#so getting these prompts done is a HUGE weight off

[faeriexqueen]

Finished my last prompt for Yulma Week 2023! ^o^ Happy to say I’ll have something to post for every day. :3 Not maybe I can get back to working on Songbirds in Winter. >.>

[happy-beeeps]

Missed Communication

accidentally shadowed my last fic so I’m writing through the pain😭 nothing better to heal it than this beautiful man.

prompt from @promptsforthestrugglingauthor !!!

pairing: Poe x mandalorian!reader

WC: 1.5k

Warnings: suggestive content, but nothing explicit! Canon typical violence and some language.

Summary: Poe attempts to confess his feelings. What he doesn’t anticipate is the blaster fire he gets in response.

"I didn't say I don't love you!"

There’s blaster fire whizzing past your head in dazzling streaks of red and green, and you can barely hear the response Poe yells at your back.

"Well you certainly didn't say it back!" You turn just far enough to see him shift his weight and spin slightly backwards, sending a shot square at the chest of one of the taller troopers quickly gaining on you.

“This isn’t really a great time!”

“I was trying to be romantic, you know, confess my love to you right before we die! But no, maker forbid you let me die happy!”

“We aren’t going to die,” you hiss, tapping the side of your helmet to attempt to get the scanners to work. A shot that ricocheted off your bucket earlier had the systems acting haywire, and right now you needed a place to lay low.

Poe has caught up beside you, feet slapping against the clay roads of whatever city you’re in, Er’Kit isn’t the largest system, and you can’t help but feel his huffing is only half from the strain of running.

This wasn’t really supposed to be a huge mission. An old contact had simply arranged an exchange of information (which was largely outdated) and you and Poe had been assigned to basically pick it up and bring it back to base. His X-Wing was still waiting for one more part to be fully functional and he figured joining you on the small ground missions you were now running was better than office work.

Things were going fine until, in an attempt to haggle down the price of a scarf he had wanted with a street vendor, he caught the attention of the small strolling squad of Stormtroopers in the square.

That’s how you ended up here, with shots bouncing off your armor and barely grazing his head.

“I thought we really had a good thing going, you know? We stopped hating each other, we makeout, we’ve fuc-”

“Poe, I mean it.” You grit, turning and firing a shot towards the troopers. It lands, obviously, and the number of troopers has now been reduced by two. They must not have known Poe was coming on this mission, to send such a small squad.

He ignores you, if he even hears you, and is attempting to coordinate a pickup with Finn on his comms. Finn’s voice comes out scraggly and unclear, and it becomes even more evident that the two of you are completely on your own in this mission.

“Kriff, shit.” You mumble, opening up your vambrace and attempting to run a diagnostic on anything.

“Are you done playing?” Poe snipes, but his words lack the venom he attempts to throw at you. You can tell he’s hurt, emotionally and potentially physically, and you almost halt at the sudden strike it sends to your chest. It’s not that you don’t love Poe, in fact you most certainly do, but the last thing you need is an exclamation of love that he’s only saying out of fear.

You move your head to say something until a chime on your arm distracts you. The thrusters in your Phoenix are back on. You know realistically it can’t hold both of you, at least not for long, but you don’t need long. What you need is a boost.

“What are you thinking about?” The panic is palpable, and you realize Poe has been dodging behind your beskar clad body as the shots from the Stromtroopers, shockingly, make their mark.

“I need you to trust me.”

“Do I even have a choice?”

He didn’t, and he knew that. A long outstretched piece of metal poked out from the top of one of the buildings you ran past, and you angled your arm up to send your grappling hook around it. Poe grabbed your torso and the metal wire launched the two of you towards the air. Using the boost, you fired your jetpack and managed to fly up, up, and over a block of buildings. The shots of the troopers died out, and you did your best to land the two of you in a decently secluded block, admittedly not far from where you just were.

Ground met your feet a little roughly, but Poe let go of you quickly before running halfway down the alley and working open a door, before ducking his head in. “This one’s clear.”

You follow him into the small room There’s no windows to the alley and the door, while old, is thick. Instead of windows, small carved out pieces of clay along the front and back walls near the ceiling send beams of warm, bright light into the box of a place.

“It used to be someone’s home.” He states, walking towards one of the overturned, dusty stools and pulling it up right, tentatively putting a hand on it before trusting it with his whole weight.

“How can you be sure?”

He gestures towards the windows, “The Er’kit use small windows for light during the day, that way their homes can stay cool but they don’t need to use excess energy.” He sighs, his head drooping in his hands. You’re both exhausted, and Poe seems to be in some degree of distress.

You walk towards him, kneeling between his legs and placing a hand on his cheek. He looks up at you, brown eyes meeting yours, and you toy with one of the floppy curls that tickles your finger. “You’re pretty smart flyboy.”

He doesn’t say anything, just offers a hmph in response and a soft, sad smile. Your run your hand down from his cheek, over his shoulder and arm when you notice the red spot beneath his beige tunic.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s really… not.” It’s nothing fatal, but a cut this deep shouldn’t be exposed to the sand and air of the system. You grab the scarf from around his neck and he groans, his head picking up and dropping back dramatically.

“Maker forbid I get to keep that scarf.”

You roll your eyes as you wrap it tightly around his arm, working quickly as possible to minimize his discomfort. Satisfied with your work, you pat his arm softly and scooch closer between his legs, so your torso is pressing against him.

“Did you mean it?”

Poe’s brows furrow a bit, as if he has no idea what you could be talking about, “Mean what?”

“Do you love me?”

He scoffs, as if you’ve just asked him something inconceivably simple, like if BB8 was the world's cutest droid, or if Rose makes the best ration cocktails. “I’ve been in love with you basically since the moment we met, figured it was kind of obvious.”

Your heart flutters, chest blooming with warmth as you stretch your hand up to stroke his cheek again. Poe has the softest eyes, big and brown, and you could get lost in them. In fact, you’re not certain you ever want to leave this tiny house, you’re going to live here forever, in this moment. You’ve been scared of a lot with him—scared to lose him, scared of what it means to be with him. You know at the end of the day, he’s it. There will never be anything else like him.

And honestly, you wouldn’t want it anyways.

“I absolutely love you, Poe,” you whisper, fighting the fear of loss, the fear of rejection, grounding yourself in his big brown eyes.

You can practically hear his voice catch in his throat as he smiles, his eyes squeezing shut. He turns his head to kiss the hand that’s currently resting on his cheek, and picks up his uninjured arm and reaches to hold your head. “Thank fuck. I wasn’t prepared to have to tell BB8 why mom doesn’t talk to dad anymore.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, and he laughs into it, easy and clear. Everything with him is easy and clear. You aren’t sure why you expected anything else.

Poe is quick, even injured, and he pulls you close to him and barely gives you a moment to catch a breath before he kisses you. That’s another thing about Poe, you swear you could kiss him for the rest of your life—literally, this man is intoxicating.

The kiss is slow, sweet, but it builds quickly. Quicker than you were expecting. In a moment he’s standing, pulling you up as he goes. Poe’s hands are everywhere, your hair, your waist, as he walks you towards a wall, your back pressed against the smooth stones.

“Love you s’much angel, you’re s’perfect, love you so much, want you so bad.”

Honestly? You’re about to go through with it, whispering sweet nothings back in his ear, fumbling with the buttons on his pants.

Your hand brushes something in his pocket and suddenly, the comm crackles to life, the room now full of Finn’s frantic voice.

“Poe? We’ve got your coordinates, sending you a clear path out now.”

The path comes through on your vambrace, and it’s not a far walk. Poe looks it over, then looks at you, eyes gleaming.

“Copy that, we’ll be at the rendezvous in twenty.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him, running a hand through his hair, “they’re just at the edge of town, it won’t even take us ten minutes to walk there?”

He grins, wicked and wonderful and so him, “Sure, thought I’d buy us some time.”

[imjusthereforwolfstar]

So I attempted a thing, and I can’t believe I actually got it done in time for O’Knutzy Week.

Title: What Did You Do?

Prompt: Column B- B1 Romance Novels, B2 Vacation, B3 Surprise Visit, B4 Babbyyyyy and B5 Good Morning to Me

CW for Food, squint and you might miss it joke about weight, General Vaincre Spoilers

Big thanks to @oknutzy-week-2024 for organizing this amazing week, and always huge thanks to @lumosinlove for the characters and this world we get to play in.

Leo woke because the bed was vibrating. Confused, he cracked open one eye to see it wasn’t the bed, exactly, that was vibrating. Finn was perched on the edge of the bed, struggling to contain his excitement while Leo slept.

“Oh! Hey Sunshine! You’re awake! We have to leave in 45 minutes.”

Leo blinked rapidly. “Leave? Finn, it’s the week before training camp starts. We don't have to be anywhere until we go to the hardware store this…” he trailed off, staring at Finn and his poorly concealed grin. He narrowed his eyes. “Finn. What did you do?”

“Me? Do something?” Finn asked innocently. Then he clapped his hands once. “Now up! We’ve got a day ahead of us.”

Leo ran through his morning routine faster than usual, then found Finn in the living room. Finn was sitting on the couch, finishing up his coffee, with two small, overstuffed duffle bags on the seat next to him, and a mischievous look on his face. “Ready Butter?”

“I guess so? Finn, what’s-”

“Great!” Finn clapped his hands again and rubbed them together. He jumped up, but as he grabbed the two duffles, a smaller canvas tote next to his foot slid to the floor. “OH! I can’t believe I almost forgot!” He handed the bag to Leo. “For entertainment and nourishment during our travels.”

Leo peeked in the bag. There were four boxes of his favorite candy, two cans of favorite sweet tea (almost as good as Eloise’s) and 3 brand new romance novels. Leo's face lit up. “You got the newest ones?” Finn grinned at the excitement on Leo’s face. “Waited in line to snag them the day they came out.”

They settled into the car and Finn pulled out of the parking lot. “Finn, what’s going on?” Leo tried again, but Finn just smiled a vague smile and wagged his eyebrows.

Finn pulled onto the highway and headed south. Leo saw no use in asking again where they were going, so he contented himself with watching the city slide past the window.

They had been on the road for a while when Finn turned off the highway. He drove a few miles off the main road, through a small town, and pulled into a parking lot. “Thomas told me about this place,” he explained, “they bake everything fresh, their pastries are amazing, and they are just next door to this neat crystal shop. Oh, and the coffee shop down the street is supposed to have the best lavender lattes.”

Finn and Leo spent a pleasant hour sampling the pastries (Leo’s favorite was the lemon meringue tart, Finn enjoyed the peach turnovers, and they both agreed to bring Logan back for the salted caramel brownies) and Leo and the woman at the register chatted and swapped baking tips when they paid, while Finn petted a strangely friendly orange cat. They wandered up the street, poking in the shops (“Finn, look at these crystals! I wonder what these are for?”) before getting coffee in gorgeous handmade mugs from the shop down the road. Finn paid and he and Leo settled in the squashy chairs.

“Finn.” Leo started again. “This has been a lovely morning, but what is going on?”

Finn took a long sip of his latte. “It’s the week before training camp. You get edgy. You wander around, straighten things that are already straight and organize sock drawers that are already organized. And Lo’s gone back a week early to settle himself in before camp starts. I… I can’t keep you settled in the way he can, so I thought a short little surprise vacation might take your mind off of things before everything starts again.”

Leo blinked. Did he really do that? He thought back to last year and the feeling of unsettledness came back to him. Wandering from room to room, reworking the kitchen, picking up a book only to put it down a few minutes later because he couldn’t focus. He muttered a sheepish apology, but Finn just laughed. “Don’t apologize! It gives me an excuse to spoil you and take you on a mini trip.” Leo smiled and leaned and gave Finn a kiss. “Thank you Fish.”

Finn smiled. “Shall we, then?” Leo nodded. They got back in the car and drove for another while, until Leo started to smell sea air.

Finn pulled the car into the driveway of a gorgeous beach house. Leo got out of the car and looked up at the house. It was huge. White clapboard, black shutters with little hearts cut out of them, and a royal blue door. It sat on a bluff overlooking the ocean. He saw a small, fenced in yard in the back with a patio and fire pit. The late summer breeze ruffled his curls as he walked up to the edge of the bluff and stared out at the water. The waves were blue and sparkling and crashing up against the beach and Leo was suddenly struck at how different it was from the Bayou back home.

Home. He missed home. He missed the heat and the humidity and the smell of spices in the air when he walked up on the porch of his parents house. And he missed his parents. The start of the season always made him miss the love and support he got from Eloise and Wyatt. They had been with him though so many season starts and they knew just what Leo needed to help him get his head into the game. And although he knew they still loved him and supported him, it was somehow different hearing it through a speaker. Leo sighed, and turned back to the car to help Finn with the bags. He pulled the canvas bag from the front seat. He was looking forward to cracking open the newest novel, snuggled up with Finn in the hammock he spied in the backyard, taking turns reading chapters out loud to each other.

Leo was walking up the front steps when the front door opened, and a familiar blond head poked out. Leo’s jaw dropped and he turned to Finn with wide eyes.

“Surprise!”

“Finn. What did you do?”

“Surprise!”

The door opened the rest of the way, and Leo was enveloped in a hug he was just now realizing he needed and missed. Eloise smelled like home. Magnolia perfume and outside and fresh baked muffins. Wyatt ruffled his hair and Leo could feel the roughness of his hands, reminders of childhoods past, hours in the garage and even more hours on the ice. Leo took a deep breath and let the feeling of peace wash over him. Leo was still learning that he didn’t have to be strong for everyone, all the time. It was okay to let it go and let people take some of the weight, and right now, with his parents this close, he knew it was okay to let them carry the weight of the season for him for a little bit.

Leo took another deep breath and caught a whiff of something amazing. He pulled back from the hug. “Mama…is that your gumbo I smell?”

“Sure is, love. Been cooking since 10 am.”

Leo followed his nose straight to the spacious kitchen. Copper pots hung on the rack over the light gray island. There was a massive slate farmhouse sink in front of a window that had gorgeous views of the ocean. And there, on the stove, was a pot full of Leo’s favorite. Bowls and spoons were already next to the stove, so Leo took a big scoop of rice and an even bigger scoop of gumbo, and sat at the island savoring Eloise’s exquisite ability to balance flavors. He already could see Finn doing his best to politely eat a few spoonfuls while slowly turning as red as his hair.

Finn did indeed politely eat a few spoonfuls of gumbo before Eloise laughed and took pity on him and pulled some cold fried chicken out of the fridge.

It was a lovely afternoon. The weather was just starting to cool off, and there was a wonderful breeze in the air. They ate, and chatted about everything and nothing. Finn and Leo sat in the hammock and passed the book back and forth, laughing at the absurd parts and discussing how much better they could have written the ending. Leo and Eloise found the path down to the beach and skipped rocks in the water, while Wyatt and Finn watched late season baseball. In the early evening, Leo opened the fridge and discovered it was packed with all his favorite ingredients. He cooked up a storm, making blackened catfish sandwiches with homemade remoulade sauce and green beans, with peach cobbler for dessert. After everyone was pleasantly full, Wyatt lit a fire in the fire pit, and they sat around the crackling fire, cups of tea or warm apple cider, and discussed the Lions prospects for the season.

It was almost the perfect evening. It was late summer and the nights were just starting to cool off, but the fireflies were still winking at them from in the grass. The stars were brighter here than in Gryffindor, but still not as bright as home. The only thing missing was Logan. Logan and Eloise would be comparing notes of French Canadian vs French Creole by now, and he and Wyatt would have already made plans to work on the car the next time they visited New Orleans.

Finn’s hand caught his and squeezed, like he knew what he was thinking. Logan had texted back when they sent him pictures of the house and the ocean. He and Alex had made plans for dinner now that he was back in NYC and Leo was happy he was settling in so much better this year than last year.

Leo slept better than he had in several weeks. He woke for a few minutes when Finn slipped out of the bed for his morning run on the beach, and drifted back to sleep listening to the murmur of voices in the living room.

The smell of Wyatt’s biscuits and gravy snaked its way under the bedroom door, and lured Leo from bed. He shuffled down the stairs, and rounded the corner into the kitchen. “Well, good morning to me. Dad, they are going to have to get me a larger jersey after…” he trailed off. Sitting at the counter, tucking into a pile of fluffy biscuits and creamy gravy, was a head of chocolate curls he would have known anywhere.

“Lo?” Leo croaked. “What? Why are you here? You were in New York?”

Logan turned his head to face him. “I’m here for you. Well, you, and the promise of Eloise and Wyatt’s home cooking. But mostly you, Soleil.”

Leo rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Logan's back. He buried his face into Logan’s neck and breathed in the familiar scent of cologne and mint tea and Tiger Balm and finally felt everything fall into place.

The back door clicked open. “Babyyyyy?” Leo called out.

“Yes?” Finn came around the corner, in shorts and running shoes, headphone case in one hand and the tops of his shoulders a little pink.

“What did you do?” Leo asked for the last time, and Finn smiled his biggest Finn smile. “Surprise?”

[star-going-supernova]

SB prompt for ya since it’s almost Halloween!

Gregory for Halloween goes as Freddy and Freddy absolutely goes loses it. I’m just imagining Gregory in the full outfit with shoulder pads, a cute little headband with ears, and face makeup quoting Freddy saying “way to go superstar!” with a huge grin and Freddy just melts.

The mental image of Freddy walking beside a small mini him around the plex is so cute. You can’t tell me Freddy wouldn’t scoop him up and get as many pictures of the two of them as possible.

Also the others would be good natured and jokingly talk about how it’s favoritism and Gregory would just go “well he is my favorite” and cause Freddy’s system to crash.

Here’s tumblr generated prompt number 13! I’m so glad this one got picked, so I can at least say I wrote a belated Halloween ficlet! This is pure fluff! 

Double Trouble

“Hold still!” Cassie complained, not for the first time. Gregory, prone to wiggling, gripped the chair tightly to keep from fidgeting too much. He didn’t actually want to cause problems, for once. 

He desperately wanted to ask if she was done yet, or at least close, but talking would mean moving, and he really was trying to be on his best behavior. He’d asked for this, after all. 

After another few agonizingly long minutes, Cassie leaned back with a pleased smile. “Done! And looking fabulous, if I do say so myself.” 

Gregory leapt from his chair and skidded to look in the mirror. “Cassie!” he cried, beaming. “It looks amazing!” He turned his face this way and that, admiring her work. “I’d ask if you want any help with yours, but…” 

She snickered, tucking herself close to a smaller mirror on her desk to start on her own makeup for her Halloween costume. “You’d mean well,” she allowed, “but I’ll pass, thanks.” 

As she preformed some witchcraft to keep her lines straight and even and symmetrical, Gregory finished getting dressed. He was overly careful not to smudge the Freddy makeup—the blue was a perfect match, honestly, he didn’t know how Cassie did it—thankful that he at least had already put on his shirt. He snapped on the bracelets and slid on the headband with the fuzzy ears and little black top hat hot-glued at a subtle angle. The bowtie was carefully safety-pinned to his shirt, nice and straight. 

The shoulder pads—and Cassie had agreed with him on this—were actually the hardest part of their costumes. They were a little too big and heavy to be clipped, pinned, or glued to their shirt shoulders without them slipping or tugging on the fabric in a way that just didn’t look good. 

Cassie’s dad had solved their problem: backpacks. The shoulder straps were much sturdier and could easily support the foam shoulder pads’ weight. Plus, it made it super easy to take them off without damaging the rest of their costumes. 

Their backpacks were waiting by the front door with their boots. Gregory’s were snow boots covered with foam to mimic Freddy’s feet and the red part of his legs. Cassie’s were just the same, only with Roxy’s purple and black animal print. 

Another bit of practicality, curtesy of Cassie’s dad, who was pretty good at arts and crafts. Gregory’s costume wouldn’t look half as awesome without his help. 

Cassie finished her own makeup (much faster than she’d done Gregory’s, and that wasn’t only because he needed more) and hopped up to finish putting on her own costume. Arm bands, wolf ears—complete with earrings, just like Gregory’s—and fuzzy wolf tail. She blew her green lock of hair out of her eyes. 

“That’s gonna annoy you all night,” Gregory half teased, half warned her. 

She conceded with a disgruntled huff and went to stuff a few spare bobby-pins in her pocket. Pushing him over to the tall mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door, Cassie squished them together so both their reflections fit. “How do we look?” 

“Awesome. Duh.” 

“Are we missing anything?” 

They each critically examined each other’s costume. Luckily, they weren’t too complicated. 

“Yours looks good to me,” he said. 

“Yours too.” She grinned widely. “They’re gonna freak.” 

Gregory snickered. “This’ll knock ’em both out, for sure.” 

“Perfect,” Cassie said, eyes glinting mischievously. And people thought Gregory was the only troublemaker between them. 

Cassie’s dad took a few pictures once they finished getting dressed up before driving them over to the pizzaplex. The Halloween party was in full swing by the time they got there, and thanks to their special VIP wristbands, they got to skip past all the lines. And bless Mr. King for never asking any questions about how or where they got the wristbands. He just followed along behind them with his own average VIP pass until he split off from them with a reminder to be good, stay together, and text him if they needed anything. 

Unleashed, Gregory and Cassie meandered through the festivities for a while, accepting donuts and cider from one of the many treat tables set up in the building. There were some games scattered around, a few face-painting booths, and reminders for the evening’s activities plastered on every other corner. Almost everyone was in costume, even the employees and some of the STAFF bots roaming around. 

“Oooh,” Cassie said, tugging at Gregory’s arm. “They turned the Fazer Blast arena into a haunted house!” She gave him a pleading look, cheering when he obligingly set off in that direction.

• • •

The annual Halloween party was, at the very least, a pleasant change of pace. It was one of the busiest nights of the year, but Freddy could not bring himself to mind how exhausting it was, not when all the children were in such high spirits. 

The costumes were perhaps his favorite part, though the pizzaplex’s decorations were a close second. They were all so creative and fun to look at. There were costume contests scattered throughout the event, separated by age groups or themes or group costumes. The animatronics were not judges of the contests—they did not have opinions as robots, obviously—but they were expected to attend each one and give out the prizes once the judges had deliberated. 

There was even a contest specifically for all the children who came dressed up as members of the band (with a few of Sun or Moon, or even more rarely, the DJ). One particularly memorable past winner had been accompanied by a service dog wearing a simple homemade wet floor sign bot costume. 

Freddy became increasingly distracted as the night carried on. Gregory had promised to visit during the party, but there had been no sign of the boy yet. It was a large building, and there were many activities to participate in, and so it was most likely that Gregory was having fun elsewhere—he was logically aware of that, of course. 

But that wasn’t helping his patience. 

Gregory had mused about what he wanted to do for a costume since before October had even begun. Freddy had tried to veto all the gory suggestions, though he was still not sure if Gregory had meant them sincerely or was simply messing with him. Last he had heard, Gregory was mostly settled on a character from his favorite video game. 

This was necessary information to better explain the way he short-circuited from surprise when he saw Gregory cross the stage during a costume contest. Specifically the one for kids dressed as them. 

A warning flashed on his HUD that he was in danger of overheating, though he hardly noticed. His friends were all snickering around him, less subtle than normal, as they were safely at the back of the room. 

Gregory did a jaunty spin to show off his Freddy costume—more than one system in Freddy’s body had to reboot, stalling out from pleased shock. 

Roxy elbowed him in the side, grinning, some pointed remark surely on the tip of her tongue, when her jaw dropped open as if the hinge had suddenly broken. 

On stage, Cassie, in a similarly styled Roxy costume, joined Gregory. The announcer was saying something about them being a pair, and both of them were smiling widely as Gregory twirled Cassie under his arm. 

Roxy’s body visibly locked up, and her the lights of her eyes flickered wildly. Beneath his frantically whirring fans, Freddy felt a bit appreciative of karma’s quick turnabout. 

You were saying? he asked pointedly over a private channel. 

Shut—shut up, she sent back. 

They had seen dozens, hundreds, of children dressed as them over the years. They had gotten used to it, and though it was sweet, they did not really feel anything from it anymore. It was nearly comical, then, how these two particular children made him and Roxy feel so much. 

Distracted with trying to regain his composure and stop being on the verge of involuntary shut down, he failed to notice Gregory and Cassie’s approach until the two of them were standing right in front of him and Roxy. 

Given Roxy’s choked little sound of surprise, she had similarly been caught off guard. Curse Monty and Chica for sidling away and not warning them. 

Gregory and Cassie grinned up at them knowingly. “Like our costumes?” Gregory asked, his eyes nearly glowing with mischief. 

“I know you probably see tons just like them,” Cassie said, faux shyly, tugging at the crop top layered over her gray shirt. “Or even better ones. But we did our best!” 

Roxy twitched. Freddy’s attempts at internal damage control were not going well. 

“Yeah,” Gregory said, not nearly as good at playing bashfully innocent when the slant of his smile warned of the one-hit knock-out verbal punch he was about to deliver. “You’re our favorites, after all, and we wanted to be just like you.” 

The punch landed. Freddy’s systems flashed a brief warning before he went into a soft reset. The last thing he registered was Roxy crashing simultaneously with him, which made him feel only marginally better. 

[greypetrel]

hiiiii for your Shepard Max!!

the lovers: love, harmony, mutual attraction; “I love you so much.” possible AUs/settings/ideas: fluff, soulmate au, confessions, mutual pining

Hi Rowan! Thank you for asking and here you go. It’s silly, it’s light, you can totally forget the galaxy is under attack if you have rock music playing loud enough. (a note: I do like Miranda a lot, but Max’s opinion differs from mine. They grew on each other as rivals, but their start was rough.)

Tis the prompt List

Through the bars of a rhyme

[ Shepard (genderfluid) x Liara T'Soni | Full spoilers for Mass Effect 2 and 3 | 3935 words ]

The Lovers. Upright: Love, unity, relationships, balance Reverded: Disharmony, imbalance, conflict, detachment, bad choices, indecision

2185 – Normandy SR-2

There were no messages from Liara, when Shepard managed to finally sit down.

And maybe go through their mails without anyone to watch them. Hopefully.

They stopped their index finger upon the key to open the first message, hesitating, and looked up instead. Searching for cameras, cctvs, anything.

There were at least eighteen thoughts about having been brought back from death by Cerberus they had to examine. The Illusive Man left them feeling like they were watched and weighted, examined like a fish in a shop. How bright were their eyes, how long ago had they been caught, if their meat was still good to eat, if the fishmonger left the entrails in and the scales on. Sure, Miranda had an interest in keeping them safe. Keeping her investment and her fucking project alive.

Max’s first instinct was to unscrew a pothole in that absurdly big cabin and deprive the pretentious, classy bitch of the satisfaction. They already knew how painful and quick that death was, after all.

But-

Joker.

Beside the mission -someone else could have done it. They didn’t really need them- Max couldn’t leave Joker there, on his own in the grasp of fucking Cerberus.

Not after he threw away a career in the Alliance to follow them.

They would die before admitting it openly, but they were far more grateful for his presence there than they were for a second chance at life.

“Ok, then.”

They patted their hands on their thighs and rose. A quick glance on the messages list confirmed that there was none from Liara, and they needed something to distract themselves from the knowledge that the one person they wanted to hear from the most… Wasn’t there. Not a word, not a greeting not a “What the fuck did you do”.

Not that Liara would have ever told her that.

But nothing at all?

They had to distract themselves. Definitely.

Searching for cameras to dismount would have been a nice distraction, and a much useful one.

Chambers told them that the loft -eurgh- had been filled with everything they may need and want. And if any dossier of them they followed was accurate, there had to be a toolbox in that room, somewhere.

Miranda couldn’t get their scar right on their right cheek, sure. But giving a toolbox to an engineer was… Basic politeness? Basic politeness, surely. Or one thing to complain about if it was missing.

And so it began the operation “explore the goddamn huge room”. Max started to open each drawer and every cabinet, shuffling through the contents -who needed that many shirts?- and snorting to the things that were there because clearly people didn’t know them. Like: silk nightgowns? In pastels? Oh, no.

Nerves raising for that and because there was no sign of one single screwdriver -they would have been content with just one and a roll of duct tape- they almost missed the box, labelling as yet another fancy item – they found a hair curler! As if her bob was long enough to curl or they had the minimum intention to.

But something they didn’t know what, made them stop before slamming close the cabinet door fully.

It wasn’t a cardboard box. It was a fancy one, rigid and covered in leather, closed by metal clasps.

Weird.

Max huffed, shrugging it off and deciding to open it nonetheless. Just for completeness.

Surely it held some other shitty thing she didn’t need, like… They didn’t know. A vertical iron steamer. Miranda looked like the person who would have thought a vertical iron steamer was a basic need necessity, as if anyone looked at how many wrinkles your clothes had when you were shooting at Collectors.

Sitting crossed-legged in front of the cabinet, Max unlocked the box, and yelped when she saw the content as they had just seen a ghost.

Their vinyls.

Their family’s vinyls collection. The one her family collected and kept, brought along from Livorno to Mindoir. The one Max escaped the Batarian attack with. The one they dragged with them wherever they went, the one that held all their childhood.

The one they were sure died with them on the Normandy.

Joey Tempest was looking at them from the cover of The Final Countdown, with the very indenture from mamma’s nail that signalled it was their copy, and not another one.

They shuffled through the discs, checking if there was everything.

The paper sleeves were more worn out, some weren’t their copies but were the right titles, but everything was there, up to the last one she didn’t really like but her grandpa did – Dire Straits. They knew the list by heart still, and the thought was at the same time comforting and heartbreaking.

Max felt the urge to cry.

It was better than any message she could send her, in hindsight.

Because there was a handful of people that would have known to look and retrieve those discs.

But there was only one who knew the whole list.

---

2183 – Normandy SR-1

“Don’t you find it weird?”

Max asked, half a laughter in their voice not betraying how much her heart was in her throat with nerves at the question. They carefully checked their position, slouching a little more against the wall of her cabin, arms crossed to their chest and an ankle crossed over the other. Very casually as if they were doing nothing special at all.

“Should I?” Liara asked, sitting on the chair of their desk, looking up at them again. Her brows furrowed minutely in doubt. “Who else found it weird?”

“Well, you know… In chronological or alphabetical order…” Max pretended to think about it. “Everyone.”

“Everyone?” Liara wasn’t convinced.

“Yup.” Max nodded.

“Why so? It’s just… music?”

The Asari really looked out of her depths. She carefully deposited the vinyl she was looking on the pile of others on her lap, placing both hands flat on top of it right after. Treating them like they were precious and could break if handled badly. Professional deformation, most likely, but it felt a little like it was Max that she was treading so carefully with.

“Yeah, in a storage medium that’s out of production since a century, difficult to store and transport, it takes up so much space, readers are rare and expensive, complex to build by yourself… They’re a relic and I can’t listen to them, basically, and I’ve heard more complaints about my playlist than about everything else I did commanding this ship.”

Max realized only then that it was such a stupid thing to say she couldn’t think of many other that were worse. Why not talking about ex partners since they were there? Boia, they hadn’t even kissed yet -well they almost did but were interrupted, it didn’t count- and Max was already making it awkward. They plastered a smile on their face and laughed, shrugging it off and waving a hand in the air, dismissively.

“Joking, of course.”

Liara didn’t laugh. Liara looked down at the discs in her lap and took some time to think, caressing the cover of the first in line - The Final Countdown, and Max totally, absolutely didn’t take it as a sign. It was just a case that she had stopped on their favourite. On what had been mamma’s favourite.

“I think it’s sweet that you still keep them, even if you can’t listen to them directly.” The Asari moved the pile on the desk with the same care of before, making sure they were all stable before letting it go. “But I’m an archaeologist, loving old things no one can nor should use anymore is the basic requirement for my career.”

She rose up and smiled at her, cheeks taking a shade of blue that looked deeper than before. Max interpreted it as a blush, and smiled back at her, her heart singing in relief. As close as they could get in presenting her new love interest to the family, and it went well.

“And who knows, maybe one day you’ll be able to acquire a reader.”

“I’d need a bigger cabin.”

“Never say never?”

“With the Alliance fundings?"

They shared a laugh, sweeping the awkwardness of the moment away. It felt more natural, then, that Liara had walked closer. Too close.

It felt as much natural for Max to lean forward.

“Can I?”

“P-please.”

Her lips were soft, and Max started to think that Dire Straits weren’t as bad as she had always thought. To Romeo and Juliet they could relate, right then.

---

2185 – Hagalaz

“Dr. T’Soni has left something for you, dr. T’Soni.”

Liara sighed, putting her terminal down to face Glyph. For all Max’s effort, they had managed to switch the drone to call her dr. T’Soni, that was true. Which was nicer than being called Shadow Broker -she still didn’t feel the title as belonging fully to her. The only issue was that the drone now referred to everyone as dr. T’Soni.

Max had apologized, saying that with such a short time, and so many more urgent reparations to be done to the outer shell of the ship, they and Tali couldn’t do more than this. Shepard, Garrus and Grunt had taken down quite the number of antennae and outer components to break in, after all, and if Liara wanted to survive on that ship and in that role, shields and communications were the priority.

Glyph had been a favour. A thank you for the dinner and the talk and well. The rest.

“Which dr. T’Soni are you talking about, Glyph?” She asked, massaging her temple.

“Dr. T’Soni who commands the Normandy, dr. T’Soni.”

Of course.

Liara felt irritation and unease rising in her throat. She told them not to do anything. But telling Max Shepard what to do most often than not resulted into having them doing the exact opposite.

How they survived as a subordinate in the Alliance, Liara never understood.

Nonetheless, she rose and headed where Glyph led her to see that “something” Max left her.

Liara knew that that dinner had been a mistake. She should have cut it right there and then, left them free. Cut the ties before having to mourn them all over again. Running to the Omega 4 relay was suicidal, Max hadn’t had the audacity to say otherwise either. And she had the audacity for much of anything. Including jumping into a relay no one ever returned from on a Cerberus mission.

It had been a mistake.

It had been a mistake falling -because Liara knew herself and she fell, hard and deep- for a human that would have lived but for a blink of an eye and that hadn’t fallen as hard, that was clear. Rekindling that fire, now that she had made up her mind, build herself another life from scratch of the wreck that she had been after the Normandy -the first one- was destroyed. She couldn’t do it again, and she should never have boarded the SR-2 again.

“Just one for the road” they had told them. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

It meant everything, for her, and it scared her that Max had behaved with their usual happy-go-lucky, carefree demeanour. Like nothing ever mattered beside going with the flow. Like Liara didn’t matter enough to leave her with sadness and regret.

Goddess, if they knew how long and how difficult it had been to retrieve all her damn records…

But no.

Letting doubt and fear turn into rage wouldn’t do. Liara had better things to do.

She would enter her cabin, see whatever Max left -a bottle of her Italian fizzy drink of choice, no doubt- and went straight back to work. Like removing a band-aid.

The door slid open in front of her, and she thanked Glyph for letting her in first.

“Goddess-”

Whatever she thought she would have found in there, that wasn’t that.

Balancing between the pillow and the headboard of the bed, the paper sleeve reflecting the neon light above, there was one of said bloody vinyls she all but spat blood to retrieve. With a post-it stuck on the front.

Liara ran to the bed and took it in hand, caressing the the cover. The singer in black and white, looking to the side with a smile in his eyes.

Bruce Springsteen, the album Born to Run.

The post it just recited two simple lines in a messy, angular cursive she knew all too well and she didn’t think she would have seen again.

Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness I'll love you with all the madness in my soul

(etc etc but I didn’t get bigger post-its.)

Max-

Oh she hated her. Her and her post-its and her ways from a century prior.

She almost didn’t realize she had dialed the Normandy -they docked out half an hour before, but they couldn’t be to the relay yet- until Max’s voice rang, slightly nasal and as if she was singing.

“Yeeeeees?”

“Whoever uses post-its anymore?”

“People of taste, of course.” They huffed. “And of money, can you believe those ones were the most expensive I could find? And they’re so small. Thieves.”

“Why did you get them, then?” Liara sat more comfortably on the bed, carefully placing the disc on her propped up legs.

“Because it’s Cerberus money I was spending. On hindsight, it may have been better to buy the bigger ones in a ridiculous quantity to push the price up. Mh. EDI, notify me in two hours to buy a shitton of huge post-its.”

“Yes, Shepard.”

The computer sounded a little resigned, if an AI can even express feelings.

“Yeah, well… Pretend I thought of this before and I wrote the rest of the lyrics of that verse.”

“Aye aye, Commander.”

They chuckled at that, and there was a full minute of awkward silence, full on unsaid. It felt bad to hang down, it felt unfair to drag this on. On the background of the call, Liara could faintly hear other voices, and heard Max answering distractly, correcting the and giving orders.

“Max, I-”

“There is-”

They said, at the same time. It broke the tension and made the both of them giggle as if they were far younger than whatever their documents said.

“You first.” Liara told them.

“I left another thing in the bigger cabinet in your cabin. Hope you don’t mind.”

“… You didn’t leave me that horrible trap, did you?”

“Hey. It may be the first motorbike I build, but Raffaella isn’t horrible! You’re hurting her feelings.”

“Raffaella?”

“Like Raffaella Carrà.”

“Of course.”

Shaking her head and now dreading to hang the call down, all previous doubts somewhat mitigating in her mind, Liara rose from the bed. The vinyl got back on the pillow, safe as it could be -it survived a float in open space, but it was old and it was long ingrained in her to treat old things with due respect. Knowing the personal history of it only made it more important to preserve.

“Nothing named after Raffaella Carrà can be horrible.”

“It was very insensitive of me to assume the opposite, please bear her my apologies.”

“It will be done.”

Max kept chatting, talking of how Raffaella Carrà had been a great Italian personality from the 1960s onward, and made it as icon for the LGBTQ+ community, collected a great deal of international successes and sang stuff you just couldn’t avoid singing and dancing, even if she wasn’t her favourite genre. As she spoke, as usual not minding much that there was no answer on the other side, Liara opened the wardrobe, half listening and half not. When she saw, she stopped listening altogether.

“Oh, Max…”

“I thought I’d spare you the trouble of collecting them all again. Beyond the Omega 4 could be quite the bother, even for the Shadow Broker.”

Finally tears came up to the Asari’s eyes.

“I’m-”

“If you say you’re not up to the role, T’Soni. Bruce Springsteen is a gift, but I’m only lending you the rest, ok?”

“Are you sure-”

“When this is over, I’m coming back for them.”

“Max, if you-”

“I’m coming back for them.”

They said it with such sureness and determination that Liara almost believed they would have. That passing through an abandoned relay counted as a normal Tuesday activity. A couple of tears fell on the black leather of the box.

“And well, if you could be with them too when I do…” And then they hesitated. “… Well, uh, I’d be happy, that’s it.”

Liara nodded as an answer, blinking tears away from her eyes. She felt quite stupid, both for being still unsure of them, and for not answering vocally to a call.

“I- Uh-”

“Damn, you are pathetic, Shepard.”

A groaning voice Liara knew interrupted, passing by with heavy steps.

“Oh, please, Garrus.” Max groaned, on the other side of the com.

“Your music made her cry. It’s decrepit and loud, of course she’s crying.”

“Reach and flexibility, Vakarian.” Max hissed, annoyed. “Reach and flexibility.”

“You won’t have either, if you have the tastes of and act like an octogenarian Krogan.”

“Boia, dè.”  Max scoffed in italian as per her usual. “First of all, Krogans live-”

It held such an amount of normality that Liara couldn’t find it in her to complain because what had to be a call of two now had a third person in it and it ended up in the other two bickering. She had almost forgot how homey it had become on the Normandy, before… Before.

She just held close to her chest the box with Max’s records, the records that were the only thing she got left of their family, the ones that held a memory each, and kept laughing through the tears.

When Max hang down, still assuring her that they would have been back before she knew it, Liara knew for certain that she did matter.

That assurance, over and over again, and those vinyls, felt more like a declaration of love than the first time they actually told her they loved her.

Half an hour later, she was back to work, assured Feron that she was fine.

And asked Glyph to play Born to Run.

---

2186 – Normandy SR-2

Everything was set in place.

It took them days to put the plan in motion. Day upon day of sneakily entering Liara’s room as she was outside of it - she needed to get out more, and the plan would have helped on that too, coincidentally. If Glyph hadn’t malfunctioned again and everything was going smoothly…

… Max had only to wait.

They sighed, sitting down in front of Raffaella the motorbike cross-legged. It wouldn’t have done waiting idly, so they may as well get some work done. Work on the bike had considerably slowed down since they had not access to Cerberus’ infinite  fundings anymore, and their petty crusade in spending them in the silliest possible ways was officially over.

The fuel tank was bothering her particularly: the gasket had something defective, and as much as Max tried to reshape the rubber, fix it with heat, tighten the tube, it kept leaking. Pouring water in the tank from a glass, now, produced the same result.

They huffed, displeased and frowning at the droplets trickling down the skeleton of the bike. A new gasket was needed, but with the Reapers attacking and Earth in that state… She had to salvage something else to serve the same function. Maybe ask Tali if she had an idea. Tali always had ideas.

In the meanwhile, since Max Shepard wasn’t entertaining a hobby to get bored by it, they decided on the engineering panacea. The solution for everything. The final answer to life, the universe and everything.

Duct tape.

A good roll of tape around the junction would do. Why spending more money on a new gasket when you have cheap, humble, extraordinary duct tape at your disposal?

There. All done. This time water didn’t leak.

Feeling very proud of themselves, Max looked around to see what was the next thing in line when-

A loud guitar riff started to blast from the interphone.

It stopped.

Max smiled wide, looking up at the speaker.

The same guitar riff started again, and it kept up for more time before stopping.

It started and stopped five times, and Max got back to work, humming alongside Angus Young’s guitar as it started again and again.

The sixth time, the song kept up, unstopped, and Max knew what would have come in some moments.

“Shepard, the crew is complaining.” EDI dialed in, sounding resigned. “Again.”

“Tell them I’m the Commander, and the Commander chooses the music.” Max answered, unbothered. “They should thank I have taste, Anderson liked disco.”

“Must the music in private cabins be dialed in the whole of the ship?”

“Not the one in everyone’s cabin. I’ll fix it, worry not, I just need to-”

“Shepard.”

Max looked up from the bike leaning to the side so she could see up the stairs to the door. Liara, still in her pajamas and with just a silken dressing gown not closed on, was glaring at her from the door, absolutely livid.

She was so beautiful when she was angry.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Max beamed, smiling brightly at her as if nothing had happened. “Did you sleep well?”

“Shepard, why are my cabinets playing music when I open them?”

“Oh it’s you?” Max asked, faking surprise. “Lucky, can we change cabin?”

“Max.”

“it’s such a great song.”

“Max, it’s playing in the corridors!”

“’Cause the walls start shaking, the Earth was quaking-” They sang, returning to work.

“And in your cabin and-” Liara stomped down the stairs to reach her.

“-My mind was aching-”

“Tell me you didn’t program my cabinets to play AC/DC in the whole ship whenever I open them.”

“-And we were making it and yooou-”

Max hopped back up on her feet and grabbed Liara’s hands, twirling her around and close to their body.

“-shook me aaaaaall night long!”

“I’m serious, Maxine!”

“Oh, me too! Yeah yooou shook me aaaall night long-”

Their full name was a low hit, but who cared now? They had the Asari they loved in her hands, finally free to see her without permits and documents and whatever after six months of home arrest, commanding their ship, free from Cerberus, with a crew they could choose and yet another suicidal, galaxy-saving, impossible mission to accomplish.

Everything was grim and dark, but Liara was not, Liara was there, their records were back in her bedside table, and at the possible end of the galaxy, Max Shepard could take a breather and concentrate on the good in life.

They knew perfectly well that the anger of the Asari would not have lasted so long. And indeed, it lasted only to the end of a very badly sung chorus before she sighed deeply, shook her head and stopped resisting Max’s attempt at dancing to join her in.

“I’ll fix the cabinets back, I promise.” Max told her, leaning forward to catch Liara’s lips in a kiss.

“You’d better.”

“But it is a great song, isn’t it?”

“I love it.”

Liara kissed again, and for three minutes, everything was good and the music was nice. Her grandma was right, when she said Max had been named after Maxine Sullivan in one particular song. It was later than everyone thought, and since it was, they all may enjoy themselves when they still had time.

[goosewriting]

“Have we met?”

summary: what if Fives had been stopped before removing his inhibitor chip on Kamino and was instead sent back after reconditioning, thereby forgetting you? 

relationship: Fives x gn!reader

warnings: hmmm angst :^), mentions of characters’ deaths, implied brainwashing?, dw there’ll be comfort at the end

word count: 2.2k 

A/N: in my book Fives is alive, no matter what. here’s one take lol mainly because i found some prompts and this idea refused to leave my brain

prompt used (source): we have just met and yet it feels like i have known you for a lifetime

Navigation: Part 1 (you're here!) | Part 2

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

→ PART 1: When he came back to you

When you heard the news about what Tup had done on Ringo Vinda, you couldn’t believe it. You were told that Fives went with him to Kamino to get checked. Something about a parasite or a virus; that was all the explanation you were given. But if you were being honest with yourself, no one seemed entirely convinced, including some of the Generals, and Rex. 

Fives was currently being held on Kamino for a couple more rotations to keep an eye on him, but was meant to come back to the Resolute soon enough. 

You sit in your room, thinking about how the whole deal smells a little fishy to you. You’d just have to ask Fives in person once he comes back. The fact that he isn’t responding to any of your messages isn’t helping, however. 

A long time ago, you had joined the GAR as a mechanic and worked (and studied) yourself up to mechanical engineer. Since with your new position came your own little workshop to tinker in, you had modified your and Fives’ comm devices to send encrypted messages to each other. They were coupled to the long range transmissions of the ship itself, so your messages didn’t get delivered immediately, so as to not raise any suspicion if someone were to check the log. But that’s how you would communicate with him when he was away. 

Usually it didn't take more than a few rotations for Fives to answer. Even when he was on the most secretive of missions as an ARC trooper, he’d still send you one of your code words to let you know he was okay. Now it’s been longer than ever before since you sent him your last message that went unanswered. 

You can’t help but stand up and start pacing back and forth in your room, trying to push back the feelings of worry. Rex told you Fives is supposed to come back today, but you still haven’t heard anything fromeither. The one thing the captain did tell you, though, was about Tup sadly passing away on Kamino. Those news really didn’t do much to help you feel reassured about Fives’ state.

You’re so engrossed in your thoughts and gradually worsening “what if” scenarios going through your head, that you almost jump out of your skin when your comm beeps on your desk. You hurry to pick it up and see there's a new message, but it’s from Rex. He says Fives’ ship has just landed.

At that, you all but sprint out of your quarters and run all the way to the hangar. It takes you a couple of minutes to get there, holding onto the edges of the wall to cut your curves. In one hall, you almost trip and fall, but catch yourself just in time to keep going. When you reach the hangar doors, out of breath and panting heavily, you press the button for them to open. You quickly make your way to one of the landing platforms, where you can already see Rex and Jesse talking to Fives.

You can't help the tears running down your cheeks, tears of happiness and relief, seeing that your boyfriend made it back in one piece. Feeling like a huge weight just got lifted off your heart, you take a deep breath and make your way to the group. 

As you’re approaching Fives from behind, you can only see Rex and Jesse's faces, and they’re looking… distressed? incredulous? confused? Rex spots you first, and calls out to you to wait, but you’re already hugging Fives from behind.

“Fives!” you greet him, squeezing the living lights out of him. Then again, with all that armour, you wonder if he can feel it at all. “I was so worried! Are you okay? You never answered my messages–”

You circle around Fives to face him, and you notice several things: first, he’s not hugging you back. Second, he looks bewildered at your presence. And third…

“Oh, uhm, hi there,” he says with a polite smile, his arms slightly raised so he doesn’t touch you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who… Have we met?”

You let go of the clone, taking a step back. Squinting at him, you search his face for any sign of mischief or that he’s teasing you; it really isn’t a tasteful joke, but you’d forgive him. You tremble slightly when you realise that he’s 100% serious. 

You feel Rex’s hand on your shoulder, and you turn to him with a questioning look.

“It seems that Fives has, uhm…” he starts, unable to look you in the eyes. You quickly glance over to Jesse, who looks just as shocked as you. 

“He doesn’t remember you,” Jesse finishes Rex’ sentence.

You can’t help but let out an unamused chuckle at that.

“That’s insane,” you retort, turning back around to Fives. “You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“I’m really sorry, uhm…” he scratches his neck sheepishly. “I never got your name…?”

You search his eyes again, but there’s nothing there that you recognise. With a shaky breath, your heart now pounding against your ribcage for all the wrong reasons, you turn back to the captain.

“What did they do to him, Rex?” you ask, your voice cracking. 

“Let’s just go inside first and catch up, okay?” Rex places an arm around your trembling shoulders and leads you towards the exit of the hangar. Jesse stays with Fives and brings him to the barracks.

Rex takes you to his captain’s office, where he sits you down on the small couch and prepares some tea. Once he’s done, he places a cup in front of you on the table, and takes a seat across from you in his office chair.

You thank him and reach out to the cup, but as you lift it, you realise how your hands are shaking, causing it to clatter against the saucer, so you set the tea back down, bringing your hands to your lap and interlacing your fingers instead in an attempt to calm them down. 

“Do you know… what happened?” you ask carefully. Rex heaves a sigh.

“Not really. It’s like Fives’ memory has been… wiped,” he explains, scratching his chin deep in thought. 

“That’s…” you start, but can’t find the words. “You’re saying it like it was deliberate. You don’t think it was a parasite?”

He doesn’t answer.

“...Do you think it was the Kaminoans?” you ask, your voice low, as if there was someone eavesdropping. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“I’m not sure,” he answers. “As a cadet back on Kamino I saw it maybe once or twice that a clone would be taken away, and then they reappeared with no memory of something small that had happened recently. They would do it because the clone in question showed an ‘inappropriate emotional response’, so they had to ‘fix it’.” He gestures the quotation marks in the air with his hands. “After all, to many we’re just a product or a tool, and as such we’re expected to function in a certain manner.”

“You know that a lot of people don’t think that, right?” you interject, and he smiles.

“I know. But that’s how we came to be.” His smile fades, his brow furrowing. “But Kaminoans are good at what they do, and all in all always treated us well. I’ve never seen or heard of a clone forgetting entirely about someone else because of a treatment.”

You both sit in silence for a moment. 

“Do you think it can be recovered somehow?” you ask, your chest tightening at the thought of Fives losing all the memories he had with you. What if he never felt the same again? What if… he was incapable of loving you again? What if he didn’t want to love you again?

Rex can see where your mind is going, so he stands up and makes his way to you, sitting on the couch as well, placing a reassuring hand on your knee. He knows that recovering memories after a thorough wipe is nearly impossible, but he can’t tell you that.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he settles on. With a small smile, he adds, “For now, why don’t you go introduce yourself to him? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to make your acquaintance.”

“Right,” you reply and sigh. Let’s treat this like… like he hit his head and has amnesia, you tell yourself. After I spend time with him and show him all our holopics and videos together, surely he’ll remember me. Deep in your heart, you know that’s just a lie you’re telling yourself to feel better, but you’d rather lie to yourself than face the truth right now. A truth that wasn’t limited to Fives’ sudden state, but gave place to so many more questions about clones, Kaminoans and what they did out there; questions you had no energy in pursuing any time soon. 

Changing the subject, you make some small talk with Rex while you drink your tea. Once the cup is empty, you leave the captain’s office and shoot Jesse a quick message asking if he knows where Fives is. The reply comes almost instantaneously, telling you the whole squad is in the mess hall. You take a quick look at the time, and sure enough, it’s time for dinner. Only then do you feel the grumbling of your stomach, reminding you that in all your worry about your favourite clone, you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. 

You quickly make your way to the hall. The smell of today’s menu fills your nose and the clattering of plates and cutlery, as well as indistinct chatting of clones and staff alike, reaches your ears. After getting your food, you make your way to the 501st’s usual table. You notice that Fives is sitting at the edge of the group, so that a sitting space is free between him and Kix. That’s where you usually sit. Your heart can’t help but skip a beat; maybe he does remember? Or is it just muscle memory that can’t be erased away that easily? 

Taking in a deep breath, you approach the group and clear your throat. It catches Fives’ attention, who turns around to you.

“Hey handsome,” you smile at him. “Is that seat taken?” You nod towards the empty space. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, clearly surprised by your presence. Again. “Yeah, I mean–” He clears his throat. “It isn’t taken. Feel free to join us.”

You thank him and take a seat, greeting the others, who say their ‘hello’s back to you. Fives eyes them curiously, then looks back to you.

“Say, I never caught your name,” he remarks for the second time today, taking a bite of his food. 

You can’t help a sad smile as you look up at Jesse, who’s sitting in front of you. It occurs to you that that’s where Echo used to sit, and for a second you wonder if Fives has forgotten about him too. 

Jesse mirrors your smile with a slight shrug of his shoulders, and you turn to Fives, telling him your name.

“Oh, so that’s you!” he mentions, and you tilt your head at him in confusion. “The guys have been asking me about you ever since I arrived. I don’t know how I could have forgotten about someone I apparently hang out with so much?” 

“Right?” you retort under your breath, taking a mouthful of the rather bland food.

The conversation they were having earlier restarts, and Kix tells them about some patients he had today, Jesse talks about some improvements to their weapon system they could do, and so on. You’re not really paying much attention anymore, fidgeting with your fork once you finish eating. 

One by one, the clones excuse themselves to retire for the night or go back to their shift. In the end, it’s just you and Fives left at the table. You have one elbow propped up on the table, your head in your hand, looking at him.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” you ask suddenly. 

“What does?” he retorts, studying your face. You don’t answer immediately, weighing the words in your head. 

“Not remembering someone who clearly knows who you are,” you finally say, tears starting to gather in the corner of your eyes. 

That’s when you see his façade drop. He curls his hand on the table into a fist and bites the inside of his cheeks, trying to play it off with an awkward chuckle. 

He doesn’t reply at first, just looking at you like he’s trying to draw the answers from your eyes, an answer that is there, but he can’t read for some reason. 

“I don’t understand,” he finally replies, and it’s barely more than a whisper. “We have just met and yet it feels like I’ve known you for a lifetime.”

You can feel your heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

“Oh Fives, what have they done to you…” Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, but his own shoots up first to press against his temple, just behind his tattoo, and he winces in pain, backing away from your touch. 

“I– I have to go,” he utters and stands up, quickly making his way out of the mess hall.

You’re left there, alone. Hurt. Hopeless.

~~~~~

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!] @dybynyght, @galaxtic-writings, @kalea-bane, @soka-writes-things, @padawancat97

[the-vast-corner-of-the-galaxy]

KW 2024- Day 4: Post Battle Reunion

I know I am *technically* posting this on Friday, but whatever lol.

Anyway, my take for Day 4 of Kataang Week hosted by @kataang-week

Prompt: Post-Battle Reunion - Thursday, August 1st

Chapter Summary: Aang and Katara reunite after the Hundred-Year War is finally over.

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 3.2 K

It was done.

Aang had finally defeated Fire Lord Ozai.

The young airbender stood on the hills of Wulong Forest, looking at the horizon for many moments, seeing Sozin’s comet fade away into the night.

Suki, Sokka, and Toph were all celebrating and talking about Aang’s victory over Ozai. They talked about the battle, how he took his bending away, how they almost died too many times, and how much they despised the Fire Lord. Aang appreciated his friends’ enthusiasm, but he was too lost in thought to even think about it properly and be grateful for them. His mind was lingering on all the events that just happened, and couldn’t seem to focus on the present.

Aang’s mind then turned to one particular person:

Katara.

Was she okay? Is she still alive?

Aang’s heart rapidly thought at the thought of her, and these beats were filled with worry, concern, and fear. He had to go to her, immediately, but his mind was still paralyzed.

“So,” Sokka began. “I think it’s time we return to the Fire Nation now. We need to go support Zuko and Katara.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Suki chimed in. “Let’s head to one of the ships and get going. The quicker we get there, the better.”

Everyone began walking towards the remaining ship and made their way on it. Aang took a while to follow due to the exhaustion, but he eventually catched up. Suki and Sokka were preparing the ship for departure, and Toph was beside them. The young earthbender suddenly felt a strange energy coming from Aang, who was sitting a few paces behind him. She sensed his exhaustion, both spiritually and physically.

“Twinkle toes, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern. “You just saved the world just now, but you don’t look too happy. Why?”

“I don’t really know,” Aang responded. “It’s just… Everything that just happened is too hard to process. Thousands of people died, so many lost their families, their friends, loved ones, so many people had to leave their homes, and even though it’s all over, I don’t know what will happen in the future. It all feels so uncertain.”

Toph did not exactly know how to relieve Aang’s worries, for he was right. Even if the war was over, the future was drowned with uncertainty. She thought about her own life, and realized how it was also filled with a void of uncertainty.

“Well, we don’t know what’s going to happen in the future,” Toph began, “But that is not in our control. I guess we are just going to have to live the present, and live each day as if it were the last.”

Aang felt a small weight lift off his back thanks to Toph’s words. “Thank you, Toph, that really helps.” Toph smiled at him and went back to Sokka and Suki, who were starting the ship for departure, and Aang sat on the floor, thinking about was was to come.

Even if he was the Avatar, he could not control the events ahead of time, the future. He had to keep living each day as if it were the last, especially after how many times he almost died (and actually died).

In fact, Aang did not know how long he was going to live for at all, especially since he was already 112 chronological years. He was not going to be the Avatar for eternity since there would come a day were his body would not take it anymore and the spirit of the Avatar would be passed to another person. Aang’s days were already being counted, and it was clear that however long he was going to be in this world, he had to spend it well.

In the little time Aang had of life, he realized that he had to fulfill his duties as the Avatar. He had to maintain the balance until his body gave in. Being the Avatar was a huge part of his identity, a part he basically could not remove, but it was not all of it. Aang had learned from Roku that each Avatar has their own identity and personality, even if they shared the same spirit. He was more than the most powerful bender in the world.

Aang was a person, just like everyone in this world, and Aang had to live out his duties as well… Aang, himself. He had already made many friends, whom he was grateful for. These included Sokka, Toph, Zuko, Sukki, Iroh… and many others.

Aang also had a very special friend, but it was the person he basically could give up anything for.

It was Katara.

From the moment Aang saw Katara in the South Pole taking him out of the iceberg, he began loving her, but not only romantically. Aang loved Katara in all the ways possible, even if he did not yet comprehend it. She was the one who found him, saved his life countless times, comforted him, talked him into his sense, and so much more.

Apart from the world, which he had to protect, Katara was everything to him.

With a pain in his chest, Aang remembered the last conversation they had before the battle on Ember Island. He had gotten in a fight with her, and in the simplest terms, told her that she was not helping him at all. The young airbender felt guilt build inside of him, and he knew he had to immediately talk to her and apologize, if she was still alive. If Katara was not alive, the guilt from their fight would probably kill him.

“How long will it be until we get to the Fire Nation?” Aang asked anxiously.

“Probably many hours,” Sokka responded. “But thanks to the airship, it won’t take weeks to get there. We will probably get there by the time the sun is up in the sky.

The Avatar nodded, and the ship began flying in the air. After a few minutes of being up in the sky, Aang’s body became heavy, and he immediately fell into a deep sleep.

When Aang awokened, he found himself in a similar landscape to the one in the Eastern Air Temple. It was nighttime, and there were thousands of skies in the sky. The moon was full, casting a silvery glow over the serene surroundings. A gentle breeze carried the scent of jasmine, adding to the dreamlike quality of the scene.

Aang gazed up, mesmerized by the celestial display above. Comets streaked across the sky, their tails leaving trails of shimmering light, as if inviting him to make a wish. The beauty of it all was almost overwhelming, and he felt a profound sense of peace.

“Aang!” a familiar voice exclaimed behind him, except that it sounded older. Approaching him was a beautiful, tall woman dressed in elegant Water Tribe attire. Her long, flowing hair framed her face, and her stunning sapphire eyes sparkled with a mixture of joy and wisdom.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said with a warm smile, kneeling down to his level. Her voice carried a soothing, melodic quality that resonated deeply within him.

“Wait… who are you?” Aang asked, puzzled. The image then clicked in his mind, and he immediately knew who this woman from the Water Tribe was.

You’re… Katara!” Aang exclaimed, his heart pounding in his chest. “But you’re all grown up. What kind of vision is this?”

Katara chuckled softly, her laughter like the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. “This is simply a glimpse of the future, Aang; a future where we’ve both grown and faced many challenges together.”

Aang reached out tentatively, his hand trembling slightly as he touched her face. She felt real, solid, and her skin was warm under his fingers. “I don’t understand. How is this possible?”

Katara took his hand in hers, holding it gently. “Sometimes, the Spirit World reveals things to us that we need to see for ourselves, to give us hope and guidance. This is one of those moments.”

Aang looked into her eyes, feeling a deep connection that transcended time and space. “You look so… strong… and beautiful. I can’t believe this is real.”

Katara’s eyes softened, and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It’s as real as you need it to be, Aang. The future is not set in stone, and it never is, but this vision shows the potential of what can be if you and I stay true to our path.”

Aang felt waves of emotion fill his body: a mixture of hope, love, and determination. “I’ve always known we’re meant to be together, but seeing this… it makes me believe it even more.”

Katara placed reassuring hands on Aang’s shoulders. “Aang, We have a long journey ahead of us, with many trials and triumphs, but remember, no matter what happens, you will not face them along; we’ll face it together.”

Aang closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her presence and the strength of their bond. “Thank you, Katara. This vision means more to me than you can imagine.”

As they stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, the dream began to fade. The landscape blurred, and the stars dimmed, but the feeling of love and reassurance lingered in Aang’s heart.

When Aang woke up from his sleep, the emotions he felt in his dream were still within him, and the first thing that came to his wind as it awakened was his love: Katara. He HAD to talk to her, specially after seeing her in his vision. Now that the war was over, he knew that he had ot be with her, any way or another. Katara reciprocated her feelings for Aang, but had made it clear some time before that they could not be together yet because of the circumstances happening in the moment, but now that the war was all over, there was a big possibility that something between them could happen, something special… unless Katara changed her mind, and in that case, his vision meant absolutely nothing and his mind was just playingtricks on him.

“Oh! You’re awake now!” Sokka went to Aang and helped him get up from the ground. “May I present you, Avatar, the Fire Nation!” Sokka dramatically pointed at the landscape ahead of them. The Fire Nation Capital looked the same, except that it had suffered lots of damage from the war.

“We’ll be landing in the capital in a few minutes, so just make sure you’re fully awake by the time we get there.” Aang simply nodded, and went back to his trail of thought until they landed.

When they got out of the ship, Aang didn’t hesitate in running ahead of the others towards the Royal Palace, which could be seen from afar. He ran and ran through the Earth Kingdom nad Fire Nation troops and through the crowds of people until he got to the palace gates. There were many Fire Nation guards standing at the main gates, making sure no one got in or out of the palace. Aang hurried to the door, but was stopped by the guards.

“Stop there!” one of them snapped. “No one is aloud in or out of the palace!”

“I have to get in there! It’s really urgent!” Aang pleaded. “I’m looking for Prince Zuko! It’s really important!”

“No one is allowed in!” responded the guards. Aang didn’t know what to do, and he tried frantically to think of a solution. In a few moments, a solution occurred to him, even if he hated it.

“Tell Prince Zuko that the AVATAR is here!” Aang demanded, with a bit too much aggression. The guards let him in with hesitation, and Aang ran through the gates. He asked around the guards for Prince Zuko since he would know where Katara was. One of them led them to a room with wounded people. Zuko was standing there in the room, making sure every person in there was treated and cured.

“Aang?!” Zuko turned around and saw Aang, shock coming over him. He could not believe the Avatar had done the job: defeat his father.

“Zuko, where is Katara?” Aang asked urgently, his voice laced with anxiety. He scanned the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

Zuko approached Aang, his face a mix of relief and concern. “She’s safe, Aang. She’s with the other healers, tending to the wounded. But… you did it? You defeated my father?”

Aang nodded, still trying to catch his breath. “Yes, but it wasn’t easy. I need to see Katara. I need to make sure she’s alright.”

Zuko placed a hand on Aang’s shoulder, his expression softening. “She’s fine, Aang. She’s been working non-stop to help everyone here. She’s incredible.”

Aang’s tension began to ease, but a new worry crept into his mind. “Zuko, what happens now? The Fire Lord is defeated, but the Fire Nation still needs a leader. The world needs to heal.”

Zuko took a deep breath, the weight of responsibility clear on his face. “I know. I’ve been preparing for this moment, but it’s still overwhelming. I want to do what’s right, to bring peace and balance, but I can’t do it alone.”

Aang looked at Zuko, seeing the determination and uncertainty in his eyes. “You won’t be alone. We’ll rebuild together. We’ll make things right, but you have to promise me something.”

“What is it?” Zuko asked, his voice steady but curious.

“Promise me you’ll lead with kindness and fairness, that you’ll honor the memory of those who suffered under your father’s rule,” Aang said, his tone earnest.

Zuko nodded solemnly. “I promise, Aang. I’ve seen the damage my father has caused. I want to be a different kind of Fire Lord, one who brings hope instead of fear.”

Aang smiled, feeling a renewed sense of hope. “I believe in you, Zuko. And I’ll be here to help every step of the way.”

Just then, Katara appeared in the doorway, not believing the sight in front of her. It was Aang, and he was alright. Her heart rapidly pounded in her ears as she saw the airbender in front of her beside the future Fire Lord. She thought she had lost Aang almost permanently, for she had not seen him since he disappeared mysteriously from Ember Island, but now, he was here, standing in front of her.

Aang turned around and saw a petrified Katara standing just a few paces away from him. Her cerulean blue eyes were open wide, as if she had seen a ghost.

“Aang,” she breathed, not sure what to say next. Aang began to approach her slowly, as if he were approaching a tiny bird who was ready to flee any moment, but Katara had other plans, and she almost tackled Aang to the ground with the tight and strong embrace she gave him.

Katara basically cried into Aang’s shoulders once she held him, afraid he could fade away any minute. Aang however, was perfectly fine for the most part. He came in one piece, and did not have severe damage on his body. Aang was also relieved to finally see her, hold her in his arms.

“You did it!” she loudly exclaimed with joy. “You saved the world, and you’re safe!” She hugged him again, as tightly as the first hug. Aang retuned the hug back, but he could not find the right words for what he was going to say after he let her go of his embrace. “I… I did,” Aang replied, not sure how to continue. “I’m okay, Katara. And so are you.”

“I am so proud of you,” Katara whispered, getting closer to him, and holding his shoulders.

Aang smiled, feeling a warmth in his chest. “I couldn’t have done it without all of you. You gave me the strength to keep going.”

Katara’s expression softened even more. “We believed in you, Aang. We always knew you could do it. But now… now you need to rest. You’ve been through so much.”

Aang nodded, the weight of his journey finally settling in. “I know. But there’s still so much to do. We have to rebuild, to heal the world.”

Katara gently cupped his face in her hands, her touch soothing. “And we will, but you don’t have to carry the burden alone anymore. We’re all here to help. You’ve done enough for now.”

Aang closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the comfort of her touch. “Thank you, Katara. For everything.”

Katara leaned in and rested her forehead against his, their breaths mingling. “We’re in this together, Aang. Always.”

Aang let go of her quickly, remembering what he had to do. “Also… I need to talk to you really quickly… about something.”

Katara’s brow furrowed with concern. “What is it, Aang? Is everything okay?”

Aang took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I wanted to apologize for all the things I told you back on Ember Island. I know you were trying to help, and I feel so guilty for screaming at you and-”

“Aang!” Katara laughed. “It’s all fine now! You don’t have to apologize. I know you were just stressed and didn’t know what to do-”

“I also need to talk to you about… the future,” Aang interrupted. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what comes next, now that the war is over.”

Katara nodded, her expression softening. “I’ve been thinking about that too. There’s so much to rebuild, so many people to help.”

Aang looked into her ocean blue eyes, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “Exactly, and I know it won’t be easy, but I can’t do it alone. I need you, Katara. Not just as a friend or a healer or a waterbending teacher, but… as someone who’s always by my side.”

Katara’s eyes widened slightly, her cheeks flushing. “Aang, I… I’ve always been by your side, and I always will be. You’re not alone.”

Aang smiled, feeling a rush of warmth. “I know, and I’m grateful for that, but there’s more. I… I love you, Katara. I’ve loved you for a long time, and I can’t imagine facing the future without you.”

Katara’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at Aang, her eyes searching his for sincerity. “Aang, I… I love you too. I’ve always cared about you, more than I can put into words.”

Aang’s heart soared, relief washing over him. “You do?”

Katara nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. “Yes, Aang. I do. I’ve been so worried about you, about us, but now, standing here with you, I know we can face anything together.”

Aang took her hands in his, his grip firm yet gentle. “Then let’s face it together. Let’s rebuild this world and make it a place where everyone can live in peace.”

Katara squeezed his hands, her smile growing. “Together.”

They stood there for a moment, the world around them fading away as they shared this intimate connection. Then, Katara took a step back, her practical side kicking in.

“But first, we need to find the others and make sure everyone is safe. We have a lot of work to do,” she said, leading Aang back to the room where Zuko was.

Aang nodded, coming back to reality. “Right. Let’s go.”

As they walked hand in hand through the corridors, they felt a renewed sense of purpose and strength. Together, they would rebuild their world, one step at a time.

[moodymisty]

Hi! I am a huge fan of your work and might have just binged all of your TBB fics in preparation for the season 2 premiere 🙈 during my indulgence I read through your kink list and the “helmet stays on” one really got me thinking how the batch (or any clone for that matter, I love them all so much) might use their helmets, maybe as a way to limit their partner’s senses (it seems like a fun combo between dom/sub and an armor kink)

Anyways, whether or not you use this prompt, I am always looking forward to your next fic!! Whatever you are willing to share with us I am more than happy to read 💕 Sorry for the anon, I’m still a little shy about being horny on main lol

Author's note: This has got to be one of the sweetest asks I've ever gotten, I'm so glad you enjoyed my stuff enough to binge it!! (also don't be shy about not wanting to be horny on main, there's no obligation to be. Anon is on for a reason)

But since you mentioned senses, of course the first person I think of is Hunter; And it's been a hot minute since I've done something for him so, why not? I hope this is up your alley!

Relationships: Hunter/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Pre-established relationship, Armor kink, Helmet kink aka "the helmet stays on", Very light Dom/Sub dynamics, Clothed sex, Semi-public sex(supply closet), Quickie, Some light sensory overload on Hunter's part

It wasn’t your idea to stay behind at Cyd’s, not in the slightest. The last mission had run you ragged, and so Hunter had effectively forced you to stay back for this one, and give some time to recover. But you still had to admit- The rest was an incredible luxury that you couldn’t refuse.

Though it had taken well over an hour of tossing and turning to get to sleep at first; You’d grown quite quickly used to the sounds of five other people’s breathing, Wrecker’s snoring, and Tech’s mumbling. Without the unique symphony of the Marauder as a lullaby, it had taken a bit to finally nod off.

When you woke up that first night, it was instantly noticeable how much better your body felt. To have a night without waking up multiple times because of shift changes, or emergencies, and to just actually let your body shut down and recover. But as the days went by that became less noticeable; And instead, a tense worry began to replace it.

It’s hard not to worry about them, especially now that you aren’t beside them. They’ve been barely footsteps from you for so long to have them all this far away for so long is eating at you. Especially Hunter. You miss him, miss the way he’d sometimes sneak into your bunk and lay with you for awhile before everyone else woke up. Or how he’ll sometimes walk behind you and press his face against the top of your head, sneaking a small moment while no one is looking.

At least working around Cyd’s keeps you somewhat busy, and she lets you keep a small portion of the tips in exchange for keeping the bar running smoothly. It’s something;

Especially considering the last time you all ran out of credits you had to sell Echo.

It’s late tonight; The bar is empty after the last patron drank his weight and stumbled out, falling onto the sidewalk before recovering enough to toddle on home. Now you’re just cleaning glasses, counting tips and trying to keep busy. It’s tedious, mindless work, but it keeps your hands and head busy enough.

Busy enough until Cyd suddenly shouts from the back, having apparently seen something of note on one of the security cameras.

“Hey! The Dream Team is back!” Cyd emerges from the backroom counting something in her hand, while she jerks her head in the direction of the front.

“Keep your man busy while I count my credits, will you?”

They enter through the front mere seconds after she finishes speaking, Wrecker holding the desired loot in both arms. He starts moving to drop it in Cyd’s room in the back, while you dart past him and yell:

“Hunter!”

You instantly run for him, until you reach him and suddenly stop; Trying to brush it off and just smile.

“Oh, so how come only he gets the welcome party!?”

Wrecker, halfway to the backroom scoffs and crosses his arms, before Echo starts pushing him and Tech away. You had turned around, looking at them embarrassed.

“Lets just give them a bit.”

Tech goes his own way, nose deep in his datapad while Wrecker, Echo, and Omega all shuffle into one of the bar’s booths. You stay close to Hunter however, standing with only a short distance between each of your chests still only a few steps from the entryway.

It’s well been established for awhile now that there is absolutely something going on between you and Hunter, but everyone has pretty much elected to act as if there isn’t. Or at least, that they can’t see it. You don’t do anything that would ever hint at you being romantic within sight of the others, but the looks you share and the undertones are so obvious that everyone had eventually realized.

The whole thing is, complicated. For far more reasons that just your current predicament.

Both of you finally move away from the entry, moving to sit on one of the bar stools. Hunter takes the one right next to you, sitting his helmet on the bar and turning your way.

“I’m sure you’re happy everyone managed to not get injured.” Hunter’s giving a tiny smirk, watching as you roll your eyes at him.

“I wasn’t upset you guys got hurt because it was inconvenient, I was upset because I don’t like seeing you guys get hurt.” You don’t like seeing any of them deal with pain, no matter how hard they all try and shrug it off. You’re just as guilty of the same, though as the person treating others, you’ll always have an excuse for why it doesn’t apply to yourself. You jerk a head in the direction of the booth that the rest of the batch is sitting at; Tech having returned from where ever and is now sitting next to Wrecker.

“At least for them. For you I don’t mind as much, because then I can kiss it better.” Hunter coughs, looking away for a moment and shaking his head. You can see the way his lips twitch as if he wants to say something, but can’t quite figure out how to put it.

“You…” He shakes his head, letting you see a small smirk. “Glad to hear I’ll be getting your special beside manner.”

Sometimes it catches him off guard some of the things you say, especially so casually.

In his moment of looking away from you, your eyes instead turn focus onto his helmet; Which is staring back at you from on the bar top, tinted visor reflecting the scene it’s staring at. When you reach a hand out to grab it Hunter watches, as you hold it hovering over your lap. It looks so normal and lifeless here, but there’s something about when it’s on, that it almost seems like it holds emotion; No matter how silly it sounds.

“I never noticed that you copied your tattoo on your helmet…”

You hold it in your hands, thumb brushing over the scuffed paint. The paint isn’t solid; Patches of the helmets original color peak through the brushed streaks of lighter grey. It gives his helmet a ghostly look, which suits him.

In fact, suits him very well.

It’s a complete spur of the moment decision that has you sliding off the barstool, and grabbing Hunter by the hand. He follows and while confused, takes your lead, walking through the bar and towards the back. Hopefully before anyone notices.

They do of course, but Echo is smart enough to keep anyone from questioning your antics.

Hunter watches as you pull him in the direction of the supply closet, closing the door and pushing something in front of it- a crate. It’s small and compact in here, but it’s quiet. And it’s private; Which is the main appeal.

And it’s here you take quick use of that, as the moment the door is fully shut you step towards Hunter and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his lips to yours for but a moment.

“Now that we’re alone; Did everything go well, Sargent?”

Well you’re certainly playing with fire now, he knows that well.

“Everyone’s on one piece, and we got what we needed.” He knows that isn’t really what you’re asking, but it’s amusing to watch you look at him like this anyways. You know that if you want him you can just ask, but it’s far more fun to play around. Especially after them being gone for admittedly not all that long; But after being around him every moment, it feels like forever.

In his quick glance over you he can see you’re still holding his helmet in your hands, having carried it with you in your rush. It’s pressing against your chest, as you look down at it.

Hunter is watching you intently, the way your fingers look so gentle over his helmet. Before he can say anything however you lean up, and quickly plop the helmet on his head.

“You look good with it on.” His chest is pressing against your own, unyielding, unmovable plastoid armor against your skin. He hasn’t taken one bit of armor off since they returned, he hasn’t had the chance to. He can hear your heart pumping faster in your chest, wanton as you look up at him. His senses never lie, no matter how much you can try to hide it.

He’s used it to his advantage with you, but it’s almost proven to be his weakness. There’s been times where you’ve overwhelmed his senses so much that he can barely stand it; Both intentional and not. In theory he could cut it off if it ever felt like too much, but he doesn’t.

You know that part of him likes it, and the feeling of being so close but unable to fulfill his senses that drives him borderline insane.

You can feel his hands sliding down your back, moving to wrap around your hips as your thighs spread apart enough to let him in. Instantly he steps between them, pressing his body tight against yours. Once you’re as close as you can one of his hands comes up to palm your chest through your shirt, though he’s unable to free them due to the nature of your outfit. At least not easily, though part of him more than enjoys the way your push into him, silently pleading for more.

He won’t give it to you that easy, not after so many times you’ve done him in the same.

He feels your nipple harden through the fabric of his glove, while your pupils dilate and skin flushes hotter. One of your hands even moves to grasp at his wrist and press it harder onto you, as your breath leaves a fog on his armor.

“You don’t even know how much I’ve missed you, Hunter.”

He can smell you want him, even though his helmet it’s so obvious it overwhelms his senses.

When you attempt to work around your outfit and take off your top, Hunter stops you; And you look up to see your reflection in the tinted visor of his helmet.

“Turn around.”

There’s no way to describe the way your cunt clenches at the way he says those words, distorted by his helmet in a way that makes it sound even more erotic.

Lifting up off the crate you’d been sitting on your turn around, attempting to quickly undo your belt in the process and abandoning the idea of undoing your top. While doing so, you swear you can hear his breathing through his helmet, ragged and already coming undone. It only worsens as he sees your pants pull down and wrap around your knees, the fabric of your underwear contrasting with the color of your skin.

It almost is too much, the way he feels so hot and tight underneath his armor and his own breaths echo inside his helmet.

His fingers are frantic as he peels away the only thing impeding him, hearing his groinplate clank on the ground. He may want to take off more, but the sight of you whining for him keeps him from doing so.

He grinds his clothed cock against you, the clear outline pressing against your ass. You quickly demand more, aching and empty.

“Hunter, please… Come on.” He stills, and ignores the way you attempt to demand him continue.

“You don’t get to say that. Not after what you did on the Marauder.”

That makes you smile, remembering how much you had teased him until he snapped. You feel the way he finally moves the fabric of his body glove aside just enough to free his cock, feeling it lay against your cunt. He feels so hot it almost makes you jolt, body tighten as he grinds against you.

Only a short while later does he slowly attempt to press the tip of his cock inside of you, listening to the way you gasp. Your toes curl in your boots, and you can’t control the way you suddenly jolt when the cold plastoid of his thigh armor brushes against the bare skin of you ass. Hunter abruptly stops, having felt your body stiffen.

“You ok?” He asks when he feels you jolt and tighten around him, his hands around your hips loosening their grip.

“Yeah; Your armor is so cold…”

It feels good, but it was just a shock to have it suddenly against your skin. But now knowing he has the green light, he slowly pulls part way out of you before slowly thrusting forward and pulling your hips enough to meet him halfway.

The feeling of so many sounds echoing in his helmet has his senses on overdrive, not even considering how loud everything might be in the room itself. It isn’t as if you’re being particularly quiet; Moaning his name as he slams his cock into you. At least the door is made of metal, and it’s unlike any of quieter sounds will pierce it.

Apart from perhaps the shaky moan you let out as he presses against a bundle of nerves deep inside your cunt, enough to have you almost seeing stars.

“Shit,”

His helmets distorts his voice, making it seem almost more gritted, angrier than normal. It amplifies how tense he sounds, almost as much as his body as you feel his armor hit the back of your thighs as he fucks you.

But Gods do you want to turn around and kiss him, feel his skin on you so badly but he won’t let you; Depriving you of the sensation. Even if the unforgiving coldness of his armor feels so good too. It’s enough to have you speak up, hissing through your teeth for more.

“Fuck, Hunter… You can go harder…”

His fingers tighten around your hips, watching the way your top has bunched around the middle of your back.

“What, all the sudden you’re open to pleas of mercy?” Your throat tightens.

Of course now is the time he decides to get you back a bit for torturing his senses while stuck in the Marauder, and he’d pleaded for you to stop. You hadn’t listened, and now it seems he’s going to attempt to let you feel just a fraction of what you’d done to him.

It seems unfair; Unable to kiss him or touch his skin while he fucks you. Though you’d done worse to him, a man with senses multitudes stronger than your own.

“Do you, fuck… Do you want an apology?”

The edges of his thigh armor press against the skin of your ass and will more than likely leave marks, unforgiving against your much softer skin.

“No. I want you to feel what it’s like to not get what you want.”

His thrusts slow until he’s only grinding against you, feeling the way your cunt leaks all over his cock. Your thighs keep tensing as you attempt to press against him, feeling so, so close but having him deny you. You can’t feel the heat of his skin, the roughness of his hands or his hair against your cheek; As he looms over your body with a black, grey and red silhouette.

He looks almost like a ghost, when you turn to look at him for just a moment. The dim, mostly broken lights of the tiny storage closet only further the illusion.

He swears he can almost hear his teeth grind against each other when he cums, filling you as you grind against him for more. His visor is becoming fogged from the amount of his hot breath, too much for the filters to try and fight against. It’s never fogged before; But granted, he’s never fucked you while he’s had it on.

He feels you cum around him, gripping the crate your bent over so tight as you intake a breath and hold it long enough he almost tells you to breath. Your fingers grip the crate your bent over with such a tight grip it almost is turning your knuckles white, seeing stars as he fucks you slowly through it all.

Gods, you missed him. Even in the short time he was gone.

When he slowly pulls out of you, you take the time to turn and sit on your bottom instead; Legs partly spread and sore.

The entire state of you looking like this almost as Hunter’s blood pumping again.

“So, can I kiss you now?” You look up at him, face red and lips ever so slightly parted. He takes off his helmet and leans down, pressing a hand against the wall behind you to support himself as he kisses you. It feels ten times more intense after being denied for so long, you can’t help the way your hands quickly around the back of his neck fingers slipping into his hair.

“I missed you too, you know.”

He mumbles it against your lips and feels the way you smile back, giving a satisfied laugh.

“Then don’t leave me behind again? Ok?”

[multifandomfix]

Caught Red Headed - Jethro Gibbs

Summary: Your crush on Gibbs gets the better of you when you go out for drinks with the team and you decide the best way to get Gibbs' attention is to dye your hair red. Come Monday morning, you realize you may have made a mistake.

Word Count: 1,185

Warnings: Some embarrassment, but otherwise a whole lot of fluff.

Oh god, what have you done? You wondered this as you looked at yourself in the mirror in horror. Friday night had suggested to you that this was a wonderful idea, but by Monday morning you were now regretting it. Not that it didn’t look good. It was professionally done on Saturday and you’d spent the rest of the weekend at home, so it looked absolutely pristine, but the fact that you’d done it at all was what you were regretting.

It came to you on your third drink. You thought of asking your coworkers their opinion, but ultimately decided it would be far more fun if it were a complete surprise come Monday. Another bad choice. Tony may have teased you the moment you said it aloud, but Ziva probably would have had the sense to talk you out of it had you mentioned it to her. Now you really wish you had.

Again, it wasn’t like it looked bad. The particular shade of red actually went rather nicely with your skin tone and even brought out the color of your eyes a bit. It was only the reason why you’d done it at all that was making it seem like such a mistake. The worst part was, you were still hesitant to admit the reason to yourself, despite it having been entirely your idea.

Logically, you knew you weren’t going to be able to hide it forever. The dye would fade in time, but it wasn’t practical for you to keep your hair one hundred percent hidden until then. That could be literal months. And you weren’t about to just cut it all off either. That would be a worse decision than the one you’d already made. So what were you to do? You had to be at work in less than an hour and you were scrambling for a solution. You stared yourself down in the mirror and heaved out a sigh. Well, you were just going to have to go into work like this. Too bad this wasn’t likely to be the one day everyone took a sick day at once.

You dressed, trying to avoid looking at your hair every two seconds, before you finally made your way out the door. Every moment you were outside you felt like everyone was staring at you. They weren’t, but you were on edge regardless. Strangers might not notice, but the minute you stepped in to work you knew someone was going to notice the change. Even worse, someone was going to ask about it.

You made it up to the bullpen with no comments, which was a welcome relief. You even got to sit down at your desk before you saw anyone from the team. You released a deep, calming breath, hoping that maybe it wasn’t going to be as big of a deal as you’d made it out to be after all. People dye their hair every day for any number of reasons, right? Why couldn’t you just want a change?

Before your cleansing breath was fully let out, you heard Tony's voice fill the bullpen. "Oh my god, look at you!" As if you needed any more attention drawn to yourself. Luckily these outbursts were normal for Tony and it hardly even turned a head your direction. Thank goodness for small favors. "Quite the change there, red. What prompted it?"

"Leave it, Tony," Ziva chastised, only a few steps behind him. "You do not always need to be so nosy."

"I have to admit, I’m kind of curious too," McGee chimed in. Great, just when Ziva had saved you, McGee had to go and ruin it.

Doing a quick check to make sure your boss was entirely absent for the moment, you contemplated telling them all the truth. Might take that huge weight off of your shoulders if you did. Then they could get it all out of their systems and you could begin to move on from your disastrous weekend decisions. Alright, now or never, you decided, seeing as you had the all clear. You opened your mouth to speak, only for your voice to be overtaken by that of your boss, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, entering the bullpen with his usual firm and commanding order of "Grab your gear."

The five of you made quick work at grabbing your things and piling into the elevator. You stood to the far back corner, holding your breath for the short elevator ride down to the ground level. The team exited one by one, leaving you and Gibbs for last. Feeling silly, you almost didn’t dare to walk past him. Perhaps you should have, because Gibbs turned around, gave you a once over and commented, "Like the hair. Now let's get a move on."

He stepped out of the elevator and you followed behind, pulling your official NCIS hat down to cover your face which was undoubtedly covered in a bright red blush that would rival your newly gained hair color. You caught up with the team, keeping your distance from Gibbs for the time being and started to observe the crime scene.

Tony, however, was observing you. "I’ve got it," Tony declared, making you jump.

"Got what," Ziva hissed, Tony clearly having startled her too, and she wasn’t an easy one to scare.

"The hair. It’s for Gibbs."

"It is not," you refuted at a volume way louder than you’d meant. Well if that wasn’t a dead give away, you didn’t know what was. Everyone around looked to you, and you felt like crawling in a hole, or maybe just going back in time and deciding not to get out of bed this morning. Tony had really hit the nail on the head. It was a well known fact that Gibbs liked redheads. You liked Gibbs, so yeah, dyeing your hair red seemed like a clever idea at the time. Now you just felt like an idiot.

"Will you all shut up and do your work," Gibbs shot back at the lot of you. Embarrassed and not wanting to cross him, you all hung your heads and got back to the crime scene in front of you. You were sad for the victim, but happy for the distraction. At least everyone was focusing on something other than you now.

Losing yourself in the work, you didn’t realize Gibbs had come up beside you. Your breath caught in your throat as he whispered in your ear. "Next time you want my attention, maybe just ask for it."

Trying to recover from the surprise, you muttered out a "Yes, boss…uh, Gibbs…umm, Jethro?"

"We'll figure that out depending on how dinner goes. My treat. We'll go right after work. Now can we work on this case without any more distractions?"

Not wanting to fumble over names again, you gave a small nod and a half assed salute, and Gibbs seemed to take that as a good enough response before moving on. Now there was only one question left in your head. Did he like you, or did he just like the hair?

For anon

Forever Tag: @borg-queer, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @icetown587, @princess-sarah-lynn, @kyraccs-blog, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart

Jethro Gibbs: @esposamultifandom, @leroyjethrogibbsgirl, @iciclesandsnow, @floresferae

[justnerdy15]

SnowStone Week Day 1

Note: Nearly forgot! prompt: Crow and Little Bird from @snowstoneweek Summary: Healing can show up in many different ways. read on ao3 here!

Crow and Little Bird. Names of their youths that held so much power over them. Shame. Betrayal. Small-ness. The names had been weights laid on their shoulders, a constant reminder of who they were, inescapable and damning.

Now, however, they were the names of the children’s soft toys, stitched by Sansa’s own hands. It had not been her goal, two winters ago when everyone was stuck within the walls of Winterfell, to name her children’s new toys after the taunting monikers, but as she stitched together scrap pieces of fabric, no real plan in mind, her hands seemed to have caught on before her mind did.

The first had been made from the scrap fabric of Jon’s clothing — a recently patched set of jerkins and doublets as well as his touched up cloak — a blend of dark blue and black fabrics, grey thread, and white fabric trimmings. Once she stuffed it with old scraps and stitched it closed, a — nearly — black bird the size of her hand stared back at her with creamy white eyes.

Her lips quirked up into a smile as she turned the toy over in her hand, checking the seams for any loose threads.

Sansa hummed, laying the toy in her lap, before she peered around the edge of her chair, glancing at the bed where two bundled children slept soundly atop the furs.

She looked back to other basket of scraps, this time from her own clothes with brighter, more patterned fabric to choose from and inspiration thrummed in her veins.

Picking up the second basket, she plucked out several pieces — a mix of light blue and grey with slips of dark florals — and set her hands to work.

Time passed with each neat stitch, fabric coming together to form the toy, until a second bird joined the first in her lap.

Sansa was brushing away some imaginary fluff when the door to the king’s chamber creaked open with a white snout nudging it open.

“You damnable beast, move,” came a harsh whisper from the hall, causing a smile to come to Sansa’s lips as her head relaxes against back of her chair. “Ghost, go on.”

A light laugh escapes. “Ghost,” she called out quietly, hoping not to disturb the children, “Come here, boy.” The door opened further to reveal the direwolf, huge and snow-ridden, as he plodded into the room, brushing up against her skirts before dropping in front of the burning fire.

There’s a grumble before Jon slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him, shrugging his cloak off with a tired sigh.

“Good evening, Your Grace. Long night?” Sansa asked teasingly, smiling as Jon approached her.

“My lady,” he replied lowly, ducking down to press a kiss at her temple, lips cool and dry. “Not nearly as long as it could have been.” He glanced down towards her lap. “What’s this?”

Sansa hummed, picked up one of the toys, and handed it Jon. “Just something I made for Lyra and Robb. Do you like it?”

He took the black bird into his hands, running gentle fingers over the fabric, before returning it to Sansa with a small smile. “It’s wonderful. I’m sure they’ll enjoy it.” Jon looked over to the bed. “Have they been sleeping the whole time?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Sansa remarked dryly, kicking Jon lightly in the leg. “But don’t get any ideas, Jon, let them sleep.”

He held his hands out, trying to look innocent, and backed up to his own seat. There’s a smile on his face, making him look years younger, and an ease to his movements that sharply contrasts to the man he was four years prior.

Peace has certainly done them well.

“No ideas here.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I doubt that.”

Jon laughed, a breathy, quiet thing, and let his head drop back, closing his eyes.

Silence settled between them, comfortable and familiar, as the fire crackled, casting a warm glow over the bed chamber.

“It looks like a crow,” Jon said a few moments later, eyes still closed. “The bird.”

Sansa glanced down to the toys.

“Maybe,” she replied, running a finger down the back of the toy. “I hadn’t really been thinking of anything in particular when I made it.”

“Hm, perhaps it’s just me.”

“Well, it is made from your clothes. The scraps anyway.”

A crow from a crow.

Sansa made a face, taking in the pair, and looked back over to Jon.

“A crow and a little bird,” she said, picking up the pair of toys. “One of you and one of me.”

One of Jon’s eyes crack open to gaze at her. “Not a crow anymore, Sansa. Nor you a little bird.”

She shrugged. “Not anymore,” she agreed, “But we were. A reminder, perhaps, of where we were and where we are now.” The girl she was, a little bird trapped in her Southron cage, would never had been able to picture this. Winterfell, her family, her crown. Jon.

She couldn’t imagine that Jon, a sworn brother, a false bastard, ever believed that this would be his either.

Jon hummed and straightened up from his slouch, looking her with hazy, half-asleep eyes.

The hour was late. They should retire to bed.

“Fair,” he said, nodding.

“Maybe I should make a raven. For Bran,” she added. Solid black velvet, a little more angular, fit for their northern brother and Southron king.

Jon huffed out a laugh, standing up from his chair, and held out his hand. “Well, if you’re going to make one for him, better start thinking of a bird for Arya. Otherwise, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Sansa chuckled, scooping the toys with one hand while the other takes Jon’s, and let Jon pull her up. “She would be insufferable,” she said, leading Jon to bed. “But that’s an issue for another night. Time for bed, my lord.”

---

“Mama! Mama!” Lyra calls out before running head first into the back of Sansa’s legs, nearly toppling the Queen in the North, if not for her hand braced against a stone pillar. “Look! We found it.”

Sansa laughs, pulling her daughter out from the folds of her skirt as she turns around, and bends down to Lyra’s level. “Found what? And where’s your brother?”

“He’s coming with papa,” Lyra says, bouncing on her toes, hands fisted behind her back. “He has the rest.”

Sansa arches an eyebrow, knowing she only hidden one gift, and hopes that Jon hasn’t broken the rules of their little game. She looks over her shoulder at Brienne, wondering if her sworn knight knew something she didn’t, but Brienne only looks back with amusement.

“And here he is,” Jon calls out, Robb in his arms as he walks down the hall with long strides. “With all the toys in hand.” He smiles at Sansa, gesturing to the lump of toys cradled in Robb’s arms, before letting Robb down to the floor.

Robb stumbles forward with a gummy smile, cooing as he approaches Lyra and Sansa, reaching out to fist one hand in his mother’s skirts while also dropping the toys.

“Robb,” Lyra cries out as the toys thump against the stone floor.

“It’s fine,” Sansa says soothingly, picking up a toy or two. “Why don’t you show me what you found?”

Lyra holds out her hands, fingers still clenched tight, and says, “Another bird!” Uncurling her fingers, Lyra reveals a soft yellow toy bird, with a pink ribbon around its neck.

“’Ird! Ird!” Robb chirps agreeably, patting the toy’s head.

“And what do you think it means?” Jon asks, resting one hand atop Lyra’s head, smoothing down wild red curls.

Lyra frowns, a wrinkle between her brows, and shrugs her shoulders. “I dunno.”

“Well,” Sansa says slowly, holding up one of the toys, a colorful collage of foreign fabric, “You know how this is for Aunt Arya?”

Lyra nods.

Sansa picks up another one. This one as red as weir wood leaves. “And this is for you?”

Lyra nods again.

“Well, if each bird is for one of us, what do you think a new bird means?” Sansa asks, smiling.

Their daughter frowns, concentrating, and Jon chuckles as he runs his fingers through her hair, looking at Sansa with fond eyes.

A moment passes before Lyra perks up. “A babe!” she yells, excited. “Is there going to be a new babe?”

Robb yells too, picking up on Lyra’s joy and he presses further into Sansa’s skirts, babbling.

Sansa laughs, reaching out with one hand to cup Lyra’s face, while Jon crouches behind the children to bring them into one large hug. “Yes, dearest, it means there is going to be another babe.”

[avocado-writing]

12.5k words

Rated: M

CW: Pregnancy (and panic about it); descriptions of violence; one brief implied threat of SA

Written from a prompt by white-wolf-buckaroo about Tangerine being a ‘one and done’ sort of guy, and falling in love with someone from his childhood.

@honestlywtfisgoingon @white-wolf-buckaroo @felhomaly @sinfulrefugy @venusthepirate @lunarpansexual @wanderedaway @georgiee-riviere @mushywutty @piechans @apieceoffabulousshit @4ng3l-0n-34rth @minjaz @starl1g4t @earth-elemental18 @luhvbot @underratedboogeyman @july-is-summer @vocalvixen20cp @northerngalxy @tangerinesgf @chaoticroaddreamerpasta

Seven

On days like this you swear you can hear the cheering coming from Upton Park when the bedroom window is open. You know you shouldn’t sit on the window ledge, especially when your flat is as many storeys up as it is. Your mum would go mental if she caught you. But sometimes it’s nice to pretend you’re in the stands with the rest of the crowd, watching the football in person instead of on the tiny television screen in the living room.

It’s the evening before Big School starts. It’s the first day in a long time your mum has managed to get off from both of her jobs. She wanted to spend it with you, but having two younger siblings means even with the best will in the world she’s still pulled in all directions. Between the screaming and shouting she finds a scant moment to come and chat.

“You alright, sweetpea?”

You’ve scrambled off of the windowsill and up into your top bunk the second you clocked her footsteps, pretending to be engrossed in one of your books. You peer at your mum over the top of it and nod.

“How are you feeling about school tomorrow?”

You’re cacking your pants, but at seven, don’t quite have the words to convey that. So you settle on: “worried.”

Your mum looks sympathetic, reaching up to take your little hand in hers.

“Ah, don’t be. You’ll be absolutely fine. You’re the smart one, after all.”

In hindsight you will realise this is a bit of an insult to your siblings but at the moment it’s the reassurance you need to hear. Even though you’re only seven you know the weight on your mum’s shoulders. When your dad died on the way to the hospital after your brother was born you thought she might fall apart. Instead, she drew your little family closer together than ever. Got a second job. Worked to make sure her three children wouldn’t want for anything. When you’re older you’ll realise your mum is the poster child for the phrase ‘overworked and underpaid’, but right now you’re young and selfish and slightly bitter she’s not around more often.

Your mum drops you off very early at Big School early the next day, on her way to her morning job. So early, in fact, you seem to be the first one there. You grip your book bag so tightly it feels like your knuckles might pop out from under your skin. You’ve never felt more starkly alone than in this huge, grey tarmac playground.

Wait, no. not entirely alone.

There are two boys standing in the corner. One of them has a Thomas the Tank Engine lunchbox, and the other is dividing something between the two of them. It’s bright orange against the drabness of the schoolyard.

A tangerine.

Unsure, you approach them. Lunchbox sees you first, giving you a quick sweep up and down. As if you might try any funny business.

“I like your lunchbox,” you decide on, eventually. Maybe you feel Thomas the Tank Engine is a bit, well, childish, but you’re not going to start with that, are you? 

Upon hearing those words a smile bursts over his face, like a ray of sunshine on this gloomy day.

“You watch Thomas too?”

“Yeah.”

You do. Your younger siblings like it, so it’s usually playing on the telly. You have a video tape that’s been replayed so much it’s beginning to wear out, black dots dancing on the screen when you put it on.

“What do you want?”

Tangerine boy finally speaks up. He looks just as scrutinising as his companion did, but doesn’t seem to have been won over by your shared interest with Lunchbox. 

You look him dead in the eye. He has very blue eyes. A nice colour, actually. 

You shrug. 

“To be friends, I s’pose.”

It’s wonderfully easy when you’re a child, because just like that, you are. 

Well. You’re friends with Lunchbox, anyway. He seems more than happy to accept you and he quickly ends up with a nickname like Tangerine does.

“Lemon,” you decide. He looks confused.

“Why ‘Lemon’?”

“Because you’re a right lemon,” you say, cheekily, prompting him to give you a playful shove. But it sticks. Oranges and Lemons the bells of St Clement's might say, but you prefer a lemon with a tangerine.

Tangerine is a bit tougher to crack. He doesn’t seem to out-and-out dislike you, but he’s definitely got higher defences than his brother. Never seems entirely sure of your motivations. Like you’re secretly trying to trick him. You really wish you knew what you could do to make him be more friendly, but you’ve got absolutely no idea. Oh well. So long as Lemon is happy, he is too, and they dutifully make space for you at the schoolroom table. 

It’s fine. For a bit. Then a couple of the Year Sixes decide they want to start irritating you.

You live in the same block of flats, so it’s not like you can avoid them. It doesn’t seem like you’ve actually done anything to annoy them outright, either; it’s merely the fact that you exist which makes you a target. It starts with laughing on the way home, then turns into name-calling, and then hair-pulling. You try to get away but they have far longer legs than you do. You begin to dread the home-time bell, because it means you’re going to be bloody tormented on the ten-minute walk back.

There’s three of them. Having four years on you means they have that much extra height and bulk. A single seven-year-old isn’t really much of a challenge for them.

It all comes to a head when you’re on your way home on a Friday. Your mum tomorrow, for once, has the evening off - she’s said you’re going to go to the chippy for dinner. The idea almost makes you skip your way back. Your stomach drops into your feet, though, when you hear the sound of your name being shouted by a voice you’ve come to associate with torment. 

You try to ignore them, picking up the pace. They aren’t deterred. You feel a heavy hand on your shoulder tugging you back.

“Didn’t you hear us calling you?” one of them asks. The leader, the one who always starts the harassment. You try to avoid eye contact, but they grab you by the chin and force you to look up.

“I asked you a question, answer it.”

You can’t. His hand is pinching your mouth together too tight for you to speak. Hot tears begin to form in your eyes, and you feel like a fool for letting them.

And then there’s a blur of movement towards you. One of the Year Sixes is knocked off their feet and falls heavily to the ground, letting out a sharp cry of pain. The leader lets go of you and spins round, just in time to get a bag to the face.

It’s Tangerine.

You’ve never seen someone look so angry. His face is screwed up tight, eyebrows pinching together in fury. When the leader stumbles backwards, clutching a bloody nose, Tangerine looks at you quickly.

“You alright?”

You manage to nod, but he doesn’t get a chance to reply before one of the bigger kids punches him. You gasp, wanting to help, but finding yourself frozen to the spot - you’ve heard fights go on outside your flat, yeah, but this is the first time you’ve ever seen one up close. 

Luckily reinforcements aren’t far behind. Lemon comes in like a bullet, jumping on the assailant’s back and choking him with an arm around his neck. The leader has gained his composure and aims a kick towards Tangerine. He takes it in the ribs, gritting his teeth, but grabs the leader’s leg and pulls him in - when he’s near enough he connects into his face with a headbutt.

The leader reels. Then he spits something bloody onto the pavement.

It’s his front teeth.

“You little psycho!” he gasps, desperately holding his bleeding mouth. He begins to stagger away before breaking into a full sprint. The other two Year Sixes exchange a glance and follow, not wanting to risk the same outcome.

Lemon and Tangerine stand tall, shoulders heaving with exhaustion. They turn back to you in a synchronised movement that almost makes you laugh.

“You alright?” Tangerine asks again, making sure he gets a full answer this time. Roughly you wipe your tears away on the sleeve of your jumper and nod. 

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Lemon says with a toothy grin, as if they’ve just lent you a colouring pencil rather than gotten into a fight. That does make you laugh, but it’s more out of relief than anything.

Then you properly notice the cut on Tangerine’s cheek.

“You’re bleeding!”

Tangerine reaches up and touches the wound. He seems surprised when his fingers come back covered in red.

“Oh.”

You chew your lip, then decide on a course of action.

“I can clean you up at mine. Come on.”

Tangerine seems hesitant, unsure about accepting such an offer. But Lemon elbows him conspiratorially. 

“We can trust her. She’s a Thomas.”

Later, when you know them better, you’ll realise this is the highest honour Lemon could possibly bestow upon you. At the moment, though, you’re not sure what it means, but it seems enough to convince his brother. 

The boys fall into step behind you, and you lead the way up the flights of stairs to your flat. The door often gets jammed and the council won’t come and fix it, so you have to do the trick your mum taught you of lifting and wiggling your key at the same time.

Eventually it swings open with a loud creak and you usher your friends inside.

“Is nobody home?” Lemon asks, nosing around. You shrug.

“Nah. Mum’s at work. I’m meant to go to gran’s after school but she probably won’t notice if I’m late.”

Gran lives a couple of streets over and does her best to look after you and your younger siblings, but her arthritis means it’s hard for her to move too much. Mostly she sits you in front of the telly and puts on Bruce’s Price is Right. It’s alright, though; it means you have some leniency with your own time.

You take them into the kitchen, get Tangerine to sit down on the one chair without a wonky leg. There’s a first aid box under the sink which you retrieve, frowning when you open it.

“Lemon, there’s some plasters in the cabinet in the bathroom. Can you get them for me please? First door on the left.”

“Sure!” Lemon says, rushing off in entirely the wrong direction. Oh well. The flat isn’t big, he’ll get there eventually.

Then it’s just you and Tangerine.

The sound of the plastic packaging around the sterile wipe is cacophonous in the quiet while you open it. He hisses when you start to clean the cut on his face.

“Ah! Shit!”

“Don’t swear,” you say with a tut. He grumbles to himself, but thankfully the silence is broken now.

“Thank you. For helping me,” you say. Tangerine shrugs.

“‘S’alright.”

“No. I mean it,” you say, serious. He catches your eye before looking away. Is that a blush on his cheeks?

“It’s fine. I’ll look after you, alright? You don’t need to worry about people like them.”

Part of you wants to be indignant, puff out your chest and say you don’t need looking after. But another part of you is quite touched. You’ve never had someone say something to you like that before. 

“Thanks, Tangerine.”

He smiles at you, trying to regain his cool as his brother comes back into the room.

“Found them.”

“Thanks, Lem.” You take the pack of plasters and find an appropriate one, sticking it over Tangerine’s cheekbone to cover the graze. 

The three of you really are inseparable after that.

Eight

“What are you doing for your birthday, then?”

Lemon makes you jump as he slams his backpack down on the desk, taking his usual place on your left. You shrug, fiddle with the tassel on your pencil case zip. You sort of hoped this wouldn’t come up, but in class when there’s a birthday the teacher has everyone sign a card for the student whose special day it is. And yours is tomorrow - Saturday. 

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?!” Lemon repeats so loudly that the whole class stops and stares at him for a moment. The teacher says his name warningly and Lemon bleats out a “sorry” before he turns back to you, quieter this time. 

“But really, nothing?”

Tangerine has sat down on your right by now and he looks just as confused, his face scrunched up as if he’s just noticed a bad smell. 

“Well mum’s at work. And gran can’t do much because of her arthritis.”

You say it simply, a matter of life. Swallow a lump in your throat and try to convince yourself that you’re definitely not sad about it. 

Tangerine and Lemon shoot each other a look across the table, but Lemon drops it. You think maybe you’ve wiggled out of an uncomfortable conversation, though you’re a little disappointed they’ve not decided they’re going to make you any plans of their own. 

That is until you hear your doorbell ring early the next morning. 

“Can you get that for me, love?” your mum calls from the kitchen where she’s wrestling your little sister into a jumper. You hop down from the bedroom windowsill and do as you’re bid. 

Your eyes go wide when you see Tangerine and Lemon standing there, bold as anything, huge grins on their faces. 

“Happy birthday!” Lemon nearly shouts. You find yourself smiling now, too. 

“What are you two doing here?” you ask. 

“Well, it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t spend it at your gran’s house. That’s boring,” Tangerine explains with a shrug. 

By now your mum has finished her child-wrangling, and you hear her approaching footsteps come to join you. You spin around, excitement filling your veins. 

“Mum, can I spend my birthday with Tangerine and Lemon? My friends?”

She seems a little unsure for a moment, before a sudden bunch of flowers is flourished at her. Tangerine holds the small, plastic-wrapped bouquet in a tight fist. 

“We brought these for you,” he says. 

“So you’d say yes,” Lemon adds. His brother elbows him as if to say, don’t say that part out loud. 

Your mum looks touched and takes the flowers, politely ignoring the ‘£4’ sticker they’ve neglected to remove. 

“Oh, well. Thank you boys. Er, Lemon and Tangerine, was it?”

“Yes ma’am,” Tangerine says with a winning smile on his face. Works like a charm. 

“Hmm. Where do you live?”

Tangerine rattles off an address which you recognise as only being a few streets away. You feel your heart race as your mum visibly relents to their request. 

“Oh, alright then. But I’ll be home at eight and want you back by then, understood?”

You throw your arms around your mum’s waist in joy, giving her a tight hug. 

“Thank you,” Lemon and Tangerine say in unison, and wait as you grab your bag and a cardigan. Your mum waves you goodbye as you practically run to the stairwell. 

You’re overwhelmed with emotions. You’ve never had friends who’d bother to come and hang out with you before. You can’t quite articulate how you feel, so instead you decide on: “thanks.“

“Oh,” says Lemon with a grin, “we’ve not even gotten to the best bit yet.”

Your eyes go wide. There’s a best bit?

“We’re gonna take you to go and see the football,” says Tangerine. 

Your heart threatens to give out in your chest. You audibly gasp at the idea. 

“You’ve got tickets to see the football?!” 

They exchange a look. 

“We’re going to see the football, yeah.”

What it turns out they mean is you’re going to sneak in to the football. 

“We can’t just walk into Upton Park! It’s like stealing,” you say, chewing your lip nervously. 

“Yeah we can. It’s easy. We’ve done it loads of times,” says Lemon, not realising it’s the morals rather than the difficulty you have an issue with.

“It’s fine, promise,” Tangerine adds, then lowers his voice to add. “I said I’ll look after you, didn’t I?”

Well. Yeah, alright, he did.

So you trust them and walk towards the stadium.

It turns out, when you’re three kids, it’s really easy to walk into a football game. You just need to stick with a gaggle of adults and pretend you’re part of their group. Nobody checks for your tickets, questions why you’re there. You stay close to the boys and follow their movements, dodging between peoples’ legs and heading towards the stands.

As you go, you watch Tangerine swipe a West Ham scarf from where it rests on someone’s backpack. When you’re far enough away from them he turns and wraps it around your neck for you.

“There,” he grins, “you look like a proper Hammer now.”

It’s the first time he steals something for you. It is definitely not the last.

The place is massive, so large you take a sharp breath when you walk into the stadium proper for the first time. The crowd shouts and hollers around you, a thrumming energy going through the place and every single person there. You’ve never felt a part of something so big before. Blood thunders in your ears.

“Wow,” is all you can manage.

“Right?” Lemon agrees. 

“Are we going to go and find some spare seats?” you ask, looking around. It seems pretty packed, but there are some empties all the way at the top.

“Pfft. ‘Course not,” Tangerine laughs, leading you down to the front of the stands. He stands at the railings where the stairwell leads out, right by the pitch, and right in everyone’s way. Not that anyone really seems to care - kickoff is about to happen.

You rush forward and clutch onto the rail bar as if your life depends on it. You scream and cheer along with the rest of the crowd as West Ham walk out onto the pitch. You wait with bated breath for kickoff, go absolutely wild when they score their first goal. Tangerine and Lemon raise their voices right along with you.

In the second half you settle a little bit more. You’re still enraptured by the match, but your boys have calmed down enough to turn and talk to each other.

“Ready?” Tangerine asks Lemon, and gets a firm nod in response. Before you can ask what they’re ready for he turns to you. 

“Hold on.”

You don’t actually get a chance to, because suddenly you find yourself being hoisted into the air. Lemon and Tangerine have grabbed one of your legs each and lifted you up onto their shoulders. You let out an indignant squawk of panic and grab onto them desperately, digging your fingers into their shoulders as handholds. 

“What are you doing - ?!”

“It’s alright.”

You turn down and look at Tangerine. He looks back at you, unblinking, before breaking into a smile. 

“We’ve got you.”

And, you realise, they do. They hold you high in the air as you cup your hands around your mouth and scream your enthusiasm, as if one little eight-year-old can egg on the team all by themselves. 

You get about ten minutes in before security notices you.

“Oi, where are your parents?”

“Oh shit,” Tangerine says, noticing the man in the high-vis vest making his way towards you, “leg it.”

They place you on the ground and start sprinting. Tangerine’s hand flails out behind him and grabs yours, tight, and together the three of you make a break for it.

You don’t get to see the whole match. But you still throw your arms around Lemon and Tangerine in a tight hug when you’re out of harm’s way, and it’s decidedly your best birthday ever.

Ten

“I don’t get what’s so special about it,” Tangerine sniffs, “it’s just a new year.”

“It’s not just a new year! It’s the millennium, T!”

Tangerine harrumphs. He doesn’t like being proven wrong, but it would be a lie to say he didn’t give in to you a lot. You’re sensible, anyway. 

It’s December 29th, and you’re mucking around in one of the few parks this city seems to have left. Tangerine is trying to use a swing while standing on it and continuously threatens to fall off. That boy will be the death of you with the stress he causes, you swear.

“Apparently everyone thinks all the computers are gonna explode or something,” says Lemon with a grin. “That’d be wicked.”

“We’re having a big party in our flats,” you say, proudly. “People are making loads of food and we’re gonna share it out. I’m even staying up ‘til midnight to watch the new year come in.”

That is quite special. Your mum tries to be strict on bedtimes, but even she can concede that this is a once in a lifetime thing. 

“Can we come?” Lemon asks. 

“Huh?”

“To your party. Can we come?”

Suddenly your mind is brimming with possibilities. A whole evening - no, a whole night - with your best mates? That sounds spectacular. 

“Yeah! I’m sure mum won’t mind!”

Your mum loves Lemon and Tangerine. They’re very polite and kind to her whenever they’re round your flat, always offering to help her with the washing up or to make tea. Luckily your mum doesn’t see the way they act when she’s not there - they’re constantly fighting with people at school and, as brothers, with each other. You’ve settled more arguments than you can shake a stick at, and dealt with their bloody noses and grazed knuckles. 

“Will your dad be okay with it?”

Tangerine shrugs. 

“Probably. Don’t think he really cares.”

The boys insist that their dad’s lack of involvement in their lives is a good thing because they can do what they want without repercussions, but you’re not so sure. You don’t press that issue.  

You find your mum up to her elbows in flour in your little kitchen. She’s trying to make a cake, which is admirable, because your mum can’t bake to save her life. 

“Mum, can Tangerine and Lemon stay over for the party?”

“What?” she seems not to have noticed that you’ve appeared. There’s even flour in her hair, and you have to smother a laugh. “Oh. Um, yes, sure. Can you grab me the eggs, love?”

You look over to where the Twins are hovering in the kitchen doorway and gosh them a thumbs up. And that’s how you find yourselves several hours later, hyped up on store-brand cola, pelting it around the flat block. Some of the older neighbours tut loudly at your recklessness but mostly the mood is jovial, people laughing and celebrating.  

“What’s the time?” you shout over your shoulder to Lemon. He checks his watch, a Thomas the Tank Engine one of course, and holds his arm aloft. 

“Five to twelve!”

You’re both exhausted from pushing your body to stay up, and so filled with sugar you’re in danger of taking off. 

“Come on! If we can get to the roof in time, we can watch all the fireworks.”

You lead the charge up to the roof exit. You’re not really allowed in there, the large custodial sign warning access is prohibited, but you don’t really care and go barrelling through anyway - perhaps mistakenly, because it’s bloody cold out on the top of the building. You can feel your teeth beginning to chatter immediately, so you cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for warmth. 

“Shit, it’s freezing,” Tangerine says. 

“Language,” you reply. He huffs but doesn’t argue back. 

The street is full of people below, but you don’t spend much time looking at them - you’re quite high up, and the height is dizzying. Instead you fix your eyes firmly on the sky above. The light pollution is far too heavy to allow you a glimpse at the stars but you don’t feel too hard done by, the darkness will be lit up soon enough. 

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the E-numbers, or maybe it’s the fact your best friends are here with you, but you’re feeling oddly sentimental. 

The best time to ask a meaningful, if silly, question. 

“What do you want to do when you’re older?”

It’s never something any of you have really discussed. You see the boys’ heads snap to you out of your peripheral vision. 

“Train driver,” Lemon states, not missing a beat. You smother a laugh with your hand. 

“That would suit you, Lemon.”

“What about you?”

You’ve considered this a lot recently. More than you ever have before. When you were little you wanted to be a ballet dancer, but at ten you’re far more realistic now. And you’ve realised, through all of the times you’ve fixed up the Twins, you’ve developed a bit of a love for taking care of people. Putting broken ones back together. 

“I think I want to be a surgeon,” you confess. The boys look surprised at that, and for a moment you’re worried they’ll laugh. But then they nod. 

“Yeah. You’d be good at that,” Tangerine says. You feel a smile cross your face. 

“How about you, Tan?”

He shrugs. When he answers, it’s so quiet, you’re sure it’s not meant to actually be heard. 

But you do. 

“I dunno. Probably something where I can take care of you, like I said I would.”

Your eyes go wide. You’ve not thought about that day, back when you were seven since… well. Probably since you were seven. But the fact he hasn’t forgotten it is…

Above you, a firework goes off so loudly you almost jump off of the roof in surprise. Bright orange sparkles fizzle in the air and the smell of smoke descends upon the three of you. The light is reflected in Tangerine’s eyes when you turn to look at him. 

“Wicked!” Lemon shouts, pumping his fist in the air. You laugh at his joy, swept up in it, and turn to watch the rest of the show. 

You suddenly feel something clammy in your palm. When you look down, you notice it’s Tangerine’s hand. He resolutely doesn’t look at you, staring straight ahead. You can tell he’s nervous. Tangerine doesn’t get nervous. 

Well. There’s a first time for everything. 

You stand there, silently clasping hands as the fireworks go off around you. 

“Happy new year,” you say to your friends. And it is a happy new year. 

Fifteen

At eleven, you all go to secondary school. Swap out your childish polo shirts for a blazer and tie. You don’t like them. The tie makes you feel like you’re choking. They suit Lemon, though. 

At twelve, you really learn the word ‘fuck’, and it becomes a wonderful addition to your vocabularies, especially Tangerine’s. 

At thirteen you get your first cash-in-hand job doing a paper round for the local corner shop, which turns into restocking shelves as you get older. Gav, the owner, pays you far under what minimum wage would be, but you quite enjoy the work so don’t really mind. This is helped by the fact he doesn’t care if you take some snacks on the way out as you go. 

At fourteen, you decide to settle on what GCSEs you’re taking. They’re mostly the science based ones, you’ll need them for your A-Levels. If you want to be a surgeon which you’re still set on. 

At fifteen, you realise you have a crush on Tangerine. 

This is terrible news. 

You’re not sure at what point you stopped seeing him as a boy and started seeing him as a Boy, but at some point with his towering height and floppy hair he made the leap in your mind. You try to push it away and pretend it doesn’t exist, but the point is futile. Every time he bumps your arm as a joke or smiles at something you’ve said your heart threatens to jump out of your chest. When he teases you about that band you really like but he absolutely can’t stand you get hot and awkward. You’re down bad for him and it’s awful. 

You’ve consumed enough media to know that falling in love with your best friend ends badly. For fuck’s sake, there’s a film called My Best Friend’s Wedding. You actually cried when you watched it for the first time. This is hopeless. 

So, you ignore it. Hope you’ll grow out of it. It’s just a crush, after all. 

But one day everything changes. 

“See you later, Gav!” you should over your shoulder. Gav is reading The Sun and waves you goodbye without looking up. As always, Lemon and Tangerine are waiting outside for you with their bikes. They both grin as you emerge from your shift. 

“How was work?” Lemon asks. You shrug. 

“Boring. Same old, same old.”

Lemon looks hopeful.

“Did you get me a - ”

“Twix? Yeah, ‘course.”

Lemon pumps his fist a little in silent celebration as you pass him his favourite chocolate.

“Yes! Awh mate, I fucking love you.”

You know he says that to tease you. Lemon can read people like a pro, and your feelings towards his brother aren’t exactly subtle. You shoot him A Look before you turn to Tangerine. 

“Double Decker.”

“Absolute fucking star,” Tangerine says. Your heart flutters at his smile. 

The three of you begin to wander down the street as you dig out a KitKat from your pocket. Tangerine makes a disgusted noise. 

“Fucksake, not again,” he groans. You glare at him. 

“What?”

“You eat KitKats like a fucking psychopath, that’s what.”

“No I don’t!” you insist. This has long been a point of contention between the two of you, and you both like to be wind up merchants about it. You look him dead in the eye as you unwrap the chocolate.

“Don’t,” he warns. 

You grin as you take a bite into the whole bar, not bothering to separate the fingers. Tangerine makes such a loud noise of disgust the mums on the other side of the street glare at him. This makes both you and Lemon erupt into hysterics. You shove Tangerine playfully and he shoves you back, and for a moment you think this is as good as life can get. Laugher, friends, youth. 

Then Tangerine’s phone goes. 

You watch as he fishes it out of his pocket and flips it open, reading the text he’s just received. 

“Who’s that?” you ask, but in the pit of your stomach you already know the answer. 

“Katie Q,” he replies, hammering the buttons as he replies. Your whole body feels like it’s plummeting. 

Katie Q. Katie fucking Q. Overall you don’t like to pit yourself against other girls, measure up against each other, but you fucking hate Katie Q. She joined your school earlier in the academic year so clearly didn’t know the dynamic you, Lemon, and Tangerine had. That the Twins are your boys. So when she started cosying up to Tangerine it lit a fire of jealousy in you that you’d never felt before. 

Always laughing at him. Twirling her fucking hair around her fucking finger like she’s being coy. Makes her look like a div. What’s worse is that Tangerine doesn’t discourage it; he just sits there and lets her do it. 

You realise you’re glaring at Tangerine, but luckily he doesn’t seem to have noticed. 

Lemon, however, has. 

“You still seeing her on Saturday?” he asks, nonchalantly. 

“Yeah.”

Oh. 

You must have made a noise, because Tangerine looks up. You take a step back. Tears are welling in your eyes at the idea of it. Stupid, stupid. Tangerine looks confused. 

“What-?”

“I’ve got to go,” you choke. You turn on your heel and start to leg it down the road. You hope it looks like a purposeful stride, but to be honest it’s probably more of a pathetic run. It’s hard to see where you’re going because your vision is blurry no matter how much you blink it away. 

You’re vaguely aware that Tangerine is calling out your name. He must be running after you. You don’t really want to look at him, though, so you keep going blindly. Of course, the pavement has long been in need of upkeep, so it’s no real surprise when your foot catches an errant slab and you go falling arse over tit. 

Your pride hurts more than the grazed knees, and what’s worse is it means Tangerine can catch up with you. You try and wipe your tears away on your sleeve as he kneels down in front of you. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks, absolutely baffled, “Are you hurt?”

“No!” you snap. Through your watery eyes you can see the complete look of bemusement on his face. Damn it, boys are so oblivious. 

As a teenage girl, what you want to do is hide your feelings and silently seethe. But as well as being the boy you have a crush on, Tangerine is also one of your oldest friends. So you want to be honest. When you speak the words come toppling out of your mouth like hot water from a tap. 

“Why are you seeing Katie Q this weekend?! Do you like her?”

You want to know the answer. No, wait, you don’t. Oh Christ. This is awful. This is the worst thing anyone has ever been through, ever. Just moments ago you were so happy. Then fucking Katie fucking Q had to go and ruin it. 

A range of emotions run over Tangerine’s face as he processes this. 

“What?” he says, again, “No, my dad’s laying paying her to tutor me in maths, you know I’m fucking shit at it.”

“I’d tutor you in maths!” you nearly wail. Tangerine groans. 

“I don’t want you to tutor me in maths! Because I don’t fucking like Katie Q, I fucking like you!”

His shoulders are heaving, his face flushed red. He can’t meet your gaze. 

A heavy silence descends over the two of you as you absorb this information. Tangerine scratches the back of his neck, the universal sign of awkwardness. 

“You like me? Like, like like me?”

“Fucksake,” grumbles Tangerine, heavily aware of how cringeworthy this is. “Yeah, I like like you.”

You’ve never seen him so red. 

“I like like you too, Tan.”

Finally he looks up. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You’re sitting on the pavement, knees bleeding. He’s crouched in front of you. Of course this would be how it goes. 

“Doyouwanttogooutwithme?”

He says it all as one word and you almost miss the actual question itself. But after a beat, when you decipher it, your heart starts going a mile a minute. 

“Yeah!”

Tangerine lights up. You’ve never seen him smile so wide. 

“Really?” as if he can’t quite believe it. You grin and nod emphatically. 

Finally he offers you his hand to help you get to your feet. When you do, he doesn’t drop it. You look down to where your hands are joined. 

It’s like you’re ten all over again. 

Carefully, you change your grip so you can slip your fingers in between his. He gives you a light squeeze. 

When you turn to face him, he moves in to kiss you. 

It’s… nice. Quick, unsure. But nice. And a bit wet because you’ve been crying. You’re grinning when he pulls back. 

You hear footsteps, and notice Lemon is closing the gap. He makes a show of groaning when he’s got both of your attentions. 

“Is this gonna be what my life is from now on?” he complains. You and Tangerine flip him the bird at the same time before you hide your face in your - boyfriend’s! - chest. It feels a bit silly. It feels right. 

And when you walk to school the next day, holding hands, you feel invincible. 

Seventeen

Your mum is not surprised in the slightest when you tell her Tangerine has asked you out. She just gives one of those all-knowing grins parents have which gets under your skin. 

“About bloody time. You two have been in love for yonks.”

“Mum!” you squeal. You’ve just realised you like each other, the L-word hasn’t even crossed your mind. 

Well. It has. A bit. But you’d never admit that to someone. 

And time ticks by. You’re thick as thieves. You bicker but, well, you’re in a relationship. It happens sometimes. And you always make up afterwards. 

You pass your GCSEs with flying colours. All As and A*s. Tangerine is so proud of you he lifts you up and runs around the school hall with you in his arms. You squeal and giggle and cover your face. 

“That’s my girl!” he cheers, and you feel like flying.

Neither he nor Lemon decide to do their A-Levels. They say that they’re going into the family business. You’re not sure what that might be, they’ve never mentioned it before. But they seem pretty set on their decision so you decide not to push it further.

That summer might be the best of your life. You’re young and in love, after all. For Tangerine’s birthday you get him a small gold pendant on a chain when you catch on that he starts to like his jewellery. He never takes it off again, just so he always has a little piece of you next to his heart. It’s dreadfully romantic.

Start your A-Levels in Sixth Form, pick all of the ones you need to get into medical school. Biology, Chemistry, Maths, Physics. It’s a hard workload but you knew it would be, it’s a difficult career you want to get into. You’re worried Tangerine will become bored of you. That he’ll find your constant studying dull and go off in pursuit of some other girl with more free time on her hands.

But you were wrong to worry. Your Tangerine is loyal to a fault. 

Just before your seventeenth birthday, he hands you a card. You look confused.

“My birthday isn’t until next week, Tan.”

“I know that, you doughnut. Open it!”

You stick your tongue out at him playfully as you slip your finger under the envelope’s seal and tear it open. Inside the card are two concert tickets. Standing ones. To that band that you’ve loved for ages and Tangerine hates. 

A lot of emotions go through your head. Tangerine is looking at you expectantly. 

“You didn’t nick these, did you?” you ask, with narrowed eyes. He does that a lot. Thieves little things he thinks you’ll like. And most of the time you do, but you wish the light fingers would stop. 

“Oh, charming,” he sniffs, crossing his arms, “how would I nick concert tickets?”

“I reckon you’d find a way.“

He looks indignant for a second, then shrugs, as if to say: probably. 

“Well, no, I bought them, actually. Look, my name’s on them.”

Sure enough, he’s right. At this confirmation you feel your face light up, and you launch yourself into his arms. 

“Oh my god, Tan, you’re the best!” you squeal, peppering his face with kisses. 

“Heh, yeah.”

Though you’re still left with a bit of a sour taste in your mouth. Where did he get the money to buy them? He seems to have a lot of it lately, to the point where he’s let you know that you could drop your job at the corner shop and focus on your studies, if you want. That he’d look after you like he always promised he would. Clearly, whatever business his family is in is a lucrative one. But you’ve met the Twins’ dad; a gruff bloke, distant. Never mentioned work. 

Well, whatever. Your mum seems pleased you have a nice evening planned. 

“I’m at work tonight and the others are at gran’s. You’ll drop my daughter home, Tangerine, and leave; won’t you?”

“Mum!” you squeak, covering your face with your hands, realising the implications. Tangerine just grins, unaffected by your mum’s teasing. 

“I’d never dream of doing anything else, ma’am,” he replies. Your mum doesn’t buy that for a second but chooses not to press the issue. 

The tube to the concert is packed. Lots of people going to do the same thing, clearly. You can see band t-shirts galore. The two of you stand, pressed together like sardines, and Tangerine can practically feel the excitement radiating off of you. 

Well, it’s your first concert, you’re allowed. 

Time is a blur, you make nervous idle chatter with your boyfriend, but things only really sink in when you’re in the stadium. It’s huge. You’ve never been in an arena like this before - well; Upton Park was an outlier - and you think you might be sick with anticipation. 

Tangerine squeezes your hand, and you look up at him. He smiles gently. 

“You alright?”

“Best I’ve ever been.”

You press a quick kiss to his mouth and he looks chuffed. Yeah, he’s done a good job with this. You are one pleased girlfriend. 

This is a mood which lasts for the next two and a bit hours as you watch your favourite band perform and go a little bit mental at it. You scream, jump, cry. All the things that you’re meant to do. Tangerine endures it for you and holds your bag and your water. When you leave the venue your voice is hoarse, barely-there from all the cheering you’ve been doing. 

“I sound like I’ve been smoking forty a day for years,” you laugh, listening to the low and scratchy growl as you speak. “Do you think I’m beautiful, Tan?”

It’s meant to be a joke, a silly comment to contrast with how you sound. But Tangerine stops and, because he’s holding your hand, you do too. 

“Yeah,” he admits, “I do.”

You’re walking down an alleyway close to your home. A shortcut. You’re alone. 

When he pulls you in for a kiss you gladly oblige. 

You think it might just be the nicest kiss you’ve ever had, a proper one, when someone calls Tan’s name. His real name. 

The two of you look up. A man is standing at the end of the alley, striding towards you quickly. 

“There you are, you little cunt!” the man says, thunder on his face. 

“Tan…?”

Tangerine steps in front of you, shielding you from the aggressor. 

“Fuck off mate, my girl’s here,” he states. The man doesn’t stop coming. 

“I’ve been looking for you all week. Shame I’ve got to do this in front of her, but that’s what happens when your little family fucking robs people.”

Your jaw hangs open. He what? No, that can’t be right. Can it?

But Tangerine doesn’t argue it. In fact he doesn’t even look surprised at the accusation. 

“Last chance. Turn around and get the fuck away from us.”

He wants to sound hard, but you know him well enough to hear the hitch of fear in his voice. 

“Sorry, kid. Gotta send a message to your dad. And don’t worry - I’ll take care of your bird when I’m done with you.”

He gives a grim smile which makes you sick to your stomach. 

“Tan,” you whisper. Any joy you’ve been saving has actively evacuated your body. You’re so scared you can’t move. 

The man gets something out of his coat. It glints in the streetlight from the adjacent road. 

Oh god it’s a knife. 

But when he swings for Tan, he’s ready. Tangerine pushes you out of the way and runs at the assailant shoulder first, a rugby-like tackle. You fall on your arse and can only watch. 

It’s hard for you to remember exactly what happens. You didn’t know your boyfriend was capable of something like this. Such violence. You want to believe it’s in defence of you but… the man said he robbed them. 

Through the tears, it’s the first night you see Tangerine kill someone. 

Tangerine takes a few licks but he’s fast. The knife slices across his forearm and spins to the floor. He grabs it before the man can. 

It goes into his stomach, over and over, Tangerine pinning him down until he goes still. 

Silence descends upon the scene. 

Tangerine looks up at you, trembling, blood over his hands. 

You’re sick on the alleyway floor. 

There are moments that make or break a relationship. You thought it might be, you know, during uni or something, when you were busy with studying. You never saw it being because your boyfriend had… had murdered someone. 

He looks you in the eye. 

He’s scared. 

Tangerine doesn’t get scared. 

Shakily, you get to your feet. 

“We’ve got to go,” you manage, “before anyone sees. We’ve got to go.”

Tangerine nods. He staggers up, fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

“I’ll… I’ll tell dad. He can sort it.”

You swallow more bile down as you listen to Tangerine have a short conversation with his father. You pretend not to notice the tears in his eyes. But you do notice the blood dripping down his arm. 

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding!” you gasp. He looks down at his arm. 

“Fuck.”

Okay. Okay. 

Sensible head on, you tell yourself. 

And that’s how you find yourself back home, Tangerine sitting shirtless at your kitchen table. It’s a reflection of ten years ago: he’s hurt and you’re patching him up again. But this time it’s slow and steady stitches you’re doing, something you’re not really qualified for yet,

but unbeknownst to you, that you will end up doing many times for Tangerine over the years. 

He sits in silence. He’s cleaned up in the bathroom but his hands are still stained red. He says your name gently. 

“Please look at me.”

You finish the row of stitches, and you do. He searches your face for any hint of how you’re feeling, what your future will be. 

“You said you’d look after me,” you tell him, eventually. “I’m going to look after you, too.”

Some moments can make or break a relationship.  

Sitting together, in the quiet of the kitchen and the gravity of the situation with your Tangerine, makes it. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Twenty

It’s strange how these things bring people closer together. Because you and Tangerine are as solid as anything. There is a quiet, but sincere understanding that the two of you don’t really discuss what he does for work, but he always comes to you when he’s hurt. Not too long after, Lemon does too. You start leaving your flat when you get a text from them at 1am, secretly meeting them in the alley behind the bins on nights where your mum is home and they can’t come through to your kitchen. It’s hardly the most ideal place to dress wounds but at least it’s private.

You have many a late night setting a broken nose or relocating an arm. You aren’t one hundred percent sure how to do it properly yet, but the medical textbooks you’ve bought preemptively go a long way. You’ll make sure your boys are alright. You study long into the evenings most days anyway, so it isn’t a huge chore. The only time you’re actively worried is when you’re sitting your final exams. Tangerine understands how important they are so promises not to go on any jobs. In fact, the Twins even come over with snacks when you’re on your study break.

This means your little sister hangs around your desk a lot.

“Is Lemon coming?”

Your little sister likes Lemon. Lemon does not like your little sister. He always texts you before the two of them turn up to make sure she’s not around. 

“No. Now sod off, unless you want to help me with algebra.”

She does not want to help you. You are thankfully left alone. 

And with support from your mum and your boys, somehow you manage to pass all your A-Levels with flying colours, even though you’ve had so many energy drinks over the past few weeks you feel like your heart has permanent palpitations.

The irony of the fact that you want to study medicine yet insist on chugging Red Bulls daily is not lost on you.

But, poor health decisions aside, you apply for your university choices. 

And you get an offer from all of them.

By then you’re eighteen, and firmly old enough to drink. The Twins take you out to celebrate, and you get so smashed on Smirnoff Ices that Tangerine has to carry you half of the way home, and to add insult to injury you throw up in the doorway outside your flat’s front entrance.

Tangerine holds your hair back as you vomit, and you know without a doubt he is the man for you. 

You accept the offer from the best university. You’re lucky that, being London based, it isn’t too far to commute to. You can easily get the tube, or Tangerine offers to drive.

It took Tangerine five tries to pass his driving test. Lemon got it in one, much to his brother’s annoyance. You don’t… love Tangerine’s driving, but needs must. You always keep your eyes firmly on the speedometer as he taxis you, and grip your seat just a little too tight. But he always offers so you can save on the train fare. 

“Have a good day, babe,” he always says, giving you a long kiss goodbye, “go knock ‘em dead.”

“The idea is to do the opposite, Tan,” you laugh, both choosing to ignore that that is exactly what he does for a living.

And things… keep going. Life is good. You and Tangerine are happy and even start discussing the idea of moving in together. You get through your first year of university with lots of studying and hard work. Better get used to it now, because this is going to be the next significant portion of your life.

So when you miss your period, you assume it’s just the stress of medical school. Things get harder from the second year and you’re in the latter end of it. You feel like you’re constantly craned over a textbook learning about yet another way the human body can break, and between that and still having to patch up Lemon and Tangerine as they take on bigger jobs you just feel a little run down from being pulled in all directions.

When you start being sick in the mornings you get worried. And when you realise you’ve not menstruated in two months, a terrible realisation washes over you.

Time has never moved so slowly as you watch the pregnancy test develop on the side of the sink. You’re practically curled into a little ball as you sit on the closed seat of the toilet, knees pulled up into your chest. 

You can’t be. You can’t. This will throw off your whole fucking life so much. How are you meant to study with a baby? And fucking medicine of all things?!

When you see the double positive line, hot tears spill down your cheeks.

You should tell Tangerine face-to-face. You should. He deserves that. You’ve been together for nigh-on five years, after all.

But you’re a coward.

I’m pregnant, the text you fire off reads.

He does not reply.

You wait a day. Two. Try to call him. He doesn’t respond. Try to call Lemon, nothing there either. The sickness in you doubles, both from the hormones and the fear of not knowing how Tangerine feels. You even go to his house a week later, but you’re unsurprised to find nobody opens the door.

You come to the conclusion you’ve become a victim of the phenomenon known as ‘ghosting’.

When you get back, your mum is watching Eastenders. She instantly spots how you’re just barely holding yourself together.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

You burst into tears. You cry, and cry, and cry. Your mum holds you in a way she hasn’t done since you were little, rocking you back and forth on the sofa in her arms. She smooths your hair, hums to you, wipes your cheeks dry; doesn’t even bat an eyelid when you tell her you’re expecting. She does look a little confused when you tell her you’ve not heard from Tangerine.

“He’s not the kind of boy to just abandon you, darling. I’ve seen the way you are with each other. He’s probably just taking a little time to process.”

“Mum, what if he never comes back?” 

“Well then, he’s a cunt, isn’t he?”

Hearing the word from your mother’s mouth for the first time makes you choke on the laughter that bubbles up through the sobs. 

“Mum!” 

“What? It’s true.”

For a moment you get lost in your giggles.

And then your phone rings.

The two of you go silent when you see Tangerine’s name appear on the screen. Your mum watches you as you answer.

“Tan?”

His voice is quiet when he replies. A bad sign.

“Can you come outside?”

Oh god. This is it. He’s going to break up with you, isn’t he? Your heart is firmly in your mouth as you descend the piss-reeking stairs of your apartment building, opening the front door to find Tangerine.

You gasp.

He’s got a black eye, a barely-wiped bloody nose, and you’re pretty sure there might be a fracture on his cheekbone. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth.

“Tan, what happ-”

Before you can finish, he passes you a couple of bits of paper stapled together. There’s blood placing his fingerprints where he’s been holding it. 

It’s the deed to a flat.

“I…?”

“I bought us a house. Well. A flat,” he says, “I’m sorry, that’s why I was gone. I was doing a job to get the money together.”

You’re sick at the idea of what that job might be. You’re also sick from the adrenaline. You’re also sick from the baby. Oh god, you’re just sick.

“Tan…”

“Wait, wait, hang on.”

He pats his pockets, looking for something hidden there. And when he finds it?

He kneels.

Your breath is punched from your stomach as he opens up a ring box.

“I love you,” he states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Please, I just… please fucking marry me. It’s just you. Fuck, it’s only you. Always has been, only will be.”

And you’re crying again. Tangerine chews his lip.

“Is this good crying or bad crying?”

“Good crying. Yeah, Tan, of course I’ll marry you!”

His face lights up and he swoops you up in his arms. You laugh, giddy, and kiss him.

“Oh, shit!”

Your hands go to your abdomen, Tangerine recoils like you’ve shocked him.

“Sorry, sorry,” you state, “it’s, ah. It’s the baby.”

“Bollocks. Fuck. Right, the baby,” he repeats, amazed. Carefully he reaches out a hand and, when he sees you nod your compliance, rests it over your stomach.

“The baby.” He speaks with utter amazement, a quiet devotion. 

You move in together the next day, a ring on your finger and a child in your belly.

Twenties

The two of you get married in a little courthouse a couple of months later. Tangerine wants to make you an “honest woman” before you give birth, which is hilarious, because as you watch him thieve a necklace for the big day you think he might be one of the least honest men you know. 

Well, not when it comes to you, you suppose. 

Only a few of your nearest and dearest are there. Lemon is Tan’s best man, your little sister wears a sweet dress as the bridesmaid. Lemon is very nice the whole day and puts up with her obvious infatuation with him, grinning and bearing it. Your mum wears a big hat because that’s what mums are meant to do at weddings. Even the Twins’ dad makes an appearance in an ill-fitting suit. 

There’s a picture of you framed in your house of that day. You’re wearing a nice white dress, a small curve at your belly, and Tan is wearing a lovely suit. You're embracing and you’re both mid-laugh, absolutely captivated by each other. It’s one of your favourite photos. 

When the paperwork is out of the way and you’re married, the little party hurries over to Upton Park in your wedding outfits just in time to catch the game you’ve got tickets for. Your white dress is stained sky blue and claret from the facepaint Tangerine puts on you, but you don’t really care, because it’s the best day of your life. 

You don’t want a fancy honeymoon; besides, you’d rather the money go towards renovating your new home. So the two of you have a weekend away in Brighton where Tangerine’s pride won't let him leave the claw machines on the pier until he’s won you a cuddly toy. He spends a small fortune on getting you a teddy bear that’s falling apart at the seams and you treasure it. 

The two of you settle into married life well. You can’t keep your hands off each other. You don’t know how you balance married life, pregnancy, and your studies - but Tangerine is nothing but devoted. Insists you spend all of your time doing uni work, because he’ll support you. You don’t love the idea of that because it means he still comes home with bruises and broken bones every now and then, but it’s still a subject neither of you broach. 

Your waters break the day after your twenty-first birthday. Tangerine ferries you to the hospital and for once his reckless driving comes in handy. 

“Tan! I want this fucking thing out of me!” you screech over the sound of his engine. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Tangerine actually scared of you, but he approaches it that day. 

Labour is awful. You knew it would be from your studies, and from, well, common sense. But they let your mum come into the delivery room and she holds your hand as tight as anything, and after several painful hours your son comes squalling into the world. He is tiny and new and perfect, and you clutch him to your chest with tears in your eyes. 

Tangerine enters the room a little while later, hanging back at the foot of your bed. 

“Do you want to hold him?” you ask, quietly. Tangerine looks hesitant. 

“What if… fuck, I dunno, what if I hurt him?”

Oh, bless. Your Tangerine is a sweet man. You’re exhausted in a way you’ve never been before, but you cradle your son with one arm and reach for your husband with the other. 

“You could never hurt him.”

Gingerly Tangerine crosses over to you. You gently pass your son into his arms. It’s a funny picture: your Tan with all this jewellery and that moustache he’s growing out looking down at his newborn child as if he’s made of porcelain. You know he must be used to taking life by now. He’s never made one before. 

Your little family returns home by the end of the week, and life continues. 

And overwhelmingly, it is good. Your son is a happy boy with doting parents. Nobody can prepare you for what it’s like to raise a child, the heartaches and worry and pride and love; but the two of you experience it all in bucketfuls. Your favourite moments are when Tangerine holds your son and talks to him as they walk around the room, speaking to him as if he’s a full-grown adult when your son can only reply with a “ba” noise. Or perhaps, the times when you’re rocking him to sleep, and you spot Tangerine hovering in the doorway with a look of absolute dedication on his face. 

Yes, life is good, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t complicated. 

Medical school only gets harder, and Tangerine rises up the ranks of… well, whatever it is he exactly does. He has to go further afield, and for longer. You’re lucky your mum has dropped down to one job now, so she offers to look after your son when needed. Late nights continue with you either hunched over a book or waiting on Tangerine’s call to make sure he’s safe. 

But when he’s home it’s lovely. Perfect husband, perfect father. Never gets tired of your son’s constant begging to be thrown in the air and caught time and time again, requests for the same book to be read, even the difficult mealtimes. Tangerine loves your son and your son loves him, and your little family is perfect. 

Five years it takes for you to pass medical school. Your son is three by then. In your graduation photos you have your degree in one arm and him in the other, Tangerine’s hand on your waist. You think his own proud smile might be even bigger than yours. 

“Come on doctor,” he says that night, pinning you against the wall when your son is asleep, “let’s have someone take care of you for a change.”

“I’m nowhere near being a doctor,” you laugh, but let him continue his ministrations anyway. 

You find out the next day he has a job in Rome, and you almost burst into tears. But he peppers your face with kisses and promises he’ll be back. And he’s yet to break a promise to you. And when he returns, he has a shining black eye, two broken ribs, and enough money to put a deposit on a proper house five times over. 

Buying a house in London is expensive. But he did say he’d look after you and you’ll be damned if he isn’t living up to it. You move to a place near the hospital where you’re going to be doing your foundation years, a small home but one with a garden and heart. Your son celebrates his fourth birthday there, smiling and laughing as your husband hoists him onto his shoulders, and has many more happy days after. 

Still life continues. 

At twenty-five, you’re getting through training at quite a pace. You live in a state of permanent exhaustion between having a young child and studying but Tangerine still acts like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He pulls you into his arms one morning as you’re making breakfast. 

“Good morning,” you tell him. It always is, waking up next to him. 

“Happy anniversary.”

You furrow your brow. 

“Our anniversary isn’t for another three months, Tan.”

“Well, yeah, I know that, don’t I? But we’ve been together for ten years.”

Ten years. The spatula you’re using to scramble the eggs pauses in your hand. Gosh, that’s a long old time. You can’t quite believe it. 

“I didn’t realise,” you confess. He drops a kiss into the crook of your neck. 

“I did,” he replies, and you can practically hear the smug smile on his face, “and I figured we deserved a little break.”

He holds up two plane tickets to Milan in front of you, and you squeal so loudly it makes Tangerine jump. 

Your son stays with uncle Lemon for the week. Your son loves Lemon, but that’s because he’s the sort of uncle who lets you get away with ice-cream for breakfast. He and Tangerine might be partners in crime in the business world, but your son and Lemon are partners in crime in a much more terrifying way. Chaos-causers. 

“You be good for your uncle, alright?” you ask, ruffling your son’s hair. He grins with a wide, toothy smile. 

“I will!” he promises, in a way that surely means, we will absolutely get up to mischief together. 

Milan is, well, to be honest, you’d know better what Milan was if you left the bedroom much. He’s booked the penthouse of a very fancy hotel and you make good use of all its surfaces. When you do finally convince him to actually go out for a bit the place is lovely; sunny and warm and perfect. Tangerine walks with his arm around you. Possessive. You don’t mind. 

“I’m sorry I’m away so much,” he says one night, when you walk out of the gigantic hotel bathroom. 

“Hey, what’s brought this on?“

He shrugs. 

“I just… I don’t fucking know. Wish I was there more for you two.”

Well, it would be a lie to say you didn’t wish that too, but it’s pointless to air that when you can tell he’s already being rough on himself. You sit next to him on the bed and take his face in your hands. 

“So long as you come back to me. That’s all I care about.”

He covers your hand with his, kisses you, then you find a pleasant distraction for the rest of the evening. 

By the time you get home your son resolutely doesn’t want to leave his uncle’s. 

“We had McDonald’s five nights in a row!”

You shoot Lemon A Look. He shrugs. 

“I can’t cook.”

Things continue happily, until one day Lemon and Tangerine return from a job with the former’s leg broken in three places. The two of them come in at eleven one night, battered and bruised, with Lemon desperately trying to keep his voice down despite the  agony he’s in. 

You have a spare room which the two of you have dubbed the “office”, but really, it’s more of an impromptu operating surgery. You’re lucky your husband has been able to source you some anaesthetic, because setting his brother’s leg back in place is a bloody and lengthy effort that you wouldn’t want him awake for. 

Lemon wakes up in the guest room with his leg in plaster and head fuzzy. He tries to get up in panic, you soothe him. 

“Lemon, Lemon, it’s me. You’ve got to stay still, alright? You got really hurt.”

Lemon narrows his eyes at you and glances down at his injury, letting out a groan of frustration when he sees his predicament. Tangerine shuffles awkwardly next to you. 

“I was worried about you there, mate.”

“Your fault,” Lemon slurs, lips not quite back to full use. You fix Tangerine with a look. 

“Was it your fault, Tangerine?”

Your husband shifts awkwardly. 

“Well. Maybe I pulled a trigger too early, and - ”

“Oh for fuck’s–” you adjust your volume, making sure not to disturb your son, “for fuck’s sake, Tan. Right, Lemon, you’re staying here until you’re better. If you need anything your brother is going to get it for you, aren’t you, Tan?”

Tangerine huffs.

“Fine.”

So Lemon becomes a fixture in your house. Your son loves it, and the two of them are always playing on their Nintendo DSs, wrapped up in their own little world. It takes a long time for Lemon to heal but, by the end of it… well it just doesn’t make sense for him to leave again. Things are much easier with three adults in the house rather than two. So he moves in properly over the next couple of weeks. 

You, your husband, your son, your brother-in-law. A little family. A happy one.

Thirties

Tangerine’s eyebrows raise as he watches you patch the hole in his jacket. Your stitches are neat and uniform, and quickly it’s impossible to tell there was ever a tear at all. 

“When did you learn to sew?”

You fix him with an old-fashioned look. 

“I’m a surgeon, T. I do this on your skin often enough, why wouldn’t I be able to do it on your suit?”

It’s true. You’ve got a couple of specialist training years left, but it’s pretty much official now. A general surgeon. It’s hard work, but it’s rewarding. Your favourite place to be, if not with your family, is in the theatre saving lives. 

You toss Tangerine his suit jacket back and watch appreciatively as he tugs it on. Tangerine has really grown into suits over these past few years. You can’t picture him wearing anything else now. What a handsome man your husband has grown up to be. You don’t scrub up too badly yourself either, you like to think. 

Tangerine pulls you into his arms, embraces you. Nuzzles his face into the softness of your neck and inhales. 

“Where are you off to this time, love?”

“Tokyo. It’s gonna be a fucking nightmare of a job,” he sighs. You don’t press for any more information. The two of you have simply decided it’s better when you don’t know. Just deal with what comes back. 

“Come back to us,” you whisper in his ear. His breath hitches at that. Funny, Tangerine doesn’t get too emotional. Last time you saw him even well up was at his dad’s funeral. You’re amazed it was heart disease that got the old bastard and not a gun. But Tan pulled himself together quickly, memorised him with a tattoo, and promised you he’d be a better dad to your son than his was to him and Lemon. He’s already passed that mark by miles. 

You feel oddly emotional too. Probably the hormones, your period is a bit late so must be due any day. 

Your son and Lemon are waiting at the door, tapping away on their phones. They’re playing some sort of game. Pokémon something, maybe? You don’t really understand it, but those two bond over the oddest things. Tangerine ruffles your son’s hair and he grins up at his dad. 

“You’re gonna be good as gold while I’m away, aren’t you? You’re the man of the house for a bit,” he says. You and your son both roll your eyes. 

“I will, dad.”

Tangerine pulls you in for a last kiss - your son makes a disgusted noise - and the two head out. 

“You boys be safe!” you call. You whisper a prayer to whoever’s listening - even if I have to put them back together, let them come back. 

A few days pass. Tangerine texts you when he touches down in Japan. A selfie of Lemon with some sort of big-eyes, slightly creepy doll. Updates about where they are. 

Your period doesn’t come. 

Hm. 

You have an app on your phone to track your ovulation, and checking it, you’re quite out. This isn’t good. You can’t be hitting the fucking menopause early, you’re only thirty-fucking-two for fuck’s sake. So…

Oh god. 

You’ve not pissed on a pregnancy test since uni. You’re on the pill. It’s meant to be fucking effective, damnit. At least your son is at school and you don’t have to deal with him asking questions. Better to do this in private. 

In an action you’ve done before, the test sits on the side of the sink and develops. 

A call pops up on your phone. You furrow your brow. Lemon rarely FaceTimes you. Could be Tangerine’s nicked his phone if his battery has run out, but that’s unusual too. You answer. 

“Lemon?”

Your brother-in-law’s connection is shaky. But even though the picture is bad you can tell he’s covered in blood. 

Your own runs cold. 

“Lem-”

He interrupts you with a near shout of your name. 

“Bleeding. I need you to tell me how to stop someone bleeding from their neck.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. 

You’re sick a bit in your mouth. You want to scream for Tangerine. Somehow you don’t think he can answer. Lemon wouldn’t call you for help for a random stranger. 

Surgeon brain on. 

“Pressure. As much pressure as you can.”

You speak slowly, clearly. Lemon drops the phone but you can see him dip into shot sometimes. It makes it worse. You want to see, you want to fucking see, but Lemon needs both his hands. You’re talking a man through fucking surgery and it’s to save your husband’s life. 

“Where’s he been shot?”

“Neck. His neck.”

Fuck. Christ. That makes things a lot worse. And you know he wouldn’t be calling you if he could get an ambulance. 

“Plug the hole, quickly.”

“With what?!”

You look around your bathroom, as if that can help. A packet of tampons is tucked into your sink cabinet. That would be ideal, but you don’t suppose he’d have any on him. 

“Anything absorbent!”

You hear Lemon scrambling around. 

“Will, like, a piece of plush doll thing work?”

“If that’s what you’ve got to hand!”

You hear tearing. This would be absurd if your husband wasn’t fucking dying. 

So, half the world away, you do your best to talk Lemon through the steps. Tears run down your face as you speak. They dip into your mouth, hot and salty. You gag at the taste. You want to vomit. Properly. 

“Lemon? Lemon are you there?”

“He’s… he’s…”

You wail. On the sink, your test shows positive. 

You wake to the sound of the television on downstairs. Of course. Sunday mornings aren’t for peace for working mums. At least you’re not on call today, so small mercies. 

You yawn, stretch, head downstairs. Almost trip over a doll. You swear to yourself under your breath and kick it out of your way. 

Thomas the Tank engine is on the telly, naturally. Lemon sits with a cup of tea in his lap and one of your twin girls either side of him, all three engrossed in the cartoon. They look up in unison when you walk in. 

“Morning,” they all chirp. You smile. 

“Morning,” you reply, “you girls seen your brother?”

“He’s not up yet,” Lemon replies on their behalf. Of course. Your son has taken to being a teenager like a fish to water. And that includes the lie-ins. Still, it’s the weekend, so you’ll let him sleep. “You want a cuppa?”

“I’ll make it. Looks like you’ve been co-opted for the morning.”

You head to the kitchen, re-boil the kettle, and stare out of the window. You need to get on the gardening. It’s a fucking state out there. Maybe finally get around to buying that swingset the girls have been begging for, you’ve got the room after all. 

A pair of arms wrap around you and you’re pulled against a warm chest. 

“Happy anniversary,” a voice growls in your ear. 

“It’s not our -”

Oh. Of course. You’ve had this conversation before, years ago. You turn in your husband’s arms. Tangerine smiles down at you. The collar on his dressing gown mostly hides that terrible scar he brought back with him from Japan. 

It had been a long road to recovery. 

But you said you’d look after him. 

“Twenty years,” Tangerine states, “and still as gorgeous as ever.”

You press a kiss to his mouth, one that’s probably a little too saucy when someone might walk into the kitchen at any moment. 

“How shall we celebrate?”

“Oh, I have a couple of ideas.”

You laugh, and your Tangerine kisses you again. 

//

A/N: I KNOW IN CANON HE HAS THE PENDANT FROM CHILDHOOD BUT THAT’S NOT THE BIGGEST CANON EVENT WE IGNORED LMFAOOo

[pullakori]

Febuwhump 2023

Day 16. Semi-conscious

Sequel to last years febuwhump prompt fill for day 13. "Won't regain consciousness", in wich after holding Shaw still for Erik to kill him, Charles passes out. He opens his eyes soon enough, but is basically just an empty shell.

Frost had agreed to check if there was anything that she could do for Charles, but said that they owed her one. Erik didn't care if he had to sell his soul to the woman, just as long as she tried to help his friend. After all, it was his fault that Charles had ended up like this.

The other telepath had taken a seat next to Charles, demanding that the others would let her work in peace. But Erik didn't trust her enough to let her stay alone with his friend and the others had thought the same. In the end, Erik, Raven and Moira had been allowed to stay in the same room, while the boys stayed nearby.

It had been few hours later, that Frost had stood up and told them her findings.

"The good news is that he is still in there." Those words had lifted a huge weight off of Erik's heart, but not completely.

"And the bad news?" He pressed.

"His consciousness is very weak. If I try to pull him out, he will shatter and be gone for good."

"But you can help him, right?" Raven asked, keeping a brave face, but Erik could tell she was having similar emotional turmoil inside as he was. They were so close, but everything was still so uncertain.

Frost seemed to think about it, before she nodded.

"I think so. I need to make him stronger, before trying to bring him back. It will take time, but it can be done."

And that's what she did. For weeks she sat near Charles and used her powers to help Charles remember who he was and brought him away from the edge of the abyss.

The signs of her work showed themselves slowly. When Erik had first noticed them, he had been reduced to tears. He had been sitting with Charles, reading to him. Emma had told them, that interracting with him helped to ground him, so he had found any excuse to do so. He had been holding onto Charles hand, but let go to turn the page, as he had been doing many times already. But his had had been suddenly held tighter, not by much, but enough for him to notice and stop moving.

He had looked at their hands, Charles' hold had been weak, but clearly there. He had lifted his gaze to the telepath's face, he hadn't been looking at Erik, but out of the window instead, his eyes seemingly still as unfocused as they had been ever since this all happened. But there had been tears in his eyes, falling slowly down on his cheeks.

Erik had held his breath, terrified to disturb the moment, but he couldn't stop the telepath's name from escaping his lips.

"Charles?" He hadn't known what he had expected, but when he had felt another small sqeeze of his hand, he had broken down. He had cried and sobbed. He had moved to stand in front of Charles' chair, without letting go of his hand, and leaned down to touch their foreheads together. Charles was still there. Charles was still there and he would be alright. He had wiped the tears from his friend's cheeks with his free hand, before his legs had felt like they would give up on him and he had to kneel down. He had sat there for a long while, trying and failing to get his emotions in check, the relief and hope too much for him to handle.

That had been few days ago and Erik now accompanied Frost to the sitting room, where Charles was already waiting.

"We've been making good progress lately. I don't think it will take much longer for him to be strong ebough to wake up properly." Emma informed him, before sitting down on the chair beside Charles.

"Yes, I noticed." Erik said, distracted by the news. Soon, he would have Charles by his side again. Soon, he would be able to properly apologise. And hopefully, Charles could find it in him to forgive him.

Emma tilted her head.

"I could make sure he will." She told him and the offer took him so off guard that he didn't even snap at her to stay out of his head.

"What do you mean?" He asked instead, unsure if he wanted to know. Emma's smile was secretive, like she truly was a devil offering him a deal.

"I've been helping your dear Charles build up his sense of self and consciousness again. It wouldn't be too hard to add something that wasn't there bedore." She explained. "He is a bit naive, isn't he? Too tolerant with the humans and not ready to do what we both know has to be done to keep our people safe." Her words rang true. All of those things Erik had thought about his friend at some point, wishing that Charles would just see his point and admit that Erik was right.

And now he had a way to make it so. He could see it in his mind's eye, two of them, standing side by side as they led their people to victory against humans. How they would build a new world for them all.

But that man he saw in his mind, was not his Charles. Not if Erik let Frost change his inner being like this.

"No." Erik told, his answer clearly taking the woman by surprise.

"What?" She sounded almost offended that Erik had declined her offer.

"You heard me, the answer is no. You will not alter Charles' mind in any way." The metalbender insisted, his tone making it clear he would not change his mind and Frost expression turned disapointed.

"I guess I misjudged you. Maybe you are the one who doesn't know what has to be done." She coaxed, trying to get a rise from Erik, but she didn't succeed. Until she shrugged and remarked off handedly. "Shaw didn't have such a weakness."

Those words made Erik see red.

"I know what Shaw was cabable of, and I would never want to be anything like him!" He moved to stand in front of Frost, who turned into her diamond form, staring daggers at Erik. "And futher more, Charles could have easily done same to me. He wields the same power as you, but he has never used it on me like that." It was completely against Charles' morals. And while Erik had sometimes played with an idea that Charles would just use his power to change the minds of the world leaders, he realized that it would mean that he could never feel safe with him. "And I will never do it to him either."

They stared at each other for a moment longer, until Erik took a step back.

"Now do your job. And if I find out that you have done something to him, I will make sure that you won't leave this place alive." He looked Frost in the eye, letting her know that his words weren't an empty threat and she seemed to realize it too. Still, she sat straighter on the armchair and changed back from her diamond form.

"Fine." She once again looked like she was completely in control, but Erik could tell that on the inside, she was furious.

But as long as she did her job, Erik didn't care. He watched her work extra carefully that day, to make sure that Charles was safe.

[911-on-abc]

Hi, first of all, thanks for writing the NFL AU!

For scenes: Maybe how Buck and Eddie or Buck and Chris met? Or what happened after Eddie found out. Some Buck whump and Eddie taking care of him is also always great :)

No pressure, though. Thanks again!

hi!!! thank you so much for the prompt!! ☺️ I decided to write what happened directly after Buck gets injured on the field and Eddie finds out that he's the QB. However, Buck first time meeting Eddie (and Chris!) is definitely coming next!!

Enjoy :)

-

Hen clears Buck and they lead him off the field towards the team’s medical facilities to do a closer examination. Buck's legs aren’t injured and he shows no sign of a concussion, so there’s truly no reason for Eddie to wrap his arm around his waist and guide him through the tunnels, but he can’t make himself let go. He can’t make himself look at Buck either. 

Eddie’s thoughts are all over the place, racing and impossible to pin down. He feels… Well, he doesn’t know what he feels. 

Part of him is worried, but also relieved that Buck isn’t more injured. Another part of him feels confused and hurt and almost like he was the one that got slammed into by a 300 pound lineman, not Buck. 

A smaller part of him feels angry. Angry that Buck didn’t trust him. Angry that he let Buck into his life, all the while Buck was hiding a huge part of his. He doesn’t give a shit about football, Buck knew that. It wasn’t like he was going to treat him any differently or going running to the tabloids. 

What would he even tell them? That Buck cries while watching Pixar movies and knows way too much about tree frogs? That he makes amazing pancakes, but is terrible at cooking scrambled eggs? That Buck is one of the few people in Christopher’s life that treats him like any other kid. That he is Eddie’s best friend?

“Are you able to take off your jersey?” Eddie asks after seating Buck on the exam table. 

“Eddie…” Buck says softly, but Eddie continues on with his examination. 

“Can you lift up your arms?” 

“Wait. Can we–” Eddie turns to face Chimney, effectively cutting Buck off. 

“I need shears to cut his clothes off.” Chimney hesitates, looking between Eddie and Buck, but he digs through his medical bag anyway. Once they are in his hands, Eddie starts cutting through the layers of fabric. The bruise from the impact of the hit has only just started to form, but it looks nasty already.

Next, he starts to unclip Buck’s shoulder pads and protective gear. Buck is a big guy, even without his football gear, but sitting on the exam table, he looks smaller than ever. Eddie places his hands on Buck’s ribs and he hisses from the touch. 

“They’re going to do an x-ray, but I need to check for any fractures or breaks first.” Buck nods in understanding and Eddie presses down, feeling around his chest. Eddie has done this hundreds of times, both as a medic and as a firefighter, but with Buck every wince and hiss of pain reverberates through his body. 

Stripping off his gloves, he turns to Hen, Chimney, and the rest of the medical team. “I don’t feel any broken bones or cartilage, but it’s possible that there are a few fractures. They are bruised, but that’s all I can tell you from a physical examination.”

“That’s good news,” one of the team doctors says. “Not great news, obviously, but bruised is better than broken.”

Eddie stays with his back to Buck as the medical team leads him out of the room to get x-rayed. Once the door shuts, Eddie deflates, all of the air rushing out of his lungs. The adrenaline has worn off and he is hit with a wave of exhaustion. The only ones left in the room now are Chimney and Hen, who shift closer towards him.

“You guys knew, didn’t you?” Eddie says as he rubs his hands over his face.

In any other circumstance, Hen and Chimney would be teasing him right now, making jokes about how Eddie didn’t know that his best friend is one of the biggest players in the league, but the weight of Buck’s injury rests heavily on all of them. 

“Yeah, yeah we did,” Hen says sympathetically and squeezes Eddie’s arm. “I’m sorry you found out this way. What are you going to do now?”

Eddie sighs. “I don’t know.” 

Chimney puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “It will be alright, man,” he says. “Buck’s a fighter. He has a good team of doctors around him and he has you.” All Eddie can do is nod. He doesn’t know where he and Buck stand anymore. But, yeah, he has him.

“Now let’s get back out there. Maybe if we’re lucky someone else will get hurt and you’ll get to rub your hands all over another hot football player.”

“Chim,” Hen playfully shoves him, “shut up.”

Chimney cackles and they head back out to the field.

please let me know if you liked this!! If any of y'all have a specific part you want to see next or an idea send me an ask or write them in the tags!!

my nfl au tag <3

[kittenofdoomage]

Cleaning House

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Sam Winchester x female!reader

Prompt: waiting for the bunker's washing machine to be done

Word Count: 642

Warnings: smut, fluff

Sometimes it was nice to have the bunker to yourself. With the guys around, it was way harder to keep the place clean, but long hunts meant you got days to really clean out, and most of the time it was therapeutic. You didn’t leave the bunker much, preferring to keep to research in the safest place on the planet while Sam and Dean took care of the gory stuff.

It hadn’t been so bad this time around and by the second day, you’d done pretty much everything, except for the laundry. By the time you got the last load in, you were searching for things to do but when you came up empty handed, you settled for sitting on the bench above the dryer, playing on your phone while you waited.

You weren’t expecting Sam to come home this soon, so when he appeared in the doorway, casting a shadow over you, it made you jump. Your phone slipped from your grasp and Sam darted forward, catching it before it could hit the ground and sustain another crack.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he chuckled, putting the phone on the counter beside you, standing straight and close enough for you to touch.

“What are you doing home?” you squeaked, reaching for him to pull him close.

“Case ended up being a spirit, not a nest,” he murmured, crowding into the space between your thighs, forcing you to spread your legs. “Dean’s gone out to blow off some steam and,” he chuckled, “well, I’m after the same thing.”

You smiled, sliding your hands over his shoulders. “I just gotta wait for this load to finish.”

His fingers were already pushing your dress up, the warmth of his huge palms skating along the side of your thighs. “Oh, baby, I’m not that patient.” He pushed in closer, grinding into you, pushing your dress up higher until it was bunched around your waist. You moaned when he moved his hand to your pussy, stroking you through the thin cotton of your panties. “You really think you can wait now?”

“No,” you croaked, squirming against his touch as he leaned down to kiss you hard. “Sam -”

“Sssh,” he urged, hooking one finger through the material covering you to pull it to the side. “I got just what you need.”

His other hand was at the fastening of his pants, deftly undoing them to pull his cock free. You hissed as he pressed the tip into you, swiping it through your slick folds and when you wiggled to try and get closer, Sam grabbed your ass with one meaty paw, dragging you right to the edge of the counter. The action forced him inside you, the stretch still shocking even after so many encounters.

The washing machine hit the spin cycle and the noise it made increased, covering your cries as Sam started to fuck into you. Your toes curled as he lifted your knees, forcing you to balance your own weight on your hands, the angle allowing him to slam deeper. You whined loudly, suddenly mindful of the shelf behind you, but Sam’s powerful thrusts were too much, stopping you from concentrating on not banging your head. It took a second for him to notice, and he dropped one of your knees, sliding the arm around your middle to almost lift you from the counter. The movement immobilized you, allowing him to drag you down harder onto his cock.

You came with a violent cry, clinging to his shoulders as you shuddered, clenching uncontrollably around him. He jerked and thrust once more, hard enough to knock the wind out of you, before the familiar warm spread outwards from inside until it was dribbling down your ass.

“Machine’s still got twenty minutes,” he pointed out, laughing against your shoulder. “What do you wanna do now?”

[zelianthos-capercaillie]

@hashimada-week A sneak peek of my contribution for the HashiMada Week 2023 event Day 6 prompts, “Flowers” and “Sparring”

It’s a Hanahaki AU set in the Warring States Period:

The two grappled on the ground, clawing, biting, kicking, and eye-gouging each other. It was a no-holds-barred fest; the short guttural noises they had been making earlier were now replaced with taunting and taking potshots at each other left and right.

A headbutt landed squarely on a nose bridge.

"Hngh! Not bad. I always knew you were a solid ten—" A swivel of the head to avoid getting scratched in the face.

"Thanks, I—ow!" It was cut off by an eye poke.

"—out of a hundred."

"Ooh, nice one. If only—ghk!" Fingers were inserted inside the mouth in a tearing-off manner, only for them to get bitten. "—if only your techniques are as good as your ‘compliments’."

They were kneeing each other in the groin, grabbing by the balls (?!)—although who grabbed who first, no one would confess was sure—and doing many more acts of pettiness.

At some point, Madara spotted an opening and got on top of Hashirama in a straddle, forcing his right arm down with a wrist grip. He then grabbed the other arm to try and do the same, snarling when there was a painful tug on his hair.

Hashirama kept resisting and tried to take back control by pitching them sideways. Madara mirrored the move, but Hashirama did it again. This continued until the two had rolled deeper into the forest, still tangled up in each other.

Hashirama tried to lodge Madara off of him once more—this time by bucking his hips—but Madara held firm and cinched his legs even tighter. He added more weight by leaning forward and was eventually able to force Hashirama's other arm down by interlocking their fingers together.

This close, they were almost breathing the same air.

"Give up?" The question was practically a wheeze.

"Heh. Give up—" was the breathless answer, "—on me giving up!"

The ordeal should not have winded the both of them; they had done much more strenuous sparring than this, after all. But here they were, panting and sweating against each other, their hearts beating loudly in their chests.

They took a moment to calm down, just staring and smiling at each other.

Madara's smile grew wider as he leaned forward even more, getting closer and closer until the tips of their noses were almost touching. The damn itch in his throat was back, so he had to act quickly.

Hashirama mirrored him and started to tilt his head forward as well, before he snapped his head to the side, finally realizing what Madara had done.

He had weaved a seal using their entwined hands.

The Seal of the Tiger.

When Hashirama locked eyes with him again in alarm, Madara’s only response was a playful wink.

In an instant, huge, roaring flames engulfed the small clearing they had rolled into. Enormous fireballs shaped like dragon heads dove at the ground and fed off of each other’s billowing heat, growing in size and turning the glade into a nightmare of scorched earth and charred wood, with Madara at the heart of the destruction laughing maniacally.

The Mokuton vines that rose up to encase Hashirama at the last second in order to get him out of the blast radius unfurled and deposited him on a nearby tree branch.

Although he was able to get away in the nick of time, Madara saw that Hashirama still got singed in the aftermath.

Good.

"Madara! That wasn’t fair!" Hashirama cried out as the fire died down. "I thought we were going to spar with taijutsu alone?!"

"We agreed to no such thing!" Madara replied in a haughty manner, tossing his hair. "Don’t start making new rules just because you almost fell for a simple Katon, Hashirama!"

Hashirama’s response was to curl up into a ball—how he hadn’t rolled off the tree branch was a mystery—in gloom.

"I can’t believe you tried to set me on fire," he said, as he whispered something else to himself.

"Ah? Speak up, Hashirama, and stop muttering to yourself up there!"

Madara took a step toward him but made a leap instead when towering wooden spikes burst out from below the ground all of a sudden, each one growing another pointed offshoot aiming for him.

Hashirama emerged from another tree branch as the wood clone that was all curled up like a pill bug melted back into the bark.

"Then I guess I’ll respond with my own!" he crowed.

Mokuton briars covered in fine bristles came down from the treetops, their thorns trying to reach for Madara and snag into his clothes. He set them on fire before they could reach him, lest he suffer from another case of the itches. He was not going through that experience a second time.

Madara spat out a loud curse.

"Here I come, Madara!" Hashirama shouted back with glee. The tree branches transformed into wooden hands. "If we’re using ninjutsu, then there’s something I’ve been meaning to test. I dare you to counter it!"

Madara weaved his way out of the demented Mokuton vines as he made the hand signs for another Katon. Two can play this game.

Great Flame Flowers gave chase to Hashirama shortly thereafter.

Madara bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "Bring it, Hashirama!"

[themetaphorgirl]

CHAPTER 24 OF PATRON SAINT IS DONE

I literally feel like a huge weight has been taken off my shoulders. I haven’t had the time or energy to write consistently for so long (wedding and ✨chronic illness✨ problems) and I’ve really been struggling with writer’s block and my confidence. But I did it, it’s complete, and Brenna and Maeve have both given their stamps of approval! (I would not have gotten this done without them.)

I think I’m going to spend the next couple of days doing the edits and the retcon of PSOLC, and then post the new chapter on Thursday so I can get back on a regular posting schedule (every other Thursday)

And then I’m also going to work on:

-writing more drabbles!! which means I am still open to prompts!! I have a LOT of prompts saved, but I’ve learned my brain works best if I can pick and choose what speaks to me when I sit down to write.

-working on a Spencer Blake update!! And debating if I want to bite the bullet and change the title, because I’m afraid of people giving up on the fic and forgetting about it if I change the title, but I hate Dreams Are Only Blue. It’s so clunky and no one recognizes the song it’s referencing.

-working some PSOLC backstories! I’m currently working on a fic about Spencer’s life before he got to St. Thaddeus, and one about James, Alex, and Dave when they were freshman. (The Aaron backstory I wrote has to wait until the fic catches up a little bit. But I’ve also figured out how I want to start those reveals and it is SO ANGSTY.)

-working on Waving Through a Window- I think those updates will be once a month because they take so long!

but yeah!! things are happening!! and I’ll update here when I start working on the PSOLC retcon!