying to eat your pizza slowly, but you’re sweaty and starving and your hands are barely warming up from the cold but you don’t really care. anya had convinced you to join this stupid intermural hockey league this year—‘you can’t keep making excuses, alexandria, for the things you still love,’ and for a moment you were sure you weren’t talking about hockey’—and you’d wanted to get in a fight right then and there earlier when you’d seen clarke and raven and octavia cheering on the bleachers.

anya had laughed when you’d checked her into the boards, especially because you were on the same team, but the game is over now and you’re at a pizza place near the park that clarke had suggested, and she’s drinking wine and laughing and she’d convinced you to have some too.

you all walk to the subway together, and clarke doesn’t hesitate for a moment before giving you a long, warm hug, the same as always, even though you’re sweaty and probably smell terrible.

you have the impulse to kiss her cheek but you don’t, and when you’re icing your shoulder later that evening with anya, passing a bottle of bourbon back and forth while you watch reruns of game of thrones, she laughs a little when you smile at your phone.

‘is that clarke?’

you debate lying, but you’re really bad at it and you’re also drunk, so there’s no point. ‘yeah.’

‘she’s hot.’

you sigh and anya grins.

‘keep showing her those big hockey muscles,’ anya says, and you roll your eyes when she flexes, ‘and i’m sure she’ll reciprocate.’

‘fuck off.’

‘unbutton that polo every once in a while, lex.’

‘suck my dick, anya.’

she takes a swig of the bourbon and then hands it to you. ‘just take your shirt off during one of those sleepovers you chaperone.’

you cough on your mouthful of alcohol, and it burns all the way down your throat. ‘there are children there.’

anya just laughs, delighted, while you sulk, trying not to cough more.

‘you have abs, lexa, children or not.’

your cheeks burn and you try not to smile. you don’t let her have any more of your bourbon that night.

//

raven invites you to a post-finals party. you think it could either be the best or worst idea you’ve ever had, willfully allowing yourself to get drunk around clarke, who will also be getting drunk, but you really do try to act your age every now and again.

apparently, you’re having this party at clarke’s parents’ apartment, because they’re out of town for a conference her dad is presenting at. as you walk with raven, she tells you all about his work in robotics, because they’re friends, you guess? she keeps rubbing at her hip as you walk and you fish around in your backpack and find your trusty bottle of advil, offer her two without a word. she takes them without pausing, throws them back and swallows them without any water or anything, and then just keeps talking about stem cells and nanorobotics and she’s let you talk her ear off about endemic plant species in south africa, so you smile into your scarf all the way down park avenue.

//

clarke’s parents’ apartment is huge, as far as you’re concerned. you grew up in a little house in a little town on the coast of maine, and you didn’t want for anything—you’d had your tide pools and hockey skates and books, a pretty girl you loved and your uncle who would let you walk to the top of the light house with him at night.

but this is something altogether entirely, and you feel a little out of place in your sweater that has a hole in the sleeve and the same boots you wear everyday to work in the winter. raven doesn’t seem to care at all, though, and clarke skids in from the kitchen wearing a t-shirt (a very tight, lowcut t-shirt that leaves very little to the imagination) and jeans, wool socks with little penguins on them, and she hugs you both at the same time, groaning when octavia changes the music blaring to bodak yellow because ‘i love this song too, guys, but it’s not even 9 and this is the sixth time they’ve put this on.’

clarke takes one look at the little bundt cake you’d brought—you’d made it in your dorm kitchen, it’s full of quinoa and pumpkin and you’d bought real powdered sugar over the top—and seems to kind of melt.

raven laughs. ‘griffin, how drunk are you already?’

clarke shrugs, tugging you both with her to the kitchen where lincoln smiles, so handsome, as he mixes drinks while octavia sits on the counter, swinging their legs and rapping every word to bodak yellow.

‘my parents took me to brunch before they flew out,’ clarke starts to explain.

‘and then we just kept goin,’ octavia says, turning to you with a grin. lincoln seems far more sober, but you think he might just be better at faking it.

‘well i guess we better catch up,’ raven says, and clarke and octavia cheer, handing you both a shot.

it feels like a bad idea, but it also feels like a really good one.

//

clarke’s parents’ apartment has a rooftop garden, and it affords you an entire view of central park and the rest of the city, which you discover because clarke takes you there later, when the place is packed and you’re pretty sure you’ve heard bodak at least twelve times. you know you could call anya if you wanted to go home, but clarke is smiling and you should be cold, because it’s supposed to snow and it’s windy, but you’re warm.

‘anyway, okay, so like, yes, i want to be a surgeon,’ she explains, ‘but also we’re so young, you know, and i want to spend time with my friends and not have my mother breathing down my neck before residency in a billion years, because she’ll probably rig it so that i get matched with her program.’

‘it is one of the best in the country,’ you say, taking a sip of your beer. ‘you said so yourself.’

clarke leans close with a fond huff. ‘you’re supposed to be on my side, lexa.’

you laugh, and the motion brings you close to clarke, closer than you’d really meant to be. you swallow, suddenly far colder and more sober than you’d been seconds ago.

clarke’s eyes dart to your lips, and then your eyes, and then your lips again.

the wind whips your hair around your faces and you credit that for the tears in your eyes as you lean forward and kiss her.

you know that the moon is 1/4000th the size of the sun, but that the moon is 4000 times closer to the earth than the sun, which allows everyone on earth to see them as relatively the same size. it’s the only place in our solar system that this happens, and you think about this as you kiss clarke in the dead of winter, the stars pulled down into streetlamps and headlights.

the city, usually so loud, quiets.

//

you kiss her for a long time, until one of your sniffles snot from being so cold and the other laughs and she leads you back into her parents’ apartment. the party is winding down and you’re getting sleepy and when people start to leave and she invites you to stay the night, you want to say no but then you think of how tired you are and how much you want to be held.

she leads you to her old room, which is full of paintings and sketches and polariods, certificates of awards for a variety of academic achievements, a letterman jacket from her highschool still slung over her desk chair.

you run your fingers over it as she goes shuffles through her drawer for pajamas for you. ‘what’d you letter in?’

she laughs. ‘chess. i was nationally ranked, actually.’

‘wow,’ you say, delighted. ‘that’s—‘

‘—nerdy, i know.’

‘no,’ you say. ‘i was going to say impressive.’

‘sure, sure,’ she says, laughing. she turns and hands you pajamas and you want to ask, maybe, how she can sense you don’t want to have sex, because you’d just kissed her for at least twenty minutes on a rooftop in manhattan and most people would probably get some mixed messages from that.

you’re so drunk you don’t really care about going into a bathroom or whatever at this point to change, because you’re pretty sure clarke doesn’t care at all, so you start to take your pants off while clarke changes too. ‘did you letter in anything?’

‘hockey,’ you say.

‘right,’ clarke says, slightly muffled by her shirt. ‘makes sense.’

‘do not tell anyone this, but i also lettered in jazz band.’

clarke lets out a laugh. and you turn to her as you slip into some of her worn, soft boxers. they’re a little big so you roll them up and she takes a deep breath and then lets it out through her nose. you smile—you’re a little pleased and a little apologetic—and then she starts to ask another question, something about a saxophone or a trumpet, as you pull your sweater over your head. you’re drunk so you’d forgotten, for the first time in years, but when you go to deposit your sweater in a pile on top of your socks and jeans, clarke is quiet and fighting between staring at you and the corner of her room.

‘you’re my same age and you’re from maine,’ she says, things seemingly clicking into place.

you take your sweater and pull it over your head again, and your hands start shaking and your eyes press with tears.

‘lexa,’ she says, stepping toward you quickly, which only makes your heart race more. you’re drunk, you’re drunk, and you know you’re safe but your ears are ringing. ‘i’m sorry i just—i didn’t—god,’ she says. maybe she notices you trembling, maybe she notices the way you’ve seemingly forgot how to button your pants, but she straightens up and says, ‘lexa,’ just firmly enough of your to meet her eyes.

they’re so blue. you want to find comfort in them, and maybe you will, but everything is too loud right now.

‘i have to go,’ you get out, barely, all gritted teeth and you remember what it was like to choke on your own blood.

‘lexa,’ she says again, differently this time, pleading. ‘i’m sorry.’

you shake your head. ‘i’m not mad,’ you say, and you’re surprised you were able to express a thought as coherent as that. ‘it’s not—i have to go.’

she very gently helps you button your pants and then nods. ‘okay.’

you breathe a sigh of relief because clarke is kind, because clarke is fun and young and wild but she’s gentle, and your brain is trying to convince your body that it’s about to die again, but later you’ll remember this moment with such tenderness.

‘let me get your coat. i’ll get you a car too.’

you follow her out, nodding, maybe, and she helps you into your coat, walks you down and makes sure you get into a black towncar, makes sure her driver knows your address.

when you get to your dorm, you knock on anya’s door and she lets you in, mostly asleep, without a word.

‘you’re here,’ she tells you, helping you out of your clothes and into her bed, while she sets up a little nest of blankets on the floor. ‘you’re in new york and it’s winter and—‘ she pauses for a moment, then lets out a laugh— ‘you have a hickey on your neck, for sure.’

it shocks you just enough, happily, that your heart slows down a bit. ‘from clarke,’ you say, and her name feels solid on your tongue, quiet and present.

‘i never would’ve guessed,’ anya drawls from the floor.

it takes you a while to fall asleep and you have nightmares, but you do have a hickey from a very pretty girl when you wake up the next day, so.

there’s that.

//

it’s all very confusing: one minute you’re holding your piece of pizza, walking to the table you always sit at, every day, with your girlfriend and your friends. you’re tired and your hip is sore from hockey, your eyes hurt from reading the same history primary sources over and over again on the shitty library computers. costia is beautiful, though, and the pizza today looked less burnt than usual, and your uncle had promised to take you fishing this weekend.

one minute you’re holding your piece of pizza, and you’re sixteen, and then there’s a very distinct series of pops, a single click, and your pizza is on the floor because you can’t feel your hand. your arm is on fire and it takes you a few moments, but then everyone is screaming and there are so many pops, and it’s loud.

it occurs to you that you were shot, that this is a school shooting, that all of your classmates—your friends—are dying. Dead.

costia is rushing to you and then there’s another pop and you’re doubled over, because you can’t breathe and you can’t see because pain is shooting up from your abdomen and everyone is screaming, everyone won’t stop screaming, and costia is brushing hair out of your eyes but you can’t breathe, and it hurts.

‘lexa,’ costia is saying, ‘lexa.’

you swallow and you nod and costia is crying, and she presses down on your shoulder and then on your stomach, and you think you might pass out from the pain.

‘don’t go to sleep,’ she says, and her tears are falling onto your face. ‘don’t fall asleep, lexa, please,’ she says, chokes out on the edge of a sob.

‘it’s okay,’ you say, taste the copper and iodine of your own blood. you don’t know what drives you to say it, because there are so many gunshots and you know there are so many bodies but you can’t look away from costia’s perfect skin, her dark eyes, her pretty mouth. you don’t know where your friends are, and it registers somewhere that you might die, that you were shot and you have to have massive internal bleeding because you’re coughing up blood and you can’t feel your left hand.

but costia is saying your name and trying to keep your blood in your body. she’s saying your name, over and over again, her hands pressing hard into your skin, your gut. she’s saying your name until she’s not, until she’s slumped over you in a single instant.

you want to scream, and you hadn’t been scared until now. you want to scream but you can’t, and her breathing is ragged and she coughs up blood into the crook of your neck.

‘it’s okay,’ you say again, as clearly as you can, as best as you can, and you feel her nod, just slightly.

one minute ago you were sixteen years old, thinking about pizza and calculus and the federalist papers, walking to a table where you were going to sit with your friends and kiss your girlfriend, tuck your hands into the pockets of your letterman as you walked home.

costia’s breathing stops, you feel it stop, and it’s so loud, but you hear her heart stop. maybe you don’t, maybe that’s not possible, but you’re sure you’re going to die, and costia already has. it makes you feel sick, but she’s on top of you and you can’t move anyway, you can’t feel your hands or your legs and you can’t breathe.

one minute ago you were a child. you think you are going to die.

you will never be a child again.

//

anya tells you that you were asleep for four days. when you wake up in the hospital—in boston, with your shoulder shattered, your arm in a sling, two of your fingers still numb, your stomach cut open and stitched back together, from three different surgeries—when you wake up in the hospital you don’t think you’ll ever breathe again.

anya tells you, solemnly but without crying, that 27 people died. your friends, your classmates, people who have annoyed you since kindergarten.

you don’t have to ask if costia died because you know she died, but you ask anyway. your uncle is slumped over silently on the other side of your bed and you’re shocked you have tears left in you but you do, and the sob that works its way through your body burns.

they send a therapist in to talk to you, and you know you have ptsd and you tell her that you don’t know if you’ll ever feel real again, that you don’t really want to try to fall in love again. that you used to care about calculus and hockey ap us history, that all you wanted to do after school was make out with a very pretty girl in the back of your jeep. that you were excited about pizza.

she sits down and she sighs and she tells you that those things might never go away. but you tell her, a few weeks later, while you’re squeezing a stress ball as hard as you can, even though your hand isn’t working quite right, and your entire abdomen still aches when you try to stand up straight—you tell her that you still love trees. the ocean. your tidepools and all the words that have gone along with them.

you get to go home. it’s not the same—it’s hollow and it’s empty and gustus offers to move so you don’t have to go back to the same school. but you’re better enough now to wander along the craggy cliffs with your arm tucked around his study one. you have to pause a few times climbing to the top of his lighthouse, but you make it.

there’s a meteor shower, and you should’ve died.

you will never be a child again but there are shooting stars. you watch them above your head, and you watch them fall silently into the water below.

//

clarke finds you on sunday morning, far before the museum is open. she has flowers and two coffees and you’re blushing already.

‘first of all, i don’t want to trigger anything,’ she says, in a rush, and it makes you smile, ‘so i just wanted to say i think you’re beautiful and maybe some time you could stay and i promise not to ruin it.’

she kind of thrusts the bouquet in your face and you grin. you’re thrilled, because clarke is usually so confident and sure, and maybe she likes you just as much as you like her.

‘someone shot me and half of my school,’ is what comes out of your mouth, even though you hadn’t intended for it to at all. you hurry to keep talking after that one. ‘you didn’t ruin anything.’

she sighs in relief. ‘okay,’ she says. ‘i’m still—you know.’

‘yeah.’

she waits a beat for you to say anything else, and when she senses that that’s it, she smiles gently and wraps her hand around your arm. you’re holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums in the dinosaur room and a pretty girl is laughing about the compsognathus, and you correct her because they lived during the jurrasic era, not the triassic, and when you’re kissing her again, beside the triceratops skeleton, it doesn’t feel nearly as terrifying as the end of your world, as the end of anything at all.

[asroarke]

I find your drunk self stories to be hilarious. Kind of want to hear how drunk you would describe the fics you write.

 been a while since you asked me this, but I had to get drunk first so I could do this properly. Don’t worry Mellie is sitting next to me to make sure I dont’ say something dumb.

OKAY UP FIRST: Matched. Basically twenty of our fave homies live in a house, and someone in there is gonna love them real hard, but THEY DONT KNOW WHO THAT IS YET. HOW WILL THEY FIGURE IT OUT? so theres like a truth place they go to, dont remember what it’s called since I wrote this back in May, and if you and one of your other homies go in there, you can find out if you’re soulmates BUT YOU MIGHT NOT BE AND THEN YOU WASTED THE CHANCE. i feel like I’m not explaining this well. oh, it’s also a reality show. I feel like that’s important here. Long story shirt, Bell loves Clarke, Clarke loves Bell, AND THIS FIC IS THE BIRTH PLACE OF THE SHIP I CAPTAIN: ICE JAHAAAAAAAAAA. come for the bellarke slow burn, stay for Roan and Wells falling madly in love amidst the chaos of eighteeen other dumb dumbs. 

Mismatched was based on Matched. They’re like a little family. a fanfic family. sometimes a family is just an obscenely long reality show au and its follow up, a shorter but still unnecessarily long one-shot where bellamy and CLARKE accidentally go into the truth booth early on in the competition and end up trapped in a hotel for SO MANY WEEKS

Medici Magic: bruh. I remember going to a renaissance fair and being like omg BELLARKE COULD FIGHT SO HARD HERE. idk dudes. all the squad works at a renaissance fair. bellarke hates each other, but not really. then bellamy high key loves her, but is like NO I DONT. then theres some plot here and there. then there was the first time i ever tried to write smut and then i didnt sleep that night because no one commented immediately and i was like OH MY GOD I FAILED and now im like oh ok. that was fine. also ice jaha is there. everyone should ship ice jaha. wells and roan could be perfect together if only the writers let them exist in the same season. now they’re in heaven banging it out.

Wrecked: DESERTED ISLAND. drama. intrigue. THE ONLY MISTAKE WAS THAT I GAVE CLARKE GRIFFIN A DRESS WITH POCKETS. ok there were other mistakes, particularly grammatical ones BUT GRAMMAR IS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT. but seriously, dont know what i was thinking with the pockets. the LEAST believable thing ive ever written. anyways, errybody is there. i made echo a villain, and since she and i are friends now, I feel kinda bad about that. also theres some roarke action in here. bellamy is shady as fuck, but that’s kind of clarke’s kink in the fic so it works. also smut. 

I’m Gonna Leave You Anyway and the rest of its series’ squad: you know, the show i based this fic on was one of my favorites. AND THEN THE FOURTH SEASON HAPPENED AND I JUST DONT KNOW. anyways, bellamy and clarke have commitment problems, but end up banging it out. they fight about dumb shit because they’re scared of being heartbroken. also the fellow delinquents are real nosy about bellarke’s love life and they all need to calm the fuck down. oh and there are two little one shots that i think are cute. they buy a house and bellamy is like I’M GONNA MARRY THE FUCK OUT OF YOU, and then in the next one clarke is too busy makign fun of bellamy all day to notice that homeboy gonna propose. I laughed, I cried, and I wrote smut. 

Double Infinity: tied with Matched for my fave fic I’ve written. they have like NOTHING in common tho. bellamy is out to avenge his mom’s death. the people responsible?! CLARKE’S FAMILY. drama. suspense. guilty late night phone calls with Kane. Bellamy decides to romance Clarke to get closer to her family, but, spoiler, the fake relationship didn’t turn out to be all that fake?! (also some ice jaha if you squint, #rideordie) bellamy learns that clarke is also super sneaky, like hella sneaky. and what the fuck is going on with ECHO? do we like her? do we hate her? did we laugh at that joke in the beginning where bellamy accused clarke of having a hit man on her speed dial ONLY TO REALIZE THAT SHE FUCKING DID THE WHOLE TIME? lies. betrayal. late nights in storage units. smut. a wedding that arkadian magazine called the go to event of the year turned into BELLAMY’S WORST NIGHTMARE. The fic is obscenely long and is about as EXTRA as I can get 

Something Always Survives: darkness. no literally. clarke “but did you die?” griffin gets abducted and put in a pitch dark cage along with some other homies. guess who her prison neighbor is???? omg so the fic is HELLA creepy at times but i was in a spooky mood because october, but like… ALL BELLAMY DOES IS TALK TO HER THROUGH THE WALL AND TELL HER STORIES AND LOVES HER AND AAAAAAAH. i cried a lot during this fic bc like BELLAMY loves her, and he had never even touched her or seen her. all he did was hear her voice. like sure, they were being used for creepy lab experiments and were constantly fearing for their lives, BUT THE PINING. i started off basing this on the oa and then somewhere in like the first two chapters i went off the rails and i kept listening to gregorian chant while writing it so like that might explain a lot???! 

50 First Proposals: i mean i just wrote this today. i haven’t had enough time between posting it and now to have coherent drunk commentary for you. but like, bellamy proposes to clarke a lot to get free desserts at restaurants, BUT THEYRE JUST FRIENDS OK and then hes like no we’re not justs friends I love the fuck outta her. idk dudes. i either write ANGST where they just stare longingly into a corner as they can only hear each others voice for a fucking year, OR I write FLUFF where everything is perfect and life is great and bellamy is great. 

Fatal Innocence: I HOPE YALL ARE READY FOR A DOUBLE INFINITY WILD RIDE. just started this one. chapters gonna be long as FUCK. htgawm au. somebody murdered somebody BUT WHO IS THE MURDERER? and whyyyy? is roan gonna try and bang clarke? how is sweet precious baby angel monty gonna hold up after burying a body? WHAT IS ECHO UP TO THIS TIME?? does marcus just stare longingly at a photo of abby while sipping scotch? sea mechanic is real, here. EMORI is gonna fuck shit up. WHO IS DEAD? (i mean read chapter one and you’ll find out) also like bellarke is gonna fight so much and it’s gonna be real fun. if you like murder fics. if not…. go read matched.

Anyways, I think that’s all my fics. idk. i went out of order a bit so now im confused. SO, that’s drunk me’s thoughts on the stuff sober me wrote. if you have any questions for drunk me, hit me up now-ish otherwise you’re gonna have to wait until the next time i show up and mellie is here to babysit meee.