#i want the MONTHS to fly by. just transport me to the second half of the year or october where i can finally feel like there's something-

[monstermp3]

i know time passes faster when we don't think about it but are there any ways to like ... make time pass faster lol

[penvisions]

the melting point {chapter 16}

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Baker! Reader (ex EMT! Reader)

Summary: In the aftermath of a rather eventful and terrifying last summer farmer's market, you try to find a semblance of normalcy as best you can. Meanwhile, Frankie is up to something that is beginning to cause you to worry about the burden you've become in your recovery.

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: medical jargon, mild language, emotional monologues, internal monologue, negative feelings, negative thoughts, ptsd symptoms, pining, emotional pining, depressive thoughts, description of pain and injuries, blood, descriptions of post shooting chaos, panic attacks, notions of death, hospital setting, mentions of needles and iv's, mentions of narcotics, use of prescription narcotics, feelings of inadequacy, angst

A/N: um, so it's been four months since i've touched this fic, then i woke up yesterday morning and just began writing like nothing. takes breaks when you need to, don't force things and it'll all work out. please let me know what y'all think!

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

“C’mon, hang on for me baby, please, don’t-don’t close your eyes.”

“Mantequilla, everything is gonna be okay, I promise, we’re all here for you, please know that everything is going to be okay.”

“We’ve got you, you did so good, you saved my little girl, you did, you saved her.”

“Honey, we all love you so much, please stay strong, I’ll hold your hand the entire way there.”

“Let’s get you turned over, ma’am, c’mon. There we go, you’re doing amazing.”

“Santi, she-she-“

“Papa!! Papa, please help her, I love her! Tio Santi, do something!!”

“Merde, that’s so much blood, Frankie you’ve gotta focus, you’ve gotta calm her down. Get her home safe, to your mother’s, somewhere safe.”

“Will!! They got her, call Morgan! She went missing the second things got crazy.”

“Has anyone seen Benny?”

“They’re transporting her now, rushing her to surgery the second the get there.”

“She’s lost a lot of blood, any donations with the same blood type would be appreciated. Who here is a positive?”

“Sweet girl, please, you’ve got to pull through, I know you can do it. You’re so strong.”

“No response, it’s been how many days now?”

“She’s being rushed into another surgery, she keeps clotting. They can’t figure out why.”

“Fransico Morales? You’re next of kin?”

“No, no, but we’re all she has. Her family is flying out, they’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Taylor, take a moment, it’s…it’s a lot to take in.”

“Daddy, why is tia all tangled in those machines, she’s going to be okay, right?”

“This is my son, he wanted to come and cheer her up because she always did the same for him when he was sick.”

“Please, mi amor, please, you have to make it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Fractered memories played over each other, words echoing and bouncing off of each other through the fog that was all you knew. You couldn’t feel anything, all of your senses stripped away, and you were nothing more than a half-conscious mind tunneling in and out of suspended darkness.

Beeping, an even beeping was the only steady thing you could make out. Sense of environment completely gone and sense of awareness slowly trickling in. Your eyes hurt as you slowly blinked them open, the faint lights around you too bright and you clenched them shut with a huff that pulled at your lungs. The stillness of where you were was shattered as the clattering of a chair sounded, followed by a pair of hands tightening around yours that were settled over your middle. A hushed order to go fetch someone and then a deep voice was rumbling close. You turned your head toward the presence hovering close to your left side, drawn to whoever it was.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, sweet girl.”

A grunt sounded from deep in your chest as you tried to open your mouth and respond. Then a gasp when pain reverberated from the same spot. You tried to shift your legs, hips feeling oddly numb but you couldn’t quite feel them. It was as if they were asleep, but… you cracked your eyes open a second time, squinting down the length of the bed you were in. Your legs were there, obvious underneath the thin, knit, scratchy blankets that only a hospital possessed. You tried to shift again, but even your hips didn’t feel like a part of your body. Your eyes flew open completely, tearing up at the brightness of the room.

Shuddering breaths pulled deep hurt, but you tried to shift again and again but there was no movement underneath the blanket. None.

“Okay, alright, querida, please. Take a deep breath, it’s-it’s gonna be okay.” Frankie. It had been Frankie speaking to you, close to you. His hands reached out for your own, where you had pried them from him to try and prop yourself up, wires and tubes pulling, clattering against each other and making your head swim. “The doctors-“

“I know this must be quite a shock, but it’s good that you’re awake!” A white coat, thrown over a modest skirt and blouse, blonde hair. A kind face, pinched. A furrowed brow. Bad news on the tip of her tongue.

You tried to speak, demand why you couldn’t feel anything below your waist. But you could only croak out the faintest notions of words. Everything was a blur, the hospital room you were in a mess of blue and white, the beeping of machines hurting your ears. Nothing made any sense, confusion coloring every thought as to how you got here and why.

“Let’s get you some water and food first, your body is pretty weak right now. Can I get a level two meal delivered to room thirteen eighty-nine, please?” She turned to address someone who had been hidden behind her, a nurse in teal scrubs.

“Tell me.” You managed to croak out, eyes fixated on her pinched ones.

“I would really prefer to get you a little acclimated.”

“No.”

Her eyes flickered toward Frankie, as if in a silent plea to get him to calm you down and put you at ease however little he could manage. But you ignored the warm weight of his hand on your shoulder, eyes trained on the doctor in front of you as you tried to find more strength to speak around the dry cotton feel of your mouth, the panging hunger that was present in your stomach, the lack of control over your body.

She sighed, arms holding the clipboard in front her in an imitation of a fig leave over her hips.

“We had you in a medically induced coma for the last two weeks. I’m not sure all of what you remember, the brain is fickle that way, pushing things and events out in response to trauma.” She didn’t look from you as the sound of fast steps approached the door, nor when a large figure moved passed her and came straight to your right side. It was Taylor. Both of the most important men in your life on your sides. He was quiet, but you could see the evidence of tears in the puffiness of his eyes, the lack of a smile on his face as he hovered close.

“You were hit in the sacrum and coccyx region, paralyzing you from the waist down. We performed three surgeries to remove the bullet shards and repair as much of the damage as possible. Your blood flow and reflex reactions have improved but we had no way of knowing if anything truly worked until you woke. A week has passed since we stopped inducing you, we were beginning to think you might not wake up.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur, medical terms floating heavy in the air of the room. Daunting, terrifying, life altering. You didn’t think you could handle another life altering event of this caliber. But it didn’t look like you had to traverse it alone. You teared up once the doctor left the room, offering to come back and talk to you once visiting hours were over, though she had mildly glared at both men as she said it. But knowing them both, they had been alternating staying the night to watch over you past the set hours that allowed for them to be present.

You had two wonderful men who were willing to do anything for you, one with a friend group who would follow his lead and the other who had given you so much already. You hoped it wouldn’t be too much, taking what they were willing to give.

“It’s a lot,” Taylor’s voice broke, his words spoken through eyes glittering with tears. His hands tight around yours as he leaned his forehead against yours, completely in your personal space. “But we’ve done somethin’ like this before and we can do it again. We can do it again.”

You could only nod, throat and voice still weak from weeks of disuse.

He walked closer to the side of the bed, the man’s large build shadowing over you in the dimmer setting of the lights you had requested. The full effect of them too bright for you eyes after being unconscious for so long. You reached out to him, urging him to sit atop it as best he could as you all but threw yourself at him. He let you, aware of Frankie standing close to the other side, eyes watering as he heard the cries that began to bubble up from you.

“I-I-“

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here. We’re both here.” Taylor murmured, as he wrapped his own arms around you to pull you close. He smelled like your apartment, a mix of faint buttercream and the rose perfume you favored all rolled into one comforting scent. His own masked by the time he had been in town. “Alfred was here too, but he had to be taken back for school. He sat with you every day for that first week and read to you. He was so worried about you, mami. He kept talking with you like he always does, hoping you would wake up and respond.”

Frankie excused himself, his phone beeping in his pocket and the sound of you crying too much for him to handle all at once. You watched him leave the room, his shadow visible through the blinds in the window looking into the room as he paced up and down the hallway just outside. His voice a low murmur as he spoke with whoever had been trying to contact him.

“I didn’t mean to scare him…or you. I’m so sorry, that call – it must’ve been so terrifying.” You hiccupped into his chest, unable to stop the tears and emotions from flowing all at once, overwhelmed and completely at a loss of how to respond to anything at the moment.

Hushed words eradicated any ill thoughts you were having of yourself, comforting in their genuine indication. He assured you he had been able to handle it, that he was able to handle the hard things that came along with being bonded with someone for life, for knowing someone for so long. For having already done something similar before. But yeah, that it had been scary but Frankie had been as detailed and direct as he needed to be, levelheaded in his description of what had happened and what immediately happened afterwards.

Frankie came up to you both as he entered back into the room, a hand on both your shoulders to get your equal attention. You looked up at him with watery eyes, feeling so proud of how everyone was trying to keep it together for you but guilty at the same time since it had been something they had been dealing with for weeks now.

“That was the airline, they need someone to come in and take over a few tours for double pay. I wouldn’t normally turn them down and I will if you need me here. You’re awake now and I want to be here with you.”

“Y-you should go, if you want to, if you need to.” Scratchy words spoken with what little conviction you could muster. He was conflicted, worried about making the wrong decision.

“You need me here.” He didn’t argue so much as read the thoughts in your mind as clearly as if you had displayed for him to see. “You want me here.”

“Yes, but….money is money, Frankie. For your house, for your daughter, for everything. I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I’m gonna run and get a coffee before you head out, I’ll stay the night, okay?” Taylor announced before he pressed a kiss to your temple and stood. Leaving you and Frankie truly alone for the first time since you woke up. You reached out to the man, gripping his open flannel shirt and lightly pulling him toward you. But he didn’t budge, his feet stable on the ground and his back not leaning to meet you. He wasn’t looking quite at you, but just beyond you. His eyes a little distant.

“I’m sorry.” Pulling your hands back to rest in your lap, you began to twiddle your fingers, unsure of what to do, unsure of why he was acting so weird and distant. Maybe he was just exhausted, mentally wiped out from waiting and waiting for you to wake up. Maybe…he was rethinking everything he’s once promised you…

“Hey, no, you don’t have to be sorry.” His eyes caught your own, his hands reaching out to hold your own as he kneeled down to be at your eye level. Emotions you couldn’t read swirling behind them. “I just- It’s just… you’re awake. And I’m so scared I’m going to open my eyes or wake up and you’ll still be unconscious…or passed.”

“I am awake.” You insisted, worried about this being an elaborate dream all the same. Some made up fantasy your brain concocted in its last moments and none of it was real, that you weren’t real anymore.

“I want to stay,” He pleaded with you, desperate for you to understand how hard it is for him to make the decision to leave, to heed the call of an entire week’s worth of pay in just a few days. But he had a plan and he had to stick with it, it would be for the best in the long run.

“C-can you stay tomorrow?”

“Of course, sweet girl. I promise. I just- this is important. For the both of us. I swear.”

“I believe you, Frankie. I love you.” You lifted your intertwined hands and kissed his knuckles. He repeated the words before he shrugged his jacket on and bid you goodnight. He didn’t kiss you back, instead squeezing your hands twice in farewell.

“Hermosa, I-I just-“ Frankie hung his head, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees the next evening.

He had gone home to change and get a little sleep after a hectic two days of back to back tours. A touch restful now that he knew you were awake, but still fleeting. His thoughts had been a jumble as his mind flashed your unconscious form across the backs of his eyelids. Bleeding, hyperventilating, being rushed into emergency surgery not once but three times. Of you completely still save for the slight rise and fall of your chest laid out in the hospital bed. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing or diminish anything but- just thank you.”

“You saved her, at such a great risk to yourself. But you did, you saved my little girl when I couldn’t. I have endless love and admiration for you, querida. Please, I am here for you. I will help you with whatever you need or want. And not just because of this, but…but until you don’t want that anymore. You’ve got me, sweet girl. I promise.”

The conviction in his tone was strong despite the way his words were pushed out with deep breaths, trying to keep his composure. His shoulders were quaking with the effort he was holding back another wave of tears. Too many emotions for him to handle since the second you had rushed in front of that gun aimed at his daughter.

“Come here,” You softly compelled him, trying to shuffle atop the bed. Feeling still numb below the tops of your thighs, only some control over your legs that you were trying not to dissect. Going over your charts and test results had helped a little, compartmentalizing that it was happening to you and mind working to help solve and reason the things you read as if it was a patient of your own. Work. And a lot of it was ahead of you.

Frankie shuffled up and out of his shoes, choosing to urge you forward softly so he could be the one resting against the back of the angled bed. He helped to situate you against his chest, his arms coming around you in a warm embrace, the smell of his cologne and body wash puffing up and surrounding you in a comforting way. He pressed kisses to the crown of your head, nose shuffling in your hair and making you sigh out at the human contact.

“I would do it again, in a heartbeat. Even knowing what would happen.”

“Te amo. Te tango mucho amor ti, querida.” He whispered hoarsely in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. All you could do was repeat the words to him, meaning them with everything in your very being. Bringing his hands up to rest over your heart, palms flat over your chest, you both just laid there soaking up each other’s company.

His thoughts took over as you felt your breathing even, reaching over to silence the television that had been playing quietly in the corner where it was installed high on the wall.

‘Everything was so loud, a cacophony of too sharp frequencies grating on his ears as he watched the way your body fell to the ground. The man with the gun fleeing from the scene as soon as the gun had fired, steps heavy as he ran as fast as he could. Pope taking off immediately after him, his own gun pulled from the holster attached to his belt. Permission to carry it around off the clock from one of the local military bases where he worked as a freelance advisor.

Frankie was rushing too, toward you. Toward his daughter. Toward you both. There was a pool of blood forming beneath you, having twisted yourself to prevent from falling on top of Alexia’s smaller frame. She was kneeling beside you, tears running down her cheeks as you reached up to cup her face. A pinched expression on your features and blood blooming dark low on your front. His little girl turned to him as he crashed to his knees behind her and brought her in a crushing embrace to his chest, hearing the hum of the crowd that had begun to form all around.

Shouts to call 911 and responses that more than one person was already speaking with officers, telling them of what had just happened.

She begged him to help you.

She begged him to save you.

Shouting at him in her small voice that she loved you and she knew he loved you too.

She buried her face in his chest as he leaned forward to try and get your eyes to focus on him, but you were barely able to keep them open. Lashes fluttering as your breath became labored. He was speaking, words falling from him as he fell back on years of training. Pinging questions off one after the other, getting no response from you for even one. Unresponsive in the worst way, body completely laid out before him and eyes now completely closed. You could’ve been sleeping, as you were still for a fleeting moment.

But then you started to convulse, body fighting against the bullets that had landed deep in your body. He tried to tilt your head toward him, to avoid you biting on your tongue or choking on your own breath.

A new set of hands was taking over, gently ushering him away as paramedics appeared on the scene.

He could only hold tight to his sobbing daughter as he watched the two technicians tend to you. Your chest ceasing heaving at an alarming rate, your breath almost rattling as your lungs desperately tried to keep working.

Blinking rapidly, Frankie focused his eyes on his hands curled over the controls in front of him. He was flying, the landscape of the city and surrounding greenery, the ocean all laid out before him. He was okay, you were okay. Alexia was okay.

He was at work. He was okay.

His fingers twitched at the clueless ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’ of the tourists clamoring for views outside the windows. Their voices coming in clear through the headsets they wore to match his own. Completely in their own world and no problems plaguing them. Carefree.

He was at work. He wasn’t okay.

He should’ve stayed with you.

He should’ve turned down the offer.

But he had run at the first opportunity. Unable to stop the events from replaying in his mind on a loop.

Preventing him from sleeping, preventing him from being able to look at you half the time. Seeing you as you had looked right after the attack, seeing you as they rushed you onto the ambulance, seeing you as your chest went completely still once loaded up. The way your body didn’t respond to the attempts of resuscitation.

Mind torturing him by projecting you laid out in an open coffin. Copper hair resting around your lifeless frame, beautiful face covered in the wrong shade of makeup, hiding the freckles that dotted your face from him. Forever closed eyelids hiding your bright eyes from him. Black dress hiding your soft skin from his twitching fingers, itching to trace the delicate ink that decorated your skin. A masterpiece taken from him in a cruel twist of fate.

Shaking his head minutely, he shoved the fake notions out of his head and pivoted the helicopter toward the coast. Following and announcing the route for the tour that the people sat behind him had requested.

He was at work and he didn’t think he’d ever be okay again. But he would try for you, because you were awake and waiting for him to return to you.

He pulled his sunglasses from where the frames were hanging from his collar and covered his reddening eyes.’

“Come on, two more steps and we’re home free.” The physical therapist was encouraging in the most grating of ways. Your normally polite and civil personality being shattered by the turn of events your life had taken. It was a lot of work now, but it had been a lot of work to initially discover that you had only minimal feeling and control over your lower half. Hips sore no matter how much medicine was added to your IV, legs numb and unresponsive more often than not.

But that didn’t stop the doctor from putting you on a physical therapy track of two appointments per week. Something you had thought was a lot right off the bat but not wanting to argue. Just as angered by the quick pace as you were determined to stick to it. It was the second week since waking up, discharge looming like a storm over the horizon, visible but not yet tangible.

There had been talk about Taylor renting a home to move into for the duration of your recovery. His son being taken care of by his co-parent back home with school having started. But Frankie had offered up his own home, a flush to his caramel skin as he did so. Not having wanted to ask you to move in under such dire circumstances. But he would be lying if he said the thought of offering you a space in his home hadn’t been on his mind lately.

Taylor had offered to split his time between Frankie’s and the apartment above the shop. An outpouring of love from the community delivered to the shop and hospital in overwhelmingly equal parts. Baskets of treats, flowers, cards, vouchers for services from all around the city and local vendors. Everything was being toted back between the two spaces that were now yours.

Lex indulging in the treats as she sat with you in the afternoons after school. Homework laid out before her atop the bed as you helped her with her math and writing. Different people picking her up while Frankie returned to work, determined to put in as many hours before he took two whole weeks off to help you transition to being home once you were discharged.

But right now, you were stood on shaking legs, arms braced heavily on the bars on either side of you as you stood between the set up of the parallel bars. Sweat dripping from your hair thrown up in a haphazard bun, skin sallow from the medication you were on a strict rotation of. You had forgone shoes, insistent that you wanted to be able to feel anything should it come back to you while practicing.

Your arms were shaking, holding up the entirety of your body weight on them, muscles straining and tattoos looking distorted with the flex of them. With a huff, you shifted your hips, right leg lifting slightly and managed to shuffle it about a foot before placing your foot down flat and tipping forward to even your weight with the new stance.

“Alright, you did it!” The nurse was a kindly young man, his arms hovering behind you as he waited for you to tap out. But you sucked in a deep breath and concentrated. Shifting your left foot ahead in the same manner before a spike of pain shot up from the arch of it as you settled it flat on the mat.

“Fuck! Okay, okay, I’m out. That’s all I got.” You wavered, arms shaking and legs beginning to tingle where you could feel them.

“That’s okay, you did good today. Four steps is progress.” The nurse helped you, gathering your form in his arms and lifting to get the pressure off your aching shoulders.

Santi was in the room when you were wheeled back, no sign of Taylor or Frankie. He informed you that they were both taking care of something for you which made you feel a little uneasy that they hadn’t told you themselves the night before that they wouldn’t be in to see you today. The nurse let the man take over with helping you get back into the bed, knowing you’d rather it be someone who you knew handling you for something a little more intimate of a move.

The man’s broad shoulders tensed as he supported your nearly dead weight, completely at a loss of energy from the days activities.

“Did they say where they were going?” You inquired, voice soft as you nuzzled your face into the man’s neck. He smelled so good and you were just in a very physically affectionate mood in wake of not getting any direct attention from Frankie in the way you were too hesitant to ask for.

“Mante, you know I would tell you if I knew, but they were like school boys, shuffling their feet and avoiding eye contact. I’m sure it’s just a surprise for you, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

You were quiet for a moment, allowing the man to situate your aching legs as best he could and covering you up with the blankets that had been brought from your apartment. He busied himself with getting a take out bag unpacked and placing containers over the collapsable table attached to the bed for you. A cup of coffee that smelled of caramel and foamed milk pressed gently into your reaching hands. He was so diligent, the soft curls of his graying hair falling over his forehead as he focused. When everything was set up, he settled into the chair beside the bed with his own container and began to dig in.

But you were still, only a sip taken from the hot coffee handed to you.

“Santi…”

“What is it, hermosa?” He looked up from his food, utensils loaded up and a bite halfway to his lips. “I get the wrong thing?”

“No,” A small smile offered to him as your heart fluttered in your chest, unsure of how to even broach the concerns that were crashing over you in overwhelming waves. “No, this is great. Thank you.”

The man watched you, eyes scanning your face as you averted your eyes. He let out a quiet sigh and set down his utensils completely, asking you to tell him what was really on your mind.

“Frankie…he, um, he-“ You felt like a complete idiot as your face heated up, tears welling in your eyes unbidden. Foolish question, it was such a foolish thing to be worried about when the man’s words were nothing but reassuring and loving. “Why won’t he kiss me, Santi?”

“Is that what you need right now?”

You warbled out an affirmative. Feeling for all the world like a pathetic lovesick fool even surrounded by everyone who you could possibly need in your life right now, everyone working together to help you in any way possible.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

A shake of your head was all the answer you could muster up.

“He’s probably just trying to respect you, not wanting to put pressure on you to be that way with him if you’re too overwhelmed.” Santi went on to explain that his best friend had trouble with stuff like this, showing his affection and feelings in wake of traumatic events.

That you should try not to worry too much, though he knew that was easier said than done. To not take it personally, but he admitted to knowing that might be hard to do as well, everything so much at the moment. He reminded you that you could reach out to you with anything at any time. He would try his best to be there for you in any way that he could. Even jokingly offering to pepper kisses over your face and approaching you with overly pursed lips until you erupted into a laughing fit at how ridiculous he looked as he loomed closer. He sealed the conversation with a genuine press of his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hands cradling your face in their warmth before he moved back to his seat and ordered you to eat.

Across town, Taylor and Frankie had a similar conversation as a bell dinged above them where it was nestled in the doorway to a shop front. The two men determined to surprise you with something that Frankie had quietly brought up one night following your first rush into emergency surgery. An approval of sorts he had been seeking after was granted instantaneously with a smile and words of encouragement from the only other man he felt like he could share the conversation with at the moment.  

“Discharge papers should be processed by end of day, looks like you’ll be spending the night in your own bed.” The doctor offered you a small smile. She had been worried about having you under her care when she found out you were a once trained medical technician, knowing how bad of a patient she was when sick herself. But you had surprised her, not talking over her or voicing opinions on what needed to be done. It had been another week, progress made in physical therapy.

You were able to walk the length of the parallel bars, slowly and with a lot of huffing and puffing. But it cleared you for outpatient treatment. The feeling in your legs was spotty, coming to you mostly in the mornings when you first woke up and at the end of the day after resting for a few hours. Something she was only mildly worried about, muscle atrophy from being unconscious for so long lingering even now.

But she had been confident that the feeling would come back completely, though she was honest when she said she was worried about numbness flaring up.

That’s how you found yourself seated in the passenger seat of Frankie’s truck as he pulled into the drive of his house. He was waiting for the garage to open, in order to make it easier for you to walk straight into the laundry room instead of having to attempt to tackle the stairs to the front door. Everyone would be over tomorrow, to celebrate your release. Giving you a free night to settle in and mentally deal with the shift in environments. Lex would be at her grandparents so Frankie could focus on getting you settled.

“One moment, just…want to get something set up before I help you out, okay?” His earnest gaze widened his beautiful eyes, watching you and making sure you were alright to be left alone for a moment. He was through the door and back in the garage in a matter of minutes, a shy smile aimed at you as he helped you down and got a walked ready for you. It had a cushioned seat in the middle, in case you needed to take any breaks when trying to move about. Something you wanted to argue but didn’t have a good one against.

You felt…weird. Having to rely on him so much, but extremely grateful that he was willing to. You’d seen friendships and relationships fall apart with this much stress and similar situations. Both as a professional and a civilian, as a friend. You only hoped this wouldn’t be one of the last things he did for you before telling you it was too much, that you were too much. Love could only encompass so much before it wasn’t enough to hold two individuals together.

Melancholic and depressive thoughts abundant as you tried to come to terms with what the near future would hold for an unknowable amount of time. There was no timeline with things like this and that’s what worried you the most. What if you had flares of numbness for the rest of your life, what if he began to see you as a burden, as work he had to come back to after doing his shifts at the mechanics and his flying tours. What if all your progress was meaningless and you woke up one day with no feeling at all?

He had hushed you on more than one occasion with soft words, promises he wouldn’t do that. Promises that he was yours, that you were his, that you were in this together. But doubt crept in regardless. Even more so in the realization that he hadn’t wanted to kiss you. He was quick to dodge your advances, placing placating touches of his lips to your hair instead; of pulling you tighter to his body instead. Almost as if he was hesitant to show you affection in that way and it was hard to handle when all you wanted was that type of comfort from the man you loved so completely.

His hands were warm as he supported your weight, but he didn’t shift you down to the ground completely, instead he pulled you flush against him. Your own arms tightened around his neck, feet barely touching the ground as he ducked his head to kiss you fully for the first time since you woke up in that hospital bed. You melted into him even more, welcoming his lips against yours reverently, desperately.

The plush give of them against your own feeling like a true welcome home.

Shifting your hands up into his soft hair, you knocked the cap clear of his head as you parted your lips for him. He held you tight, not risking you putting too much weight on your own feet for even a second as he kissed you again and again, lips meeting yours in a dizzying display of his unfettered affection. Pulling at his curls, you pivoted his head to deepen another kiss, desperate for his touch and his taste. He groaned into your mouth, pulling back slightly to rest his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes slowly, watching the way his face was completely relaxed. The lines of his age smoothed out slightly as he moved to peck one last kiss to your slick lips.

He had set the table up before picking you up, at home during the day as he had received your hopeful text about the paperwork this morning. But he had run inside to pull everything from where it was keeping warm in the oven, lighting twin tapers set in the middle of the dining table. You tried to hide the squeal of surprise as he lifted you up completely, choosing to carry you bridal style over the threshold of the house and through the laundry room and into the kitchen.

“Frankie, you didn’t have to do all this.” You placed a kiss to his cheek as he carefully set you down into a chair, making sure your legs were situated how you wanted them. “I woulda been happy with a fast-food drive thru, you know that.”

“I know, but I wanted to do something special for you.” He moved over to the closest chair, settling down into it with a sigh. He looked nervous, you realized as you took in the dinner had had made before picking you up. One of your favorite dishes filling the kitchen with its tantalizing scent. The boys had snuck in food from time to time, but it had mostly been bland hospital food for a majority of the last three weeks.

Frankie cleared his throat, your eyes lifting from the items on the table and toward him.

In his hands was an emerald velvet box, open to reveal a simple gold band with a sparkling rhombus diamond in the middle.

Your lips parted, a gasp falling from them as your heart stuttered hard in your chest. Hands dropping the utensils you had just picked up clattered to the table and you stared across the table at him. At a complete loss for words as he nervously shifted in his seat and leaned closer toward you to take your hands in his own, the small box set down gently beside your plate. His hands were shaking slightly, his nerves obvious as he bared his soul to you with his next words.

“Sweet girl, I know things are going to be touch and go for a long while,” He took a deep breath, chest pulling the fabric of his shirt taut with the action. His tongue peaked between his lips, a habit you noticed when he had a lot on his mind, and he was trying to sort through everything. “But I don’t want you to worry about anything to do with us, with you and me. You have me, you have me until the moment you decide you don’t anymore. I hope you don’t ever change your mind because I’ve been gone on you since the second you aimed that glare in my direction all those months ago. Will- will you do the honor of marrying me?”

Tears welled up the longer you looked at him, his eyes so wide and open, his voice cradling you with his earnest words. All you could do was nod, voice caught in your throat.

He let out a deep exhale, pulling a giggle from you when he broke out into the widest, goofy smile you had seen on him yet. You mirrored him, lips pulling as you squeezed his hands and leaned forward to rest your forehead against them clasped together.

“Of course I’ll marry you, Fransisco. Of course.” You kissed the tops of his hands, one and then the other before you were pushing yourself up slightly, tentatively placing weight on your legs and surging forward to kiss him.

He only let you get away with one before he was standing from his seat and kneeling in front of you with the box in his hands. He carefully removed the ring from its spot nestled safely inside the velvet cushion and you held out your left hand for him. It took a second for him to place it securely on your ring finger, snug and perfect against your skin. It glittered in the candlelight and you felt a tear run down your cheek.

Frankie’s hands came up to cup your face, his lips connecting with yours as he chuckled breathlessly at having managed to pull out the surprise proposal. At your resounding yes. At the prospect of a concrete future with you.

“I love you so much, thank you for...for everything.”

“I love you too, you dork,” Your laugh sparkled against his parted lips. “I can’t believe you just thanked me for agreeing to marry you.”

“Well, you could’ve said no.”

“Not in a million years.”

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dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics

[tsaomengde]

“The Mission”

A short story about love, time travel, healing, spaceplanes, and making the world a better place, even when no one will ever know.

---

After the TAG forces shot me out of my cockpit in low orbit, I floated there for about six hours.  Something – probably debris from my fighter – had hit me in the back, hard, and I couldn’t feel anything below my waist.  My suit’s maneuvering jets let me correct the initial nauseating spin I was thrown into, but they didn’t have sufficient thrust to get me out of my unstable, highly eccentric orbit.  

My suit told me I had about eight or nine trips around Titan before my periapsis wobbled low enough into the atmosphere that drag would bring me down below escape velocity.  At that point, gravity would catch up with me, I would fall, and I would crash into the surface and die.  The suit had an emergency beacon, but no built-in communications beyond that.  I was alone in the silent dark.

I sped around the moon at a little less than ten thousand kilometers per hour.  The view of Saturn, for the parts of the orbit where it wasn’t eclipsed by Titan, was gorgeous.  That was a small comfort, as my brain endlessly analyzed the ways I could go.  A bit of debris from the battle could kill me outright at these speeds, or it could puncture the suit on a glancing hit and it would be a toss-up whether I would die of suffocation or extreme cold.  My oxygen meter also claimed I had about three hours of air left, which meant I would probably be unconscious or dead by the time I actually hit the ground.  And, of course, there was the matter of my probably-broken spine.  I suspected I was bleeding internally from that.

Later, when I woke up in a hospital bed on the Agamemnon, they told me that the TAG brass had transmitted a formal surrender eighty-seven seconds after my fighter had exploded.  I was officially the last casualty of the Earth-Titan war.

They fitted me with prosthetics so I could still walk, but as the physical therapist with the cute dimples explained to me, there was some kind of incompatibility with my chromosomal something-or-other that meant I couldn’t use them at a hundred percent, which meant I didn’t qualify for combat.  My spine, which had indeed been broken, was too damaged to repair with conventional methods.  That left experimental regenerative genetic surgery, which was more expensive than the navy was willing to shell out for.

So, at thirty-one, after thirteen years in the navy, I got out with an honorable discharge, a pension that was decent enough but far from what it would take to fix my spine, a chromium heart for my injury, and enough PTSD to fuck me over for the rest of my life.

--- 

“I don’t care about my legs,” I said to Kate, the first time we ever met.  We picked a bar about halfway between us for our first meeting. She had a gin gimlet with cucumber simple syrup.  I had an old fashioned.  “They get me from point A to point B just fine.  I just miss flying.”

“Were you good at it?” she asked, blue eyes very wide.

“I certainly thought so. But then some TAG dipshit blew me out of my fighter above Titan and ended my career, so maybe I was less good than I thought.”

“You can’t fly for one of the intrasolar shipping companies?” she asked.  “Or transport?”

I gave her a patient smile. “Do you know what a pilot actually does aboard one of those big fusion torchships?”

“No, actually.”

“They point the nose where the destination is going to be, fire the engine for half the trip, then flip the ship around and fire the engine for the other half.  There’s nothing to that.  I miss flying.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I understand.”  I could tell she didn’t, not really, but that she wanted to.

I moved in with her a few months later.  Part of me wondered if it was a good idea, moving so fast, but I was two years from Titan and still waking up screaming in the middle of the night, convinced I was back in my suit, in the dark above the moon.  The greater part of me, the selfish part, was happy that someone was there to touch me, to talk to me, to root me back in myself and pull me back to earth from up there in the black.

In that sense, Kate could have been anyone.  I never thought of her as replaceable, but there was always a vague sense of guilt, of knowing that I was definitely getting more from the relationship than she was.  I voiced this to her once, and she told me I was being silly, and that she loved me, and that was all she needed.

So when she first approached me with her idea for the Mission, I like to think it was that part of me, the part that wanted to be more for her, that moved me to say yes to what was honestly an idiotic idea.  Not the part that missed flying.  Just selfless altruism and desire to help the woman I loved.

I like to think that a lot.

---

We cracked time travel about a decade after I was born.  Much to our collective disappointment as a species, it was not the fun kind of time travel that lets you go back in time and kill Hitler.  

Kate, as she told me once we were living together, was part of a DOD think tank tasked with finding some kind of use for the technology.  After a lot of experimentation, they came up with what Kate called the Four Rules.

1.      It’s time travel, not space travel.  If you want to meet Julius Caesar, you had best make sure you’re in Europe when you travel back.

2.      It only works by going back.  There is no forward travel because the future hasn’t happened yet. The only exception is returning to your point of origin.

3.      If you actually do meet Julius Caesar, it’s because your meeting him will not change history in any measurable way.  If you try to go back in time to change something significant, it simply doesn’t work.  The little box makes the noise, it uses up a lot of energy, and then nothing happens.

4.      The corollary rule to number three, then, is that when you travel back in time, whatever you do end up doing has already happened.

I asked Kate what this meant about determinism versus free will, and she primly replied that she was a theoretical physicist, not a philosopher.  The DOD was not known for employing philosophers and paying them the kind of money they were paying her.

---

The Mission’s personnel consisted of four people.  Myself, the heroic pilot.  Kate, the brains behind the time travel stuff and the one who came up with the Mission to begin with.  Leon, the aerospace engineer slash DOD contractor.  And Ash, the director of the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. We would go over to Ash’s place, have dinner, and conspire.

Over one such dinner – mac and cheese with broccoli, I remember it vividly for no adequate reason – we discussed the logistical difficulties involved.

“We can’t use anything from the last century,” Leon was saying around a mouthful of mac.  “All the guidance systems on those ships are keyed into the orbital satellite network.  There’s nothing like that at the target time.  We need a craft that can achieve orbit, rendezvous, and de-orbit in a single stage, without remote guidance.”

I nodded.  “That means we need a spaceplane.  Not just a fighter, but an actual spaceplane.”

Ash chewed over the problem as well as their food.  “There might be an SR-75 in decent enough shape we could appropriate from the displays at the museum.  The hardest part will be bribing the transport operators to take it to home base instead of, you know, a navy cache where highly dangerous military surplus equipment is supposed to go.”

I raised an eyebrow at them. “That’s going to be the hardest part? What about getting the parts to get it into decent working condition, or the fuel?”

Leon waved a hand dismissively.  “Do you know how many spare parts I have lying around at work?  How many millions of tons of liquid hydrogen and oxygen are stored in poorly-guarded places that I have access to?”

“No.  I’m guessing the answer to both is ‘more than the general public would be comfortable knowing about.’”

“Exactly.”

I looked at Kate.  “Is the magic box going to be able to send a whole spaceplane back, kitty?”

She wrinkled her nose at me for using her pet name in front of our friends, but let it go for the moment. “The magic box can send anything back given enough juice.”

“Okay, but is the shitty little battery at home base going to be able to give it enough?”

“Probably.  If we strip everything nonessential out of the spaceplane, get the mass down as much as possible.  I need to know the exact mass of the plane, plus us, when it’s ready for travel.”  Kate shrugged.  “If it won’t be enough, we can always add to our list of capital offenses and steal a torchship, then use its fusion reactor for the power.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.  “Last resort.”

---

“I don’t really understand why we’re doing this,” I told her one night, in the silence following her helping me out of another flashback.

She shifted a little in bed so she could look me in the eye.  “You said you were on board.”

“I am.  I’d do anything you asked, kitty, you know that. And obviously I’m excited to get to fly again.  But nothing we’re going to do is actually going to matter.  That’s one of the four rules, right?”

With a little shrug, she began running her fingers through my hair, which I’d stopped bothering to keep short after I was discharged years ago.  It was pretty long by now.  “It’ll matter to us, won’t it?  And to her?”

“I mean, sure, but the risk-reward ratio is way off.  You and Leon and Ash could all lose your jobs, we could get prosecuted by the Justice Department –”

“Vee, why did you sign up to be a pilot?”

I stopped.  “I mean, I always wanted to fly.”

“Yes, but what was the reason you put on your application?  And the reason you told me on our first date when we were still trying to look really good and put together for one another?”

That took me back, and I snorted gently.  “To make the world a better place.”

“Exactly.  Does there have to be a minimum threshold of goodness increase in order for an altruistic act to be worthwhile?”

I weighed that particular bit of moral utilitarianism in my mind before I committed to an answer.  “No.”

“So, that’s why we’re doing this.  To make the world a better place, even by the tiniest, slimmest margin.”

I gently snaked a hand out from under the comforter to lightly boop her on the nose.  “And the real reason, since we’re not on our first date and this isn’t an application you’re filling out?”

She stuck her tongue out at me.  “I know how much you want to fly again.  And I want to see my magic box used for something other than letting rich assholes reenact Bradbury’s ‘A Sound of Thunder’ without any of the nuance or lessons learned.”

“Dinosaur leather shoes is not the outcome you probably had in mind,” I agreed.  The time-travel hunting industry generated billions for the government every year now.

We fell asleep that night, and the next morning, we took a magtrain to Vegas, and from there we went to home base.

---

Home base was an abandoned aircraft hangar in the middle of the Nevada desert.  Leon had said something about centuries-old top-secret aircraft testing, when we first conceived of the Mission, and lo and behold, there was a facility with room for a spaceplane.  We spent far too much money on the highest-capacity quantum battery civilians could buy, hooked it into the Vegas grid, and watched it take eight weeks to charge.

It had also cost far too much money to bribe the transport operators to bring the SR-75 here, but the deed was done and they hadn’t sold us out so far.  They probably assumed we were aviation junkies.  What domestic terrorists would bother stealing a hundred-year-old spaceplane when there were far cheaper and more effective ways to kill people, these days?

Kate, Leon, Ash, and I sat at a small table in a corner of the hangar, drinking coffee and going over the ascent profile.  Ash’s part was done, having delivered the goods, but they wanted to be here for everything, and I certainly respected that.  The spaceplane took up the majority of the hangar space, a sleek black dagger with barely a suggestion of wings to either side.  The underside was dominated by a pair of huge jet intakes, and the rear of the plane sported three engine nozzles, the center much larger than either of the ones flanking it.  A gracefully curved tail fin slightly forward of the engines completed the vessel’s profile.

“The plane looks like it’s in good condition,” Leon was saying.  “I’ve sourced the fuels we need.  The main problem is going to be the timing, not the equipment.”

“How so?” Kate asked.

I spoke up.  “The SR-75 should theoretically be able to hit escape velocity just on the air-breathing engine mode, but the target has an extremely elliptical orbit, and we’re launching much closer to the equator, so we’ll have to adjust our inclination, too.  That means either a lot of burns with the rocket fuel mode once we’re in vacuum, or a very steep climb to orbit.  That pronounced an angle of attack might affect the engines’ ability to get enough air to achieve escape velocity.”

Kate blinked.  “Still not seeing how that affects the timing.”

I pulled out my personal comm, laid it on the table, and put it in draw mode, so I could trace pictures on its screen with the tip of my finger.  I drew a little ball, the Earth, and traced a messy, elliptical orbit around it. I indicated the very top of the orbit, where the line peaked like a mountain summit.  “We have about a thirty-minute window to achieve rendezvous with the target.  We need to rendezvous at or near its apoapsis, here, where its orbital speed is lowest and matching relative velocity will be easiest.”

I loved Kate, but it was endlessly amusing to me how she could understand quantum and temporal physics and articulate mathematical concepts I could never grasp in a million years, yet still not understand basic orbital mechanics.  She gave me a blank look, then just said, “And that’s hard?”

“Yes.  It is very hard, kitty.  We are trying to hit a target the size of, roughly, a bullet train car, except the target is going twenty-eight thousand kilometers per hour.  We need to come alongside it, match velocity with it, perform our docking maneuver, and then decouple.  And the parameters of the Mission mean that there is exactly one half-hour window we can do this in if we’re going to avoid violating rule three.”

“I think the best solution is going to be adding some external rocket fuel tanks,” Leon said.  “Not much, since we have to think about flight performance and transit mass for the magic box, but even a few hundred extra meters per second of delta-vee might make the difference in your ability to match orbits with the target.”

“Agreed.  Just make sure the Goddamn things aren’t going to come loose at Mach fuck-you.”

Leon grinned at me.  “I love your optimism, Vee.”

---

Unlike with most modern fighters, and indeed with even-older jet aircraft, the SR-75 did not have a fully enclosed cockpit.  The pilot sat in a big swiveling chair in front of the instrument panel, and the main cabin of the craft was accessible from there.  It was a spaceplane, and therefore supposed to be able to perform orbital docking maneuvers exactly like the one we were about to attempt, which necessitated the crew being able to actually get up and access the docking port without going fully extravehicular.

Kate sat behind me in a second chair that Leon bolted in there for her.  She had the magic box in her lap, hooked up by a pair of very fat and long yellow wires to the bulk of the quantum battery, which squatted heavily just slightly off-center in the SR-75’s main cabin.  (“Gotta keep that center of mass where it’s supposed to be,” Leon had said.)  She was doing something with the box’s controls, squinting at the small readout which displayed some kind of complicated waveform.

“I’ll initiate the breach when we get to fifteen thousand meters,” she told me.  “It wouldn’t do for anyone to actually see us at the target time, because then it just wouldn’t work, but I would rather not get shot down by our modern-day autonomous airspace defenses.”

“Sounds good,” I told her. “Hey.  Kate.”

“Yes, Vee?”

I craned my neck around as best I could while strapped into the pilot’s seat.  “I love you, kitty.”

Her cheeks darkened a little and she smiled.  “I love you too.”

I keyed in the ignition sequence and the SR-75 roared to life.  Leon and Ash, both standing a safe distance away outside the hangar so their eardrums didn’t rupture, started waving and giving us thumbs-ups.  I gave them a thumbs-up in return, projecting more confidence than I actually felt, and brought the throttle up just a little.

The spaceplane practically leapt out of the hangar.  Ruggedized, smart landing gear wheels hit the Nevada desert ground like it was perfectly maintained asphalt.  Within twenty seconds I pulled back on the yoke and the SR-75 was in the air, starting a steep climb.  I opened the throttle up the entire way and was slammed into my seat with the gee-force.

“JESUS CHRIST WE ARE GOING TO FUCKING DIE!” Kate screamed.

I glanced over my shoulder at her.  “You okay, kitty?”

She was clutching at her chest, magic box forgotten, and for a long, terrible moment I thought she was having some kind of heart attack.  But then she nodded, looking pasty.  “I just got taken by surprise,” she shouted over the roar of the engines.  “Sorry!”

“Okay!”  I returned my attention to the instrument panel.  We were already moving at a good clip, and the altimeter was increasing fast enough that even the digital display was having trouble keeping up.  For a long, pure moment, I just relaxed into my seat, hands on the yoke, feeling the currents of air spiraling around the ship.  Now, more than ever before my prosthetics, it felt like an extension of myself.  I was flying again.

“We’re at fifteen thousand meters!” I told her.

Kate pressed a button on the magic box.  Everything blurred like someone just messed with the focus on a camera, except the camera was my brain.  When it re-focused, we were still in the plane, climbing toward space at an impressive clip, but all of the global positioning systems were dead.  There were no satellites to receive data from, not in this era.  However, we had accounted for this; the SR-75 had its own onboard suite of computers dedicated specifically to calculating orbital information.

It was at this point that things began to go wrong.  I felt a sharp tug on the yoke.  Swearing to myself, I corrected, keeping the plane on course, and keyed a status readout. The SR-75’s onboard systems insisted that nothing was wrong, but that the plane was experiencing significant and unexpected drag.

It hit me.  “Fuck me!” I snarled.  “Leon’s fucking external fuel tanks!  I told him they needed to be secure!”

“What’s going on?” Kate asked.

“One of the external fuel tanks Leon spit-soldered onto this Goddamn thing has come loose, and the drag is killing our velocity,” I told her.  “I need to get it off of us, now.”

My gaze was fixed on my instruments, so I couldn’t see the horror in her big blue eyes, but I could hear it loud and clear in her voice.  “How?”

“Shearing force.  Hold on, this is going to fucking suck.”

I stomped down on one of the SR-75’s rudder pedals with my right foot, the motion almost as smooth as it used to be even with the prosthetic, and spun the plane in a sharp, hard three-hundred-sixty-degree roll.  I nearly blacked out, and I know Kate did for a few seconds, since she didn’t go through flight training.  But there was a sudden, violent wrenching feeling that went through the yoke into my arms, and afterward the drag was gone.

“Did it work?” Kate asked blearily.

“Yup.  And apparently an external fuel canister from several hundred years in the future crashing in the Nevada desert doesn’t fuck up the timeline, since we’re here at all.”

“Are we still going to be able to make it?”

I eyeballed the delta-vee readouts on the navigation display.  The lost fuel tank didn’t exactly have a ton in it, and of course, the reduced mass of the ship now that it was gone meant the net loss was slightly ameliorated. But even so, the situation was grim.

“Well, yes and no,” I told her.

“That is never the answer anybody wants to hear, Vee.”

“I should, should, still be able to match velocity with the target and achieve rendezvous. But our margins are basically nil now. If I don’t do this perfectly, we’re going to miss completely.”

I felt her reach out and place a hand on my shoulder, give it a squeeze.  “You can do this, Vee.  I know you can.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I told her, and was surprised to hear that it didn’t come out sarcastic.

The ascent became a delicate balance.  I was trying to hit escape velocity while still using the air-breathing mode of the engines, which was incredibly efficient compared to the rocket fuel.  But as I got higher, the engines needed to work harder to ram enough air in to function, which meant my thrust decreased.  Without the global positioning system to feed me flight info, I needed to do it all by feel and eyeballing the orbital information given to me by the onboard computers.

I trimmed a couple degrees off my angle of attack, trying to find the sweet spot between still gaining altitude and not starving the engines of air in the increasingly-barren stratosphere. The SR-75 shuddered, engines straining, and began to threaten me with a stall.  I swept my gaze across my instruments.  “Fuck,” I muttered, and switched the engines to rocket mode.

Instantly, we were slammed back into our seats again as our thrust suddenly increased dramatically. I glanced at our projected apoapsis, counted to three, then shut the engines down.

In the sudden silence in the absence of the engines’ roar, Kate asked, “Did we do it?”

“Yes and no.”

“Goddammit, Vee!”

I looked over my shoulder at her and gave her my most reassuring grin.  “Sorry, couldn’t help it.  The drag from the fuel tank breaking loose meant that we lost velocity, which meant we took longer to get to the speed we were needing, and the spin I had to put the plane through shifted our course a little bit.  Our inclination is about five degrees off of where it should be.”

“Okay.  What does all that mean?”

“We are going as fast as we need to be, but we’re not in the place we need to be going that fast.  I’m going to need to do correction burns at certain points in our ascent.  We can still make our rendezvous, but we won’t have the fuel to do a proper deceleration burn. I’m going to have to perform emergency aerobraking.”

“In English, Vee!”

“On our way back down I am going to use the atmosphere to slow us down the old-fashioned way.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Is this plane designed for that?”

“Probably.”  I shrugged.  “Assuming we don’t burn up, I’ll be able to switch the engines back to air-breathing at a certain altitude and land without the need for lithobraking.”

I could see her trace the Latin roots of litho and arrive at the gallows-humor definition of the word.  She went even paler than before.  “Certainly hope so.”

I let my grin fade as we continued to coast on our momentum, rising inexorably up through the mesosphere into the thermosphere, our speed gradually slowing as we crested toward the very top of our parabolic arc.  At key points, I reoriented the SR-75’s nose, now using chemical thrusters to maneuver the craft in the absence of air for the control surfaces to manipulate, and fired the engines in rocket mode, tweaking our orbital inclination until it matched that of the target.

The computers suggested to me, at that point, that we would be able to achieve equal relative velocity, and it would leave us with enough delta-vee to then de-orbit ourselves. We would not be stuck in orbit forever until we died.  I blinked hard, banishing the memory of Titan as it suddenly threatened to overwhelm me, and repeated the affirmations Kate taught me.  I am not there anymore.  I am here, now.  I am safe.

Safe was, of course, a relative term in the vacuum of space, going tens of thousands of kilometers per hour.  But Kate took my hand from behind and gave it a squeeze, and I was good again.

“We’re going to do a long burn once we’re within ten kilometers,” I told Kate.  “That’ll bring our relative velocity to zero.  From there we just point our nose at the target, fire the engines for half a second, get as close as we can until we’re either about to hit or miss, fire them again to bring ourselves back to zero relative velocity, and then we do that over and over until we’re close enough to dock.”

“I don’t need to know all the mechanics,” Kate replied, and I could see she was fighting to keep her teeth from chattering.  The environmental controls were working just fine, so it was fear she was dealing with, not cold.  “I just trust you, Vee.  Make it happen.”

I suited action to words. It took ten long, arduous minutes, and by the end of it we were very short on time to actually execute the retrieval, but I successfully brought the SR-75’s docking port, which sat on the dorsal surface of the spaceplane, in contact with the target’s own.

Not that they were remotely designed to be compatible, being hundreds of years apart in origin, but fortunately the SR-75 had the advantage of smart materials incorporated into its construction.  Its port sealed itself tight around the target’s, flashing a green light and hissing open to reveal the shiny metal surface of the target.

Kate was already out of her seat, plasma torch in hand, and the acrid smell of it hit my nostrils as she ignited it and started cutting through the ancient hull like butter.  It was joined less than a minute later by new smells: faint traces of iodine and ethanol, urine, feces, and a wet, animal musk.

And, of course, I heard barking.

“Got her!” Kate called to me.  “She’s in pretty rough shape, but she’s alive!”

“Strap back in, and get her secured too,” I told her.  “We’ve passed apoapsis and I need to fire the engines right now for the Oberth effect or we’re going to be stuck in orbit forever.”

I keyed in the command for the docking port to close on our end and release.  The leftover atmosphere inside the target puffed out of it in sudden decompression, pushing our two crafts apart, but not hard enough to seriously perturb either of our orbits.  That was the engines’ job, and I brought them to life as soon as we were clear.

They sputtered out as they burned the last of the rocket fuel.  I looked at our orbital readout.  “Ah, shit,” I muttered.  “This is going to be a bumpy ride.”

---

We all but rammed into the atmosphere with the entire length of the plane.  The yoke bucked in my hand and the instrumentation suggested to me that I was a fucking moron that had doomed us all, but with polite numbers instead of those exact words.  I kept an iron grip on the yoke, worked the rudders with both my leaden feet to keep us perpendicular to our approach vector so we would generate more drag and thus lose more speed, and prayed to every God I could think of.  Behind me, Kate’s teeth were audibly chattering, but she managed to avoid screaming again, and the dog was remarkably quiet.

The interior of the SR-75 got incredibly hot, naturally.  The instrument panel helpfully informed me that it was almost fifty-five degrees Celsius inside, and that was with the life-support system working as hard as it possibly could to cool it.  The one saving grace we had was that the spaceplane’s designers had anticipated the need for this kind of extreme aerobraking, and the skin of the craft was designed to tolerate it – in theory.  I sweated, and I panted, and I watched our velocity slowly decrease until we were no longer going to boomerang back up out of the atmosphere.

Then I pointed the plane’s nose down, let gravity take over, and switched the engines back into air-breathing mode.

They decided they did not want to start.

“Well, we’re fucked,” I laughed.

“This is a plane, right?” Kate asked through clenched teeth.  “Aerodynamic?  You can fly it without the engines, right?”

“Well, glide, yes. Fall slowly, yes.  Land… maybe.”

I let us half-glide, half-fall until we were back in the troposphere.  “Magic box time,” I told Kate.

Everything unfocused again, and when I was able to see once more, my global positioning displays were back online.  They told me that, if I did nothing, we were going to crash into the ocean just off the coast of Hokkaido.

I tried the engines again. Still nothing.  The reentry had fried them, as far as I could tell.

I started the plane’s nose trending up again, trying to bring us out of the dive and into a climb. The control surfaces bucked and the plane fought me.

“I’m sorry, Vee,” Kate said.

“Don’t start,” I told her. “We’re not dead yet.”

“I couldn’t go back and save you from what happened at Titan.  I thought, if I could save Laika, maybe –”

“I know exactly what you were thinking, kitty.”  I looked back at her, and the scared-looking mutt buckled into her lap.  “It’s okay.”

“I just – when I read about how she died, all alone, in that terrible little capsule –”

“I said don’t start, Kate. I said it’s okay and I meant it.”

She kept going like she hadn’t heard me.  “She was supposed to have enough food and oxygen for a week.  But the satellite was rushed, and the temperature control system failed.  So when she was –”

“FUCK me!” I shouted.

That finally got through to her.  “What?!”

“Temperature control.” I quickly hit a series of switches. “The jet intakes were superheated by our reentry.  When you switch the engines to rocket fuel mode, they have shutters at the front that close so you don’t get trace amounts of gaseous oxygen mixing with the liquid fuel. Those shutters are probably half-melted shut.”

“And?”

“There’s an emergency release that just drops them completely.”  I pressed the button, felt the SR-75 shudder as explosive bolts fired and it shed hundreds of pounds of metal.  “Okay. Now –”

I was cut off as the sudden force of the engines firing slammed me hard into my seat.  The plane began to corkscrew wildly as the engines put out differing amounts of thrust for the first few moments until the oxygen feeds equalized.  Clearly one of the intakes had had less of its shutters blown off than the other, and the plane had needed some time to adjust.

Kate coughed.  “The engines?  They’re working?  We’re not going to die?”

“Oh, we’re still going to die,” I told her.  “Eventually, of old age.  But probably not today.”

She smacked the back of my head.  “Jackass.”

---

The vet gave us a very suspicious stare as we paid our bill and accepted Laika’s carrier back from his nurse.  “I have never seen an animal in that kind of shape before,” he said.  “Malnourished, half-dead from heat exhaustion, matted shit in her fur, and primitive bio-monitoring equipment surgically grafted into parts of her. I assume you didn’t do this, since it would be colossally stupid to come into my office and ask me to fix her up if you did.”

Kate shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t us.  She’s a stray.  Found her while we were out on a trip.  We felt so bad for the poor thing that we brought her back with us.”

Somewhat mollified, the vet nodded.  “Well, make sure to give her the antibiotics for the rest of the week, and call me if there’s anything else she needs.”

We stepped outside, and I opened the carrier to let Laika out.  She staggered out, still a little loopy from the anesthesia, and I got her leash onto her without too much trouble.

“You know,” I said to Kate, “when we first shacked up, I said I didn’t want any pets.”

She grinned at me.  “For someone who was so against the idea, you went very far out of your way to get me one anyway.”

---

About six months after we brought Laika home, a very humorless man in a snazzy uniform, accompanied by many more humorless men in uniform with large guns, came and visited our house. The humorless man in charge sat and chatted with us for a while, and Laika sat in his lap and let him give her pets.

Nothing else ever came of the visit.

There is no neat bow to tie on this story, unfortunately.  I still wake up screaming in the middle of the night, though not quite as often. That probably has more to do with the passage of time and a lot of therapy than pulling a time-travel dog rescue, though.  The only point to any of it is that we spent a lot of taxpayer money (since Kate, Leon, and Ash are all paid by the government) and risked our lives to make the world a better place, even by the tiniest, slimmest possible margin.  

And perhaps having read about it will have made your world a little better too.

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Friday

Fragile Things (the one where Damas time traveled)

Spargus: a month and a half after Damas rescued Jak from Haven.

Jak seemed to have been waiting for him -- unless he had been stealing dates from the palms in the throne room again, which was a very real possibility.

Damas ruled this out when he saw the conflicted look on the boy's face.

"You're up here early," he said by way of greeting, "I thought you were going to join the field trip to Tributary to get parts for your talk-box."

Jak shrugged and hopped from one stepping stone to the next. "That's later. Had to ask you something first."

He looked...nervous. Like he didn't really want to ask, but couldn't bear to hold the question in.

"Ask away, little one." Damas tousled Jak's hair as he passed him.

He was never going to get over how small Jak was at thirteen. The Jak he knew before almost always managed to dodge him. This Jak never saw him coming. Stranger, this Jak never minded. The Before Jak soaked up any little scrap of kindness with a painful desperation, and so did the Present Jak. But this one didn't shy away from touch. Sometimes he even ambushed Damas in the market to hug him playfully and then run off to get into more trouble.

The second he'd turned to face Jak, the question was flying out of the boy's hands.

"Are you actually my father or something?"

He cringed.

"Sorry. It's just- Never had anybody help me like you, except Daxter."

He didn't use exactly the same signing dialect that Spargus used. It was faster, and a little hard to distinguish tense indicators sometimes, but not so different that Damas couldn't work out what he meant. Jak vocalized sometimes, when he felt comfortable, but they were sounds more than language. And Damas did remember Jak telling him before that he'd spent much of his childhood nonverbal. But it was more jarring than he'd expected when it came from a smaller, softer face. One that reminded him, over and over, of Mar.

"I-"

"And- and Samos always helped Keira but not me and Dax because we weren't his kids, so I couldn't figure out why you're so nice to me if you're not like, y'know, my-" Jak's face reddened and his signs became small and faster. "My dad or something. Sorry. Sorrysorry just forget it."

Damas blinked and realized he'd stopped breathing for a moment. He took a breath and slowly lowered himself to sit on the dais, waving Jak over to sit beside him.

"No, nonono don't apologize. It's- I've been trying to think of how to tell you this for weeks. It's just...going to sound strange."

"As strange as going through a giant transport ring and time going weird?" Jak asked as he gingerly sat down.

"Oh, absolutely." Damas rubbed his chin and glanced at Jak from the corner of his eye.

"I...do not know how closely we are related, to tell you the truth. But the longer you're here, the more certain I become that we do share blood. I just...don't know how many generations back our common ancestor is."

It was the only explanation he could think of for why Jak resembled Mar so closely. Why he looked at him sometimes and saw both of his sons in one face. Why the boy had the same prism-potential in channeling.

"Oh." Jak sat up a little straighter. "Really? I thought I didn't have any family! I mean, there's Uncle, but he's gone all the time."

Damas cleared his throat awkwardly. "There's ah, there's something else."

"What is it?" Now far less tense, Jak leaned in eagerly.

"I...do not know how to explain it, truthfully," Damas sighed, "But I...somehow I lived three years into the future, or saw a vision -- I'm beginning to wonder which it was -- and in that future you- you were there. You- I had taken you in as my own son."

Jak tilted his head, then his eyes flew wide. His mouth dropped open a little. "You saw me? And I was your kid on purpose?!"

"On purpose," Damas agreed, smiling a little at the turn of phrase.

"That's why you came to attack that commander? You were actually looking for me?" Jak scooted closer, and an eager expression began to replace his slightly nervous one.

"Yes," Damas answered gravely, "Because I had seen my future son and I could never leave him behind, even if he didn't know me."

even if you're not interested in being family this time. As long as you're safe, I'm happy- just as long as you're safe!

Jak made a thoughtful sound and propped his chin up on his fists. For a worryingly long time he stared off into space, thinking. Then he smiled, bright and innocent.

"Oh, okay."

Damas blinked. "Okay?"

"Yeah. I was just wondering. I'm glad I asked." He hopped to his feet and stretched.

"You're way nicer than Samos is. I'd rather you be my dad than him."

Damas shoved away memories of a certain Arena debacle. "I...certainly hope to live up to your expectations, my boy."

"Also, it would be weird if Samos tried to be my dad because he's been mean. And because then Keira would be my sister and I don't think she'd like that. I wouldn't either."

The child hopped down the stairs and balanced on one foot on the stepping stones. He pretended to wobble before grinning and hopping to the next stone.

"I'm gonna go to the field trip thing now." Jak beamed and waved. "Bye Damas!"

He all but bounced to the elevator, humming happily.

Damas stayed sitting, not entirely sure what had just happened.

"Well," he said aloud, "that could've gone worse."

[almostgenerallyalways]

tgm fic recs

@stcverogers tagged one of my fics in a rec list yesterday and i thought it was such a good idea, i wanted to share some of my own favs

in no particular order:

* * *

hangman 

one time thing // kiss the sun (fight the fire) // love that’s a real long shot  He nods again like that’s exactly what he expected you to say. “I think you’re wrong. Doesn’t matter now though, does it?” i would rec anything by @callsignvalley but this is probably the series that got me most. i also love tailspin and its rooster follow up steady

california coast in your green eyes // i’ll carry my bags just until i can hold you again (2 different series) Bob’s older sister gets the news that his plane went down during a training drill, and shows up at the hospital at the same time as an arrogant pilot. //  Six months after they break up, Jake shows up at Julie’s Family thanksgiving. A second chance holiday romance with fake dating, family drama, and fall festivities. @theharddeck these fics, esp carry my bags, feel so so real and human to me, i love julie and the characterisation of jake feels so on point i also love her series out of the clear, blue sky as well as kinda might, sorta like, love you a little bit + its follow ups

i’ve been holdin’ out so long (4 part series) You can’t stand Hangman, but your dreams lately say otherwise. He notices. @steadfastconviction i adore Bluegrass and her sass

do not engage (series) You hate Hangman. Really, you do... Or so you like to think, until it begins to seem like that distaste might not be as strong as you’d prefer to believe. @clints-lucky-arrow the entire f&f universe is great but Duchess especially is a badass

afterburn (series) It had been clear from the moment you got inside a cockpit that you were going to be something special. You certainly weren’t the youngest Naval Aviator to be invited to TOPGUN, but you had been the youngest to graduate at number one in more than thirty years. Which is all the more reason why it was so tragic that you would never, ever, be able to fly again. @top-hhun is a master of setting a scene

the off-season (series) It was supposed to just be one summer. But somehow you found yourself living in your grandparent’s Maine vacation house indefinitely. It was quiet when the summer tourists left, but tolerable. That was, until your brother’s friend from college needed a place to crash and he somehow wound up staying in your guest bedroom. Also indefinitely. @ereardon just started this series but i’m so into this world (au) already

fuck (the universe) (series) You’re a Kazansky–Tom “Iceman” Kazinsky’s youngest daughter–and you’ve taken after your father and become a Naval aviator. You finished at the top of your class at Top Gun and have worked diligently and fruitlessly to get to where you are now: North Island. You don the call-sign Wisteria not only because the beauty of the flower but because of its lethal qualities. i mention @roosterbruiser below bc i read landslide first but holy fuck indeed

* * *

rooster 

landslide (series) It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. @roosterbruiser landslide is one of those fics i have to read in little bits because it’s just too good. beautiful writing that just transports me (and i love faye, she may be the most developed fanfic oc i’ve ever read - and I love her taste in music)

baby let’s play house // pt 2  you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas. @seasonsbloom i just really love this fic, it shows all the quietest best parts of bradley

first impressions  at the induction day for the newest recruits of the Golden Warriors of VFA 87, rooster assumes you’re a civilian, instead of, you know, a member of his team? you see how far you can push it before he figures it out.  @ohcaptains‘s pilot in this fic is the badass bitch i wish i could be. as well as fucking funny.

like i can (series) After yet another bad date and tired of swiping on apps, the Dagger Squad steps in to help you out by setting you up on a series of blind dates. Much to Rooster’s dismay. @sometimesanalice perfect blend of cute, funny and heartmelting

* * *

bob 

he’s so pretty (when he goes down on me) // pt 2  things between you and Bob are strictly business: he’s your backseater, and that’s all there is. @seasonsbloom‘s writing is so good it made me want to try writing fic myself

* * *

hangman x rooster

we’re fools to make war In a Walmart at three am, between beef jerky and tortilla chips, with the lights flickering above them like it’s the fucking twilight zone, Bradley wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone. or: it's a hundred degrees in texas. i can’t find a tumblr link for this but the writer is @baroness-elsa. this is 66k words and i read it in two days which probably says enough. holy shit.

* * *

there are many many more (this fandom is FULL of talented writers, damn) but this already took me an hour so that’ll be part 2 haha

[mickeyheartian]

Tag Game Wednesday oops it's Monday

Ah who this? It's Bee? Back from the dead?

After a very busy few months I'm back! Moving house is stressful, who knew? I was tagged by the lovely @mickeysgaymom to do this, alongside tag games every single week I've been missing, ily Ash ❤️

But in an attempt not to take over everyone's dash with tag games, I'll just do this one

Name: Bee 🐝

Age: 28

Location: 🇬🇧

we're going on a trip!!

📍where are we going? ahh friends lets go to Jamaica, I hear they have great food

📍what's the weather like there right now? google says warm ☀️☀️☀️

📍are you an over-packer or a light-packer? I over-pack. Who knows what I'll need when I'm away? You might think I don't need that second pair of Nikes, but what if I do????

📍are we taking a plane or a train? I don't believe we've invented trains that can go under the ocean, so I suppose we're flying

📍early morning departure or overnight trip? Early morning, I can't sleep on planes anyway

📍what song are you playing in the car while we drive to catch our departure? no songs here, I'm napping. Gotta get as much sleep as possible before I get on the plane for many many hours (google says 12 and a half hours so much sleep is required)

📍we need to grab something on the way, starbucks or dunkin'? Well, dunkin' is not in England, so I'm going to add another option. We're going to Greggs, grabbing a tea and a baked good for the road

📍we've made it to the transportation place 🚂✈️! be honest, are we on-time or are we rushing because we're running late? Friends I'm at that airport 4-5 hours before my flight. I'll have an overpriced full english at the airport if I have the time

📍are you taking the window seat or the aisle seat? window seat all the way, I'll be tucked away in the corner out of everyones way

📍we're settled in our seats, are you gonna read or watch a movie/show? reading on transport makes me feel sick, so I'll listen to music, take a look at the in flight entertainment, or maybe play my switch

📍what are you reading/watching? I'll have a look what movies there are, I mean I have enough time to kill. Maybe play some animal crossing or Zelda

📍are you using wireless or wired headphones? wireless, but I'm not sure if they connect to in flight entertainment? I've never been on a long flight, so I'll bring a pair of wired ones too and the odd adapter for the plane

📍are you going to take a nap or stay awake? as before mentioned, I will be awake for the entirety of the flight

📍do you want a salty snack or a sweet snack? all the snacks please

📍we've arrived! are we heading straight to activities or are we gonna rest at the hotel? hotel. Is it nightitme when I get there? If so I'm going to sleep. If not I'm showering, having caffiene and then going to do stuff

📍finally, pick a treat to reward yourself for a travel day well done! a drink in a local bar

I won't tag anyone in this because I'm very late to the party, but if anyone wants to play and wasn't tagged on Wednesday go ahead!

Also, here's a piccrew:

Guys!! I've done it! This is pretty much what I look like, the only difference being my hair is two colours.

[thefanficmonster]

Caught Red-handed

Corpse Husband x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing, Struggling with migraines 

Genre: Fluff, Comfort, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Having suffered from migraines all their life, Y/N knows better than to give them much attention or let them hinder their work too much. However, their boyfriend is a lot more worried than they are and has taken it as his personal duty to ease their pain as much as he possibly can. 

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! Thank you so much for your request, I’m so sorry it has taken me so long to get to it, write and post it, but here it finally is and I hope you come across it and read it! I’ve never experienced migraines nor have I known someone who has so if I’ve misrepresented or written any misinformation, anyone who catches it, feel free to let me know either in the comments or in my inbox/messages! Love, Vy ❤

The first time I got a headache was in the middle of math class in eighth grade. I remember it so distinctly because I had never before experienced such sudden and such intense pain. I got to go home early that day and spent a good portion of the day trying to sleep it off but to no avail.

Since then I’ve grown used to having to deal with a pain so strong it renders me unable to function for a whole day about two times a month. Sometimes, I even try to be stubborn with it - I try to push through as much work as I can despite the migraine, but that never works out for a long time considering it ends up crippling me in the end. That’s never kept me from trying over and over again though!

Now, to contrast my nonchalance and even annoyance with these pesky attacks, is my boyfriend Corpse’s concern over them. I’ve tried explaining to him that I’ve grown used to them and that I try not to let them bother me and that he shouldn’t stress over them so much but I may as well be talking to a wall because all he has to do is see me squint my eyes or cringe and he enters concerned-mother mode. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it to no end, I just don’t want him worrying over something so small. Also, a minor convenience: if the migraine doesn’t hinder me from tending to my tasks, Corpse will. He’ll make sure I’m off the task I’m working and transported into bed in an instant.

That’s why I’m now clenching my jaw, struggling to maintain a poker face as I work on an important project I have to send to my boss by the start of next week. I’ve got plenty of time, but I like to stay on top of my work so it doesn’t pile on top of me, you know what I’m saying. Corpse is sitting on the couch next to me, casually glancing at me every now and then while remaining quiet as to not disturb me. So far so good, he hasn’t noticed anything and, if I didn’t know any better I would sigh in relief. There’s nothing to trigger the pain to arise any further - the lights are dim, I’m staying hydrated, and I downed two painkillers in the bathroom about an hour and a half ago - so I’m sure I’ll be in the clear at least until dinner.

“Wanna watch a movie when you’re done?“ Corpse asks, “Unless you’re tired or anything...“

I flash him a grateful smile, giving his knee a squeeze of reassurance, “I’d love to, babe. But I can’t promise that I won’t fall asleep.”

He chuckles, “Yeah, I know you’ve got a tendency of doing that.” Giving me a side-glance he adds, “It’s cute.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing a blush creeping up on my cheeks and neck which I hide by turning to face my laptop screen. One thing I can’t hide though is the wide grin that’s spread across my face as I mutter: “Shut up.”

Just then, a particularly sharp jolt of pain courses through my head, testing that ability to maintain a resting face. Thankfully, Corpse is turned in the opposite direction, searching for his phone, so I allow myself a brief cringe at the discomfort. 

Guess the painkillers are dying down on me, I think to myself, a second away from sighing exasperatedly at the thought that I have to down two more. It was wishful of me to think I could enjoy the luxury of a dull ache until dinner, now the migraine is straight up mocking me.

I quietly stand up from the couch and make my way to the bathroom so I can take another dose of aspirin because I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on my work for very long if it keeps hitting me with this intensity. Opening the door to the small cabinet above the sink, I automatically reach out for the bottle of pills but stop when I see a surprise.

Directly in front of the bottle stands a note written in, you guessed it, Corpse’s handwriting.

‘Already losing effect, huh? When are you thinking of coming clean?‘

Well shoot, am I that transparent?

I sheepishly exit the bathroom, walking back into the living room where Corpse greets me with the same stance as a parent greeting their kid who’s gotten home past curfew: legs crossed, arms folded over his chest, one eyebrow raised, the whole nine yards.

“Yeah, they’re already losing effect.“ I admit, a small apologetic smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, my cheeks burning with an embarrassed blush. “And I wasn’t gonna tell you at all.” I hurry to add: “Please don’t be mad though.“

Corpse shifts slightly, his gaze giving me a onceover as he contemplates how to pursue the case. I’ve already got several arguments/defenses ready - the perks of working for a lawyer - but I know he’ll dismiss all of them no matter how strong they might come off as in court. Bottom line: even statements that would fly in court can’t fly with Corpse sometimes. Especially when my health and well-being are the topic of observation.

“What have we said about lying?“ He finally asks, causing me to cringe and ball my fists in guilt.

However, I still have my arguments ready: “You never asked me so I never technically lied.” One might say I have quite the audacity to plead not guilty right now, even though I’ve been caught red-handed, but what can I say, I’m stubborn in nature. And Corpse knows this, he’s just testing me for his own amusement.

“Poor excuse, Y/N.“ He says with disapproval, shaking his head and fully embracing his disappointed parent persona. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today. So, as punishment for hiding the truth from me, you are to ditch that project you’ve been bugging yourself over and come cuddle and watch a movie with me. Bonus points for you if you fall asleep.“

I needn’t be told twice - not only will it wipe that look off his features but it’ll also get earn me a movie night with the additional benefit of cuddling with my boyfriend? - how could I refuse?

I can’t help it, I just gotta push my luck here and poke the bear with a stick, “If the punishments are so sweet I might start being dishonest more often.“

Corpse rolls his eyes, scooting on the couch and tapping the space he’s freed up for me, “I said I was feeling generous, don’t bet on it happening often though.”

Alright, enough luck-pushing, I should be grateful for this generosity instead. I should be using it to the max.

So, what’s stopping you from doing just that?

Good question, brain, good question.

Head still pounding just not as intensely, I slip under the thin soft comforter to find myself not only wrapped in it but also in Corpse’s arm, his warm embrace bringing me instant comfort, walking me on the tight-rope of falling asleep right away.

“Sneaky bastard.“ I attempt to mutter, yawning halfway through. 

I feel his lips on the top of my head, placing a quick and gentle kiss in my hair before he says, “You’re welcome, babe.”

Count your lucky stars, Y/N. You’ve got one of the good ones.

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[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[cryptiql]

smoke signals

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, mentions of anxiety and abuse, but otherwise okay. please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 6.5k

a/n: this is my first ever mha fic and the fact that i decided to do dabi first shows i have some massive balls but i'm giving it a try! if he seems ooc at all or i get some facts wrong, please lmk and i'll fix them. (heavily inspired by smoke signals by phoebe bridgers—would recommend listening to it or any of her other songs while reading)

dabi found the meaning of life in a simple strum of chords; a melody twisted by melancholy tunes that resonated deep within the gates of his mind. they haunt him—either by breaking his conscious from a much needed rest to bring him tossing and turning in the damp air of the loft, or making sure that he stayed wide awake during the late hours of the night and well into the creeping day. the lyrics are so surreal that he has to sit down and contemplate their meaning like an english teacher would to the color red, but they're painted saccharine and drip with honey flowing from the mouth that sings them and he hates it. he hates that he's wasted moments better spent wrecking havoc just to understand that stupid little ditty that clings to his heart like a leech. but this song did not come from his own craft—no.

dabi had known the putrid stench of sweat and vermillion blood when the flames licked at his skin, breaching the coarse flesh of his palms to rain hellfire upon all those who dared oppress him. he could weave lies with knots that would take years to unravel, and set whole cities ablaze with a mere finger. clawing oneself from a well built to drown them in their trauma does tend to leave scars on ones hands, and dabi's body was practically a canvas for mutilation, so he could consider himself an expert on the matter. he could attempt to make such a song by strapping in with his many hours of free time and diligent persona, but his hands were not made for music; neither delicate, sonorous tunes or dark, grating strains. they were made for war.

so if anyone had asks, "no" is his answer. "i don't play." and yes, it is while he's drumming a rhythmic beat that he claims this to be true, but the last thing he thinks about is donning a set of drums during his free time. he's far too distracted by the image of your taper fingers curled around the neck of your guitar to consider anything else.

the gentle but keen plucking of chords startles him from yet another ridiculously long-winded spiel by shigaraki, and dabi swallows a strangled groan behind his grinding teeth. it's in his head, now, and so far the only thing that has succeeded in reaping it from his memory—if only for a few minutes—is the blood stained battlefield that he's found himself fighting on far too many times this month alone.

what's he complaining about, though? it's not as though he minds getting down in the dirt. in fact, he's ecstatic to dig his claws into any gruesome ordeal so long as it benefits him in some way, so why is he so invested in this little to and fro game of twenty questions with the likes of you; someone as significant in the world as a paperclip without paper to hold? why come back, despite there being nothing in it for him besides a series of migraines?

not from you, a voice answers from inside. you're an absolute pleasure.

dabi nearly snarls at the confirmation that his own mind is turning against him, and as he does this, a plume of smoke erupts from his lips, billowing and curving to create intricate patters before dissipating into the atmosphere. a second time. a third. a fourth drag from the cigarette has completely obscured his face from anyone's view, and he relishes in the instant of privacy it gives him. however, it has also blocked him from seeing everyone else in the room, and while he normally would have considered that a blessing, it appears tomura has had enough of it.

you get headaches because you smoke too much, comes a second voice; yours, scolding in a way he'd only expect from a worried mother. dabi only has a split second to register it before shigaraki's head pokes through the fumes, red eyes alight with rage and lips pulled back into a snarl.

"would you quit doing that inside? it's fogging up my brain and i can't think straight." he grates.

"strange—i assumed there wasn't a brain in there to fog up in the first place." tomura's nostrils flare and dabi's pride spikes.

"besides, you came in here and looked directly at me as i was smoking—why didn't you ask me to stop then?"

"i was telling you with my eyes, idiot. you should know when it's time to either take it outside or put the damn thing out. there are ashtrays for a reason, and not everyone here wants to inhale that shit." he interrupts their intense staring contest only to wave his hand to clear the smog. now he can see the rest of the league clearly (oh joy, he thinks) and gives an indignant grunt when spotting toga at the bar table, covering her mouth and nose as a pitiful aim to block her lungs from the smoke. twice, who had unfortunately used up the last pack of his own cigarettes that morning, leans forward to take a whiff, exhaling soon after with satisfaction.

kurogiri stands at his usual spot behind the bar, seemingly unaffected as he idly scrubs away at grime infested glasses, while sako lounges at the opposite end of the room. his mask is on, leaving dabi to wonder if it's been like that all day, or if he just recently put it on to better fend off the fumes. he doesn't really care, whatever the case.

after a beat of silence, dabi wets his lips to respond, a lopsided smirk growing on his features.

"oh, i'm sorry your frail body hasn't adapted to a bit of vapor in the air. and with that flakey skin of yours, it's no wonder you're extra sensitive—"

shigaraki's hands come flying through the next waft to slam against the tabletop where dabi's feet lie, causing it to wobble and creak in protest. the ravenette doesn't even flinch as the harsh, raspy words are spat in his face.

"if you're not going to pay attention, then leave. actually, i'd prefer you do that either way."

and dabi would have happily disregarded his request if not for the faint ringing in his ears, rising higher and higher before receding back into his skull like the tide. a scowl morphs its way onto his once vacant expression as he puts pressure on his temple, rubbing softly where his eyebrows knit together. just for today, he'll indulge his so-called boss's whims. the piercing screech that emits from below when he pushes his chair back does nothing to help with the ever-growing headache, but it hardly matters now that he's headed out the exit. he's able to catch the last fragments of shigaraki's raving before the door closes, leaving him to stand amid the tumult of the city in all of its glory.

the alleyway is dark with looming shadows, but people are still milling about, so dabi considers himself lucky for already being dressed in his disguise. he flips his hood up, pulls the surgical mask over his nose and quickly slides on his sunglasses for good measure before slipping out into the traffic, sometimes going with the flow and then weaving past those moving too slow for his liking.

right now, his patience is a mere thread; hair thin and on the edge of snapping whenever someone bumps his shoulder. their negligence is infuriating, and he's tempted to roast them into a charred, mangled mess then and there—the consequences of blowing his cover be damned—but by some miracle, he manages to refrain from doing so. it takes about five minutes for his temper to shorten to the length of a matchstick, and he knows that one more shove will be what strikes it. dabi pauses for a moment to crane his neck, allowing the sea of people to flow around him like a stream to a rock as he searches for an alternative route. it appears as though he'll have to take his chances with the crowd until he hears the repetitive ringing of a bell and a man's voice calling for passengers to board. public transport was risky, what with him being a menace to society, but he can't possibly be the single most shady dressing person on the train, right?

he wouldn't bother answering his own question when daylight was burning, so dabi pushes himself from the swarm and leaps for the streetcar just as it begins pulling away from the stop. there's a shuddering jolt before the passengers settle in for their departure, and as his palms squeeze the metal railing in response, he notices the peeling red paint clinging to the car's exterior and finds himself staring at it for a ludicrous amount of time, not thinking about anything in particular.

the rickety trolley is semi-packed with civilians, none of whom regard his presence with anything more than a noncommittal glance. good—that makes his job ten times easier. to his chagrin, it runs over more than a few opposing train tracks or crudely paved bumps in the road, and this causes the whole cart to jostle before stilling completely, the process repeating itself over and over.

the knowledge that his trip to the outskirts of town is a short one is the only thing that calms his nerves.

when dabi finally arrives at his destination, the sun is gradually descending from its peak in the sky, and the clouds are more like wispy tufts than the luscious, cotton candy lumps they were just hours earlier. overhead, the baby blue hues turn to shades of opal; a forewarning of rain. the feelings of irritation and malice from earlier are still bound to him like chains that threaten to snap him in half when drawn too tight. the crippling weight causes his feet to drag along the gravel path at a sluggish pace, his own hot breaths fanning against his face from behind the mask. if anyone actually lived out here and they were to see him, their first impression would be that a living corpse had just waltzed onto their property. it was just his luck, then, that you were the only person out here, and by extent, the only one not deterred by his appearance.

even so, dabi's mind kicks into gear. was this a good idea? he doesn't even know why he came here—he just needed a place to blow off steam and his body had already made the choice on its own. this isn't any different from all the other times, though, and he can't ignore the fact when it sits in the pit of his stomach like an anchor. you're always the first person he goes to at times like these (dabi subconsciously rules out the man working at the local 7/11 who sells his liquor cheap, though he's still appreciative of the bottle to numb his thoughts). that tells him more than he wants to know.

your house is quaint, like those old country cottages he sometimes sees pictures of, and squats on a large, grassy mound of earth surrounded by heaps of rocks and sand from the neighboring beach. it merges with a towering lighthouse, and dabi notes that there must not be any sailors due to make port yet, otherwise the light would be on. the second thing he takes in are the flowerbeds sitting under your two front windows, and how they look withered and close to death.

"i wanted to add some color, but i can't keep plants alive for shit." you had said, huffing in amusement to yourself as you tended to the weeping alliums. "succulents are the only exception."

a small pot of them sits on the windowsill, but they seem to have gotten to big for it; the rubbery leaves spilling over the cracked rim. he hardly registers how much of a stalker he must look like until he stands on your welcome mat, peering through the dirty glass panes to find you nowhere in sight. the lights aren't on, so he can only see the outlines of furniture when bands of light stream in to reveal them.

sitting back on the balls of his feet, dabi curses under his breath. it's not like he was expecting anything. how was he supposed to know whether or not you were home when you had no way of telling him?

"jesus, patch!" a shout startles him from his brooding, but he doesn't let it show as he looks towards to ocean. you're hauling yourself over a large rock to wave him over, wearing a familiar grin. so that's why he couldn't see you. dabi makes careful work of leaping over jagged stones and threatening to bake any nosy seagulls as he makes his way to where you sit, with your favored instrument slung over your shoulder. the ghost of a smile graces his lips when he recalls how you would have scolded him for being mean to the birds, but that was before last week.

"pesky fucking bastards—they keep shitting on my music sheets!" another seagull waddles into your vicinity, only to squawk in distress as you shoo it away with your foot. "i wonder if this is natures way of telling me to quit while i'm behind. . ."

after breaching the treacherous terrain and nearly scraping himself in the process, dabi squats on the stone beside yours, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you meet his gaze with nothing short of merriment and a shake of your head.

"if someone had seen you, you would have been arrested on the spot for being a peeping tom." you chuckle, combing a hand through your hair with a smirk. "what? you lookin' you catch me in the nude or something?"

dabi scowls, choosing to ignore the question rather than give into the bait. as if i would be satisfied by looking at anyone but you in that state. he swats the air as if it would drive the notion from his mind like a bothersome fly.

"in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere? i'd never get caught."

"aw, don't be like that. if you really wanted a peek you could've just asked." the mocking tone in your voice spurs him to smack your thigh, which earns a hearty laugh in reply.

"ooh, don't treat me so roughly, or i might begin to like it!"

dabi has had more than enough experience with your flirtatious tendencies, and he feels he should have gotten used to it by now, but his heart still clenches every damn time. the worse part? he can't say that he minds. you don't give him a chance to respond, but dabi hasn't a clue what he would have said, so he lets you continue, watching intently as you rifle through your bag to fish out a guitar pick. shifting into a crisscross position, you perch the guitar on your lap and begin tuning the strings, idly talking about how uneventful the past days have been. dabi pretends not to have heard that it was because he wasn't there to visit, and instead gives his attention to the lighthouse in hopes that you won't see the faintest of reds dusting his ears.

five minutes pass before you actually start playing, and even then, it's only a few experimental notes here and there that help you build towards the perfected melody.

it's too sweet for his taste; dabi swears that's why his stomach turns so ferociously and prompts him to lean against the boulder to his right for some sort of stability. he won't even humor the idea that it's because of the way your lips twitch into a near half-smile before melding back into a concentrated frown the moment you strike a wrong cord. an embarrassed flush captures your cheeks as you study the music sheets, briefly pressing down on them when a sudden breeze flutters the pages. the pencil that was once tucked behind your ear now sticks out from one corner of your mouth, a flash of pink and orange melding together when you go to absentmindedly gnaw on the wood.

many more minutes fly by, and you've long since abandoned the new tune just to pick up an old one. dabi's back straightens at the first set of strings you pluck, and he recognizes them as the same ones that have been playing on repeat in his head since the day you met.

dabi's heart hammers in tune with every footfall that slaps against the pavement, tearing through the small pools of water that grow with every second. it hasn't stopped raining since the chase began, and there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been soaked through. still, something good must come from this little dilemma—the burning sensation that clings to his arms has almost settled down. the silhouettes of trees merge with inky blackness when he blinks, and he reaches with trembling hands to wipe the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.

a yellow square of what assumes to be light shines in the distance, contrasting wildly adverse to the darkness that sweeps him up from under his feet and pushes him forward. the sound of police sirens has been reduced to a mere memory in the time that was running, but he isn't about to risk going back to the league's base in fear of a stakeout waiting to get the jump on them. besides, why stop there when the possibility of shelter awaits him?

the bottoms of dabi's shoes are slick with mud, and blades of grass have snuck their way under the cuffs of his jeans to scratch at his skin. the sensations paired with the numbing cold are beyond uncomfortable, but he won't have to worry about that once he gets inside—that being if the person inside doesn't put up a fight.

he'd expect them to be mad if they did anything except that, no matter how welcoming the house looked. dabi's instincts tell him that someone out this far from the city doesn't a have a lot of connections, and thus killing them wouldn't cause an uprising if it were needed, but the minute he grips the doorknob, a thought occurs. if they have a quirk, its power could level my own or even surpass it. . . he grits his teeth. but like hell i'm going to let them win.

the hesitation vanishes in an instant as dabi turns the knob and thrusts himself inside, wielding a blue flame in his dominant hand to further illuminate the room. the wind is so fierce that it pulls the door shut for him, and the villain finds himself staring down the unperturbed figure of another man, perhaps around his age, hunched over a stove and glaring at a steaming kettle. they lock gazes, and almost immediately, the kettle gives a high pitched whistle. you look away first, lifting the pot and turning the burner off whilst opening the cupboard overhead to pull out two mugs, both of which adorn ugly christmas-themed patterns that dabi wishes he could forget ever seeing.

his glare hardens when you move to the table in the far corner and begin pouring what he assumes to be tea, taking one cup into your own grasp and leaving the other at his own disposal. your one mistake is grabbing your phone from the counter, but when dabi's flame enlarges, you hold your arms up in defense. then, before he can even formulate a proper threat, you toss the phone to him. he catches it easily and observes the dark screen, masking his astonishment with a more sinister expression.

the only other move you make is to drape yourself across a cushion on the window seat with an acoustic guitar in hand. you look more relaxed by the second despite being cornered by a dangerous criminal, and dabi has to refrain from voicing his shock when you address him with an almost bored tone.

"if the tea isn't to your taste, there's more in the cabinet. shower is down the hall to your left, and there's a spare bedroom upstairs to the right. do whatever the hell you want, just don't burn the place down or touch my freddie mercury records."

dabi is stuck to the spot for one of three reasons, he determines. one, your attitude has surprised him into a stupor that not even hiw own will can break. two, his refusal to believe that you're handling this situation in a calm manner is really just his defense mechanism kicking in, and he won't move until proven that you won't do anything when his back is turned. and three, you're quirk is similar to that of madusa's and you've successfully turned him into a fleshy mannequin.

"if you're worried about me calling the cops, what you're holding is the only working phone here. the power is out due to the storm, so my landline is dead, and the nearest form of help is a crippled old widow five miles west. i'm not going to risk running when i'm up against someone with a quirk."

dabi considers everything said, but never once allows his fire to dim. he took the surrounding area into account while making his escape, and he can see the landline is in fact out of service, so the male's assurances checked out. hell, the light source that guided him here was nothing but an old-timey oil lamp. the fact that you're quirkless does him a great amount of good as well.

with cautious steps, dabi makes a beeline for the bathroom, but he stops halfway to stare at you again. you respond by quirking a brow and kicking your feet up, something akin to mischief in your guise.

"i can take the shower with you since you're so afraid i'll make a break for it." you drawl, and dabi snarls, a fowl cuss bubbling in his throat as heat crawls its way up his neck.

"why, with a blush like that you might not need any drying off~."

dabi decides that he's had enough and storms down the hall, already peeling off his dripping clothes and and silently promising that he'll burn the guy to a crisp if he so much as tries to catch a peek. he can hear you calling out in hilarity even as he slinks into the shower and attempts to drown you out with the static-filled haze that captures his senses.

"the name's, y/n, by the way!"

try as he might, dabi had never been able to keep from coming back. now the reason why has been revealed to him on a silver platter, and he won't even spare it a glance.

your soft singing snaps him from his reminiscing as he stretches his legs, stifling a groan when something pops as not to disturb you. while digging through his pockets for a cigarette, he stops momentarily for fear of forgetting how to breathe when he lays his sights on you. you're in your own little world; everything else—him included— seems to have disappeared as you play from the heart. you need no standing ovation, no adoring fans or fantastic lightshows. you've said it once, that fame and glory mean nothing to you, and that you have all you could ever want or need right here, nestled in the beachside view of what you call home.

"and i have you." a cool breeze ruffles your dirt stained overalls as you reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. the sun beats down on you, never shining half as bright as your smile, and the shore kisses the boulders with waxing and waning waves of aquamarine; frothy, foamy masses washing up with it to carry lone strands of seaweed. "otherwise i'd go mad without your company."

okay, that was lie. the truth is right there, practically spitting in his face how much of an idiot he is for trying to deny it, and dabi is glaring right back at it. he feels like an impatient kid on christmas eve, sneaking glimpses of gifts under the tree and feeling like he's committed a felony after getting caught. and you do catch him.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" there it is—that stupid nickname. it's always been laced with mirth when you call him as such, but now it's replaced by genuine curiosity. and is that a hit of concern he hears? you study him with pursed lips and stony features that gradually morphs into that of concern when the silence stretches on. dabi forces himself to sneer at you, and something stirs inside his chest when you don't flinch.

he hates it. he hates you.

dabi nods to the sky, a guarded noise building in the back of his throat as he tugs on his earlobe.

"s'gonna rain." your jaw visibly clenches, but you humor his evasive habits just like you always have, looking to the clouds, which have darkened considerably in the last hour or so. it's around this time that the weather patterns become more unpredictable, but you've noticed the distinct lack of rainfall in spite of the gathering storm brewing overhead. you could sit out here for a while longer without much activity in the sky, and it would take more than a little shower to drive you inside, especially when you finally had the chance to enjoy some quality time with dabi. you notice the way his shoulders droop and the tension from his facial muscles all but disappears when he sits amidst the smell of fresh salt water and unpolluted air—the weight of his past slowly but surely ebbing away. you'd like to hope you have some part in that. oh god, do you ever hope.

you plead to whatever omnipresent being above that he's not just here to hit a blunt without getting reprimanded for it, or that he's making these daily visits out of pity.

"nah. it's been like this for a little while—looks like a storm will hit, but then it passes before it even begins." you sling the guitar back over your shoulder and gather up your music sheets, eyeing dabi from your perch. you're challenging him now, and normally you would never dare force him to speak if he didn't want to, but something about his aura is off. you can sense it in his words; the very air he breathes; and it compels you to hold him close, if only he would let you.

"so, you gonna tell me why you're avoiding the ques—" a deep rumble interrupts you, and dabi lets out a sigh of relief that you're thankfully too distracted to hear. a single drop of water hits your nose, followed by another, and another, and—

"you were saying?"

"oh shut it." you don't get to finish speaking, for a crack of lightning strikes the far end of the beach, scattering sand in every direction. you just barely manage to scoop up your belongings before sliding from the rock, but your footing betrays you and send you stumbling to the ground. dabi is there to catch you, wasting no more time in hauling you to your feet and rushing you as carefully as possible through the jagged maze. he can't refrain from smiling when you splutter a string of profanities pass poorly hidden laughter, an unmistakable "FUCK ME!" spilling into the cold evening when you accidentally stub your toe on a particularly sharp stone. it's pouring within seconds, and no sooner do you reach the doorstep do you both realize how sopping wet you are.

the last thing you think of is your chattering teeth, however, when you see dabi's spiky tufts of hair dripping with residue and his electric blue eyes gazing into yours. what you do think is that for the first time in your painfully ordinary life; your twenty three years of mediocrity and progressive isolation from the world around you; you have found the single person who understands your struggles and has chosen—for some unfathomable reason—not to abandon you. you wish you could say your parents were the same, but you also have scars from a distant childhood that brought you to this place.

this old lighthouse is your home, yes, but dabi is your sanctuary. he might as well be a god by how often you worship him from afar, wondering if ever you'd be so lucky; so eternally blessed; as to call him yours.

you don't register that he's opened the door to let you both inside until a cozy warmth envelopes you. no, wait, that's dabi's fire. it should terrify you that the same man who threatened you with those flames is now at arms length, but you trust him not to hurt you in any way, and so you lean into the gentle licking of heat on your skin, humming in content as your shivering comes to a halt.

dabi's fear of burning you diminishes when you flash him a grateful smile, a whisper of thanks echoing across the walls and pummeling his heart without resistance. he averts his eyes with a curt nod, a feeling like molasses weighing down his tongue and drowning the words he wants to say.

"you're welcome." is all he can muster.

half an hour later, your guitar is drying by the hearth and the two of you are huddled on the window seat, nursing cups of coffee and watching the storm in a comfortable silence. you haven't blinked in a while, meaning you've wandered off the tracks of consciousness as suspected, and pretty soon, you start singing quietly to yourself; the deep crooning used as background noise to your aimless meditation. dabi nudges your calf with his foot and is rewarded with a brief quirk of your lips and a nudge back. he doesn't have the patience nor the brain power to decipher how long this goes on for, but it doesn't matter.

this is fine. the image of red hair and a tall, intimidating figure invades his train of thought, and dabi curls inwards on himself. this is fine.

but it's not.

trembling, he places his mug on the table before retracting back into his seat, clasping his hands together. he tries visualizing the ties of his life coming together to form a rope. the fingers on his left—memories from his past—linking together with those from his right—memories made with you. his palms connect, bringing instant relief with the knowledge that he's here now, practically nestled between your legs, out of harms way. you're both fine.

dabi takes the swelling anxiety and pretends to crush it within his fist; clenching and unclenching it until his peace of mind returns.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" you ask again, still in somewhat of a trance. this time, dabi answers.

"why do you call me that?"

you're caught of guard, half expecting him to ask why you haven't turned him in to the authorities. you've seen him without his disguise, you know his name, and for the past eight months you've been socializing with him like normal human beings do. that's more than both of you could have said in the past. of all the burning questions, he chose that one? "i've heard 'patchwork' and 'staples' and just about everything in between. why shorten it to patch?"

you gape at him, opening your mouth, then closing it, and so on. the pitter patter of rain against the window has ascended into relentless pelting. it sounds like gunfire to dabi; assaulting his ears in floods; but to you, it's nothing more than a waterfall hindering your view of the ocean. the deep breath you take seems to put more suspense in the atmosphere than needed, and it makes dabi's heartrate quicken for an entirely different reason, yet he makes no sign of stopping you.

"because my first thought whenever i see you is how much you remind me of a doll." oh. what?

you can tell by dabi's reaction that that wasn't what he was expecting, so you gesture for him to wait. he isn't sure he likes the forlorn expression you're wearing.

"typically, when kids first get a doll, they treat it like glass and make sure to tend to it with love. other times, doll owners are reckless and tear them apart just to stitch them back together like nothing happened. you use that camouflaged to blend in with the public, and i'm lucky enough to see what's under it. . .but sometimes i wish you'd keep the mask on so i don't have to see you upset."

upset? a fizzing sound erupts from his palms that he struggles to put out. he's not upset.

"don't try to hide it. you're always scowling when you think i'm not looking, or when you forget i'm even here, and i know it's because someone broke you without the intent of fixing you up."

once more, red clouds dabi's vision, and he moves to stand up.

"you had to clean up after their mistakes because no one else would, but instead of reusing the bits and pieces of your old self, you burned them. you destroyed any and all evidence of who you used to be and now you're patching yourself together with parts that aren't your own, because you don't want to hold onto what happened. though, something tells me you still haven't let go, otherwise you wouldn't be so angry."

"you don't know that!" he snaps, but he knows it's not true.

your hand closes around his wrist, and dabi recoils with such strength that it yanks you from your seat. dabi doesn't want you to let go, no matter how much he thrashes in place, because the sensation of your skin on his grounds him. somehow you know this, and you give a comforting squeeze to his pulse.

"but that's not all i see. because dolls are beautiful, and it's the ones who still love them after they're broken that they need the most. no one's told you they think you're beautiful, have they?"

dabi shakes his head, refusing to meet your gaze even when you cup his cheek with your free hand tilt it towards you. every touch is filled with hesitancy; feather light and more intimate than anything dabi has ever witnessed, let alone experienced personally. with the way you hold him like he's water in your hands, your eyes overflowing with a love he hasn't known in forever, dabi knows he won't find another feeling like it. you're not the embodiment of good—at least not by society's strict standards—but at least you can sit there and say you've committed a crime. you've never bloodied your hands by hurting others, much less gotten a thrill from doing so, and that's why he pulls away. he has to, because dabi is a harbinger of war, and if he holds you any closer it will only be to kill you.

he says something; a snarl mixed with a broken plea that he prays will make you stop; and you do. his silent victory doesn't last for long, though, because then you're using both hands to cradle his face and fuck, the pads of your thumbs grazing his scars feel like heaven. "won't you let me be the first?" how could he say no? how, when the taste of honey and whiskey is so addictive that he's already drooling into the kiss and willing to beg for more; when your mouth slots perfectly with his and dabi begins to wonder if he's stumbled right into the scene of a cliché wattpad story. the idea causes him to huff out a growl, and although neither of you can talk, he can imagine how strongly you must want to poke fun at him for the action. he can feel you smirking—the smug little bastard you are—and dabi ponders how long it will take to reduce that attitude of yours until you're submitting to him.

not yet. he chastises himself, completely unaware that you're currently thinking the same thing. dabi kneads the flesh of your hips through your jeans while you comb your fingers through his hair, gasping sharply between bruising, wet kisses and keening when he leans down to nurse your lips with soft pecks afterword. you're still trying to process the fact that you've coerced this devious criminal into making out with you in the pale glow of your seaside residence, but for the moment, you need not concern yourself with the details. you've forgotten all about dabi's ego and how this whole situation is no doubt feeding its flames. his grip on your waist is making you too delirious to care.

"fuck." dabi's breath is staggering when you finally pull back, an aura of clarity and desire hanging between the two of you.

"y-yeah. . .that was. . ." you can't produce a word, or even a paragraph to describe it. you know you're going to hit yourself later for admitting such a banal phrase in the midst of what could be classified as your very first kiss, but that is neither here nor there, and you would rather suffer an agonizing death than let dabi find out that he stole your first. you're too preoccupied envisioning all the other firsts to come, so you don't notice the way he stares at you like some precious jewel, but his fingertips brushing your bottom lip succeed in snapping you out of it.

"hm?"

dabi goes quiet, contemplating what to say as the thunder moves abroad and the rain comes to an end, leaving the house in a numbing state of tranquility.

"why not call me doll, then? it'd be easier."

you chuckle in response, playing with the hairs at the base of dabi's neck and making sure not to miss the way he melts into the affection. "i thought that'd be moving too fast." and dabi; still drugged from your kiss and what he can only hope is love; rasps out a genuine laugh, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"you offered to take a shower with me the night we met, and you think a nickname is moving too fast?"

you stick your tongue out at him, and dabi resists the urge to grab it, even if it's just a bluff.

"would you have let me call you that anyways?" you ask, something hopeful ridden in your tone. dabi feigns consideration as he looks to the ceiling, snickering when you smack his chest. eventually, he murmurs what you audibly hear as "brat" before resting his forehead on yours, an impish glint in his gaze.

"no."

you turn your chin up at him, giggling when he nips at the skin. dabi knows just as well that your attempts at escaping him are halfhearted, so he encircles his arms around your waist tighter, delighting in the flush that paints your cheeks.

"then i think i'll settle for my love, or darling, if that's alright with you."

dabi can't fend off the blush for his life, but he's not afraid if you acknowledge it. he can get you back easily, and he plans to. "fine by me, doll."

[matwith1t]

A/N: Hiii! I’m fairly new to writing for Mat, but I heard this song and went !!! so I wrote a little something based off it! There’s a part two in the works! I’d love to hear any & all feedback!! 💗✨ @itrocksmysocks​​ here’s your tag 🤩 

Summary: Mat felt beyond nervous to meet your family for the first time, but like you predicted, your family absolutely adored him. But when your relationship suddenly comes to an end, Mat unknowingly broke more hearts than yours. (heavily inspired by More Hearts Than Mine by Ingrid Andress)

ITALICS ARE FLASHBACKS

MASTERLIST | LET’S CHAT 🥂

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking // WC: 11.8K // Fluff & Angst

The trees were in full bloom as you drove down the familiar streets of your hometown. The sweet smell of April air wafted through the slightly cracked car windows; and the sun shined just as bright as the smile on your face when you looked over at the person sitting next to you in the driver's seat.

“And there’s the park where I broke my wrist after jumping off the swings,” you excitedly pointed out the window.

Mat chuckled and squeezed your hand as he slowly rolled to a stop at a stop sign. With no one behind you two, he idled the car for a little longer, and took his time looking out the windshield, “And the place where you got in your first fight, right?”

You turned in your seat to face Mat, who had a wicked smirk on his face. With your mouth wide open you gasped, “I was five and they pulled my hair!”

Mat leaned his head against the seat, eyes shut tight with a crinkled nose, as he let out a boisterous laugh. “Always the fighter,” he said as he brought your connected hands up to his lips, and pressed a kiss on the top of your hand.

You tried to contain your smile, but all of your efforts were lost when Mat’s eyes connected with yours. At the delicate soft smile on his face, you couldn’t control the smile that slowly crept onto your face. And the only thought circling your mind was how did you get so lucky six months ago.

Six months ago, you wound up at a mutual friend's house for a birthday party where you met Mat. It started off with talking in the kitchen over drinks, then to beer pong partners where he would clasp his hand around yours after a high five, and by the end of the night, you two were on the couch off in your world talking nonsense as he kept knocking his knees against yours.

Phone numbers were exchanged by the time the party was over, and a day and a half later, you met him at a coffee shop early in the morning.

A loud honk from behind brought you out of reminiscing. Mat seemed just as startled as you as he dropped your hand, checked to make sure no other cars were at the all-way stop, and then hit the gas pedal.

“Asshole,” Mat muttered under his breath as he slowed down and picked your hand back up.

A small chuckle escaped your lips, “We’ll walk around later and then you can see everything again,” you squeezed his hand as a promise, “Turn left here.”

He turned the blinker as he approached another stop sign, “With all of the stories you’ve told me….” After checking to see no other cars, he turned down the street your parents lived on for as long as you could remember, “I feel like I’ve been here before.”

You felt yourself heat up in embarrassment, “Sorry, I––”

Mat shook his head and quickly glanced at you, “Never apologize. I love hearing your stories.”

With a little embarrassment still lingering in the pit of your stomach, all you offered him was a closed lipped smile. Mat took his time driving down the residential street, admiring the quaint neighborhood, as you piped up, “We’re coming up to it on the right––three more houses––the one with the navy blue door.”

With a deep exhale, Mat’s hand tightened around the steering wheel, as he nodded his head, “Cool.”

With scrunched up eyebrows, you tilted your head to stare at his side profile. Because with his knuckles turning slightly white, locked jaw, and clammy hand, you knew he wasn’t anywhere near feeling ‘cool.’

“Why are you nervous?” you asked him sincerely as he pulled up and parked in front of your childhood house, “You’ve met them over FaceTime and they loved you.”

Mat rolled the windows up before turning off the ignition and turned in his seat to face you with a worried expression, “Because it’s your family, FaceTime is barely anything. This is meeting them face to face and that’s…different.”

You appreciated his honesty instead of denying his nerves, “You’ve already passed with flying colors with everyone,” he still didn’t look convinced so you listed your reasons, “My mom loves anyone who makes me happy and I’m very happy with you.” Mat tucked his chin into his chest to hide his blush, “My dad thinks it’s awesome that you’re a hockey player, won’t shut up about it. And my sister likes you because she thinks you’re her in to get her a hockey boyfriend.”

Mat took the key out as he threw his head back in laughter again in a way that made you fall in love with him all over again. The two of you opened your doors at the same time and got out of the car.

“Trust me,” he said with a few small laughs, “you wouldn’t want your sister to date a hockey player.”

You raised your eyebrows at Mat as he popped open the trunk and took out both of your bags, “What about you, Barzal?”

Mat shut the trunk, slung his bag over his shoulder. When you tried to reach out to hold your bag, Mat pulled it back and shook his head as if asking you why you would even try to carry your own bag.

“I’m better than the rest of them.”

This time, it was your turn to throw your head back in laughter; eyes shut tight and nose crinkled. And when you opened your eyes, you saw Mat staring at you, eyes full of adoration. You imagined it as the same look you gave him after he laughed.

You whispered, come on, to him and Mat followed you up the driveway to the front door. Your hand was floating on top of the door handle to open it, but the door swung open. The sudden movement startled you, which caused you to stumble back a bit, but Mat placed his hand on your lower back to keep you steady.

“Finally, you’re here,” your sister let out an over dramatic sigh and flung herself into your arms.

You hugged her back, “Hit a bit of traffic.”

Your sister scoffed as she pulled away from the hug, but kept her hands resting on your shoulders as she stood arms length away. She raised her eyebrows and looked over your shoulder, “I’m assuming he drove?” You nodded your head and your sister rolled her eyes, “Guess fastest skater doesn’t translate to fastest driver.”

You masked your laugh with a cough as you peered over your shoulder to see Mat’s face turning a deep shade of red.

Knowing how nervous Mat felt, you rolled your eyes and lightly shoved your sister’s shoulder, “There are laws we have to follow when driving.”

“Touchè,” your sister said as she stepped aside and let the two of you in, “Would be kinda cool if there was something in driving that was like the same as getting in a fight during a hockey game.”

“Are you condoning road rage?”

She shrugged her shoulders, not paying any mind to your question as she focused her attention on Mat, “I’ve seen you get pretty feisty out on the ice––”

“Oh, that’s enough out of you,” your mother chastised your sister as she walked in from the other room, “I told her to wait until the two of you were inside.” She playfully glared at your sister one last time before facing you and Mat with a glowing smile, “Mat, so nice to finally meet you in person.”

Mat set down both of the bags on the hardwood floor, “Thank you for inviting me over, my schedule isn’t always the easiest to work with, so sorry for the delay.” He held out his hand, but your mother batted it away and brought him in for a hug.

“No need to apologize,” your mom said with a smile as she pulled away from the hug, “We’re just happy you could make it here for a weekend.”

Mat smiled and shuffled toward you, but kept his arms stuck to his sides, “I’ve been wanting to come, and I know it’d make Y/N happy,” he looked down at you with a smile that you returned, “So I’m happy to be here.”

Your mom clasped her hands together in front of her and the corners of her eyes crinkled as she continued to smile, “You’re too sweet.” She then turned to look at your sister, “Go show Mat the guest bedroom so he can drop his bag off.”

With a nod, your sister was off, talking a mile a minute at Mat who looked petrified. But you gave him a knowing look, referring back to your conversation in the car, how your mom approves of anyone who makes you happy. With a shake of his head and a slight roll of his eyes, he followed your sister up the stairs to see where he would be staying; in a separate bedroom from yours.

You stood in the foyer with your mother in silence for a few seconds before she broke, “I love him.”

“Mom,” you directed your eyes up to where he was only a floor above and had the possibility of hearing.

She laughed as you followed her into the kitchen. You slid onto one of the barstools as she went to stand over the stove. She picked up a spatula and moved around the vegetables in the pan, as she looked over her shoulder, “He’s perfect for you.”

You slumped forward, and buried your face in your hands, something about this conversation with your mom felt as if you were transported back to high school. Peeking up from your hands, your mom was still staring at you with a smile on her face, “He’s pretty great.”

“There’s something about the way he looks at you,” your mom’s comment struck a chord that caused you to sit up straight.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “He just…He looks at you with a lot of admiration.”

“You’ve spoken three sentences to him.”

Your mom spun around and pointed the spatula at you as she playfully glared, “You don’t see the way he looks at you when you’re not looking at him. And I’ve noticed it on the FaceTime calls as well.” Her features softened, “You can see how much he cares.”

An electric jolt shot down the back of your spine as you bit the inside of your cheek to contain your smile. Her comments also made you curious. No one else had ever pointed out the way he looked at you, of course your mom pointed it out because she’s your mom…but no one else had.

Did that mean that his friends saw the way he looked at you? Did his teammates notice a difference in his demeanor whenever they saw you two together after one of his games? Did his family notice the way his eyes lingered on you for just a bit longer when you met them?

You didn’t doubt anything your mom told you, in fact, it only made you confident that your relationship with Mat was definitely one for the long run.

Playing off the semi-serious look she gave you, you let out a small laugh, “You’re falling in love with him faster than I did.”

The spatula your mom held fell against the pan with a clatter as she whipped around, “In love?”

With a slight nod, you let a smile overtake your face as butterflies filled your stomach, “Yeah…” you said softly as you remembered the night Mat told you. There weren't any grand gestures, nothing over the top, just the two of you on the couch––with Mat laying his head on your thighs as you ran your fingers through his hair––and it slipped out from him.

“Just as of a few weeks ago,” you fiddled with your thumbs, “Still a bit new, but yeah.” You looked up at your mom who looked like was on the verge of tears, “He makes me really happy.”

Your mom sniffled, “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You smiled at her, but with the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs––and your sister’s nagging about how much time Mat spent in the penalty box last season––your mom picked up the spatula and went back to cooking. Soon enough, two more people came into the kitchen, and your sister picked up a task to help with dinner.

“Do you need help with anything?” Mat asked your mother as he stood next to you.

She waved him off, “No, no––Everything’s almost ready anyway, just relax, I know the drive was long.”

Mat looked down at you, as if asking you if there really wasn’t anything for him to do. Shaking your head, you patted the barstool next to you.

He slid in easily and his hand automatically rested on your knee. Normally, Mat was a very touchy person; whether it be a small hand on your back in public or his hands ventured further up your clothes in private, he always had some sort of physical contact with you. But in front of your family, he was stiff.

So naturally, he placed a hand on you that was out of sight from both your sister and mother.

“Has she harassed you about a hockey boyfriend yet?” You leaned in and whispered to Mat so neither one of your family members could eavesdrop.

Mat chuckled, but shook his head, “No. She did ask a million questions about hockey though, I think she’s trying to warm me up.”

“Keep your phone close, I wouldn’t put it past her to steal a few numbers out of it. She’s had her eye on Tito since she started watching the games.” Your tone of voice was joking, but Mat’s face looked terrified. You knocked your knee against his, “I’m kidding, she wouldn’t disrespect someone’s privacy like that.”

Mat squeezed your knee, which caused you to let out a small laugh, “I––”

He was cut off by the front door opening and a loud voice saying, “Are they here?”

Immediately knowing that your father walked through the door, Mat’s hand from your knee dropped and he moved his chair a few inches away from yours. You let your mouth drop at his actions, but found the whole ordeal hilarious.

You slid off the stool just as your father walked into the kitchen. He set down his work bag and smiled, “Hey, you.”

It only took a few strides to be over to your dad and in his arms for a hug. After a few seconds, he pulled away, and you just knew that he was looking at Mat. And you didn’t need to look at Mat to know that the fear of God was in his bones. He stumbled out of the barstool, placed both hands on the back of the stool to stop it from wobbling, and took a deep breath.

“Mathew,” your dad nodded at your boyfriend, “Nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t lost on you that he didn’t tack on the in person like your mom had. In your father’s eyes, he had yet to officially meet Mat, and considered this their first meeting, even though they had talked on FaceTime a handful of times. And if it wasn’t lost on you…You knew that Mat was overthinking it all in his head.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Mat took a few steps forward and reached his hand out, and unlike your mother who waved off his handshake for a hug, your father reached out and shook Mat’s hand, “Thank you for inviting me for the weekend, I–-I know how much Y/N loves it here.” Mat nervously glanced over at you next to your father for reassurance, and you nodded your head as to say good job.

“We’re glad you could find some time in your schedule,” your father stiffly responded.

There was a part of you that felt bad for Mat. You knew how intimidated he was to meet your father face to face for the first time, but there was another part of you that wanted to laugh. Whenever you talked to your dad, there was always some part of the conversation that Mat was brought up in, and it was mostly by your dad. He admired Mat’s work ethic as a hockey player, and was a big fan of hockey himself, so it was a bit comical to see him acting disinterested toward Mat.

“Dinner’s ready!” Your sister yelled out as she carried a steaming hot pot and weaved in between the three of you.

“Does everyone have a drink?” Your mom called out as she carried a pan of vegetables over to the table.

“Is there something I can bring over?” Mat asked your mom as she set the vegetables down.

She smiled, “There’s a chicken in the oven if you can bring that over.”

Mat nodded, finally feeling like he was of use for something, “Of course.”

The two of you walked into the kitchen and Mat released the biggest breath you had ever heard. You let out a chuckle as you took oven mitts out of a drawer and handed them to him, “Alright there?”

As you took down two glasses, Mat slipped on the oven mitts,  “I think I was more nervous meeting your dad than I was for the draft.”

You let out a loud laugh as you started to fill the glasses with ice and water, “Don’t worry, he really likes you, trust me.”

“He called me Mathew.”

“And other people don’t?”

You knew where he was coming from, but you wanted to also show him that it wasn’t a big deal.

Mat opened the oven and carefully took out the chicken, “It’s your dad––everyone else called me Mat.”

With a roll of your eyes you picked up the waters and slowly walked toward the dining room with Mat at your side, “He’s just playing the dad card,” you hip checked him, “By the end of dinner I swear you’ll see it.”

Mat didn’t look convinced, but the conversation was dropped when the two of you entered the dining room. Mat set the chicken down on the table where your mom instructed and then sat down in the chair next to yours.

Dinner started normally; plates were passed around to be filled up, stories of your childhood were shared, and Mat was able to share some of his stories face to face with your parents rather than a FaceTime call.

Mat perfected the skill of acting suave, mastering easy conversation skills from all the times he’d done press interviews, but no one else was aware that Mat moved his chair a teeny bit closer to yours. And no one was aware how you were slightly sitting on the edge of your seat so that way it would be easier for Mat to hook one of his feet around your ankle.

Again, it was the physical contact that Mat always craved, but you also knew how nervous he was, and skin to skin contact made him feel calmer.

“So, Mat,” your dad started out, and when you heard him not use his full name, you pulled his foot toward you in an I-told-you-so way, “Hockey is quite the career.”

As if he knew that this conversation was leading for him to defend his atypical career path, Mat unhooked his foot from your ankle and straightened out his shoulders, “Yeah, it––Hockey isn’t a normal day job, but I can’t see myself doing anything else.”

“No school?”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Mat’s index finger rapidly tap against his thigh.

“I wasn’t very good at it––Not that school isn’t important, because it is,” he fumbled over his words, afraid that he said something wrong, “But when playing hockey professionally started to become a reality, I wanted to put all of my effort into that. Studying for a test was like doing a drill over and over again. Making friends was getting to know my teammates. Doing homework was working out at the gym and camps all year round. And now I…Now I play hockey professionally.”

Everyone at the table was silent as they took in Mat’s well thought out answer. To say the least, you were impressed with his answer, and by the relaxed look on your dad’s face, you knew he approved instantly.

Mat coughed awkwardly into his elbow, “I do have a high school diploma though.”

Your sister snorted at Mat’s attempt to prove that he has at least some level of education, albeit not a higher level of education, but education nonetheless. You stepped on her foot under the table and glared at her.

“That’s a very interesting way to look at it,” your dad took a sip of his water, “Being on a sports team––at any age––means you have a lot of dedication,  hardworking, have goals, and that you know a lot about teamwork.” Your father’s eyes shifted over to you momentarily before he regained eye contact with Mat, “And I respect that in a man.”

You could see the stress float away from Mat as he tried to hold back his smile, “Thank you, yeah it’s a lot of hard work, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow, “Nothing?”

Instead of panicking like you expected, Mat paused for a few seconds, “One thing,” he glanced over at you momentarily before looking back at your father with a small smile, “I would trade it for one thing.”

You ducked your chin into your chest in order to alleviate some of the attention, but it was a small table, and of course Mat was talking about you, so there was no use. But your sister wasn’t shy in stealing away the spotlight.

“Hockey,” she let out a low whistle, “A very demanding sport.”

Mat nodded, “It is, but you end up building a lot of stamina and you sometimes don’t feel the effects of it until you sit down on the bench for a bit.”

“It’s quite aggressive too,” your mom cut a piece of chicken up, “Between fights, getting smashed against the board….”

“Yeah it can be aggressive,” Mat laughed it off, “I mostly get hit in the face with pucks.”

Your mom and dad laughed at his quip before getting into a conversation of their own. And with your parents not paying full attention to the three of you, your sister decided to slip in another comment.

“High stamina and being aggressive?” she shot Mat a look and deviously raised her eyebrows, “I’m sure Y/N likes that.”

Mat spat his water back into the glass and started uncontrollably coughing into the crook of his elbow at the same time you dropped the metal silverware loudly on the ceramic plate.

Your parents paused their conversation, and your dad looked between you and Mat, “Everything alright?”

Mat held up his thumb as he still coughed, and you nodded your head frantically, stuck in a daze that your sister had the guts to say that at a family dinner.

“Everything’s fine,” your tone was high in pitch, but you knew your parents wouldn’t let the topic drop unless they got a verbal answer.

Your sister shot you a wink and a smug smirk as she nonchalantly picked up a few vegetables with her fork. And when you took a peak over at Mat, his face was redder than you had ever seen it. He could’ve played a full three periods of hockey, without any break time, and still wouldn’t be as red as he was now after your sister’s comment.

Luckily, the rest of dinner went without another crude, double meaning, comment from your sister. And when everyone was finished, it was all smiles and laughs as everyone pitched in to help. Mat teamed up with your mom on dish duty, taking it upon himself to wash the dishes. While you and your sister put the leftovers away, your dad wiped down the counters and swept the floor.

In no time, the kitchen was cleaned and everyone was off to the family room to relax, except you and Mat. A few of your high school friends decided to either stay local for college, or to move back to your hometown after graduation, and they were all very keen to meet up…Especially when you slipped it in that your boyfriend would be visiting with you.

You drove Mat’s car to the neighborhood bar where you had one too many nights where you couldn’t remember everything, but you knew they were all happy memories.

“So how many people are coming?” Mat asked as the two of you got out of his car and he locked the doors.

“Just a few,” you said as Mat came up next to you and slid his hand into yours, “You’re not nervous, are you?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “They’re your friends.”

You rolled your eyes as you came up to the front entrance. Mat opened the door for you and you dropped his hand to walk through, “You’ll be fine,” you stressed, “They don’t pay too close attention to hockey if you’re worried about that.”

Mat playfully glared at you, “Were you nervous to meet Tito and the rest of my friends?”

Seeing the point he was trying to make, you offered him an apologetic smile, “You’re right, I’ll stop downplaying your nerves.”

He squeezed your hand and looked down at you, “Nothing to apologize about, I just want them to like me.”

You leaned up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, “They’ll like you because I love you.”

At that sentence, Mat’s face lit up and he looked down at you with the kindest eyes, “I love you, too.”

It had only been a few weeks since the first I love you with Mat, but you knew you didn’t want to hear the words from anyone’s lips but his for the rest of your life.

Before you could get another word out, you distinctly heard one of your friends yell over the chatter of the bar, “With twenty-two goals and sixty-three assists during his rookie season, there’s the 2018 Calder Trophy winner!”

Mat’s face turned red as he looked down at you, “They don’t pay close attention to hockey, eh?”

You dropped his hand and softly punched his bicep, “I bet they have Wikipedia open right now.”

Mat threw his head back with laughter as he followed behind you to the table your friends currently occupied. You introduced everyone to Mat and he easily fell into conversation with them. It warmed your heart to see your friends taking so kindly to your boyfriend.

Even when Mat tried to decline your friends buying him drinks, they didn’t listen to him. One after the other, they walked up to the bar and always came back with two drinks in their hands.

“Now this one,” your friend Tyler pointed a finger at you, “Stood up on that bar,” his finger moved away from you and pointed at the packed bar counter, “And sang Dancing Queen at the top of her lungs when it came on for karaoke.”

You hid your face in the crook of Mat’s neck and his arm that was around your waist tightened as his chest shook with laughter, “The ABBA song?”

“Stole the show,” Tyler chuckled at the memory.

You lifted your head up from Mat’s shoulder, “In my defense, it was the first time I was of legal drinking age and I was having fun.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t done that before when you weren’t of legal drinking age.” Your other friend, Paige, said as she laughed before taking a sip of her drink.

“What?” Mat continued to laugh as he looked down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Even though you were embarrassed by your friends sharing stories that you only half-remembered, you couldn’t help but reciprocate Mat’s smile.

“We have a ton to fill you in on mister NHL-er,” Tyler clapped Mat’s shoulder with his hand and then got off his seat, “What are you drinking? I’ll buy.”

With everyone jumping at the chance to buy Mat a drink, he knew that arguing to pay for his own would be futile. So Mat said a simple, surprise me, and Tyler was off to the bar. Mat had gravitated to talking a lot with Tyler, who actually knew a lot more about hockey than you originally thought, so when he was gone, your friends jumped in on the chance to get to know him more.

And with Mat’s strong arm wrapped around your waist, and his thumb slowly rubbing circles into your side, you stared up at him in admiration. You had only been home for a day, but everything was going even more perfect than you imagined.

The night ended a few hours later, with you and Mat denying any drinks that were offered to you both after Tyler brought him his ‘surprise’ drink. Sober enough to drive the five minutes back to your house, Mat kept his hand in yours the whole way home.

It was only a quarter past midnight, and you were sure your sister was still up, but the two of you still entered as silent as possible. The two of you tiptoed up the stairs, and came to your room, which was closest to the stairs. Unfortunately for Mat, the guest bedroom was across the hall from your parents room.

Mat held both of your hands in his, eyes locked on your fingers that he played with, as you admired the small smile dancing on his face.

“I had fun tonight,” he whispered.

Your smile widened, “I had fun too,” you squeezed his hands, and he picked his eyes up to stare at you, “I’m really happy you’re here.”

“I think your parents like me,” he tried to hide his smirk, but failed miserably when you let out a soft chuckle, “They probably think I’m the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

You scoffed, “You’re getting cocky.”

Mat raised his eyebrows at you, “But am I the best boyfriend you’ve ever had?” His confidence was nothing new to you, but your mouth still dropped as he left you speechless. Mat’s smile widened, “That’s what I thought.”

You dropped one of his hands and whacked his chest, “You’re ridiculous.”

His laughter slowly faded away and the two of you were left standing outside your childhood bedroom door in silence. You so desperately wanted to tug on his hand and tell him to follow you into your room, but you knew he wouldn’t go against your parents wishes under their roof. While he acted a bit egotistical just moments ago about having your parents approval, you knew he was still terrified of them; especially of your father.

Slowly, he brought a hand up to cup your face, and let his fingers trail down your cheek. With his index finger placed under your chin, he tilted your head back so you had nowhere else to look but at his eyes.

His eyes were your favorite thing about him. Whether they were glazed over in the morning just after he woke up, slightly squinted in frustration as a penalty was called on him, or screwed tight when he laughed…His eyes were the first thing you fell in love with.

“I love you,” he whispered the exact phrase that was playing on repeat in your head.

“I love you more.”

Mat slightly laughed as he trapped your lips in an innocent kiss. You had trouble kissing him back with the smile on your lips.

He pulled away, his forehead against yours, as his eyes shined bright in the pitch black hallway, “Not a chance.”

You ignored his statement, because while you two could stand in this hallway and debate on who loved each other more until the sun came up, if Mat claimed to love you more…Than that meant the love he had for you was infinite considering how much you loved him. And it filled you with nothing but happiness.

You leaned forward and pressed another small kiss to his lips, “Goodnight, Mat.”

And for the third time that night, you felt his lips against yours. He pulled back with a smile, “Night, Y/N.”

You placed a hand on the handle and pushed it down, but you watched Mat walk down the hallway and to the guest room before walking into the room where you used to dream of having a boyfriend as wonderful as Mat. After you finished your nighttime routine, you pulled your covers back and crawled into bed.

While you set your morning alarm on your phone, a text from Mat caused your phone to vibrate. A smile erupted on your face as you clicked on it to read.

Can’t wait to see you in the morning…Love you :)

Sometimes, when you and Mat didn’t sleep together at night, you found yourself struggling to fall asleep. But with his text message, and knowing that he was only a few doors down, you slept peacefully.

––

You woke up a few minutes before your alarm, ready to start a new day. And while you didn’t rush your morning routine, you definitely got ready faster than normal. Once you were satisfied with your look, you quietly stepped out into the hallway and tiptoed down to the guest bedroom. Mat liked to sleep in when he didn’t have morning skate or a game, so you expected him to be laying on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, with one leg sticking out from under the covers.

But when you cracked the door open a little, you were surprised to see the bed fully made with no Mat in sight.

A small hmpf escaped your lips as you checked your phone. But the last communication you had with him was when you responded to his goodnight text. Curious to find out where he had gone, you made your way downstairs.

When you walked into the kitchen, you saw your mom sitting at the island drinking tea, and your sister leaned up against the counter with a bowl of cereal.

But there was still no Mat.

“Has anyone seen Mat?”

Your sister looked up from her cereal and smirked, “Good morning to you too.”

With a roll of your eyes, you took a mug down from the cabinet, picked out a tea bag, and poured the water from the kettle that was still hot. Cupping your hands around the warmth of the mug, you glared at your sister, “Morning.”

“He and your dad went on a walk,” your mom answered.

Your hands tightened around the mug to keep it from dropping to the ground, “What?”

“Oh don’t worry,” Your sister let out a laugh as she shoveled a spoonful of cereal in her mouth, “He looked scared to death when dad asked him to go.”

Ignoring your sister, you looked over at your mom with wide eyes, silently asking her if your sister was telling the truth. Your mom’s bashful smile confirmed it, “He did look a little…uneasy.”

With a groan, you leaned your head back, “He is absolutely terrified of dad.”

“With reason.”

You elbowed your sister in her side and looked at your mom for some reassurance. She set her mug down, “Your father likes him, he just wants some time to get to know him more.”

You took a sip of your tea and sighed. From talking with your dad, you knew that he was fascinated by Mat, but no matter how many times you tried to reassure him…Mat never believed you. Maybe this walk would be good for him, you thought to yourself, maybe this is what Mat needs.

The more you talked to yourself, you started to feel better. That was until your sister decided to share her input.

“I wished him luck before he went. Told him if it didn’t go well to not forget to say bye as he hightailed it out.”

An aggravated breath left your lips as you turned to face her, “Would it kill you to––”

But you were cut off when you heard the door open and laughter fill the front of the house. Your ears perked up and your sister sent you a sly smirk.

When your dad and Mat walked into the kitchen, they were all smiles, and Mat didn’t look the slightest bit nervous. A smile instantly brightened up your face when you saw Mat. His hair was a bit unruly, but he looked soft in his gray New York Islanders sweatshirt and gym shorts. And when Mat made eye contact with you, he smiled.

He made his way through the kitchen and leaned up against the counter next to you. His hip touched yours, and you felt like it was a win considering it was the closest thing Mat had done to show any public displays of affection in front of your family.

“Morning,” Mat smiled down at you.

“Hi,” you reciprocated his smile, “Have a nice walk?”

He nodded proudly, but before he could get a word out, your father spoke up.

“Next time I’m in New York, Mat, let’s meet up for dinner or lunch.” Your father spoke so nonchalantly as he poured himself a cup of coffee that it made you choke on your tea, “I’ll buy.”

You looked between your dad and Mat with wild eyes.

Mat let out a laugh and tucked his hands in the front pockets of his sweatshirt, “That sounds nice. If you’re all ever in New York, let me know and I’ll get you tickets for a game.”

Your parents and sister started their own conversation and you bumped your hip against Mat’s, which caused him to look down at you. With your eyebrows raised high, you repeated your question, “Have a nice walk?”

“I think he pretended not to like me at first,” Mat whispered, “But then we talked about fishing, and then hockey, life,” he tilted his back and forth as he listed the topics of conversation, “you.”

“Me?”

A single breathy laugh passed through Mat’s nostrils, “Of course you were a topic of conversation.”

“And?”

Mat shrugged his shoulders and took the cup of tea out of your hands and took a sip for himself. He looked straight ahead as he brought the mug down from his lips, “He said he likes me.” A smile lit up your face, but before you could say I-told-you-so, Mat handed the tea back to you, “He also told me not to fuck it up.”

You let out a laugh as you leaned your forehead against his bicep. When your laughter calmed down, you looked up at him through your eyelashes, “So far, I think you’re doing a pretty good job.”

“Oh, just a pretty good––”

“Hey, hockey player,” your sister cut Mat off, which caused both of you to pick your heads up to look at her. After a moment of silence, she wickedly smiled, “What’s your preferred alcohol of choice?”

“It’s literally not even nine in the morning,” you deadpanned.

Everyone in the kitchen laughed, but your sister defended herself, “It’s Saturday, I want to know in preparation for tonight.”

“Tonight?” Mat’s voice sounded just as confused as his face.

You rolled your eyes, “She wants to sit around the fire pit outside and drink.”

“That sounds fun,” He looked at your sister with a smile, “I’m not too picky, whatever you have is fine.”

As the day continued, everything went more smoothly than you could’ve ever imagined. Mat clearly got along with your family, which made you happier than ever, and you walked around your hometown with him. While you loved the dynamic Mat was creating with your family, it felt nice to have some alone time with him. Especially when he slipped his hand into yours and pulled you close.

And when you were back at the house, and the sun was just starting to set after dinner was all cleaned up, your dad and Mat went to start the fire pit outside. You grabbed a few blankets, your mom made sure there were seats for everyone outside, and your sister grabbed the bottle of wine and glasses.

The fire crackled as you pushed the screen door forward to walk outside. You set the blankets down on the backs of one of the chairs as you made your way over to Mat, who was sitting on a little bench. With a little skip in your step, you walked over and plopped down next to him.

With your head on his shoulder, he threw an arm around you and pulled you in close. You pressed a single kiss to his jaw, “What’re you drinking?”

He shrugged, “Whatever your dad is having.”

“Show off,” you snorted.

Mat’s shoulders softly shook with laughter, “Need to keep impressing him.”

“You play professional hockey,” it was your sister’s voice that took both you and Mat out of your own little world. She came over and handed you a glass of wine, “You can just breathe and he’ll be impressed with you.”

Mat’s face turned red and you gladly took the wine from your sister, “She’s not really wrong,” you said to Mat.

“But I––”

The three of you stopped talking when you heard the squeak of the screen door open. All eyes were focused on your mom walking out with your dad not too far behind, with two glasses of liquor in his hands.

Your mom sat down in a chair, with your sister giving her a glass of wine too, and your dad walked toward you and Mat.

“Hope you like whiskey,” your dad chuckled as he handed Mat a glass.

Mat nodded in appreciation, “This is perfect, thank you.”

As everyone got settled in their seats, you threw the blanket over you and Mat, because you knew that would be the only way for Mat to feel comfortable holding your hand in front of your parents. And your assumption was correct. With the fire, and it being the beginning of April, a blanket felt perfect, but you liked the way his hand felt between yours more.

“He poured you whiskey over ice,” you smiled into your wine glass, “He loves you.”

Mat tried to conceal his smile, but you knew how much it meant to get the approval of your dad.

That night turned out to be one of your favorite night’s ever. Everyone had themselves a good time drinking, your sister eventually brought out her speaker and played music, and everyone––including Mat himself––had a good laugh when they heard him shamelessly singing along to Drops of Jupiter.

Nothing could compare to the bliss you felt in that moment, holding Mat’s hand under the blanket, as everyone had the time of their life.

–––

Sunday night came sooner than expected and that meant your little vacation was close to an end. Both you and Mat had to get back to New York, but your parents––especially your dad––encouraged the two of you to come back whenever you felt like it.

You were stood by your mom as your dad and Mat were kneeling next to his tires, checking the air pressure.

After a few minutes of hushed conversation between them, that you tuned out, they both stood up. Your dad wiped his hands on jeans, “They seem fine to me.”

Mat looked a bit embarrassed as he brought one of his hands to rub behind his neck, “Yeah…I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden the light started to blink…”

“No worries at all,” your dad said, “Better to be safe than sorry. If it happens again, there are a few gas stations before you hit the highway.”

Mat nodded with a closed lipped smile, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” He then looked over at you, “Ready?”

With a nod, you gave your mom one last hug and promised that you’d see her again soon. And just when you let go of your mom and turned around to walk to Mat’s car, you saw your dad and Mat shake hands, before your dad brought him in for a small hug.

Your dad placed a small clap on Mat’s back before pulling away, “Take care,” his eyes fell on you for a brief second, before looking back at Mat, “Alright?”

Understanding the underlying meaning of what your dad meant, Mat nodded his head firmly, “Always.”

After saying bye to your dad, you and Mat hopped in the car for the second time. And this time, whatever light started to blink wasn’t there, and the two of you pulled out of the driveway, with your parents waving.

“Told you you had nothing to worry about,” You turned to smile at him.

Mat rolled his eyes, “Whatever.”

As he pulled up to a stop sign, you quickly leaned over and pressed a kiss on his cheek, “Thank you, again, for coming. It really meant a lot to my parents.” Mat sat at the stop sign and turned toward you as your voice dwindled off with your next sentence, “And it meant a lot to me.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Mat furrowed his eyebrows in seriousness, “And I had a really great time with your family.” He smiled as he picked up your hand, “I love you, you know.”

You squeezed his hand in appreciation, “I love––”

“Shit.”

A loud honk from behind––And Mat swearing––interrupted your sentence and it caused him to drop your hand, look both ways to make sure there was no oncoming traffic, and stepped on the gas pedal. You laughed at his face turning a deep shade of red as he slowed down his speed.

“It’s not funny.”

You leaned back in the seat and wiped a few tears from the corner of your eye, “It was so––you looked so scared––and you swore––”

“Whatever,” Mat grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile on his face, that you knew he agreed with you that it was a little funny.

Once your laughing settled down, you finished your sentence, “I love you, too.”

With his eyes straight ahead on the road, Mat blindly picked your hand up and gave it a squeeze, “You better.”

And it was that moment that made you realize you didn’t want to say I love you to anyone else, except for Mat, for the rest of your life.

–––

The trees were bare as you drove down the streets of your hometown. Your windows were rolled up to keep the frigid December air outside; and the sun was hidden beneath an array of clouds, just like the nonexistent smile on your face. And when you looked both ways as you came to a stop sign, you were reminded that there wasn’t a person accompanying you in the passenger seat.

Part of you thought about cracking the windows open slightly, because letting in the brisk air would make you feel something other than the numbness that had made a home in the center of your chest recently.

You tried to ignore the sting behind your eyes, but trying your hardest to not focus on everything that had happened in the last few weeks caused your mind to do the exact opposite. In a matter of seconds, you were only thinking about everything that happened nearly two weeks ago. Your frown deepened because how did everything blow up in your face.

Nearly two weeks ago, Mat broke up with you.

For you, it felt like it came out of nowhere. But for Mat, he said that he had been feeling it for a few weeks. It started off with Mat cautiously bringing up how he felt like he didn’t see you enough, then to you defending your work schedule and how hockey had started back up again, and by the end of the night, you had failed to hold back your tears as Mat kept apologizing about how he felt like the two of you were “growing apart.”

You left his place before he could give you another reason as to why he didn’t want to be with you, and a day and a half later, when you made sure he was at hockey practice, you picked up your stuff from his place and left your key on his counter.

The loud honk of a car horn from behind didn’t phase you in the slightest.

Carefully, you checked to make sure there weren’t any cars at the all-way stop, and drove off. You weren’t too far from your parents house, and spent the rest of the drive on autopilot.

Soon enough, you were in front of your old house. With your hands gripping around the steering wheel, you screwed your eyes tight and inhaled a deep breath; I’m fine, you repeated the lie in your head as you exhaled, I’m fine.

With a few more breathing exercises, you decided it was time to face your family. Opening the car door felt like ripping off a band aid as you took your duffle bag out from the back seat.

Sluggishly, you walked up the driveway to the front door. And with another deep breath, you silently whispered “I’m fine” to yourself before placing your hand on the handle to open the door. The first thing you saw was your sister sitting on the bottom step of the staircase.

She looked up from her phone with a surprised face, “You’re here early.”

You mustered up the smallest of smiles, “There was barely any traffic.”

Hesitantly, she nodded her head because she didn’t buy your lie. And she was right not to because you had requested the day off from work so you could get out of New York and to your family as soon as possible. Even though it was one of the most populated cities in the world, you felt suffocated by the thought of potentially running into Mat at any given time.

You needed out of the city like he wanted out of the relationship.

“How are––Are you––You know…” Your sister stumbled over her words, backtracking every time she was about to ask how you were because she knew the answer to that already. She apologetically smiled and itched the bridge of her nose, “Want a hug?”

You took an audible deep breath, and nodded, “Yeah.”

She kindly didn’t point out the way your voice cracked.

With her arms wrapped tightly around you, you squeezed her back as if you were about to fall off the Empire State Building. While your friends in the city had comforted you, there was nothing more comforting than a hug from a family member in a time of distress.

When she felt your grasp around her loosen, she took a step back, but kept her hands on your shoulder, “Do you want water? Or some tea?”

You shook your head and politely declined her offer, “I think I’m gonna put my stuff in my room and then come down.”

She nodded her head with a small smile and you turned around to head up the stairs.

Trudging up the stairs felt like it took too much energy than it should have, but you reasoned with yourself that between driving and being emotionally exhausted…It was fine to feel winded walking up the stairs.

You pushed open the door to your childhood bedroom, dropped your bag on the floor, and went straight to your bed. Unpacking your clothes could wait a few minutes.

Your head was buried into your pillows, the comforting scent of your childhood surrounded you, as you let out a shaky breath. Everything is fine, you repeated, I’m fine. But the more you kept saying the little mantra, the more you felt your throat tighten and the stinging behind your eyes intensify.

No, you scolded yourself as you sat up on your bed, no crying.

So you did your best to distract yourself; you decided to unpack. You absolutely hated to unpack your belongings, especially since you were only going to be home for the weekend, but you hated wrinkled clothing more. And that was your motivation to hang up all of your articles of clothing.

You had just finished hanging up your last sweater, but had let go of it too soon, so the sweater fell to the floor. Letting out an annoyed sigh, you bent down to pick it up, but something blue in the back of your closet caught your eye.

Holding your breath, you hadn’t seen that shade of navy blue in a few weeks.

With shaky hands, and your fallen sweater long forgotten, you grabbed the sweatshirt that was pushed in the back of your closet. And once you brought it out into the light, you sucked in a deep breath, because your thoughts were confirmed when you saw the familiar Islanders logo on the front.

It was as if that sweatshirt was the final key. The final key to unlocking the heart wrenching memory of the day that the relationship you thought would last forever…ended. All you could do was clutch the sweatshirt in your fist and remember.

You remembered the painful sting in your chest when you first arrived at his place and he slightly moved out of the way when you went in for a hug.  

You remembered the lightheadedness you felt when you realized that your worst fear was suddenly starting to become a reality.

You remembered the ringing in your ear when he asked if you felt it too.

“Feel what?” The words barely came out.

“This,” Mat stood at the other side of the kitchen as he gestured his hands between the two of you, “This-–This space. This disconnect.” You were left speechless as he rubbed his face with his hands, it didn’t look like he was enjoying himself having this conversation with you, and that left you even more confused.

“What––Where is this coming from?”

Mat was a very perceptive person, but he ignored the way your hands slightly shook in panic and how your breaths grew shallower.

“I’ve been feeling it for a few weeks,” he confessed in a strained voice, “We’re growing apart––I never see you anymore––”

You let out a laugh of disbelief, “Never see me? You––You just came back from a God knows how long road trip from the west coast!” You waited to see if he had anything to say, but he didn’t. “I work a typical nine to five job, I have time for you. But you––Hockey is––”

“Hockey’s what?” Mat’s voice was challenging as he carried himself across the kitchen to you. He narrowed his eyes, “Want to finish that sentence?”

With a sigh, you took a deep breath and squeezed your eyes shut. This is not happening, you repeated in your head, This can absolutely not be happening.

You opened your eyes and tried your best to remain calm, even though on the inside you could feel your soul shatter. And it would only take one vicious sentence from him to break absolutely everything inside of you.

“I don’t want to fight,” you took a deep breath because you knew whichever way this discussion went, a fight was bound to happen, “But I have time for you. I make time for you. I know hockey is demanding, I know it’s not a typical job, but if we both work at it, we can make more time for each other.”

“What time?” Mat let out an irritated laugh. You wanted to believe that he wasn’t irritated at you, and that he was irritated at hockey instead, but with his earlier confession of disconnection, you didn’t know what to believe.

“You just complained about me being gone for an extended amount of time.”

You picked at a loose piece of skin by your thumb, “I did, yes–—I know.” You let out a shaky breath, “But we talked, we FaceTimed, we kept up that connection.” You pleaded with him, “What do you––What can I do?”

The anger washed away from his face and you saw that it was replaced with remorse.

With his eyes casted downward, he frowned, “Is there…Is there anything left to do?”

You were left stunned at his ease of abandoning your relationship. In the time you had known Mat, he was never a quitter. He never gave up on anything he was passionate about, even with the trivial things that he didn’t quite care about, he always saw them through. He was an athlete…He never gave up on anything.

So why was he giving up on you?

When you took a step back, he whipped his head up to look at you. His eyes were red; full of pain and heartache as if he wasn’t the one surrendering. He took a step toward you, but like a dance, you took another step back.

“Mat, we’ve been together for over a year,” your voice wavered at the thought of all those months with him dissipating into nothing, “What is happening.”

His best response was to keep silent and shrug his shoulders.

Reality hit you like a ton of bricks. This is it, you thought to yourself, I’m losing the most important person in my life. A tear rolled down your cheek as you let out a hiccup from trying to hold your breath to stop the scratchiness in the back of your throat. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth.

“I hate seeing you cry,” he whispered softly.

“Then why––why are you doing this?”

Mat ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep breath as he leaned his head back to look at the ceiling, “It’s holding me back. Everything is just––I can feel it affecting me and it’s not what I want––”

You heard his reasons differently though, instead of ‘it’s’, you heard ‘you.’

You’re holding me back.

You’re affecting me.

You’re not what I want.

All while you felt your relationship was stronger than ever, Mat felt like it was falling apart at the seems.

“I’m sorry,” Mat sniffled, “I’ll always love you, but––”

You shook your head, “You––No.” You brought both hands up to rub away your tears, but when you dropped your arms down at your sides, the tears you washed away reappeared. “You can break up with me, this relationship can be over, whatever.” You glared at him, “But you cannot say that.”

Mat scoffed, “Say that I love you?” You nodded angrily as Mat flared his nostrils, “But I do! I can’t help that this is how I feel about our relationship now, but I loved you then and I love you now! Things just aren’t working now––”

“While I don’t like what I’m hearing, I’ll respect your feelings,” you choked out, “but you need to respect mine and not say those words to me.”

“I want you to know that I still feel love for you,” his voice trembled, “That I’ll always––”

“Then why are you quitting on us?!”

“Because I feel like I never see you!” Mat threw his hands up in the air, “Sure, we can love each other, but what about the actual connection of a relationship? Furthering something that we can make a future out of?”

“I’m always here for you in New York when you get back,” you clenched your jaw, “We see each other as often as possible between our schedules! What do you––Do you want me to come out to away games?” You raised your eyebrows at him, “Because while I wish I could be at every one of your games, I can’t. I have a job. Just like you have a job––”

Mat scoffed, “So it all comes back to hockey?”

“Maybe if you put in a bit more effort, you wouldn’t feel this way.” You fired back.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really,” your voice softened when you saw his eyes betray him for a moment. Instead of the fiery eyes that burned through you like a wildfire, you saw eyes that looked one sentence away from breaking a dam of tears. And while you wanted him to feel every ounce of betrayal and heartbreak that you were going through, there was a piece of your heart that still loved him too much to put him through that kind of pain.

So instead, you said what you were feeling, which had the possibility to cause the same damage if you had just berated him.

“If hockey is your one true love in life, then that’s great,” you failed miserably at faking a smile, “I’m happy for you. Happy that you found something you can fully commit to and put in effort to make work even when it would just be easier to quit.”

Mat almost reached a hand out to you, but brought it back down to his side after a second thought, as he softly shook his head and whispered, “You know that’s not true–-”

“But it is,” you wiped away dry tears from your cheek with the heel of your palm, “And it’s…Whatever. It’s whatever, but if you don’t put that same effort into your relationships with people––If you don’t prioritize the right things in life––then you’ll end up alone and unloved.”

Mat stood frozen in the middle of his kitchen. And when he snapped out of whatever trance he was under, all he could manage was to shake his head as a single tear fell down his cheek, “You know I’d do anything for you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, “I’m not asking you to give up hockey. I’d never do that because I know how happy it makes you and it’s your career,” you gave him a weak smile because the realization set in, “But I think that last sentence is a lie.”

“I just––” Mat pinched the bridge of his nose, “Something is off, we’re not the same––”

You shook your head, tuning out more reasons why the man you loved more than life itself didn’t want to be with you anymore. You walked over to where your bag hung over the back of a chair, picked it up, and then walked toward the front door for your shoes.

“Where are you going?”

Once your shoes were securely on, you turned to face him one last time. He looked as if he also couldn’t believe that this relationship was over, even though he was the one who pulled the trigger. His mouth was slightly agape, eyebrows raised in anxiousness, and eyes filled to the brim with tears.

“Home,” you said matter-of-factly, “I really don’t want to hear more reasons why I wasn’t enough.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry––”

You were out the door before he finished his sentence.

“Y/N,” a voice pulled you out of the nightmare that was doomed to play on repeat in your mind for the rest of your life, “Y/N?”

You blinked a few times to see your mom kneeling in front of you. She had a hand placed on your thigh and her eyes were filled with concern. But when her eyes flicked down to what you were clutching on for dear life in your hands, her face dropped as she looked back up at you, “Oh, sweetie…”

“I’m fine,” you sniffled as you itched your cheek. But when you scratched your skin, your cheek felt damp, and upon further inspection of wiping away the wet substance on your cheek, it dawned on you that you were crying.

“Y/N…” your mother repeated your name cautiously, expecting you to hit your tipping point soon.

With a shake of your head, you folded the sweatshirt up. But with the way your hands shook, the folding wasn’t even and the sleeve poked out a bit, so you unfolded the sweatshirt just to re-fold it again, “I’ll donate this somewhere.” The sweatshirt was still uneven, so you refolded it again, “I’m sure someone would buy it fast, it––It’s in good condition––”

Your mom tried to take the sweatshirt away, but you tugged it back toward your chest, refolding it again.

“New York teams are pretty––pretty popular,” you let out a hiccup as your vision started to blur, “I––maybe I can bring this back with me? Give it away as a birthday present?” Your chin wobbled as you felt your breathing come out uneven, “It’ll make someone happy, right?”

Your mom gently grabbed you by the wrist to stop your folding of Mat’s sweatshirt. Sitting on the floor, by the edge of your closet in defeat, you clenched your jaw tight as you sucked in a deep breath. Finally, you looked up at your mom through your teary vision and tried to sniffle away your runny nose.

“It’ll make someone as happy as he made me.”

She didn’t have to say anything for you to bring his sweatshirt––one that still smelled like him––up to your face as you openly sobbed.

You had been in other relationships, loved other people, been upset when those relationships ended…But you had never loved someone as much as you loved Mat. You thought that Mat was your forever––the person that the universe specifically made just for you––But you lost him.

Your mom wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into her chest. Easily, you fell into her and continued to cry as you clutched the last remaining piece you had of him close to your chest. Your mom didn’t say anything as she cradled you; she knew that no words could mend this feeling of cataclysmic heartbreak, so she simply offered you her presence and a shoulder to cry on.

“I––Mom, what did I do wrong?” While your words were muffled in his sweatshirt, she heard you loud and clear, and it broke her heart.

She shushed you as she ran a hand up and down your spine, “You did nothing wrong, absolutely nothing…”

“But he––We’re not––I thought that he was the one,” you peered up from the sweatshirt, eyes puffy and irritated from crying, to see tears welled up in your mom’s eyes. You wanted to ask her why she was crying, but an all too familiar pain ripped through your chest as you let out a whine, “Mom.”

Again, she brought you back into her chest and held you close.

“I––I told him he would end up alone and––and unloved,” you tried to speak through the tears, but your erratic breathing made it hard to get a full sentence out without it sounding chopped up.

She shook her head, “We all say things when we’re upset.”

“No, I––I told him that because I––I don’t want anyone else to love him,” you let out a whimper, “I wanted to be…Want to be the only person who loves him like that.” You blinked a few times to look up at your mom and frowned when you saw her tear stained cheeks, “Why are you crying?”

Your mom let out a small laugh and wiped under her eyes “I feel every heartache you go through,” she sniffled and tried her best to offer you a reassuring smile, “If he couldn’t recognize how great of a person you are, then you’ll find someone else who will.”

“But he’s the only one,” you sat up, continued to hug his sweatshirt close to your chest, and reciprocated her sad smile, “I don’t want to fall in love with anyone else.”

Knowing that the heartache you felt was still fresh, your mom knew that no matter how much she tried to convince you that you would find someone else, it would be useless. “I know,” she swiped her thumb under your eye, catching the last of your tears, “Why don’t you take a nap, I’ll come up when it’s dinner.”

You nodded and made your way over to your bed. Once you were under your covers, the blankets tucked right under your chin, your mom shut off your lights and softly closed the door.

While you should’ve knocked out in a few seconds, every time you closed your eyes, all you saw was Mat listing reason after reason why he didn’t want to be with you. Your own personal hell. So, while your eyes stung from crying your heart out, you kept them wide open as you stared at the ceiling out of fear of what you would see when they closed.

A few hours had passed and there was a knock on your door. You let out a small, come in, and saw your dad walk in.

Slowly, you sat up, wiping away a few stray tears, and let out a chuckle when he placed a glass down on your nightstand, “Whiskey over ice?”

He offered a sympathetic smile, “The best cure for what you’re going through.”

For what you’re going through, he said it as if he was still in denial of your break up. Which was fair, because you had never seen your dad warm up so fast to one of your boyfriends.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, “If you’re feeling up for it.”

You smiled in appreciation, “Thanks, but I’m not too hungry…Might try to sleep some more.” Your dad raised his eyebrows, “I’ll eat in the middle of the night when I wake up, promise.”

He smiled and gave in to your promise as he retreated toward the door. He was halfway out when he decided to stick his head back in, “You know, I never really liked him.”

It was the first genuine laugh you had let out in weeks. Because both of you knew how much of a lie that was.

Whenever your dad was in New York, he texted Mat and they would meet up for a meal or drinks, and sometimes they wouldn’t include you in plans. Your dad never missed an Islander’s game, and for his birthday, Mat had gifted your dad a signed Barzal jersey as a joke. They had their own relationship, and in turn, it contributed to the happiness you felt with Mat.

But nonetheless, your dad was always on your team.

After his comment, he slowly shut the door like your mom had done earlier, and this time, you really did try your best to sleep.

Sleep had been impossible since Mat broken things off with you. It took everything in you not to call his number and have him talk you to sleep most nights. And you wished that deleting his number would be enough, because even if you had deleted it, you had it memorized and could easily dial his number with your eyes closed.

But with his sweatshirt that you still held close to body, sleep came a little easier.

PART TWO

[alderaani]

Maybe a mixture of 65 and 58 with Wolffe or Rex please?

58 - Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed

65 - One Small Kiss, Pulling Away For An Instant, Then Devouring Each Other

A/N: from this prompt list! thanks so much for requesting something, i’ve been having a crisis of confidence over writing the past couple of weeks, but this got me back in some sort of groove. 

warnings: slight injury, canon-typical violence, very mildly suggestive. 

Wolffe x gn!reader:

He hasn’t spoken to you in hours. You eye the rigid line of his back across the hangar as he directs the men unloading munitions and salvaged equipment, the sharp, pointed motions of his hands and the angry jerks of his bucket as he snaps off orders spelling out his agitation.

“Maybe I should -,” you start, before Sinker interrupts, his hand on your shoulder forcing you back onto the crate you’re sat on, while one of the medics wraps your ankle. 

“Uh, no you shouldn’t,” he says. “Give him some time to cool off. You gave us a real fright out there, you know?”

You wince. It had been a split second decision down on the surface, an unexpected attack that had left you pushed at the edge of the camp and separated from the rest of the 104th with a new batch of shinies who hadn’t even earnt their paint yet. The detonators in your backpack seemed a better option than getting gunned down, but setting them had put you perilously close to the blast zone. You don’t remember much past the wave of heat and the sensation of flying; the next memory you have is waking up in the transport with your head in Sinker’s lap, his pinched face staring down at you.

“That’s what he’s mad about? But -,” you splutter, eyes darting between Sinker and Wolffe’s distant figure. “Would he have preferred I just wait to get shot?”

You go to stand again, but pushing against Sinker’s grip is like wrestling with an iron bar. The medic yanks on your trouser leg, too, grunting that you need to stay still. 

“Of course not. But, come on, you know he gets stupid about you. Think he’s more mad with himself that he let it happen.”

You frown. Now that doesn’t make any sense. “What? Sinker, what are you talking about? What you mean, he gets stupid about me?”

Sinker stares at you in silence for a couple of seconds, while the medic - Gruff, you think - shakes with laughter. 

“...Boost was right.” He shakes his head in bewilderment and a small amount of disgust. “I actually can’t believe it. You really are that oblivious. Maker, not a braincell between the pair of you.”

He eyes Gruff, who has finished with your ankle and has moved onto sluicing out the gash on your forearm to assess the damage.

“Can you believe this?” 

Gruff snorts. “I try not to believe anything around here, you leave me out of this, Sinker.” 

“What are you talking about?” You whine, glancing over at Wolffe again and jolting when instead of meeting the back of his helmet, you find his visor staring back. He stays like that for a second before stiffly turning away, his hands clenching into fists. You want to be angry, furious with him for pinning this on you, but instead you feel your eyes sting. Dropping your gaze, you sniff hard, blaming the way your throat constricts on the hard day rather than the furious set of Wolffe’s shoulder.

“Oh no, I’m not gonna be the one to let that tooka out of the bag,” Sinker laughs, then catches sight of your expression. “Hey, are you - osik. Look, he’ll come back round. He just doesn’t like getting scared.”

You’re about to snap something back, how you didn’t exactly enjoy almost getting blown up either, but if you speak you’re not sure if tears will come out instead. You’re saved by Gruff pushing to his feet.

“That arm needs stitches and if we get up to the medbay I can use a bone knitter on the ankle. Give me a hand, Sinker?”

You only look back once as they hoist you up between them, your stomach dropping like a stone when you find Wolffe is nowhere in sight.

-

Things seem only marginally better the other side of the fresher. It’s never the same without water, and you stayed under the sonics too long, trying to wash away the phantom feeling of grime, so now your skin feels tight and dry. All you want is to curl up in your bunk and sleep for the next several rotations, but rest won’t come. 

Every time you lie down all you can think about is Wolffe turning away from you, and then you spend the next twenty minutes oscillating hopelessly between rage and wanting to find him and apologise. 

The knock on your door is actually a relief - it pulls you away from sitting at your desk, rolling your comm in your hand and trying to convince yourself that typing out a message when you’re tired and emotional is a spectacularly bad idea.

At least, it’s a relief until you see who’s on the other side.

“Never, ever do that again.”

Wolffe looms over you, quietly furious, his bucket under one arm. You let go of the door controls and try to step backwards, but he follows, boxing you in between your desk and the wall. After a second of staring at him, jaw working soundlessly, rage floods through your bones to settle hot in your belly. 

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” You snap back. “You’re behaving like a child.”

Wolffe slams his helmet down on the desk, expression spasming. “Didn’t have - you could have died.”

“So could you!” You protest, crossing your arms over your chest. “We were being attacked, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Wolffe snarls, running an agitated hand through his hair. “And you decided to get yourself blown up.”

“To save the men!” You counter, pushing up close to him as anger outweighs intimidation. “You’d have rather I just let them get mown down by a pack of B1s?” 

Wolffe scowls and pushes in too, so that you’re chest to chest and glaring directly into each other’s faces. 

“ Of course not, I - They’re trained soldiers. Trust them to do their job next time and work with them instead of being a distraction.”

A distraction? The absolute nerve of him. You make a small shrieking noise in the back of your throat and drop backwards to try and relieve the urge to smack that stupid frown right off his face. What’s almost worse is that the words actually hurt. His attention and approval always mean so much to you, more than you’re willing to admit even to yourself. For him to treat you like a wayward child...it stings. Badly. And you never go down easy when you’re backed into a corner. 

“A distraction to who?” You spit. “I don’t know why you’re being such an ass about this. The others have to make calls like that all the time and run the risk that it won’t work out, and you never go after them about it. What the hell makes me so different?”

Wolffe splutters. “Because - because -”

He breaks off and swears something in mando’a. For a second, you think he’s going to push you. His hand comes up, but instead of shoving it fists in your shirt and pulls. 

You stumble into him, his other hand catching your hip and pinning you against the plastoid, and you open your mouth to ask him what the hell he’s doing - 

His mouth slants over yours.

Your mind goes blank, screeching utterly to a halt. The world narrows down to the dry press of his lips, the heavy weight of his hands, and you cannot believe this is happening. Almost as quickly as it starts, though, Wolffe lets you go with a small gasp, so abruptly that it gives you whiplash.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes wide. His tongue darts out and touches the curve of his bottom lip. “I’m -”

In the half-second it takes for you to catch up, you realise several things: Wolffe just kissed you. He kissed you, and Sinker was right; you are both idiots. You would really like him to do it again, but instead the bastard is now trying to apologise for it. 

Without really considering it, you slide your hand round the back of his neck, sinking it into the hem of his blacks and tugging him back down. Your back hits the wall with an oomph as you press your lips urgently to his, pouring in every desperate month you’ve spent pining after him as your free hand scrabbles for purchase on his armour.

For a moment Wolffe is totally rigid, a taut line of shock, his lips stilled against your own. For a moment, you think you’ve completely fucked this up. But then he makes a noise, a little groan in the back of his throat, and his hand comes up against the wall next to your head, returning the kiss hungrily, desperately. His other arm snakes round your waist, and you could drown in him, you really could. His hand dips under the hem of your shirt and you gasp into his mouth at the warm touch. Wolffe huffs and licks in, the first slide of his tongue and the slick wet heat of his mouth electrifying something in your veins. You whine, high and needy, hitching upwards as far as you can. 

Without breaking contact Wolffe’s hands slide down over your ass, grasp under your legs and lift, wrapping them around his waist with only a small grunt at the effort. You pull his bottom lip into your mouth and graze lightly with your teeth, savouring the shudder that runs through his body before pressing back in, sealing your lips together as he moves, carrying you with him.

He stumbles backwards, hands steady under your thighs, until his knees hit the back of your bunk. Then he goes down, catching you so that you land with your legs either side of his body. It dislodges your mouths and he stares up at you, his eyes wide, his lips kiss-bruised, a flush high in his cheeks. 

“Shit,” he says again, but his voice is soft and dazed. You laugh softly as he clears his throat, hand coming up to thumb over your cheekbone. “I, uh, guess we’ve got some things to talk about.”

“Yeah, but later.” you say, leaning in and stealing another kiss. “Much later.”

taglist // @nelba @bad-batch-of-fics @majorshiraharu @leias-left-hair-bun @simping-for-fives @battletales @bluejay6800 @snippytano @missinashkin @iscream4clones // list here

[rufousnmacska]

Only You

A Manorian arranged marriage fic requested by an anon.

Huge thanks to @itach-i for her help and advice with plot and beta reading! ❤️

Previously, in Part One

Previously, in Part Two

*

PART THREE

*

Manon jumped at the knock on her door. She’d sat up all night watching the fire slowly die, unable to sleep. Stiff from sitting in a chair in a cold room for so many hours, she moved slowly to the door. Expecting Glennis, she was surprised to find Yrene waiting to come in. The healer’s smile disappeared when she got a good look at Manon.

“I’m sure I look how I feel,” Manon said by way of greeting. She turned and went back to her chair.

Shivering, Yrene tried to get the fire going again, adding some kindling and blowing on the few stubborn embers that remained in the fireplace. The flames caught, but it would be a while before any heat radiated from it. She sat opposite Manon, watching her carefully.

“Just say it,” Manon said.

“Say what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

She’d come to consider Yrene a good friend over the last two years. The woman was kind and an exceptionally talented healer, helping Manon overcome some of the darkest moments of her grief. Yrene also helped her navigate her way through the complexities of her relationship with Dorian, giving her advice and translating some of the human customs she didn’t understand. Like exchanging gifts. Manon had never given or received a birthday gift before. Yrene not only helped her find one for Dorian, she listened without judgment as Manon explained how foreign the concept was to her. The idea for the memory book had come to her after imagining what Yrene might get if Dorian and Manon were marrying.

Yrene sighed, resting her head back and staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve never seen this room before,” she said, absentmindedly. “It’s quite lovely.”

Manon glanced up. The ceiling was painted like the sky at twilight. A deep, rich blue turning black with stars scattered across it. It was beautiful, and it reminded her of those frozen nights she and Dorian and the Thirteen spent camped in the Fangs in search of the Crochans. She recognized a constellation or two and realized it was likely the same night sky. She didn’t think there was enough time for him to have commissioned the mural between her accepting the invitation and now. But she’d learned long ago that it was foolish to underestimate Dorian’s love of grand romantic gestures. Whether it had been completed for this visit or not, the intention was the same. She leaned back to examine the stars, smiling slightly as memories came rushing back – Asterin teasing Dorian about his pretty blue eyes, Vesta’s shameless flirting that often came dangerously close to provoking Manon’s jealousy, Sorrel gifting Dorian an Ironteeth blade that he still carried, Ghislaine getting caught up in talking about books with him. They’d only traveled together for a couple of short months. And yet despite the hardships, there was so much good to remember. It made her think of the memory book, and how much she wished to be sharing it with him as his wife.

“Josie asked for you the other day,” Yrene said, drawing Manon’s attention back down from the ceiling.

“She said my name?” Yrene and Chaol’s daughter had just begun forming complex words the last time Manon had seen her.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “it was close enough that we knew who she meant. She mixed up the words a wee bit, so it came out Ma Nauntie instead of Auntie Manon. She’d seen one of Adarlan’s wyverns flying over the castle and thought it was Abraxos.” Yrene was grinning at the memory. “I’m afraid she butchered his name. But we’ve got her trying Brax for short.”

Manon was returning Yrene’s smile, but she didn’t know what to say. For as fond as she’d grown of Yrene, she’d come to care for Josie just as much. Would she ever see them again after today?

As if reading her mind, Yrene said, “I know it might be hard for you. To come here again. So I was thinking, maybe someday we can visit you?” Tears spilled from Yrene’s eyes and she pulled out a handkerchief.

“Of course! You can come back with me tonight if you wish,” Manon said, stretching out a hand. Sometimes it still felt strange for her to offer comfort to others. But it was something Yrene knew about her, something she never called attention to. And now, the healer leaned forward to take Manon’s hand in hers.

Yrene tried to smile but it just made her cry harder. She stood and walked away, taking a moment to blow her nose and dry her eyes. When she returned, she said, “Please don’t marry that fae prick. He’s not good enough for you. And I don’t trust him.”

Manon laughed, part of her shocked at the possibility, the other shocked at hearing Yrene swear. “No need to worry about that,” she said, further amused by Yrene’s exaggerated relief. “I no longer have plans to marry anyone. A consort isn’t required either. So, when the time is right, I shall only be in need of a … What was that word you so eloquently used just now? I will only need a prick.”

Yrene’s cheeks reddened as she laughed. “Is it not the best word for him?”

Manon grew serious, thinking about her evening with Fennick. He’d been too flirtatious and self-absorbed, and a bit rude towards the others at the table with them. But based on her experiences with fae males, Fennick’s behavior was typical, with Rowan being the exception. Yes, he was arrogant, but he’d also expressed sympathy for the Thirteen, and shared his past heartbreak with her. She knew what Dorian thought of the prince and wasn’t surprised that Yrene would also dislike him.

“Why don’t you trust him?” Manon asked.

Yrene sighed and bit her lip as she searched for an answer. “It’s mostly a gut feeling. He barely addressed Dorian. And him telling us about coming here to find a mate didn’t endear him to anyone. Even Eveline thought he was an ass.” At Manon’s expression, she offered an apology for mentioning the young woman.

“No, don’t worry about that. I’m more interested in what you said about Fennick. He came here looking for a mate?”

“That’s what he said. Some tale or superstition of his grandmother’s claiming fae would find their mate at a wedding. It sounded made up. And when Eveline told him there were no other fae invited, he said he could have a bond with a human or witch.” Yrene shot her a wicked grin. “Dorian wanted to hit him, I could tell.”

Her own lips twitched upward at the thought. But her mind shifted quickly back to Fennick. She’d known of his intentions from the letter. But why antagonize Dorian? Yes, the male was conceited, but he hadn’t struck her as stupid. Yrene was watching her expectantly, but Manon just said, “Well, regardless, you don’t have to worry about him. I don’t intend to see him after today.”

“Thank the gods,” Yrene said, apparently letting the subject go.

Manon knew Yrene had an extra sense about people. Whether it was her healing magic or just her ability to read others, Manon didn’t know. But she trusted Yrene’s opinion and knew it wasn’t clouded by jealousy like Dorian’s. Yrene’s relief set off warning bells. Manon needed to think, and she welcomed the distraction it offered as she waited for the ceremony later today.

“Where is Josie now?” she asked.

“With Chaol. Actually, I should be getting back.”

“Do we have time for an early lunch before the ceremony? You could bring her up here.”

Yrene beamed at the offer, promising to return with her child in a few hours.

After the healer left, Manon bathed and dressed. She sent her guards off on separate errands, giving them the names of castle staff who might know the gossip that was most difficult to come by. Then she set out on her own search for information, something she should have done sooner.

***

Dorian heard shouting from the main stable and poked his head through the door. The head groom was sending stable hands off in every direction, calling out reminders about the diets of certain horses. She saw Dorian and walked over to greet him.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. One of my lead grooms didn’t show up for work this morning and we’re scrambling to get the horses fed.” The woman grabbed hold of a young boy and turned him around. “Other way, lad. And be careful. That horse bites.”

Dorian smiled. “Don’t mind me. I’m just headed for the wyvern paddock. Have they been fed yet?”

Only half listening, she nodded, then turned back to the chaos surrounding her. “Last time I give so much responsibility to one person,” she muttered.

Continuing around the main stable and towards the far end of the yard, he saw a figure standing by the building that housed the wyverns and stopped. But it was only Glennis. The white hair had fooled him for a split second. She was feeding a small, bluish gray wyvern.

“I thought you’d never give up your broom,” he said, holding out his hand towards Abraxos. The little wyvern snuffled against his palm and Dorian rubbed his snout.

Glennis waved a hand, feigning irritation at her new mode of transport. “Neither did I until this little trouble-maker hatched out of an egg.” She tossed a chunk of meat to her wyvern, then moved on to the next one. Apparently Abraxos had already received his breakfast. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” Glennis said, “the wyverns are more comfortable to ride. Especially for old witches like me.”

Dorian laughed, giving her his best smile. “Who are you kidding? You’re still young.” She snorted and waved him off again. As she fed the other wyverns, he turned back to Abraxos.

Fearing this would be his last chance to see the wyvern and hoping no one else would be here, he’d gotten up early to visit. Not that he’d actually slept. He couldn’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep. “Hey, Brax,” he cooed, stepping through the gate into the stall. The wyvern curled his long, barbed tail around Dorian’s feet as he continued petting his snout. Dorian pulled a small bouquet of flowers from his cloak and laughed as a low, contented sound rumbled from Abraxos’s chest.

“He’s not like that with just anyone.” Glennis was standing behind them. “Flowers or no flowers.”

“I know,” Dorian said.

“She’d be mad to see you spoiling him so much.”

He huffed a laugh. “I know.” But he didn’t stop.

Glennis knew why he was here and went back to spoil her own wyvern, giving him privacy.

After a while, Dorian inhaled, long and ragged, his breath pooling in the morning chill when he released it. Abraxos watched him, seeming to know this was a goodbye. The wyvern let out a sad whine and Dorian tipped his head forward to rest against Abraxos. “You take good care of her for me, Brax. All right?”

Abraxos huffed in agreement, enshrouding Dorian in a cloud of hot air. The pungent smell gave Dorian the perfect excuse for the tears that had gathered in his eyes as he said goodbye to the little scarred wyvern.

Glennis was not so easily fooled. She knew the reason for the shimmer in his eyes, but said nothing as they started back to the castle together. The main stable appeared to be under control and Dorian waved to the head groom as they passed.

“You were married to a Crochan prince,” Dorian said, breaking their silence as they climbed a hill. “Was it arranged, or did you choose each other?”

For all her talk of old age, Glennis didn’t struggle with the incline. “A bit of both. We’d known each other forever, and our parents had thought it was a good match. There was never any formal agreement but they encouraged us. It was a bond forged of love.”

“So, you were mates then?”

“Yes,” she said, pulling her cloak up around her neck as they reached the top and were exposed to the wind. “But witches don’t have mating bonds like the fae.” She stopped walking to think. “It’s not a tether, not a physical thing like it is to the fae. There’s no silent communication, no feral territoriality. It’s just a stronger connection than a normal relationship. Why are you asking?”

Dorian tried to shrug it off. “Just curious.” They started walking again and he moved so he might block the worst of the wind from reaching her. “Then it has nothing to do with witches having fae blood? I mean, Manon must have more than the average witch since she comes from a lineage without much human involvement.”

Glennis frowned. “Hmmm, maybe. I’d never really thought of it like that. Our fae blood is so diluted, I’m not sure that it really makes a difference.” She stopped, and by her sad eyes, he knew he’d failed to fool her again. “You think Manon is your mate.”

He wanted to say yes. How else to explain the depth of his feelings for her? That constant tug in his chest. Light as it may be, it still connected him to her. Perhaps it was the fae blood in her, making a mating bond between them stronger than with other witches. But then, wouldn’t that also make it more possible for her to be Fennick’s mate? No, he wouldn’t allow himself to go down that path. Not after a long night of fighting the worst his imagination could come up with.

Maybe what he had with Manon was just love. A strong love of two people who completed each other, filled in the pieces that were missing and held the other up when darkness set in. That would be enough, Dorian knew. He didn’t need a mating bond to love her.

Glennis was still waiting for his reply. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I don’t think it matters.” He’d meant the words differently than she took them. But when sorrow crept across her face, so deep it made his chest ache, he knew what she was thinking.

“No,” she said. “After today, I don’t think it will either.”

*****

Manon sat rigid, her eyes facing forward, ignoring all the stares and words whispered in her direction. She and Glennis had blessedly been ushered to a spot with only two available seats, ensuring Fennick could not sit next to her. Giselle and Lara were positioned nearby, but out of the way of other guests. Hearing Fennick’s voice as he took his seat a couple of rows behind them, Manon exchanged a look with Glennis.

After her lunch with Yrene and while they readied themselves for the ceremony, Manon and her guards had discussed what little they could find out about the prince. The two witches gathered minimal gossip from the castle workers. The prince had brought no attendants or valets of his own, and he’d made a show of turning down the head steward’s offer to provide him one. It wasn’t unusual for a noble to eschew servants, even for a long and important trip such as this. But it felt off given his formality and haughty nature. Of course, it kept him out of the streams of gossip among the staff.

Manon had gone herself to the royal library, hoping to find some information on Fennick’s lineage. The Whitethorn clan was old and spread out in the fae lands across the sea. And with his age, she thought perhaps he’d been mentioned in a genealogy or even history book. But the librarian had been unable to find anything substantial. The only occurrence of his name was in a recent book about the fae that included trees of the older families. Fennick was indeed a second cousin to Rowan and Sellene, stemming from a side of the family that Maeve had passed over when it came to titles and lands. How he’d risen to prince so quickly, she didn’t know. Sellene, ever practical and shrewd, had not seemed the type to toss out prestigious titles to just anyone. Nor was she the type, Manon realized, who would send an extravagant gift in an attempt to brag about her kingdom’s wealth.

They’d found nothing, and what little she did know made no sense. And yet, it left her unsettled. Glennis too. But, like the others, her grandmother had hated him from the start. In her mind, Manon had already dismissed him as a possible consort or provider of an heir. Yet she was still more ambivalent about Fennick’s flaws than Glennis and Yrene. His story about the human woman he’d almost given up his immortality for had touched a very raw nerve and stuck with her. Whether it was the faint similarities to her own situation, or just that she pitied him, she was unsure. Perhaps Yrene was wrong. And Glennis.

That was what unsettled her the most. It seemed impossible that both of them would misjudge the male. If only she weren’t here for Dorian’s wedding. Everything from her wits to her instincts were off kilter because of it, and she didn’t trust herself. Then again, if not for this wedding, she’d never have met Fennick and wouldn’t need to concern herself with him. The one good thing to come of it was the distraction it had provided her today.

There was movement at the front of the large chapel and Manon used every ounce of control to keep her face calm as Dorian and Chaol walked out towards the podium behind which the priest stood. Dressed in an azure jacket that brought out the brilliance of his eyes, he looked even more handsome than he had last night at dinner. Damaris hung from his side, and with his crown, he looked like a warrior king of old. This was it then, she thought, praying uselessly for more distractions or delays. Anything to keep her from having to watch Dorian pledge himself to another.

When he and Chaol took their places, the strings began to play a soft, beautiful melody. She couldn’t help herself and looked right at Dorian. He was, of course, staring at her. And for that moment, she pretended that she was walking to meet him. That she would be taking him as her king, becoming his queen, instead of Eveline. The hint of a smile caught his lips and she suspected, hoped, that he was imagining the same thing.

It wasn’t until Chaol lightly touched Dorian’s arm, drawing a frown in response, that she noticed the music had started over. She turned to Glennis and saw confusion, which was mirrored on the others in the crowd. Her grandmother stretched around to look back at the front entrance where the bride should have been standing.

“Maybe she has cold feet,” someone muttered.

In the first row, Lord Frey was turning red with rage. And right before he could jump up to go find his daughter and likely drag her down the aisle, Yrene came running in with a note in her hand.

***

Dorian hadn’t noticed anything. He’d been too busy looking at Manon. She was seated, so he couldn’t see the entire thing, but this dress rivaled the one she’d worn last night. A silvery gray color that matched the shimmering wings of her wyvern, the dress had a neckline that stretched across her collar bones, from shoulder to shoulder. Hanging down over her chest was a single red ruby, large enough to fit within the eye in the pommel of his sword. Her hair was braided into a crown atop her head. Despite their fight, despite everything, he smiled at her, unable to tear his gaze away. Unable to keep from wishing it was her walking towards him today.

Until Chaol tapped his arm and brought him back to reality. Where the musicians were fumbling to begin the processional again. Where Lord Frey was staring daggers at him for admiring Manon. Where Yrene was walking up the aisle instead of Eveline. He hadn’t even noticed Yrene wasn’t seated before them.

Trying to keep her voice low, she handed Dorian the letter she carried and said, “She’s gone. This was all she left.”

With so many eager ears and the heightened acoustics of the building, everyone heard her. Immediately, the chapel was in an uproar. Some guests were shocked, upset to see their king abandoned at the altar. Others were watching the scene unfold with glee, anxious for the tales they could tell afterwards. The priest stood with his mouth agape. Lord Frey was reaching for the letter, sputtering curses and pushing back the lords who’d allied with him. They were gathered around him, clamoring for an explanation. Manon and Glennis both stared wide-eyed at him, unsure how to react.

Dorian spun away from Lord Frey’s grasp and began to read.

Your Majesty,

Please forgive me for the lateness of this wedding gift. I had hoped to have it weeks ago, but my father is a paranoid man with many hideaways, and my efforts were delayed.

My father is not what he seems. He lost most of his gold during the war and has been pretending to be wealthy ever since. He fears nothing more than losing his title and being relegated to a life of poverty. His complaints to his neighbors about your rule were nothing more than talk. Is wasn’t until he was approached from afar that the talk turned into real threats of rebellion.

I was aware that someone was pushing my father down this path, offering to pay a rich reward for his work, but I didn’t know who until just an hour ago. A friend was finally able to procure some messages sent from the foreign party to my father as proof of their plan. They have been placed in your valet’s safe keeping. Ruben was always kind to me, and I believe him to be a trustworthy attendant to you.

I am sure you are curious about who is funding my father’s play at rebellion. I must confess I was shocked and confused to learn that Prince Fennick is behind the plot.

According to the messages, the prince had heard of my father’s money woes and came to him with a plan. My father was to stir up trouble among your nobles then offer up my hand in marriage as the only way to appease him and prevent a war.

I cannot be sure of the prince’s motives, but I suspect he has had his eye on your beloved witch queen for some time. I trust you will be able to get the details out of him.

I must also ask your forgiveness for my dreadful conduct in leaving you like this. The truth is, I am in love with a man named Costis, a groom in your stables. We had planned to run away, but my father pulled me unwillingly into his scheme before we could manage it. Costis was able to acquire the letters just this morning. As I have been freed from my father, we are now off to live our own lives.

I said above that this is my wedding gift to you. Of course, as we are no longer getting married, I do not give it to you as a wife to her husband. Instead, I offer this to my King, who is also now free to be with the witch he loves.

With hope for a long and happy life with your queen,

Eveline

 Dorian wasn’t sure if he was breathing. He rubbed at his eyes, skimmed over the message again and again, making sure it was real and not some figment of his overwrought imagination. Passing it to Chaol, he ordered him to arrest Frey. And then he found Manon in the crowd and ran to her.

Her face held a million questions, but there was no time. They’d waited long enough. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her. After a second’s hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back. He thought he heard someone yelling but it faded away, just like everything else around them.

The world, his world, was here in his arms. That’s all that mattered.

When they broke apart, the chapel had quieted down. Manon opened her eyes slowly, as if coming out of a trance. “Marry me, witchling,” Dorian said, letting his wild grin take over his face. “Not today. I want our friends with us. But please, will you marry me? Be my queen? The only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Manon began to laugh, and the sound of her joy was like a balm to his heart, repairing all the cracks and pieces that had broken off in the past months.

“Please,” he repeated. “If you want me to beg, I will.”

She laughed again before cupping his face in her hands and nodding. “Yes. I will marry you, princeling.”

Some of the guests began cheering, others were still reeling by the turn of events. Chaol and Yrene were next to them, hugging Glennis.

Dorian turned to see Lord Frey in shackles, being hauled off by the royal guard. A glance to Chaol told him they still had one other person to deal with. Signaling to his remaining guard and Manon’s sentinels, he walked to where Fennick still stood, an expression of deepest insult on the prince’s face.

“Fennick Whitethorn, you are under arrest for plotting to overthrow Adarlan,” Dorian said. Manon looked between him and Fennick, speechless with shock.

The male was stricken with outrage. “What? What the hell are you talking about? When I return to Doranelle, this will not be forgotten! Sellene will not stand for this!”

“I suspect Queen Sellene is not aware of what you’ve been up to,” Dorian countered, noticing Ruben enter the chapel. His valet waved a stack of papers for Dorian to see. Dorian nodded and motioned for Chaol to fetch them. To Manon, he explained, “Eveline found proof that our good friend Fennick was paying Lord Frey to carry out this sham. He wanted me out of the way to pursue you.”

Manon’s eyes narrowed and he saw the anger and embarrassment rise in her like a flood. It was a level of rage he’d never seen on her before. And hoped to never see again.

She turned and glared up at Fennick. He immediately began accusing Eveline and Lord Frey of lying, accusing Dorian of making it up to escape the wedding. But she said nothing, just watched him grow more pathetic as he spouted increasingly ridiculous excuses. When he had nothing left to say, Manon cocked her arm and punched him in the face, sending him shuffling back and twirling around before he thudded to the floor, unconscious. Her witches picked him up and dragged him out, following the royal guard to the dungeon.

*****

After an abbreviated un-wedding dinner, Manon walked with Dorian to the top of the king’s tower, past her guest rooms to the suite she would now be sharing with him. There was much to be discussed and worked out. While their marriage would be a good alliance for both kingdoms, compromises would have to be made. Including, Manon informed him, splitting their time between the two capitols.

Dorian had agreed before she even got all the words out. “I don’t care where we are, as long as we’re together.”

“We can’t be together all the time,” she said, trying to be sensible as she stood before him, staring in wonder at his proximity, listening to his heartbeat. He was taking his time pulling the pins from her hair, one by one. Manon wasn’t sure if sensible was possible right now. The heartache of the last six months, the explosive revelations of hours ago, she exhaled and let it all go, as if the winds could carry it away across the sea. Right here, right now, it was just them. Sensible talk about kingdoms and politics could wait.

“I beg to differ,” he said, reaching around her head for a pin. The movement brought him blessedly closer.

“There you go again,” she purred. “Begging.”

Her hair was free of pins and he began to undo the braid, letting it fall through his fingers. “Only for you, witchling.”

She continued to watch him, getting lost in the perfect smile that hadn’t left his face in hours. When Manon reached up and ran her fingers over his dimpled cheek, he made a little gasp and turned his attention from her hair. “You said last night that I don’t belong to you, but you belong to me,” she said.

“I did.” His smile faded, his voice a deep whisper.

“You were wrong. I am yours and yours only. There is no one else I would give myself to.”

Dorian took her face in both hands and kissed her, and she felt his smile return. “Only you.”

Clutching her hand, he led her to the bed where they took their time undressing each other. She lay back on the bed, losing herself to the charged heat of his touch, the soft fullness of his lips.

“Only you,” she murmured, feeling his mouth curl up against the inside of her thigh.

Dorian took his time, for they had that now. Time to tease and caress every inch of her, time to nip at her ears, time to shift her hips to sink deeper inside her, leaving her breathless and needy for more. And after an eternity where he sent her spinning over the edge again and again, he joined her, calling out her name as if it were his home.

When their euphoria faded, Dorian fell onto the bed next to her, pulling her close as they fought to catch their breath. “And you say I’m the one who always begs,” he teased.

They slept in the next morning, not getting out of bed until almost noon when Ruben knocked and demanded they eat something. There were other things to see to, guests to say goodbye to, and then finally, that night after dinner, Manon and Dorian went to the dungeons.

The second Lord Frey saw them, he dropped to his knees. “Please, Your Majesty. I only wanted the money to rebuild my estate. I never intended to bring about war. Please, please …”

Manon was surprised by the sudden turn. Just yesterday at the ceremony, he’d been trying to urge his allies to stand in support of him, ultimately resorting to screamed threats that had the opposite effect. And now, he was on his knees, pleading for his life.

“You’re accused of treason, Frey,” Dorian said. The man flinched at the loss of his title. “If you really want to continue confessing, be my guest. But you may want to wait for a judge.”

The man shook his head, befuddled. “You … you’re not going to hang me?”

This man had almost destroyed their lives, bringing Adarlan to the brink of civil war. Dorian had every right to punish him harshly. They’d discussed how to handle these interrogations over dinner, though they had not expected it would be this easy. It seemed that Frey was a coward at heart and had been a poor choice of conspirators for Fennick.

Dorian said, “I won’t hang you. If you tell me why.”

Frey heaved a sigh of relief, though he had the sense to still look nervous. “Before the war, Duke Perrington forced me to help fund some of his work at Morath.” At Dorian’s dubious look, he added, “I swear I did not know who he truly was then. I was acting in the best interest of my kingdom and my holdings. But … he bled me dry, offering promises of future reward that never came. And then he was revealed to be Erawan, leaving Adarlan devastated. I had enough in my vault to maintain appearances, but nothing more. Prince Fennick approached me earlier this year with an offer that would allow me to regain my former wealth. I was to stir up dislike for you and get support from other nobles, enough to pose a credible threat to your throne. When talk of rebellion grew to a boiling point, I would demand you marry my daughter. Her hand in exchange for appeasing your enemies.”

“And what was your payment?” Manon asked.

“Gold,” Frey said simply. She arched an eyebrow in a silent demand for more, and he sank miserably onto the floor. “And the promise that when an heir was born, the king would be eliminated, leaving me as regent.”

The gold was expected. But the threat of assassination came as a shock. Dorian was speechless, trying to process how close they’d come to ruin. Frey eyed him, fearful that the earlier proposal to spare him from hanging would be dismissed.

“What did he stand to gain?” Manon continued. Frey seemed oblivious to the fact that he would be installed as a puppet. Or, more likely, set up as Dorian’s killer and disposed of himself.  

“Prince Fennick would be able to marry you. He told me all about how the two of you met during the war.” At Manon’s surprise, the man hesitated. “He said that he had fallen in love with you, that you were his mate. But you were attached to King Dorian. He believed the only chance he stood was to have the king removed from the mix.”

Manon and Dorian said nothing as they stared at each other. Frey returned to begging for his life, mistaking their silence for anger at the dark depths of the scheme. He was still calling out to them for mercy as they left him with a guard.

When they reached Fennick’s cell further down the dank passageway, they found the fae stretched out lazily on a cot. His eyes were closed, and something about the scene made Manon’s temper boil to the surface. Dorian cleared his throat, and the fae could no longer pretend they weren’t there. He stood and looked between her and Dorian.

She’d thought perhaps Fennick might still be projecting the indignant fury of the night before, or something worse. But he wore the same confident expression he’d had when she first met him.

“I wasn’t lying about that woman I loved. Mortals are fickle. And they die so easily.”

It was directed at Manon, but Dorian asked, “Was that a threat?” She knew he was keeping his magic on a tight leash, but the air still crackled with it.

Fennick huffed a laugh, ignoring the question and Dorian. “Immortals such as you and I should not debase ourselves by associating with humans. Maeve and I rarely saw eye to eye, but the restrictions she placed on who could settle in Doranelle were something on which we could agree.”

“It seems to me your human was the smart one,” Manon said, somehow controlling the urge to maul him. “Escaping your clutches was the best thing that could have happened to her.”

He grinned at her, his sharp canines flashing, a glint of malice in his eyes. “Who said she escaped me?”

Here was the male she’d been worried they might find, the one kept hidden under the fancy clothes and courtly manners. The one who thought he could take their kingdoms as his own.

“So, you hate humans?” Dorian asked, lightly. “That’s what this is all about?”

Fennick finally turned to acknowledge him. “I don’t particularly care for them. But no, Your Majesty, that’s not what this is about.” Dorian’s title came out of his mouth as a sneer. “I had just as much right to Maeve’s throne as any Whitethorn. To simply hand it to Sellene, as if it were some cheap trinket to be tossed at whoever stood nearest was a disgrace.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” Manon said.

“True,” Fennick agreed. “But there were no other kingdoms as vulnerable as yours. Or as valuable, what with all that gold you have hidden in the Wastes. The Witch Kingdom was the perfect place to start.”

Manon growled at the insult, but Dorian asked, “Start what?”

“My rule,” he said simply. To Manon, he added, “Having you at my side was to an extra reward. I understand the valg king wanted you for his queen. I must confess, that piqued my interest.”

She shuddered at the mention of Erawan. It brought back memories of the way his eyes would crawl over her, possessive and hungry. The valg king had planned to keep her as his own. Much like this fae.

Dorian’s restraint was reaching its limit and the air felt suddenly cooler. His voice was just as icy as he asked, “Rule what?”

“Everything.” The word was slick, as if coated in venom.

Something had changed in Fennick’s manner with the confession. Gone were the handsome features and polite way of speaking. Locked in a cell, his hair disheveled and clothing dirty, he looked like a different creature. She’d known fae could be feral, animalistic. She’d experienced it, barely survived it. But watching him speak these words, Manon wondered if she’d truly ever seen the transformation before.

“You searched for a desperate Adarlan noble,” she said, “one with a marriageable daughter, one who could be paid off to extort the king. All to force Dorian into an arranged marriage, seduce me to steal my kingdom, then kill him for his. Do I have it right?”

Fennick’s eyes narrowed on Dorian and he grinned. “The seduction part is right, at least.”

Manon flew at him, her iron nails extended and desperate for blood. Bars or not, she wanted to scratch the bastard’s eyes from their sockets. But Dorian grabbed her by the waist and held her back. She struggled against him briefly before calming down. When he let go of her, she still shook with the desire to hurt the male. This fae prince had truly thought he could conquer Erilea? She wanted to scream in his face that he was a fool. But she kept her mouth shut, not wanting to bring more attention to how close he’d come to setting his plan in motion. And to her own foolishness. She’d let this monster touch her, dance with her. She’d pitied him when he deserved nothing but revulsion.

Dorian stepped up to the cell door, eyeing Fennick with a sly smile. “It’s funny that you think you could try to play us against each other.”

The male shrugged, unconcerned. “It was worth a shot. You are only human.”

“I may only be human,” Dorian said, “but I have something you don’t.”

Instantly, Fennick was slammed backwards by invisible hands, thrown up against the grimy stone wall and held there. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Somehow, Dorian had cut off his voice. The male’s eyes bulged in rage.

Manon watched Fennick struggle against Dorian’s magic, her enjoyment of the spectacle growing with each vein that popped out on the male’s neck. Speaking to Dorian, she mused, “Do you think he’s even a prince?”

“From his branch of the family? The one even Maeve ignored?” Dorian taunted. “No, I doubt it. And Sellene certainly played no part in this. He’s here on his own, likely without a coin to his name.”

“That reminds me,” Manon said, turning back to Fennick. “Your intricate plan had at least two big flaws,” she said. “Your reliance on using the Witch Kingdom’s gold was misguided, I’m afraid. The gold we have is mostly still in the ground, unrefined, and worth next to nothing. And your pathetic attempts to seduce me and make me think we might be mates …” She trailed off, swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat at the words. “My mate stands beside me now,” she said, feeling Dorian’s gaze settle on her. Whatever connection they shared, whether it was love or something more, they were mates in each other’s eyes.

Fennick had gone still, a silent, malevolent rage simmering off him. She glanced at Dorian, who loosened his magical hold and let the fae drop to the floor in a heap.

Jumping up, Fennick sprang towards the bars holding him in, teeth bared, his hands reaching out to strike her. Dorian had them shielded. And when his fists were repelled by nothing but air, Fennick screamed. “You bitch! You don’t know-” The fae was thrown back against the wall, his voice cut off again.

“I’ve heard enough,” Dorian said, his face twisted as he struggled to control his magic so as not to kill the male.

Before they left, Manon said, “A messenger has been sent to Sellene, outlining all you’ve done and what you will be charged with. If she asks for you back to throw in her own cells, we may oblige.” When he didn’t seem to care, she added, “And a messenger was sent north to Terrasen. I’m sure Rowan will be interested in hearing about what you’ve done using the family name.” For the first time, real fear flashed across Fennick’s face. Manon smiled, wicked and slow. “You’re right to fear him,” she said. “But I fought with Sellene in the war. She is just as fearsome as Rowan. Why do you think they made her queen?”

By the time they walked back past Frey’s cell, it had been emptied of its prisoner. In exchange for his promise of testimony, he’d been moved to a cleaner section of the dungeons. And when they started up the twisting stairs, Dorian released his magic. They heard a thud and a string of loud curses.

Manon was silent as they came out into a room just off the main entrance hall. Even though she never fell for Fennick’s advances, had never come close to letting things progress in that direction, she’d excused his behavior. The fact that he’d marked her as a fool, marked her kingdom as vulnerable, marked Dorian for death, left her dizzy with guilt and fear. While Glennis and Yrene were happy to be proven right about him, Manon felt adrift, as if her instincts had abandoned her.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Dorian said, motioning the steward over to them. She didn’t hear what he requested.

“I know. But it feels as though it is.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I was duped as much as you were. Thank the gods for Eveline and Costis.”

“Yes,” Manon agreed. “I wonder where they will end up?”

A boy returned bearing two heavy cloaks. Dorian took them and smiled. “I don’t know. But we should find them and send them a wedding gift.”

He draped a cloak over her shoulders and put the other one across his own. Clasping her hand, he led her out of the castle and in the direction of the stables. Abraxos stretched his long neck and arched his back at the first sight of them, excited for their late visit. Manon hugged Dorian tight, thanking him for knowing exactly what she needed at the exact right time. They climbed into the saddle and with a whoop from his rider, Abraxos took off into the star filled night.

***

The following summer in Rifthold, after a week of festivities that brought the Terrasen Queen and her entire court, the Queen of the Western Wastes, the future Emperor and Empress of the Southern Continent, the newly crowned King of Wendlyn, the Queen of Doranelle, and other royalty from across Erilea, Dorian and Manon were finally married.

That night, after the ceremony, as they lay in bed pointing out familiar constellations that had been painted on the ceiling of the royal suite, Dorian pulled a package from the bedside table. Silently, he presented it to his queen. Manon took it, bemused and unable to tell what was under the wrapping. When she tore it off and opened the box, she found a beautiful, leather-bound book.

Stamped in gold lettering on the cover were their names, Manon and Dorian.

“Is this the same …?” She trailed off, knowing the answer before finishing the question.

Dorian shook his head. “No, but Glennis told me about the one you got. I thought we should have our own. Open it.”

She flipped through and found some of the pages in the beginning already filled in. There was a family tree for each of them. Dorian’s included Chaol, Yrene, and Josie. And Manon traced her fingers over the names of the parents she’d never met, and the sisters she had lost.

Then a page titled How We Met. It was mostly blank, except for where Dorian had written

She saved me.

Manon stared at it for a long moment. Then suddenly, she jumped out of bed and went to his desk. After a moment of searching, she found a pen and bottle of ink. Underneath his words, she wrote

He saved me too.

Over the years, the book was carried back and forth between Adarlan and the Witch Kingdom, never leaving the possession of the King and Queen. Its pages were filled with memories, happy and sad. Memories of theirs and of others. Births, deaths.

And when the book was passed on to their daughter, she read her parents love for her and each other in every word. For they were lucky. Rhiannon’s parents were a love match, and she’d promised them she wouldn’t settle for anything less.

The end.

***

Thank you so much for reading! I hope this ending made up for the pain and angst everyone suffered through! ☺️

You can find my writing master list here or on AO3.

@itach-i  @bookishwitchling  @manontrashbeak  @awesomelena555  @jimetg98  @over300books

[butmakeitgayblog]

City of Angels: Just a Little Doped Up

Also available on AO3

///////////////////

Lexa ached seeing her wife in pain.

Ached.

The weeks leading up to the big day had left Lexa feeling emotionally drained; a jittery ball of nerves bouncing from one room of their apartment to the next, testing out any and every remedy she could come up with to alleviate her wife's discomfort. Weeding through half-hearted protests of, "I'm fine," and diligently argued pleas of, "I'll do it later," Lexa clawed, begged, borrowed, and stole her way to this particular finish line.

After a month of grumbled fights and empty threats of a contentious divorce if Clarke didn't stop rescheduling, Lexa could only manage a haphazard sigh at being on the receiving end of her wife's icy glare when they'd finally led her away.

Because Clarke had eventually agreed to the procedure, albeit with an air of begrudging resignation, having spent the days leading up to the appointment grumpily preparing Lexa for what to expect.

And she thought she did know what to expect. Lexa had fully anticipated the swollen cheeks and glazed eyes that greeted her when the nurse had called her back. She'd expected the blood tinted dribble of drool that leaked from the lax hang of her wife's mouth. Even the wobbly chin and glistening sheen of tears upon seeing her again didn't lead Lexa to think a single thing was amiss.

But this?

She certainly hadn't anticipated this.

"Who the hell is that?"

"Pardon?" Lexa mumbled in return as she continued to read through the clipboard in her hands, a sigh escaping her at the fifth question in a row.

"I thaaaid," Clarke pushed out with a glassy roll of her eyes, "who the hell is that?"

Slowly dragging her eyes up for a moment Lexa flashed a pleading, yet overly-saccharine, look of love at her wife.

"Clarke?" she said as sweetly as she could manage.

"Hu?"

"Shhh. Just for a little bit, okay?"

Lexa watched an affronted frown pull at her wife's lips, cheeks stuffed with enough gauze to render any threat from the look quite moot. Shooting the disgruntled love of her life another smile, Lexa turned back to the discharge sheet she'd been attempting to fill out.

"Is she always this… lively?"

A cough of laughter jumped from Lexa's chest as she dotted the final 'i' in her last name. Handing the clipboard back to the waiting nurse, Lexa grinned over at the woman now fighting through a series of torturous looking blinks.

"You have no idea," she whispered. "But this is rare form, for sure. You'd think a doctor would-"

"Oh no," the nurse, Monroe, interrupted, shaking her head ruefully as she moved to slip the clipboard in its holder. "Doctors make the worst patients. If they're not pulling the MD card on you, they--"

"Heeey you. C'mere."

"-- Act like a fool?" Lexa finished for her, tossing an exasperated look toward the caregiver in charge.

Turning to the sound of her wife's call, Lexa had to swallow the urge to laugh. Despite Clarke's best attempt at what Lexa knew to be her sultry voice of seduction, the growing puddle of spittle escaping the loose sling of her mouth was enough to kill any hope of that particular mood.

"Yes, my love?" she soothed anyway, rolling the wheeled stool she sat on over to catch her wife's searching hand. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah," Clarke hummed, her words sticky, and slow, and slurred. "There's thit in my mouf."

"It's gauze, sweetheart," Lexa said, leaning down to press the whisper of a kiss to the swollen curve of Clarke's jaw. "You had your wisdom teeth taken out."

"They took my teef?!"

Seeing the flash of indignant anger in Clarke's eyes, Lexa immediately moved to intercept Clarke's free hand that had sluggishly tried, and failed, to fly up to her mouth.

"You asked them to, remember? They were hurting you."

Clarke shook her head, her eyes turning watery along with her words. "I wouldn't do that."

"I promise ya, hun," the nurse chuckled as she moved to Clarke's other side. "You did."

"But I hate doctorth."

"Amen, sister," Monroe hummed as she took Clarke's wrist and did a final check of her vitals.

Lexa watched as Clarke's eyes seemed to spin in their sockets for a moment before landing on her again, a smile blooming on Lexa's lips at her wife's adorable befuddlement.

"I lub you," Clarke slurred with doe-eyed conviction, picking her head up just to have it fall back a second later. Letting her wandering gaze loop around to her opposite side, baby-blues turned to the nurse instead. "I lub her, ya know."

"I should hope so," the nurse grinned as she placed Clarke's hand back down. "Otherwise the whole marriage thing would be kinda awkward."

"Yeah," Clarke said in a lazy sigh. "That'd be weird… Like we were straight--."

"Okay, Clarke," Lexa tried, shooting Monroe an apologetic smile. "Why don't we just-"

"But I'm in lub with her," she rolled on, pausing for a moment to noisily smack her obviously numb lips. "She's an angel, ya know?"

"She seems like it."

"No. No," Clarke shook her head defiantly. "You don't get it."

Releasing a nervous laugh, Lexa squeezed the hand in her grip in warning. "Clarke--"

"She's an angel. Like with the flappy wingth one. A halo and… 'N a harp, I think. Birkenstockth."

"Well those are certainly all words," Monroe smiled down at the babbling patient.

"She fell down a cliff to lub me," Clarke crooned in high-pitched broken words, her lip starting to tremble again with emotion.

Running a soothing hand through blonde hair, Lexa shook her head at the nurse holding back laughter as she stood to lean over her doped-up wife. "Clarke, sweetheart, shhhh, okay? We're gonna be going home in a minute, so just rest. If you talk too much, the swelling will be worse."

"Thee, look," Clarke said, ignoring Lexa entirely as she flopped a hand in the general direction of Lexa's face. "She's still got a lil thcar on her eye... I kith it when she's thleeping."

Head rolling back towards the nurse, Clarke looked up with a deadpan warning.

"Don't tell her that though."

"It'll be our little secret," Monroe winked before moving toward the door. "Okay, Mrs. Griffin, I'm gonna go get you the rest of your aftercare info and a wheelchair, and then you can get this one home."

Lexa breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "Thanks, Monroe."

"No problem, just sit tight."

The door clicked shut as the woman left, Lexa taking her seat again to fire off a text to Raven to let her know they'd be done soon. A hush fell over the room as she slid her phone back into her pocket before lifting her head… and seeing her wife glaring daggers at the closed door.

"What?"

Blue eyes rolled to her with what Lexa supposed could be defined as righteous indignation.

"I think that bith was flirtin' with me."

"Clarke," Lexa gasped and her mouth dropped open. "Do not call her that."

"She got all winky with me," Clarke argued, mimicking the move by seductively winking with both eyes. "I know what that meansth."

"Sweetheart, she was not flirting with you."

"She's trying to busth up a happy home. Make me get a divorce."

"She wasn't. She just thought you were being goofy."

"I'm not goofy… You're goofy."

Lexa simply sighed. "I am goofy, you're right."

"I know," Clarke nodded as Lexa tucked back a wayward curl behind Clarke's ear. "... 'N fuckin' 'winky' out there-"

"Clarke, stop."

"You tell her to sthop," Clarke frowned. "I'm married and she nid- no- needs to knock it off."

"I'll tell her that, okay?"

Clarke merely sighed, head falling to the side as stared over at Lexa through several slow blinks. "I can't feel my lipth."

"They're still there. Pretty as ever."

"I think they took my tongue away."

"I hope not. Definitely need that for later."

Clarke perked up at that.

"Are we gonna have thex later?"

"No," Lexa chuckled. "You're high as a kite, love. And you're going to be in a lot of pain in just a little bit, so I think it's gonna be a while before-"

Her words cut off as Clarke's bottom lips scrunched together, eyes filling with tears yet again.

"Oh, don't cry," Lexa hushed through a laugh as she scooted closer, carefully cradling her wife's face in her palms. She swept the pad of her thumb along the delicate row of lashes, collecting the dewy droplets before they could fall.

"You don't wanna have thex with me anymore," Clarke sniffled.

"I always want to have sex with you, Clarke," Lexa assured with a smile, rolling her eyes at the entire trainwreck of a conversation. "But you just had surgery, so for now you have to heal first."

"... Heal first?"

"Yes," Lexa nodded definitively. "Heal first, then sex. I promise."

Clarke seemed to debate the matter for a moment, her eyes shifting in and out of focus as Lexa ran fingers through the tendrils of her hair.

"Okay," Clarke finally conceded, giving a lazy shrug of her shoulder as all traces of sadness suddenly vanished from her face.

Lexa snorted as she pulled back, glad to have seemingly navigated that particular minefield successfully. A quiet knock on the door pulled her attention away as the door eased open and Monroe walked backward into the room.

"Alright, Clarke," she announced, pivoting around to pull a wheelchair up to the side of the recovery chair. "Your chariot awaits, m'lady."

"Oh look, winky'th back. Mleeeh."

Monroe's face pulled to the side in confusion, her gaze darting to Lexa who could only close her eyes and shake her head in answer. Biting her lips to seemingly hold back an amused response, the nurse gave a tiny nod of understanding as she moved to help the patient currently losing a battle with a blanket.

"Alrighty. Anyway. Ready to head home, Mrs. Griffin?"

"Griffin-Woodth," Clarke immediately groaned as she lumbered to her feet, one arm hooked through Lexa's while the other elbowed the nurse away. "We're a team."

Monroe lifted her hands up in surrender when Lexa grunted against Clarke's struggling and gave up on their coaxing method of transport, instead moving to wrap an arm around Clarke's waist to bodily shuffle her into the wheelchair. Easing her wife down in the seat, Lexa dodged a sloppy kiss aimed at her cheek.

"Hang on, sweetheart, you're bleeding again," she rushed out before Clarke could become emotionally unglued at her rebuff, mechanically moving to ransack the sterile tray still off to the side to grab a few fresh bundles of gauze.

Squatting down, Lexa tipped Clarke's head forward by her chin, thanking everything holy when her wife let her mouth fall open at her urging. Swapping out the soaked gauze for fresh ones and escaping unscathed from the teasing nip of teeth at her fingers, Lexa tenderly wiped Clarke's chin clean before tossing the rolls in the biohazard bin and moving to wash her hands.

"Well at least we know she's all set for home aftercare," Monroe said with a grin as Lexa shook her hands off and wiped them dry on a few paper towels.

Ears pinking at the statement, Lexa ditched the towels in the bin as well and made her way back over. "Yeah, sorry. Force of habit. Working inside of a hospital and being married to a doctor for four years, you just kinda get used to it."

"A lot of spouses can be a little put-off by the blood and drool."

"She drools when she sleeps anyway," Lexa shrugged, gathering up the paperwork they needed and stuffing them inside Clarke's purse. Placing the bag over her shoulder, Lexa leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her wife's forehead. "You ready to go home, love?"

"Mhmmmm," Clarke hummed with a dopey bob of her head.

Lexa held the door open as the nurse started wheeling Clarke out, her eyes doing a scan of the room to make sure they had everything. A quick jog let her catch up to the pair as they neared the patient checkout, Clarke babbling Monroe's ear off the entire way.

"Hey, sexy," a voice shouted as the doors of the clinic slid open. "Get your fine ass over here."

Lexa smiled at the call as she looked up from the soggy flow of words her wife was directing at seemingly no one in particular.

"Wabeeeen," Clarke called back in a throaty haze of excitement, her head and hand not holding an ice-pack wobbling back and forth in a bizarre kind of drugged-up celebration dance. "Baby, Waben's here."

"I know," Lexa said as Monroe wheeled them toward the SUV parked by the curb. "She drove us here. And now she's gonna give us a ride home, remember?"

"That'th nice of her... She's tho nice," Clarke sniffled as they pulled to a stop. Lexa could barely hold back a sputter of laughter at that, giving Clarke a conciliatory nod.

"Sure she is. We'll go with that."

"Jesus, Griff, what'd they do to you?"

Lexa's head snapped up to level their friend with a warning glare after blue eyes turned to her and started welling up all over again.

"Because ya look great!" Raven very expertly added, pulling her lips back in apology before spinning around toward her car and opening the door. "Okay, let's get you up and in, princess. Chop chop."

Scoffing at that pathetic display, Lexa pulled the purse off of her shoulder and shoved it in Raven's general direction as she rounded to the front of the wheelchair.

"You ready to get in, love?" she asked as she squatted down in front of her wife. "Me and Monroe are gonna help, okay?"

"No."

"Clarke--"

"I can walk mythelf."

"Let us help."

"You really shouldn't walk by yourself, Mrs. Griffin."

Clarke scowled at the nurse, a mumbled "Griffin-Woodth" floating between them as Lexa straightened back up.

"Don't make me do it, Clarke."

Blue eyes swung back around to her, a defiant glint coloring them… once they'd stopped rolling in Clarke's head.

"You're gonna be mad at yourself later," Lexa reminded. She waited a long moment as her wife stubbornly stared back. Shoulders slumping in defeat, Lexa stepped aside with a sigh and nodded toward the car.

Raven smiled and shook her head as she raised a knuckle and rapped twice on the darkened window.

"You owe me five bucks, Woods," Raven said as the door popped open.

"Yeah, yeah," Lexa frowned and shuffled aside to make room. "Excuse me for siding with my wife."

"Well in all fairness, it was a really dumb bet."

"Thank you," Lexa drawled as her friend stepped out.

Anya only shrugged as she closed the door behind her. Stepping to the wheelchair, she pulled up the sleeves of her long black coat and smirked down. "So we meet again, Clarke."

"Anya!" Clarke cheered, throwing her hand up to awkwardly pat the woman on the arm. Twisting around to look at the nurse behind her, Clarke hushed her voice and added, "She's an angel too, ya know?"

"Is that right?"

"Mhm. Our guard- our garden- our gardenia angel. But she kinda thucks at it. Don't tell her I thaid that though."

Anya's spine snapped to attention at the words, her glare darting between Lexa and the nurse eyeing the strangeness of her thick, dark outfit in the middle of L.A. heat with curiosity. Letting out a nervous chuckle, Lexa minutely shook her head and grabbed Clarke's hand to get her attention.

"Yes, sweetheart, everyone here's an angel. Let's get you in the car now, 'kay?"

"Yes," Monroe said as she seemed to blink herself out of whatever thoughts she'd been having, instead walking to the side of the wheelchair and flipping on the breaks. "Time to go, Mrs. Griffin… Woods. Griffin-Woods," she tacked on at the narrowing of Clarke's eyes before glancing up at the woman across from her. "You wanna grab that side?"

"Don't worry about it, just step back," Raven said as she helped Lexa guide the nurse up and away. "It'll be easier this way 'cause grouchy ass likes to fight anyone helping her."

With that, Anya crouched down and slid one arm beneath the bend of Clarke's knees, the other snaking between her arm and waist to wrap around her back.

"Up we go," Anya murmured and lifted Clarke out of the seat, ignoring the lazy protests from her passenger as she kicked aside the wheelchair with ease. Monroe grappled to grab and right the seat as Lexa refused to look at her, instead letting her head fall into her hand at the entire display.

Raven opened the backseat door as wide as it would go when Anya stepped forward.

"Clarke, tuck your head into me like you do Lexa," Anya said as she bent to scoot the woman through the door of the car, only to yank back a moment later with a garbled yell of disgust. "Not like that!"

"Anya--"

"She licked me!"

"You thaid like Lexa."

"Why did I agree to not film this?" Raven groaned and flopped back against the side of the car.

"Can we please get this shit show on the road," Lexa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she took control of the chaos and began rattling off instructions. "Clarke, no licking. Anya, just get her in the car. Raven, you agreed because your friend, my wife, is a very well-respected doctor and teacher, and having a video of her licking a random woman's neck wouldn't be great for her career. Now, go start the car. Monroe… I don't even know. Thank you? And I'm sorry about all of this."

The nurse simply smiled as she reached down to unlock the wheels again and looped around back toward the clinic. "Don't worry about it. Happens more often than you'd think. She'll be out of it for a bit, but just roll with it. Keep everything clean, read the aftercare instructions, and call if you have any questions."

Exchanging a final nod of goodbye, the nurse left the group and went back inside.

"Okay, put her in, Ahn. I'll meet you on the other side."

With a disgruntled huff, Anya gave the woman in her arms another wary glance and moved to settle her into the backseat. Lexa rushed around the back of the SUV and flung the door open, slipping in and across the bench seat in the back as Anya leaned in and set Clarke down.

"Hey, Clarke? I'm gonna buckle you in now," Lexa said as she accepted the seat belt clasp Anya stretched out for her.

Clarke glared between the two of them, her hands swatting at her sides. "I'm not a child. I can do it mythelf."

"You just licked Anya's neck in the middle of a parking lot," Raven pointed out as she started the engine. "And that was after you told a random stranger that she's a whole ass angel."

"Yeah, she told her I was one inside as well," Lexa said as she clicked the buckle in place.

"Hence why we're not exactly trusting you or your motor functions right now, babe."

"But she is an angel. You are an angel," Clarke hummed, sending a hazy look of adoration to her wife while Lexa draped a blanket over her lap. "You're my angel."

"Say angel again," Raven snorted and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.

"... Sure doesn't fuck like an angel though."

"Ew, no!" Anya thundered and flung herself backward out of the door frame, dramatically heaving twice before slamming the door shut hard enough to rock the entire car.

"Clarke," Lexa hissed as her wife continued to leer.

"Huh?"

Anya grunted as she whipped the front door open and climbed in. "Why did I agree to come to this?"

Clarke's lips pooched as she sent a very wet sounding smooch in Lexa's direction. "Don't be mad, baby. I like that you're nasty in bed."

"Oh my G-- Lexa, will you please muzzle her. No one wants to hear this."

"Speak for yourself," Raven gleefully cut in as she started to pull away. "Get it, Griff! Tell us the really freaky shit."

"She lets me--"

"Clarke!" Lexa yelled while leaning forward to get her attention. Glazed eyes blinked at her in slow passes as a pout spread across Clarke's face. Sighing when she was sure she had her wife's attention, Lexa reached up and tugged a curl of blonde behind her ear. "... I promise you, whatever it was you wanted to say just now, you would wholeheartedly regret saying it later. Especially to Raven."

"That's fair actually," Raven called back as she moved them through midmorning traffic.

Clarke shifted to reach for Lexa's hand, assuring her in what Lexa supposed could be a valiant attempt at a whisper. "Don't worry, baby. I wasn't gonna tell 'em about the butt stuff."

Eyes sliding closed as a chorus of retching mingled with cackling laughter from the front seat, Lexa sat back in her seat and ran a hand through her hair.

"Not a word."

"I'm not saying anything," Raven choked out through the dying rolls of her laughter.

The car fell quiet as they drove, Lexa looking out the window and letting her mind drift. She watched the cars and hills of the outskirts of L.A. fly past as they wound their way home. Despite… well, everything, she was glad this was finally over; the final expense officially checked off of their list of 'to-do's'. She idly tapped her fingers on the leather of her seat and admired the green hillsides, smiling to herself as she thought of what came next.

They hadn't told anyone when they'd made the decision to start looking through private listings, Lexa having sworn Anya to secrecy until they'd figured out an actual plan. She wondered if she'd miss the familiar drive to their apartment, the only home she'd truly known on Earth. She was excited, if not a little nervous, but ready to take the next step with the… absolute mess of a woman beside her.

Letting her head lull back over to check on her patient, Lexa startled a bit to find watery, blue eyes already staring back.

"What's the matter?" she hushed in a soft and concerned voice, scooting closer as she reached up to brush away a rogue tear.

"You're really hot... And tho pretty."

Rolling her eyes at the dreamy words, Lexa grinned back. "Not as pretty as you."

"My wife'th gonna be tho mad at me," Clarke whined and shook her head.

"... Why is your wife going to be mad at you?" she asked with a quirk of her brow.

"'Cause I think you're really hot," Clarke confessed through a fresh wave of tears.

"Seriously can you like, knock her out or something?"

"Shut up, Anya," Lexa said as she scooted the remaining distance between them. "Clarke, darling, I promise, your wife won't be mad at you for thinking I'm hot."

"How do you know?"

"Because she's your wife, genius," Anya drawled. "I still can't believe they trust that woman with human lives."

"You're just a little doped up right now," Lexa soothed even as reached out to flick her friend on the ear. "Don't worry though, I'll take care of everything. You just relax."

Clarke blinked owlishly at her for a minute, Lexa clearly able to see the cogs grinding to life through the fog of the drugs. She smiled and nodded as Clarke's face suddenly lit up, eyebrows shooting upward as her mouth dropped open.

"Oh yeah," Clarke beamed, her head wobbling back and forth as she flopped around a little in her seat. "That is you, innit. I forgot, ha. That'th crazy."

"It is."

"Man, I am high."

"You are."

"You should kith me."

"I should not."

Lexa nearly groaned as soon as the words left her mouth.

Clarke's face fell into a devastated frown, her lip trembling as her head fell to her shoulder. "You don't wanna kith me."

"Clarke, no, that's not it--"

"I knew it. I'm tho ugly now you won't kith me anymore."

"Oh my God, stop. Just, hang on," Lexa huffed. "Raven, do you have napkins or Kleenex in here? Anything?"

She waited as Anya rifled through the glovebox, accepting the fistful of napkins along with a deep look of disdain when she passed them back. Gently cradling her wife's chin, Lexa tilted her face back up.

"I'm gonna make you a deal," she murmured as she dabbed away as much blood and spit from Clarke's lips as she could. "I will kiss you. But. You have to let me kiss you. You just sit there, okay?"

Clarke bobbed her head in a tiny nod, Lexa's heart squeezing tight at the sad but hopeful face still cradled in her palm. Once she deemed those lips as clean as she could ever hope for given the situation, Lexa tossed the soiled napkins into the seat beside her.

Bringing her other hand up, Lexa held her wife's face between her palms, a smile spreading over her lips as she took in the sight of her. The sight of laugh lines that had begun reaching out from the corners of baby blues, their recent appearance reminding Lexa how happy their life together had proven to be. She admired the few twists of grey that weaved in and out of silken blonde, the effect of them making the woman look all the more distinguished.

Running her thumbs over the apples of delicate cheekbones, Lexa leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to her wife's lips. She hummed at the familiar feeling, soft and sweet as ever, her movements steady and light so as to not cause any pain. Pulling away, she left a last peck on Clarke's upper lip, forever a slave to sealing the little beauty mark with a kiss.

"Better?" she whispered as she watched Clarke's eyes flutter back open.

Clarke was quiet as she stared back, a long moment passing before she heaved a defeated sigh.

"I couldn't feel it."

Lexa did her best to bite back a snort of laughter, head dropping forward as her chest shook with the effort. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'll kiss you plenty to make up for it when you feel better, I promise."

"We're here, lovebirds," Raven announced as she pulled to a stop outside of their apartment building. Lexa squeezed her shoulder over the top of the seat in thanks as she reached for the handle. "I'm gonna stay here so my lazy ass doesn't have to find a place to park, but I'm gonna call you guys later, okay?"

Grunting in acceptance as she opened her door, Lexa hopped out and ran around the back of the car to meet Anya on the other side. A few petulant protests and a very one sided bartering war later, Lexa pressed the button to shut the doors of the elevator in their building.

Sighing as she all but collapsed back against the rail of the elevator, Lexa reached out a hand to nudge her friend's shoulder.

"Thanks again, Ahn."

"Yeah, whatever," Anya grumbled, adjusting her grip on the woman sagged at her side.

If Lexa had had the energy she would've laughed at the pair of them, knowing full well Anya was supporting every inch of the woman's weight despite Clarke's staunch insistence that she could walk.

She reminded herself that her wife's stubbornness was part of why she loved her.

"Okay, here we go," Lexa rallied as the doors slid open on their floor. "Last stretch, love, and then you can rest."

"I wanna make nachos."

"Yeah, we'll have to see about that," Lexa shook her head as she jogged ahead to unlock the door, holding it open as Anya all but dragged Clarke through the entrance of their apartment.

"Where should I put her?"

"Bedroom."

"No," Clarke said with enough ferocity it startled the pair, taking Anya particularly by surprise when she elbowed her way out of the hold and launched herself toward the couch.

Lexa felt her heart jump up into her throat as Clarke nosedived toward the cushions, landing face first into the set of pillows.

"Clarke!" she yelped, darting around the couch and crouching over her. Biting back a twitch of annoyance, Lexa pulled the woman upward and helped her flip over. "Jesus, you have got to be more careful. You could've really hurt yourself."

"I'm fine, baby," Clarke slurred, glassy eyes shining behind the low droop of her lids. "I don't feel anything. You could punch me right in the mouf and I'd be fine."

"I'm not going to punch you."

"I might."

"Goodbye, Anya. Thank you for helping," Lexa blindly called over her shoulder, "but you can go now. Raven's waiting."

"Right, right, right," Anya said, rapping a knuckle on the wall as she turned to go. "I'll leave you to take care of the little missus. Call if you need anything. Feel better, doc."

"Byeeeeeeeeee," Clarke sing-songed out to her before the door closed, shimmying in place as Lexa helped her adjust on to her back. "She's gonna go makeout with Waben."

"What else is new," Lexa grinned and pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch.

Lexa moved to take off Clarke's shoes and socks, leaning down to peck a quick kiss to the wiggly toes before tucking them under the blanket as well. After placing the shoes in their home along the front hall of their apartment, she moved to ditch the balled up socks in the laundry despite the disgruntled yowl from the plump feline stationed on top of their washer.

The jingle of Penny's collar followed her as she went about collecting the supplies listed on the aftercare sheet, piling a tiny tray up with gauze squares, water, pain medicine, and snacks.

"That'd not nachoth," Clarke said with a sleepy grump of a frown as Lexa laid the tray on the coffee table beside her.

"Not nachos. No crunchy stuff, unfortunately. Doctor's orders. But may I offer you a bowl of our finest applesauce?"

"This is bullthit."

"I know."

"You did this to me, and I'll neber forgib you."

"I know."

"Will you cuddle wif me?"

Smiling down at her wife, Lexa simply nodded and quickly tied her back into a ponytail.

"Scooch," she hummed, toeing off her shoes before gingerly climbing over to the opposite side. Lowering herself as gently as possible, Lexa fit herself into the snug space between her wife and the back of their couch. She wriggled down enough to make sure she was safe from knocking into the already swollen jaw.

"Better?" Lexa whispered as she rested her head on Clarke's chest and draped an arm around her waist.

"Mhm," Clarke said, the drowsy weight of her hum sounding peaceful and warm.

"You can't sleep with those things in your mouth."

"Not thleepin'."

Giving up that fight before it could start and deciding she'd just slip them out once the woman dozed off, Lexa snuggled in deeper, breathing in calming lungfuls of her wife's scent.

The day had been insane, which after four years of marriage she was generally used to, but overall Lexa couldn't help but pat herself on the back. She knew when the medicine started to wear off they'd both be in a world of pain, but for now, she let herself relax into the peace of the moment.

Which was promptly broken by the faint buzz of Clarke's phone.

Sighing in annoyance, Lexa dug her hand under the blanket and into Clarke's pocket to pull it out. She thumbed in the passcode, muscle memory having her click 1203 for their anniversary without a thought, and tapped to open the notification.

Asshole (11:42 a.m.): so... you're gonna tell me about that butt stuff thing later right?

"For fuck's sake, Raven." With a disgusted sigh, Lexa closed out the message and slapped the phone on the table.

Snuggling back into the snoozing body beneath her, Lexa decided she'd just have to deal with that later.

[hansolmates]

jjk; angel’s trumpet | masterpost

Angel’s Trumpet Scientific Name: Brugmansia Order and Family: Polimonailes and Solanaceae Plant Overview: A higher order of nightshade, the Angel’s Trumpet is a show-stopping pendulous flower that hangs like bells. In myth, they were prized as chimes holding magical properties. In modern use, Angel's Trumpets have occasionally been used to create recreational drugs, but the risk of overdose is so high that these uses often have deadly consequences.

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life.

pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader

genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex

w.c; ~45k

| 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | final | bonus |

a/n; coming soooooon! i’ve been dedicating the better half of the month to this so i really hope u enjoy my first kpop mini series!! inspired a lil bit by the k-drama W and the avengers! 

click under the cut for a preview!

Namjoon smells of dry-erase marker and antiseptic. 

He’s bounding into your apartment like it’s his own home, carrying two paper bags and a stack of leather bound books. The items fly across your coffee table, and you two work together to organize both your dinner and the books. Namjoon looks like a textbook nerd, wearing shades of burgundy and burnt orange as he breaks into your front door. Gone are the boots and sleek outfits that trim his figure, and you can’t help but go a little anti-starstruck at how normal this moment is.

The two of you eat in relative silence, and you gratefully accept the bag he pushes in your direction. To your surprise the sandwich inside is a favorite combination of yours, and you wonder if this restaurant exists in your world. 

Your world. 

“Namjoon,” you place your sandwich down, despite the fact that your stomach is protesting for you to finish the first real meal you’ve had in days, “you know that movie, Avengers?” 

Namjoon’s face is puffed with bread, and you hand him a water bottle to chug it down. “Dunno,” he shrugs, “Marvel isn’t a popular franchise, so even if I had I wouldn’t remember.” 

“Marvel isn’t popular—” what kind of fucked up world is this? Your Jungkook would have a field day if he was in your shoes. “Anyway. There’s a concept from Marvel that there’s multiple Earths. Like you can create a rip in space and land yourself in another dimension if you’re not too careful. Do you think it’s possible?” 

Your tall mentor pushes his charcoal hair back, exasperated. “Is this why you’re taking off? Because you believe in some silly comic book series?” 

You feel your heart cracking, desperately trying to keep itself together. In your haste you grip Namjoon’s arm, desperate. “Please, just hear me out.” you warble, “a few days ago I was out drinking with a friend. Next thing I know, I’m in another world where I run into a boy. That boy is my friend, but he says he doesn’t recognize me! But I don’t recognize this life. Namjoon I can’t even imagine you wanting to be a doctor!” 

Namjoon is looking at you funny, and you know he’s really trying to believe you. Instead of the reassuring words you hope for, he instead says, “this isn’t even pseudoscience, Camille. This is supernatural! How could you possibly think you’re from another dimension? I just saw you last week and everything was fine!” 

“I saw you last week too!” you exclaim, clutching your chest, “and you cried again for the umpteenth time because you lost another pair of custom Airpods.” 

A pause. “That does sound like me.” 

Hope blooms in your stomach. “Doesn’t it?”

“Well, in this supposed other life. What is my profession?”

Your face falls. “Uh, you’re in a worldwide K-pop band. You’re making millions and producing beautiful music.” 

That sounded way better in your head. Out loud it sounded absolutely bonkers. You don’t even blame Namjoon when he bursts out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. You let him, sinking further into your seat and hugging your knees. You really hoped Namjoon would’ve come through for you. 

[srirachvbi]

Kageyama and Bokuto taking their kids to practice headcanons !

request: hihi i was wondering if you can do a continuation of the bringing their kids to practice with some of the other haikyuu characters? i’d love to see it with kageyama especially but honestly you can pick anyone! thank you :)

a/n: i AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG... I have no excuses, i was too sad about haikyuu e wording but i have read threads on how to write characters on twitter and i am thriving... so n e ways i was looking for a reason to write more of these because i just... love the idea of this so tsym for requesting!! if i write more parts, i might do hoshiumi, hinata, atsumu, and... maybe oikawa? i’m a huge bokuto stan so his might be longer than kageyamas im sorry <3 and and ik that kageyama goes to italy but for the sake of i want to write other characters, i will be using the adlers oops. i will also be only doing probably two characters per post for these because i write so much for it. LMAO ALSO these are super unrealistic this would NOT be allowed during pro sports practices but for the sake of entertainment, let’s just... do it warnings: manga spoilers

Bokuto Koutarou

He had been wanting to bring Kaori to practice for a while but each time he tried to, you would be like no bitch </3 

heart been broke so many times

When you told him that you had to go into work and couldn’t schedule the nanny in time, he was like “I’LL TAKE CARE OF HER!!!”

Honestly you were only against him taking her because you were still mad at him for leaving her in the high chair for a while and you came home to her crying and him just knocked out 

Like... Kou, pls <3 

He had brought Kaori into post game interviews before but you were always there so this would really be the first time he’d take care of her by himself for a period of time longer than an hour

He’s a good parent dw !! he had just spent the whole night thinking about the most random shit and he ended up sleeping like three hours 

He was thinking about horses cause Ushijima brought them up in an interview >:0

You were still mad tho 

It had been a while and he had actually shown to you that he could take care of her by himself so you were fine with him taking her to practice

He was super pumped and was practically shaking in excitement (he was texting Akaashi the whole morning asdlfjskdf)

Bokuto-san AGHASHEE!!!!! Y/N IS LETTING ME TAKE KAORI  TO PRACTICE!!!!!!!!! AGHASHEE Congrats, Bokuto-san. 

That conversation but every two minutes

I’m sorry Akaashi <3 

He also texts the whole group chat and Hinata’s equally as excited

Kaori and Hinata were best friends !!!! She literally loved him

Like he would put her on his shoulders and they’d run around for hours

How he has so much energy goes beyond everyone but it’s fun to watch 

You lectured him for half an hour about what he should do in certain situations and unlike most times, he listened really well because :(( the baby cares about Kaori

Both Kaori and him actually walked with you to the train station and saw you off before heading to practice !! 

He normally drives to practice because he has a super nice car and it’s easier to drive with Kaori instead of public transportation

When they get to the gym, he goes running in with Kaori on his shoulders 

“WE HAVE ARRIVEEEED!!!!!!!!” 

cue Hinata cheering super loudly

Kaori’s giggling and being all cute omg i love her

She was being carried in on her dad’s shoulders so Bo lets her down and she immediately runs (read: waddles quickly) to Hinata

“Hinata-nii!!!!”

Hinata starts crying-- jk, no

He goes “Kaori-chan!” and scoops her up in his beefy arms 

BEEFY HINATA BEEFY HINATA BEEFY HINATA

Sorry

She’s giggling and she like kisses his cheek and everyone’s like “so cute...” ohmyogd babies

Similar to her dad, she’s super friendly!! and a bit simple minded

It’s literally in her blood to not actually hate anyone so she gets along with EVERYONE at practice

She even makes the coach super soft omg

Atsumu’s just watching her and being like “child. want. child-- oh god, i need a kid.” cause she’s just so god damn cute

Lol atsumu having twins cause it’s a gene or smth idk biology

I barely passed bio please spare me <3

I actually got an 80 smth on my final last year don’t listen to me

Sakusa being hesitant at first to be near her but she’s actually super sweet to him!!

CAUSE LIKE HER DAD SHE’S ACTUALLY REALLY EMOTIONALLY INTELLIGENT AND CAN READ PEOPLE REALLY WELL

like she saw Sakusa’s face and was like “oh!! I remember what dad said!!” 

Kou talks about his teammates a lot and somehow Kaori remembered him telling her about how Sakusa’s a germaphobe so she’s like

“Sir!! I washed my hands!! I’m not dirty!!” and he

He just 👁👄👁 

He thinks she’s cute and treasures her now

Suddenly Kaori has a whole team of dads

it’s okay

Bokuto itching to let her play volleyball but at the same time worrying about her if she does

It’s like the angel and the devil on his shoulders

One sides like

let her pLAY!!!!! LET HER PLAY (read it as if it’s the LEt ME INNN meme)

While the other sides like

👁👄👁 (y/n) will kill me if she gets hurt and i’ll kill myself if she gets hurt and hinata will kill me if she gets hurt-

In the end he gives her a volleyball after she asks once and he’s like ‘PFFT KAORI-CHAN IF YOU INSIST’ while she’s like

dude i asked to play once and normally someone disagrees with me tf are you on, sir? 

she tries to pick the ball up but it ends up being half her size and it’s just... such a cute image

Bo takes a picture of it and sends it to you!!

You reply back in seconds lol

Kou-kun ❤💖 [image.jpeg] LOOK AT HER!! FUTURE PRO (Y/N)-CHAN!! (Y/N) MY LOVE ❤💕❤💕💕❤💕❤💕 be careful letting her hold that it’s too big!! but so cute!!! have fun taro <3

He ends up taking the ball away after a bit because she can’t walk while holding it

Eventually practice has to start tho so he asks her to sit on the bench and she’s an obedient angel and does so !!

The whole time she’s like swinging her legs and watching her dad practice

It’s fun for her to see him play 

Okay but like I’ve said, she’s similar to her dad

At one point at practice during a break, she stole Atsumu’s water and was running around the gym with him chasing her

He was ofc not actually chasing her cause he found it cute that she was trying to steal his stuff

Lol Sakusa being like “oh, you can’t catch up to a child? are your knees getting bad, old man?”

Atsumu’s like “bro, we’re the same age”

Sakusa ignores him

She ends up TRIPPInG AND ATSUMU’s LIke “Oh fuck” 

SHE CRIES

omg Bokuto’s like “tsum tsum-- do you want to die 👁👄👁🗡” because she just got hurt because of him

Atsumu picks her up and is apologizing so god damn much

This is the first time anyone’s seen Bokuto remotely irritated

Kaori: WAAAHHHH

Atsumu: please, child... i don’t want to die today... please... shhhhhhh

He lets her down and she walks (read: waddles) over to her dad and is giving him puppy eyes omg

Bokuto stops being mad and scoops her up and he’s like “did Kao-chan get a boo boo” and she nods, sniffling

Ohmygod dad bokuto dad bokuto dad bokuto stop

suddenly I actually want kids

no

Shion ends up getting a first aid kit since Meian asked (woah more black jackals players except I don’t really know how to write for them??? woahhh)

Shion roasts Atsumu with Sakusa for letting her fall and suddenly Atsumu’s the bad guy

lol

By the end of practice tho Kaori’s fine !!!

She’s back to her regular happy self so cute :(

She asks Bo to call you and when you pick up she shows you her bandaid on her knee and is like “Miya-san was chasing me and I fell!!”

Suddenly Atsumu feels a cold chill and knows you found out lol

Hi this is (y/n), and you’re watching disney channel-

good luck, atsumu *stops camera*

Kageyama Tobio

He

sigh

He would be equally as confused as a father as Ushijima

It’s okay, he’s trying his best

You normally work from home so you guys haven’t really hired a nanny! 

And if you needed someone to watch your guys’ son, Sho (which can mean to fly oho see what I did there I’m so smart), you just drop him off at your parents’ house or Miwa’s!

WAIT SHO... SHOYO... WAIT I DIDN’T EVEN DO THIS ON PURPOSE IM LITERALLY

However, today was the only time you had to go in for like the next few months and both your parents and Miwa are busy

So, you enlist in your husbands help

“Tobio... I need you to watch Sho...” 

He spits out his milk “wHAT” cause like,, he’s hardly taken care of Sho by himself and normally had either his sister or you around

He doesn’t actually spit out his milk-- you’d kill him if he did because it would be a pain in the ass to clean up <3

It takes a bit of convincing being he’s really nervous about taking care of Sho!!

Okay but he’s a great dad dw it’s just he’s nervous about having another human being literally rely on him completely

You also just remind him that Romero’s a father so he won’t be completely on his own while taking care of Sho

So he somehow gets to the gym with Sho in one piece but he’s literally so stiff like bro, i need you to relax

Hoshiumi yelling “KAGEYAMA SHO!!!!!!!” and Sho (who has actually met the team like two times) goes like “HOFIUMI-SAN!!!!!” 

Sho’s a bit of an energetic bby-- he’s less emotionally constipated than his dad <3

He’s... he reminded you guys of Shoyo and well, you thought it would be nice to name him after his god father

No this isn’t a kagehina post i swear i love them but this is me saying that i love their friendship sm omg stop im gonna cry 402 really just popped into my head again

Hoshiumi getting mad when he sees that Sho has actually grown even though he’s a grown ass man and the little toddler would not, in fact, be catching up that soon

“KAGEYAMA SHO HAVE YOU GROWN >:0000!!!!!” 

Sir, pls... sit down

The Adlers all love Sho since they’ve come into contact with him like twice at games before 

Ushijima just... doesn’t know how to interact with Sho

He just stares down at him and honestly Sho stares back up without fear

Kageyama Sho: no (0) fears 

I think it’s cause his father gives a similar stare sometimes and he just... got used to it

Ushijima gives him that stare and Sho just goes SIGH this again

Jk he’s a baby

He literally looks up at Ushiwaka and gives him this cute ass grin and Ushijima’s like “oh, children are very cute.”

Thank you, Wakatoshi-kun

Romero does, in fact, give Kags some tips about fathering and ends up showing pictures of Rubens to the team (love that) 

OKAY BUT LIKE OFF TOPIC FROM THE PRACTICE BUT

Sho being such a big fan of Hinata and being like “woAHHH!!! I’M NAMED AFTER HIM!!!” 

Hinata rubs it in Kags face because Sho practically idolizes him

anyways

Practice starts and Sho’s just sitting on the gym floor with a volleyball in his hands cause he

Kags just giving newborn Sho a volleyball and expecting him to become acquainted

It worked

Sho’s used to holding onto volleyballs and even tries to hit it but everytime he did, he’d fall backwards onto his lil bum and would be like :(

Kageyama watching from the other side of the gym and his heart just goes AHHHHHHHHHH

He’s about to cry that is the cutest thing he’s ever seen

Sho making sure he doesn’t interrupt practice!!! and like chasing after the ball to make sure it doesn’t go onto the courts!!!

Cute babs is so good :(

He ends up tripping tho and starts to tear up and Kags is watching during practice and goes “OH GOD”

He’s literally whipping his head from Sho to his coach and has this desperate look on his face 

he’s saying “JUST ONE BREAK!! JUST ONE, SIR!!” with his eyes and his coach just gives in

Kageyama going from one side of the gym to the next at insane speed

Sho: dad :((( i hwurt my knee :(((

Kags just picks him up and cradles him to his chest (he does this after making sure there’s no blood or anything-- it’s literally just a little bit red) 

Kags being a good dad just... WEAK

Only like two minutes later, Sho stops sniffling and is like “!!! go back to practice daddy!!” 

Kags does and he can’t focus on Sho anymore cause his coach would yell at him asldfjlsf

At the end of practice, Sho is like “dad i wanna play voweyball!!!!!!” and Kags heart just CLENCHES

He grabs his heart like that meme or smth 

You call them cause you know when practice normally ends and Sho’s just talking a lot and it’s so cute

He’s super excited and you’re like !!! My CUTE CHILD !!!!

Lol you tease Kags cause he was worrying about nothing

“Maybe I’ll let you take care of him by yourself more often Tobio” “Pls, I lost ten years of my life when I saw him fall pls not yet <3″ 

[sasuhinasno1fan]

The way you had your hair reminds me- Zutara Week Day 1

My second Zutara Week though I hope I can actually finish it this time. I decided I really wanted to do something with Katara doing rhythmic gymnastics so I decided that since most of the prompts fit, I’ll do a sort of Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok Joo AU. It’s a good kdrama if you’ve never heard of it. trying to fit 16 hour long episodes into 7 days is gonna be interesting. I’ll warn you now and let you know there will be onesided LuTara but for like a day maybe. I haven’t written that day yet so we’ll see. This will end in Zutara happieness, I promise. Anyway, enjoy. Hair

Zuko crawled carefully as he wiped down the windows. Most of his classmates didn’t want him anywhere near an open area, especially with his limited vision but he’d just gotten his bandaged taken off and he wasn’t about to let it hinder him.

Without them on, he didn’t see Mom flinch at the sight of them, though the massive burn wasn’t any better. The fights between his parents weren’t either and Azula’s teasing was starting to be hurtful more than playful. He wanted it all to stop. If he pretended that things were ok, maybe they would be eventually.

“Hey scarface!” Zuko looked over, 3 of his school bullies storming over. He tried not to flinch, already knowing what they were going to yell at him about. They’d been doing it all day. “We lost the race thanks to you!”

Zuko used to be more confident. But after the burns, a few harsh words and he’d start retreating back down into himself. These bullies took advantage of it. During their Sports Day yesterday, Zuko had dropped the baton in the relay race and ran in the opposite direction, away from the bullies yelling at him.

“Mr. Reversal, can’t believe you’re so stupid.”

“You need a walking stick, scarface? Huh?”

Zuko felt one of them shove him and he expected to hit the window frame. Instead, he went flying out the open window. Years later, Zuko would mostly remember him being caught by an older man with darker skin, most likely from one of the Water Tribes, with kind blue eyes, who held him as he burst into tears and two younger children. The boy patted his back, telling him not to worry because his sister would take care of it and the girl screaming up at the bullies from the ground floor. Her long braid swung back and forth as she shook her fists and threatened to do violent things to them. her eyes seemed bluer than her families, like the clearest ocean.

He didn’t know they’d slip back into his life years later. That the little girl who threatened bullies for a boy she didn’t know, would become so much more important to him.

                                             ________________

Zuko unlocked his bike, trying not to feel discouraged. It was hard not to when he’d been disqualified from another competition for having a panic attack. Every time he walked onto the mat, his hearing would go wonky and he’d start seeing double, not to mention his heart beating like it was trying to escape his chest. As a result, he’d always forget to sault his opponent and the referee.

Along with being propositioned to train an up-and-coming fencer to get onto the national Olympic team – which he refused because how was he supposed to help someone when he could even finish a match – all he wanted to do was collapse onto his bed. He could already tell that during training tomorrow, he’d have to deal with snide remarks from Jett. How that guy became captain, he’d never know. He knew if he just beat him in training like always, it would piss him off even more and with the school’s Sports Day coming up, he was not in the mood to do the worst event for the Fencing Department.

He climbed on his bike, adjusting his kit sitting on its place but stopping himself from peddling back to campus when his phone rang.

“What Sokka?”

“So, the results of the match went up. Jett wants to talk to you; says he’s got the prefect thing for you to do to make up for your loss. The rice lifting challenge.”

Zuko had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. The idea of the lifting challenge was to carry as many bags of rice and the industrial size, like the one the school cafeteria ordered and hold it for as long as possible. Usually, the Karate Department would be the one to win, fencing never even coming close.

“I’m not going.” Zuko said, making up his mind.

“What?”

“I’ll hang out at Lu Ten’s office or something, but I’m not going. Not to the crapshot of a meeting or to Sports Day. I don’t care what he threatens me with. I’m only coming back to drop my kit off.”

“Um, well I actually heard Mai was back. Didn’t make it past the preliminaries for the national team I hear.”

This day couldn’t get any worse.

“Screw it, I’m not coming back for the next few days. I’ll be with my uncle if you need me.”

“Wait! Ask Toph to do your event for you. it would put the Weightlifting Department in danger of losing but most of those guys don’t like her anyway. She’d love a chance to get back at them. come back to campus and ask her and then I’ll take you out for lunch. At my dad’s restaurant. You love his marinated salmon.” Sokka said, trying to entice his roommate.

Zuko sighed. “I want two orders. And you’re paying.”

“Done! Get here soon.”

Zuko didn’t bother answering, stowing his phone away and pushing off, heading towards Republic City Sports University.

                                     ______________________

Effortlessly, Katara grabbed her back leg and straightened it as she did her pivot. She kept her balance as she came out of it and continued to twirl her ribbon. Her coach nodded.

“Very good. You’ve been practising. Your balance is better. Now I want to see if your fouettés have improved as well. If you want a chance at placing first and getting noticed by our sponsor and qualifying for the national team preliminaries, your routine can’t have any mistakes. Ty Lee, pay attention. I’m testing your fouettés as well.”

Katara looked over at the girl dressed in pink, who was pouting down at her matching hoop, Suki patting her on the shoulder. While Katara and Ty Lee weren’t friends, it was hard to not bond over being singled out by their coach.

Katara stood at the ready, twirling her ribbon as she readied herself when the door burst open.

“Azula!” Ty Lee cried.

Azula Lung was the student with the most sway in the whole school. Her father was the Prime Minister of the Fire Nation and while he didn’t hold much power in Republic City, since all powers were equal, that didn’t mean much at the University. She got the best room, private transport to competitions and rules didn’t apply to her. She could boss around any coach, even though she was in the Karate Department. There’d been rumours that her place was bought, until her first competition where she creamed everyone. She was her department’s ace. In fact, she managed to take the Weightlifting Department’s old gym for the Karate Department, which started a massive feud between them. she was rude and arrogant and somehow, one of Ty Lee’s best friends.

Katara noticed a girl standing next to her. She was dressed in all black, the only colour being the red of her nails. She looked incredibly bored and only looked annoyed when Ty Lee launched herself at her.

“Mai, you’re back!”

“Mai has returned from her qualifying competition for the national team. We’ll be taking Ty Lee with us. Problem?” Azula announced.

“No of course not. Except, Ty Lee, you were supposed to show me your routine for Sports Day? Since you’re our department’s cheerleader.”

Azula scoffed. “Sports Day, waste of time. She won’t be attending. You, blue peasant.” Katara balked at that and narrowed her eyes. “You’ll be taking her place. Problem?”

Katara opened her mouth to say, yes big problem, but all the girls of the Rhythmic Gymnastics Department crowded around her, suffocating her with their hands.

“None at all.”

“Thanks Katara!” Ty Lee said, scooping up her bag and dashing off, Mai following and with a raised eyebrow that spoke of her superiority, Azula leaving as well.

“You can’t argue with her Katara.”

“She’d have you removed from the school. I heard she got a person’s whole family business shut down for pissing her off. Do you want that for your dad?”

“Her dad might be the Prime Minister, but he’s practically a mafia boss.”

Comments like this floated over her head, as well as ones telling her they’d help with making a routine for Sports Day, which was in a few days. All Katara could think about was how completely unfair this all was.

And she let it out too once training was concluded for the day.

“It’s completely insane how she can just lord over them like that!” she said, harshly untangling her hair from its bun.

“Easy, you’re gonna rip your hair out.” Suki said, stopping her from tugging at it more and helping to pull half of it into a bun like she usually wore it.

“She’s a student. A sophomore at that. Where does she get off acting like she’s the greatest thing in the world? Just cause her dad is a Prime Minister? So is mine!”

“I thought Water Tribe issues fell under Yue’s dad’s jurisdiction?” Toph, a member of the Weightlifting Department asked, her hand holding on tightly to her guide dog’s harness. She was just as well known as Azula, due to the fact that she was blind but was still one of the highest climbing Weightlifting competitors at the school. She beat all the senior’s bests within her first month.

“Yeah, only because the South is smaller. That’s not the point! The point is, she does whatever she wants and doesn’t get in trouble for it and it extends to her friends too. I have a competition coming up soon and instead of working on my routines for that, I’m going to be learning choreo for a routine for one of the dumbest traditions of Sports Day.”

“Oh,” Toph said, a massively mischievous smile on her face, “well you won’t think it’s stupid when you hear what I heard. Wanna take a guess as to who’s the Fencing Department’s cheerleader?”

Katara looked over at Toph, who’s smile was growing maniacal. Usually that meant someone was going to get embarrassed as hell. It usually tended to be Sokka.

“Wouldn’t it be one of the girls?”

“Nope.” Toph shook her head, popping her p.

“Is it-?”

“Katara, watch out!”

A guy on his bike and panicked look as he turned the corner, thankfully started the veer off course at the sight of her. She still stumbled over her feet and fell to the floor, her hands pricking in pain as they were scratched. Thankfully though, her jacket took most of the damage. The guy on the other hand, had to shove his bike off his feet, rubbing at his shin.

She took in the pale skin, paler than Toph’s and dark hair surrounding his face. It didn’t stop her from noticing the large burn surrounding his right eye. she noticed that his school jacket was the same one Sokka wore, meaning he was in the Fencing Department.

“You should be more careful.” She meant for it to come out a bit nicer, but the anger from dealing with Azula slipped in.

clearly the guy didn’t enjoy being yelled at as he snapped back. “I didn’t see you.” he seemed to rethink his anger and continued in a calmer voice. “Are you ok?”

ok, now she felt bad about snapping at him. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, what up Sparky?” Toph asked, seeming to brighten as she figured out who almost crashed into them. her guide dog Badger, lead his owner over and with surprising accuracy, Toph punch the guy on the arm.

It was a little scary how well she could do that.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Hey, tell me. Seen his skirt yet? I know he doesn’t shave his legs so please tell me he’s going all out for this.”

The guy sighed. “Thought Sokka told you not to tell anyone.”

“Sokka? He’s the Fencing cheerleader? That’s why he’s been borrowing my hair pins? Those things are expensive.” Katara interrupted.

Toph burst into laughter, clearly enjoying herself while Suki looked thoughtful.

“So that’s why he asked for makeup advice. Suddenly Sports Day is looking a lot more fun.”

“Speaking of which, I’m going back to my room before Jett finds me to let me know my event. Oh, Toph wanna annoying your department?”

“Always.”

“Take my spot for the Rice Lifting event. I’ve dealt with way too much to even put up with Jett today.”

Katara furrowed her brow, wanting to say something about the fact this guy wasn’t going to participate but then she noticed Toph’s smile dropped a little and her punch was definitely softer the second time she hit him.

“Done deal Sparky. Tell your old man I’ll see him later.”

“So who was that?” Suki asked as the guy finally took off.

“Zuko Lung, not related to the royal brat. I go to his old man’s tea house sometimes. He’s Sokka’s roommate apparently.”

“Oh yeah, he’s a pretty good fencer from what I hear. Weird though, I haven’t seen his name in the announcement of students placing.” Suki said.

She had a point. Katara never remembered seeing anything either. She also found it a bit strange Sokka never dragged his roommate to meet the rest of them. there was something about Zuko though that seemed familiar. It was on the tip of her tongue but nothing came to mind. Oh well, for another day then.

“Hey, let’s go find Sokka. Maybe if we catch him off guard, we can get him to agree to let us wax his legs.”

                                             __________________

“I hate you.” Sokka mumbled, hiking his cheerleading skirt up. Katara bit her lip to keep from laughing at the crop top he was in. apparently, he pissed off their department captain by telling him that Zuko wasn’t participating and Toph was taking his place, so his new uniform was worse than his last.

She tossed her braid behind her, trying not to think about how young she must have looked. She had her hair like this when she was younger since it was much easier to put it into a bun. Her own uniform was rather pink for her taste, but Ty Lee basically guilt tripped her into wearing it since it already been bought. She was still annoyed at this, even more so when she found out her new roommate was Mai. The dark and depressing girl was apparently in the Archery Department and Sokka, who’d been in that Department before transferring to fencing, said she was undefeated. Yet she didn’t get past the first round of preliminaries to get onto the national team.

“Hey Sokka!” Aang, a member of the Track and Field Department came bounding over, his own skirt floating around his legs. “Katara, you never told me how much fun a skirt can be. Took me a while to find boxers that weren’t too long but still.”

“I’m glad your having fun Aang. At least someone is.” She said, smirking at Sokka.

“You deal with 3 hours of having your hair ripped out and then come talk to me.” Sokka snapped. “Ugg, I’m gonna kill Zuko. This is all his fault.”

“Wow.” A familiar voice said. Zuko was in casual clothes, carrying a cooler. Next to him was a man, with a squarish face, the same gold eyes and dark hair as Zuko, though his hair was pulled back into a top knot. “See if I bring you anything ever again.”

“You know Jett will kill you if he sees you.”

“He can’t do anything. My uncle called to pull me out for the afternoon. This is work, we’re delivering ice tea for the Fencing and Track and Field Departments. Aang, next time, don’t put your order late at night.”

Aang looked embarrassed. “Sorry. You were already gone when I got back from training. I was going to order for the Rhythmic Gymnastics department, but I know how conscious your coach is about sugars and such.” He said, looking at Katara.

“It’s ok. I’m stealing one though, I deserve the extra sugar for being in this outfit.” She said, walking over to Zuko and opening the lid on the cooler. She noticed he was staring intently at her face.

“What elementary school did you go to?” he asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Did you go to Ba Sing Se Preparatory?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“You screamed at those bullies.”

Bullies? Wait. It hit her like a thunderbolt, why he looked so familiar. His burn was a bit more faded but she couldn’t believe he forgot him. He’d been pushed out the window by bullies and her dad, would come to drop off lunch for her and Sokka, managed to catch him before he hurt himself and she’d screamed at the bullies from the floor.

“Holy crap. That was you!” Sokka said, “you had like no hair then!”

“Sokka!” he’d disappeared from class for a few weeks and when he came back his hair was cut so far back that it made his bandages stick out more.

“Yours was in a braid then.”

She was confused for a moment when she realised, he was talking to her. Yesterday her hair had been out but now it was in the same style she had it in as a child.

She’d always wondered what happened to him when Zuko suddenly disappeared for good one day. She’d didn’t think she’d find out now.