#the difference six years and eighty pounds will make on the body

[eatyourdamnpears]

this isn’t even the same person

[sybaritick]

For some transmasculinity can be about taking up the mantle of masculinity and running off with it. And historically a mantle is more like a cloak, but I imagine it in this metaphor as a type of armor-- and it looks different depending on the models of masculinity you have had, some may see it as full plate armor they must train to bear the weight of well, some as leather or chain mail, some as surprisingly-resilient thick layered linen.

Mine was lamellar, and I admired it from childhood for not only its practicality but its Rus or Byzantine styling, the even rows of iron plates laced close to lay over the padded saffron-yellow backing. To my fifteen year old self the iron was monstrously heavy, nearly half my weight, built for a man with at least six inches and eighty pounds on me; the first time I stood in it, even scrawnier than I am now, it bore down on my shoulders like a teaspoon of neutron star. I was overwhelmed with brilliant and glorious purpose; I rolled my ankle after taking a couple of steps, stumbled, split my lip biting it before catching myself against the ground. But you never forget how amazing it feels despite that.

You can train until you can lift it, and I did, though bearing it and still having ease of movement may never quite be possible for someone of my stature. So instead perhaps you can just take careful measurements, a sketch from four angles, take the thickness of the iron scales with your calipers and a centimeter clipping of cording to copy stuffed surreptitiously into the pocket of your carpenter's jeans.

You return the cuirass to its rightful place, and you make a mockup in Blender.

You model it more carefully and thoroughly after your second or third visit to the original. You adjust the scale and proportions to fit your body type. You recalculate the weight-- a good fifteen pounds shaved off!-- and then recalculate it again, if you wanted the same strength in kevlar? carbide ballistic plates? dyneema? You adjust the shape a bit to take better advantage of the strengths of modern materials. You can get it down to ten pounds, now, the weave of the panels lying flat and smooth against your chest and back, with more than enough freedom of movement.

You lace the panels together yourself after each iteration, some of their shapes adjusted from the simple rectangles they were to better suit your form. You sit with your legs crossed with the early morning sun gleaming orange through the window throwing light across your hairy legs and the half-finished piece in your lap.

It is only recognizable as a cousin of the piece it was copied off of rather than having the true aspect of the original. But what a thrill it gives you, to feel the press of it on your shoulders like strength and readiness, to leap down a half-flight of stairs with no loose clatter of plates, to take off on your bike before seven AM and feel the wind rush against your face, though not your chest, the padded underlayer keeping enough warmth; you have matched the saffron dye well, in your eyes, though yours feels a touch brighter, and far more colorfast in its glorious aniline golden yellow.

[rmnamjoons]

Taking Flight [KNJ Oneshot]

➳ summary: More than a decade after the alien invasion that wiped out most of the planet, you and Namjoon are both in the Pilot Cadet Corps, training for if the alien attackers ever come back. What begins as a playful rivalry between two overachievers develops into a deep friendship and emotional bond, but when the aliens suddenly return and you and Namjoon are separated, you find out just what you’re willing to do to get back to him.

➳ pairing: pilot!Namjoon x pilot!reader

➳ genre: smut, sci fi au, post apocalypse au, alien invasion au, rivals to friends to lovers

➳ word count: 15.2k

➳ read on ao3, link to my masterlist

➳ tags: smut, reunion sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, emotional loving sex, soft dom namjoon, dirty talk (no degradation), rivals to friends to lovers, sexually charged fight/sparring scene when they’re rivals, previously seemingly unrequited love/mutual pining, shower sex, multiple positions, namjoon is needy and so in love

➳ warnings: unnamed character death/death mention, blood mention, injury mention/vague description

➳ a/n: I know this is kind of a niche genre for smut fics; I primarily wrote this for myself, and I definitely had fun and like what I came up with! What’s the point of fanfiction anyway, if not to have fun? Also, this takes place over a few years, and I tried to portray how Namjoon was feral and angry when he was younger but is now a loving gentle giant. Enjoy!

I.

Everybody lost someone in the attacks that killed most of the planet. Friends. Family. Partners. You had lost everything and everyone, like most people who’d lived in the cities that no longer had names — what once had been centers of commerce, tourism, and civilization were now nothing more than craters, and with so few left who remembered them, what they’d once been were now lost to time.

You'd only survived by chance, really. You and your family had been in a tunnel leaving the city, on foot like everyone else, and when everything had turned to chaos, you’d gotten lost from your parents and sister. You still remembered the way people screamed and ran through the tunnel, their voices echoing harshly off the cement walls. You’d spotted someone hiding off to the side in a utility room in the tunnel, and when the blast hit the city center, that person had made you hide in the room too, their body shielding yours from the hellfire, melting around you.

You were five years old then. You were pretty sure your sister had been eight. You couldn’t remember what your parents or sister looked like, or your house, or where you’d gone to school, other than vague flashes and shapes of people who’d once been your whole world. All you’d had with you were the clothes on your back, and even those had been taken away once you’d gotten somewhere safe and been given something clean to change into.

After the ships fell and surviving aliens left, it had taken years to clear the rubble and start over. The attacks that changed and destroyed everything had also been a gift, or so they now preached, in which humanity was able to grow, learn, and become united. The religions and cults who now worshiped the alien attackers believed humanity had deserved extermination, but you liked the more academic approach to the alien race’s lessons: the technology humans had been able to reverse engineer from their fallen ships.

One of the many ways humanity had advanced in the last few years was flight technology. Planes were faster, turned sharper, could go farther, burned cleaner energy. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was how important Earth’s planes had been in beating them, so that was where all the technology and progress was focused now.

You loved planes and flying, you always had, but the real reason you wanted to be a pilot, you held much closer to your chest: your entire life, you always felt like the attacks when you were young were just the beginning. Like an unhealthy obsession or open wound, it was all you could think about sometimes, what drove your every decision, what led you to the Pilot Cadet Corps. You wanted to be part of the team that took them down if they ever came back. You wanted to be ready.

You were eighteen when you’d joined the Corps. You’d jumped on that opportunity the first moment you were able, without so much as a second glance back at what you left behind. You’d been adopted fairly soon after the attacks, but your adopted parents never felt much like family.

The first full year of Corps was bootcamp. Bunk rooms were co-ed, and every moment of your lives was dictated down to the second. You woke up at six in the morning and ran laps around the track. You had as much free time as you earned between whenever you finished your laps and when breakfast started at seven: the faster you ran, the more free time you got.

Eight to noon was physical training. After lunch was different depending on the day: three days a week you had mental training for whatever field you were going into, mostly flight simulation for the pilots. Another day was more combat training, and the last was an alternate, for first aid, written tests, marksmanship, and other courses along those lines. After that you had more physical training, like sparring and hand-to-hand combat, then dinner, then free time. Lights out was strictly at ten-thirty every night, and then you’d start it all over again the next day.

Now, you stood in line with the other cadets training to be pilots, waiting to hear your class ranks. Every month, they would announce a ranking of all cadets, a score averaged in test results, simulator scores, and overall performance. The better you ranked, the better your placement once you graduated.

“Third place, Park. Eighty-nine point nine,” the sergeant read off, making a small boy a few rows away from you puff up his chest in pride. You weren’t sure why anyone would feel proud of not getting an A, but you pushed that thought away.

You swallowed hard, holding your breath. There were only two spots left, and if you’d scored higher than Park, that meant you got an A and were either in second or first place out of the whole class. You didn’t know everyone’s names yet, so you weren’t sure who you were competing with.

“Second place, Y/L/N. Ninety-five point two.”

You heard the impressed murmur of others in the class before all of them were silenced by a firm look from the sergeant. Your heart sank, your hands curling into tight fists. Second place? You’d been so sure before now that you were working harder than all the other cadets. You were smarter than them, faster, more focused. Who the fuck had beaten you?

“First place, Kim. Ninety-five point three.”

Your brow furrowed. You weren’t sure who this Kim was, but you set your jaw, becoming determined to learn everything about them so you could beat them. Whatever their weaknesses were, you’d find them and exploit them.

You snuck a glance around you, trying to figure out who Kim was, and nearly jumped out of your skin when the tall boy next to you made eye contact with you, raising one eyebrow in the most smug, cocky, asshole-ish look you’d ever seen. That one singular eyebrow quirk, the corner of his lip curling up barely noticeably, all of it made you want to seethe and strangle him.

You’d noticed this man before, but had never thought much of him. He was taller than all the other men, but he hadn’t come off as particularly smart or extraordinary. This guy was the one who’d beaten you?

Now that you looked at him, you noticed he was definitely very muscular. Had he beaten your score through his strength? You could work harder at weight lifting and beat him. Were his test scores perfect? You could make yourself study even more.

Whatever it was that made him first place, you’d find out and beat him.

II.

In the following weeks, you began to wonder how you’d ever missed Kim Namjoon.

You and Namjoon both worked harder than everyone else. You both trained longer, started earlier in the morning and kept going until you were the last ones left. You both pushed yourselves harder than all of your other classmates, academically and physically. Before he was placed first in the class, you hadn’t even noticed him, but now he was the bane of your existence, and you existed only to beat him and come out on top.

You were faster and more agile, but Namjoon was by far stronger. You almost wanted to dispute the scoring system; what use was strength for a pilot? You weren’t soldiers. He needed fast reflexes and precision, not fighting skills or the ability to deadlift two hundred pounds. Was he planning on picking up planes and throwing them at the alien ships? It was so stupid.

The second month of bootcamp, you were the top of the class, and Namjoon was second place now. You smiled smugly to yourself and kept your eyes focused forward, staying perfectly at attention like the other cadets, but you could feel his eyes on you and almost sense his focused anger, that same emotion you’d felt when he’d first beaten you.

After the ranking announcements, you went to combat training in the gym, but your instructor called out both your name and Namjoon’s before you could even get started.

“I want the two of you to spar,” the instructor said as the two of you ran up. “No rules, just fighting. You can use boxing, wrestling, martial arts, whatever you want — just don’t kill each other.”

You narrowed your eyes at Namjoon, almost expecting him to refuse to fight you, for being a girl. Besides occasional glares, the two of you had never so much as said a word to each other, but you figured smug alpha male assholes were all the same.

But instead, Namjoon smiled and said, “All right.” He almost seemed eager to get in the ring and teach you a lesson.

Now, you eyed him from across the ring, how he was watching you with a smug little smirk as he wrapped his knuckles.

“To win, pin the other person’s back to the mat for five full seconds,” your instructor said carefully. “Their back has to fully touch the ground, not just shoulders. They don’t have to be conscious to be pinned.”

You and Namjoon made eye contact at that.

“Whoever wins doesn’t have to run laps next week. Loser runs double laps before eating. You both ready?”

You and Namjoon ended up drawing a crowd of spectators.

The moment the instructor said start, you ran, jumped, and wrapped your legs around his head, twisting and throwing him to the ground so that he was on his back and you stood over his head, smirking down at his stupid surprised face.

He’d hit the mat hard, the breath completely knocked out of him. A few people in the crowd murmured quietly to themselves and quietly asked each other if the fight was already over. You let out a shaky breath, letting yourself feel proud for a split second as you glanced at the spectators, but before you could register what was happening, Namjoon grabbed you by both your legs, making you twist and fall hard on your back, too.

You tried to crawl away from him, but he just pulled you under him by your legs, climbing on top of you and trying to hold you down with his hands. You arched your back as high as you could, touching the mat only with your shoulders and ass as Namjoon fought to grab your wrists. He was on top of you, straddling your abdomen and trying to keep you down without actually touching your chest, and you watched him bite his lip and heard him growl as he focused on not getting hit while you thrashed beneath him.

You brought your leg up and kneed his kidney as hard as you could, making him groan before moving back to pin your legs down too. You could now easily keep your back fully off the mat, but he was straddling you much lower now, bending over you and still trying to grab your arms. This close, you could smell him, his sweat and masculine scent mixed with the cheap soap you all were given, and you had to push aside the fact you kind of liked the way he smelled.

You were panting hard, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each deep breath. You watched Namjoon as he glanced down at your breasts, before his eyes snapped back up at your face, his eyes wide as if he were surprised he’d let himself look.

“Having fun?” you teased, smirking up at him.

“Tons,” he growled, finally catching one of your hands and pinning it down by your wrist.

You hooked your leg up as far as you could, wrapping it around him and using his close proximity to your advantage. This seemed to catch Namjoon very off guard, and you felt more than heard him make a noise in surprise as you essentially embraced him, not giving him any space to move or do anything as you pulled your hand free and wrapped all your limbs around him, hanging off of him like a leach.

Namjoon sat back on his knees, and you held onto him, your legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders, waiting for your moment to use his weight against him and throw him on his back. He was squirming and wearing himself out, while you just squeezed him, hard enough you heard something in him crack.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled, trying to pry you off of him. Before you could answer, he grabbed you by your hair and jerked your head backwards, making you gasp and cry out. He started to force you off by getting his hands between your bodies, but you surprised him, grabbing his throat with both hands and squeezing.

Namjoon forcefully brought his hands down on your arms, bending them so that you let go of his neck, and now you were much closer to his face, nearly nose to nose as he still sat there on his knees with you hanging off of him. He held your wrists with both hands now as you tried to struggle free from him, and when you realized you couldn’t, you twisted one wrist, bringing his hand up to your mouth and biting down as hard as you could on the meat of his thumb.

He yelped and let go of you, but before you could use the moment to your advantage, he grabbed you and pushed you off of him, throwing you down away from him while he scrambled back and looked at his hand.

Your body bounced as you hit the mat, rolling a few times until you slammed against the edge of the ring. Namjoon was back on you before you could react, and you felt him behind you, trying to roll you over so he could pin you down on your back again. You brought your head back hard and connected with his nose, making him jump back again.

When you looked back at him, Namjoon was standing across the ring, holding his nose and glaring at you as you jumped to your feet too.

You circled each other for a moment, both closely watching the other’s every move like prey.

His nose was bleeding heavily, both of you out of breath and covered in sweat.  You were pretty sure you had a bruised rib from him throwing you, your lungs burning from exertion from the fight. Everyone who’d been in the gym was now watching, none of them speaking as the two of you circled each other.

You ran at each other at the same time, Namjoon throwing a swing that you easily ducked. While his momentum was off, you punched him hard in the stomach, making him bend over in pain.

He was being sloppy, maybe distracted from his pain and anger, or maybe he was just more of a big clumsy oaf who relied on strength alone than you’d thought. You knew he was smart based on his test scores, but none of that appeared to translate to agility or finesse. He was fighting clumsy and angry, but you only felt more focused now, catching yourself smiling as you almost enjoyed yourself.

When you tried to strike him again, moving to hit your elbow between his shoulders while he was bent over, he turned and reached up, grabbing your neck with both hands. You broke his hold easily, and used that moment to bring your hand up and smack his injured nose.

Namjoon groaned in pain, holding his nose again. You grabbed his free hand, twisting it until he turned around and fell to his knees, yelling in pain, his arm bent painfully behind his back. You now stood behind him, Namjoon unable to move unless he wanted you to break or dislocate his arm, you on your feet with him on his knees.

“Do you forfeit?” you said, pulling his arm up another inch and making him hiss in pain. You could see how much he was sweating and panting, and ignored the way it sent a shiver of lust through you.

“You play dirty,” he seethed. Just standing close to him, you could feel the way heat radiated off of him. You’d noticed before that he was a sweaty guy, but now he was shining with it.

“I seem to remember being told that there were no rules for this fight,” you said, smiling proudly to yourself as you held the large man in place with one hand.

Instead of responding, Namjoon threw himself backwards into you, knocking you off your feet. You were on your back now and he was on his back on top of you, pinning you there. He had to have at least pulled his arm out of socket doing that move, and his body tensed from the pain, but he didn’t stop.

Namjoon pushed down with his shoulders as hard as he could, arching his back and standing up on his feet, bending his legs to put even more weight on just his shoulders to trap you there under him. You were crushed by him, barely able to breathe, let alone keep yourself fully off the mat.

He was so big and heavy, his shoulders wide enough to pin your arms down. You did the only thing you could think to do in the moment, what you hoped would give you an advantage again. You leaned in and bit down where his shoulder met his neck, the same side his arm was dislocated, and you bit down hard.

Namjoon yelped in surprise and pain, and you wrapped your arms around him in a chokehold so that when he tried to roll away, you went with him. He twisted in your arms until he was on top of you, facing you again, and this time you brought your knee up hard between his legs, his eyes closing as he groaned in agony.

You easily pushed him off and got on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning him down. Your knees pressed your full weight down on his biceps, including his injured arm, which made him groan in pain with every harsh exhale. He arched his back and tried to push you off of him, but he could barely move or reach you, his arms both pinned outward.

“Tired of getting your ass kicked yet?” you goaded, raising an eyebrow when Namjoon glared up at you. “How were you ever the top of our class? This is a little too easy.”

“Fuck you,” he growled, seething hard, blood all over his mouth and chin from his broken nose. His back still wasn’t technically on the ground though, so you needed to think of a way to make him stay down.

You were straddling his chest, so you moved your hips forward suddenly before throwing your whole body back, slamming yourself down hard and completely knocking the wind out of him. You simultaneously knocked him down so that his back was against the mat, and purposefully hit the back of your head against his crotch, which had to still be hurting from when you’d just kneed him a minute ago, so that he wouldn’t have the strength to get himself back up for a few seconds. You heard what you thought was a crack, which you really hoped wasn’t his crotch, before you heard and felt him groaning in pain.

The instructor counted out, and you won. You immediately jumped off of him and looked down at the damage.

Blood covered Namjoon’s chin, mouth, and neck, all from his nose wound, which you’d smacked more than once. He was bleeding from the bite on his neck, and his shoulder did not look right, pulled painfully out of socket and potentially broken. He rolled onto his side away from you and moaned, the hand of his arm that wasn’t dislocated over his crotch as he curled up in a ball on the ground.

“You all right?” you asked cautiously, stepping out of the way as the instructor rushed in to help him. Namjoon held up his middle finger to you, closing his eyes as he tried to breathe steadily.

You snorted in amusement and went off to the locker room to shower.

That night, Namjoon limped into dinner.

You were sitting by yourself at a table near the back, reading a book written by a pilot from before the attacks. Namjoon sat down across from you, as if sitting together was something the two of you normally did.

His nose was badly bruised and taped up, definitely broken. Judging by the limp he’d come in with, you’d messed up something below deck. His arm seemed to have been popped back in socket, but you could see the bruising spreading over his collarbone under his t-shirt, and his arm was in a sling. He had bite marks on his neck and hand, and the one on his neck had needed stitches.

You tried not to smile to yourself.

“Y/L/N?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure of your name, like you two weren’t rivals constantly competing and you hadn’t kicked his ass a few hours ago.

“Kim,” you said, returning the formality.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, so you went back to eating, trying not to look over at him. He rested his non-injured hand on his stomach, and you wondered if you’d broken one of his ribs or if he was just hungry.

“You planning on eating?” you asked him after a moment.

Namjoon actually smiled, laughing to himself weakly.

“I don’t think I even have the energy to walk across the room to get food,” he murmured, his voice a little deeper than usual.

Without a word, you stood, walking straight across the room to get another plate of food. When you returned and placed it in front of him, he looked up at you with wide eyes, confused and shocked by your gesture.

“Do you need me to cut it up for you, too?” you teased, though glancing at his arm, you wondered if he’d actually need that.

Namjoon shook his head after a moment, glancing down at his plate.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. You saw a small, genuine smile on his lips, and you realized then for the very first time that he had dimples.

III.

The following week came, as did Namjoon’s punishment week for losing the sparring match. The first morning, you noticed him waking up earlier than everyone else to go start his laps, since he had to do double. You quickly got dressed and followed.

You ran up beside him as he slowly jogged around the track.

“What are you doing?” He looked over at you, furrowing his brow but not stopping.

“Running laps,” you answered flatly.

You ran the same number of laps as he did that morning, despite having won the right not to run this week. Namjoon, you learned, had a broken rib and pulled groin in addition to all the other stuff you’d done to him, and he’d been given an out and didn’t have to run any laps after all. Your instructor had told him that he needed to focus on healing and not accidentally hurt himself more. He didn’t have to do combat training or anything else physical until he was healed, but he still ran his punishment laps anyway, completely by choice, and so you ran them too, matching his pace the entire time, neither of you saying a word to the other.

Despite getting his ass kicked in the sparring match, the rest of the cadets viewed Namjoon as almost a superhero after that. They respected how well he’d taken a beating; he was the guy who kept fighting, even with half a dozen injuries and multiple broken bones. You were the only one who’d been able to best him, using just your speed to outwit him, and now the rest of the class respected you both even more. Namjoon was a nearly unstoppable tank, and you were the lithe fox that beat him.

As boot camp continued, you and Namjoon continued your quiet friendship, neither of you the overly gushy or warm type, both focused only on training. You studied together, and started helping each other instead of competing. Both of you only improved your scores and times.

Namjoon helped you with your physical training, helping you get stronger. You helped him with his marksmanship, precision, and speed. You regularly sparred and fought and pushed each other further. You studied together, fought together, ate together, did everything together.

The first year of Corps ended, and you entered the second year. This was more specialized, focused on specifically becoming a pilot with more time on flight training instead of physical and military training, which you still definitely had a lot of.

Your class was smaller now, but you still slept in a co-ed barrack. You and Namjoon picked spots next to each other this year.

One night during winter break, almost everyone else had gone home for the week, the two of you essentially having the base to yourselves. It was well past midnight and after lights out, but you and Namjoon laid in your beds talking quietly, both on your sides facing each other. You only had about a foot of space between your beds, and you could just barely make out his face in the dark.

Namjoon told you that he remembered the attacks, losing his family, everything. He’d had a sister too, and had lived in a suburb, not one of the cities. He didn’t explain further, but said that he remembered what happened to his family, and that he’d been found in the woods by himself weeks later. He’d only been seven years old at the time, and you wondered how the hell he’d made it on his own for so long.

You got the feeling he was used to being on his own, and didn’t let himself get attached to anything or anyone. Part of you wanted to reach out and touch him, put your hand on his shoulder and tell him he didn’t have to be alone anymore. But instead you sighed, ignoring the way his sad eyes made your heart ache.

IV.

Your second year turned into your third, and you and Namjoon only became closer. You both planned to go on to a fourth year of training, even though it wasn’t required, as it would give you higher credentials and clearance when you finished. Both of you still strived to be perfect, after all.

Halfway through your third year together, you realized Namjoon was the closest thing you had to family. You both saw each other pretty much every moment of every day. You both didn’t leave the base for holidays, so the longest you’d been apart since first meeting was a few hours, at most.

You were constantly together, even when you didn’t need to be. You woke up early and ran laps, even though you were no longer required to — only first year cadets ran laps, but you both continued because… you didn’t know why, and you didn’t question it. You loved running with him.

That first year together, Namjoon had been stoic and quiet. He didn’t talk much, unless directly questioned, and even then he kept his answers as concise as possible. You weren’t exactly talkative, but when the two of you talked to each other alone, especially in the past few years, Namjoon began coming out of his shell. When he wasn’t guarded and quiet, he was warm and funny, almost loving in his own kind of way. You got the feeling he was naturally full of love, but had pushed that part of himself down in the years he’d spent alone and in shelters.

Now, you were giving Namjoon a haircut. His hair grew weirdly fast, and there were rules about keeping everything, including hair, perfectly in uniform. Men had to have very short hair and be clean-shaven, which meant Namjoon had to get a haircut basically every other week.

When it was warm you did this outside, but now it was winter and you were in the locker room. While you worked, you talked about upcoming tests and other little things. You kept catching Namjoon looking up at you as you stood in front of him, between his spread legs, and he seemed to be getting bolder, watching your face outright instead of just stealing glances.

“Close your eyes and tilt your head back,” you mumbled, trying to hide the fact you were blushing and flustered. Namjoon listened without a word, and you let yourself look at him for just a second; your faces were close, even with him sitting and you standing, because of how tall he was. You’d been obsessed with his lips lately, finding yourself fantasizing about them at the most inopportune times, thinking about how soft and full they looked and wondering what they’d feel like against your own.

Before you could pull yourself from your thoughts and start on the front of his hair, the power suddenly cut out.

You let out a small gasp, but this wasn’t exactly surprising around here. The power went out often because of the testing they were doing with switching over completely to alien tech for larger power structures. Still, you’d gasped in surprise because you’d been so focused on Namjoon’s face, and now the two of you were alone together in a dark locker room.

“Are you okay?” Namjoon asked, his hands coming up to rest on your hips.

Of course you were okay; the lights had just gone off.

“Yeah,” you answered anyway. You moved your hands from over his head to his shoulders, feeling him in the dark.

“It’ll be back on in a second, we’re okay,” he said, his thumbs moving slightly, like he was trying to comfort you.

“I know,” you said, your voice sounding small. You weren’t afraid at all, but you didn’t want him to stop what he was doing.

The lights came back on then, and you looked down at him. Namjoon smiled up at you, dimples on full display, and it nearly took your breath away. He had a little piece of cut hair on his cheek, which you gently brushed away, and he wrinkled his nose at you, making your heart ache.

You finished giving him his haircut, and afterwards he pulled off his shirt and went over to one of the showers, to wash off the pieces of hair you’d cut. You gathered up the electric razor and your other belongings while you heard him undressing behind you, turning on the shower and humming happily to himself.

You stopped yourself from looking at him as you walked out of the room and went back to the barracks, refusing to let yourself think about him showering or the way he’d looked at you.

VI.

Your last year of training was mostly just the two of you working together and with various superior officers. You’d get promotions and rank changes after some time in the field, but you’d start out as Senior Airmen, and would probably both make Staff Sergeant within a few years of graduating. There were no wars or active duty anymore, but it meant you’d both be given leadership positions, if ever the need arose.

After graduation, you and Namjoon would both receive your assignments and placements. You’d both requested to be placed together, without requesting anything else. You could be sent anywhere in the world, given any position; you didn’t care where you ended up though, as long as you were with him.

Since it was your last year, you were both given proper rooms instead of barracks. The rooms were small and minimal, but your room was right across from Namjoon’s. You spent a lot of time in each other’s rooms, even sometimes sleeping over.

Now, you laid on Namjoon’s bed in his room, while he sat at the chair by his desk with his feet propped up on the end of his bed. He was playing with a stress ball, passing it back and forth between his hands. You’d finished all your testing and training, so you were both basically just resting until graduation, anticipating your placements. It was late at night, the rest of the base quiet and sleeping.

“Dream placement,” you said, turning your head and pointing at him. “Go.”

“Oh, man…” Namjoon rolled his head back, looking at the ceiling. “Southern California.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “What’s in Southern California, besides desert?”

“That’s the closest base to where the first ship went down. They’ve got the best tech out there, the best planes.”

“Okay, true,” you sighed. “But there’s nothing out there for miles. There’d be nothing to do.”

“What else is there, besides flying?” Namjoon threw the little ball he was playing with gently so it bounced off the wall beside you and landed on your stomach.

“I like flying and being able to see something besides sand, rock, and craters for hundreds of miles,” you said, tossing the ball back to him.

“You feel like you’re going faster if you don’t have anything to look at,” he said, catching the ball with one hand and tossing it behind him onto his desk.

“You also get lost easier,” you laughed, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Not if you’re a good navigator,” Namjoon laughed too, standing up and moving onto the bed with you. He wasn’t exactly tickling you, but he was touching your body and you were both giggling as he laid down beside you.

“If you want to feel like you’re going fast, then just go fast,” you said, your hands on his shoulders now as you grinned up at him. He was partially on top of you, partially beside you as he smiled down at you, his mouth so close to yours.

“I want to go even faster,” he said, but he stilled suddenly, looking down at you with wide eyes. He seemed to have suddenly realized the position the two of you were in, and he moved so that he was just beside you, laying on his side as you laid on your back.

You sighed. It was always like this — not that you were complaining, because you loved the relationship you already had with him. But lately, you’d get so close, almost kissing, almost embracing, almost something, and then he’d back off. You still loved the moments before, where you could forget that you were just friends and pretend you were something more, as much as it ended up hurting your heart in the long run.

Even now, you loved this. Namjoon propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at you as you continued talking, a different topic now. Your mouths were only a few inches apart. It would be so easy for him to just lean down and kiss you, like you wanted him to so badly.

Namjoon’s hand that wasn’t supporting his head rested on your stomach. You put your hands there too, playing with him, feeling his long fingers and how big his hand was, and Namjoon let you, pretending not to notice.

You talked about graduation plans, life plans, little nothings that made each other sadly smile. Neither of you said it, but you both worried you wouldn’t be placed together.

“What’s your dream placement?” he asked you gently, his voice soft.

“You know, I don’t even care,” you said. Because it didn’t matter where they put you as long as you were with him, but you didn’t say that.

That night the two of you fell asleep like that, in that position. It wasn’t the first time.

VII.

When you woke up, you could feel Namjoon’s gentle breathing on your neck. You turned your head and looked at him, studying his expression in the early morning calm.

He was still on his side facing you, so now you were face-to-face, your foreheads and noses only a few inches apart. His hand still rested on your stomach, and you still held his hand there with both of your hands. You felt his fingers twitch a little in his sleep and wondered what he was dreaming about. His other arm was under the pillow now, and through it you could almost feel the swell of his bicep and warmth of his skin.

You only ever let yourself really look at him like this when he was sleeping, when the two of you had sleepovers in each other’s rooms. You studied the shape of his nose, the way his big, plush lips parted, the puffiness of his cheeks as he relaxed and breathed, every freckle and mole on his face that you wanted to kiss so badly. Cuddled up with him like this, you could feel how warm he was; Namjoon was a furnace of a man, and you’d gotten so used to sharing a bed with him the past few months, you now had to layer up and sleep with an extra blanket whenever you slept alone.

Namjoon sighed then, shifting a little in his sleep. You quickly closed your eyes and turned your head back so you weren’t facing him directly, in case he opened his eyes.

You felt him moving, shifting so that his arm was hugging you instead of his hand just resting on you. His hand was now on your side, below your armpit, his thumb on the side of your breast. He sighed and seemed to fall back asleep, softly snoring again after a few moments.

You laid like that for a while, enjoying this feeling, knowing you’d never have this for real. You'd never wake up next to Namjoon in the context you wanted, but this was more than enough for you. You were so in love with him, but he didn’t see you the same way, so you’d enjoy waking up in his arms for as long as you could.

When Namjoon eventually woke up on his own, he seemed to slowly realize the position you were in, moving his hand down carefully to more platonic territory. You opened your eyes and turned your head to look at him, and were caught off guard by the way he was staring at you so openly, looking down at your mouth for a few moments before looking back at your eyes with an expression you couldn’t name.

“Y/N,” he murmured, so softly you could barely hear him, but you could feel the rumble of it in his chest. You didn’t say anything, both of you just looking at each other in the peaceful quiet stillness of early morning, the only noises both of your gentle breathing.

Namjoon moved his hand up to your shoulder, and then his hand was cupping your cheek, brushing your hair back from your face. The tips of your noses were almost touching, his warm breath on your lips. He closed his eyes and put his forehead against yours, your heart almost stopping in your chest from how close he was. He’s never done anything like this before, and you definitely were not going to stop him.

He turned his head slightly, your foreheads still connected as the tip of his nose skimmed along your cheek, by your nose. He brushed his lips against yours so lightly you could barely feel him, his eyes still closed. You could feel his eyelashes tickling your cheek, and prayed he couldn’t feel how fast your heart was racing or how you nearly whimpered at his every touch.

Namjoon moved and brushed his barely parted lips against the corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw. His hand on your cheek, he stroked your skin with his thumb slowly, touching you, feeling you. His leg moved up slowly, hooking over yours, and you spread your legs for him. You couldn’t even think straight right now, the only things your brain were processing were the touches and sensations Namjoon was giving you.

What the hell was he doing? The thought of him seeing you romantically, the same way you saw him, had seemed so impossible before now, but now, as he brushed his lips against your skin, you wondered if he’d been longing the same way you had.

Namjoon turned your head carefully, slightly away from him, so that you were looking directly up again. He kissed your cheek closer to him while he stroked the other, pressing gentle open-mouthed kisses down your face and neck as he slowly moved himself on top of you. You, matching his slow movements, wrapped your legs loosely around him and held onto his shoulders.

Namjoon kissed your skin as lightly as he could, feeling you anywhere you’d let him, and you were lost in him. He switched to your other side, kissing your collarbone and neck and jaw, and one of his hands moved up behind your head, tangling in your hair. Every movement was slow and deliberate and gentle.

You never would’ve guessed Namjoon was the gentle type, but now that this was happening, it made sense and you craved it. He closed his lips lightly against your earlobe and you gasped loudly, trying to arch up against him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your ear. “So soft, so perfect, my angel, my love.” His voice was so warm and deep, and you quietly whimpered, holding onto his shoulders even tighter. You felt like he could make you come just from this, just from his light touches and hearing his deep voice praise you. You'd wanted him so badly for years now, you’d dreamed about him, fantasized nonstop, and now here he was, and the tension was already building up for you.

He hadn’t even fully kissed your mouth yet. Namjoon pressed his lips against your cheek, caressing the other side of your face with his hand, just holding your body so close to his. You swore you could die right now and be fine with that.

An alarm suddenly blared, and both of your bodies stilled and tensed.

Namjoon jumped off of you and sat back on his legs, looking around the room like he was expecting to see what was happening written on the walls. You sat up too, looking around. Your legs were still spread, your brain still hazy from Namjoon’s kisses, and you looked at him as you saw him working through what was happening.

“Something’s wrong,” Namjoon said, quickly jumping up. He sat back down on the side of his bed long enough to put on his shoes. “Come on,” he said, pulling you up when he stood again.

You snapped yourself out of your lust-haze. The alarm was still going off, which meant something major was happening right now. It wasn’t just a test.

You left, quickly scampering across the hall to your own room so you could get dressed.

You and Namjoon met up in between your rooms a moment later, both in uniform, and ran down together to where the rest of the base had gathered, Namjoon taking your hand in his as you ran.

VIII.

It was another attack, like when you were young.

You all stood there at attention receiving orders, none of you looking anywhere except forward blankly. This was it, everything you had trained for, the exact reason you’d trained so hard. They were back.

You and Namjoon were both assigned as squadron leaders to two different units, Namjoon to Red One and you to Blue One. Those were two of the best, most elite units of fighter jets, but you looked over at him when you got your assignments. You weren’t together, so you wouldn’t know if he was okay until after it was all over.

You were all dismissed and had fifteen minutes to get to your planes and prepare for launch. You went straight to your plane, not stopping to talk to Namjoon. You knew you wouldn’t be able to leave him once you looked at him, so it was better to just pretend this morning hadn’t happened.

You were just starting to climb the ladder up to your plane when you heard his voice.

“Not saying goodbye?”

You froze in your tracks, but didn’t turn or look at him. You couldn’t make yourself say anything, instead just staring straight in front of you with your hands on the rungs of the ladder.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice much softer now as he walked over to you. The planes were close together so you were in tight quarters, and he stood right behind you, his hands not quite touching your sides.

“What?” you said, not looking back at him.

“Please don’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said. You'd never heard his voice like this. Quiet, pleading, loving. It was like this morning in bed, but more desperate, yearning, begging you to look at him.

You started to move up the ladder without turning around, and he put his hands on your hips, stopping you. He immediately let go, not wanting to trap you there.

You sighed and turned around to face him, only partially, still a step up on the ladder so you were just slightly taller than him. You reached back and held onto the ladder with one hand as you looked at him.

When you saw the expression on his face, it took your breath away. He looked almost tearful, sick with worry, trying to be stronger than how he obviously felt.

“Goodbye,” you said softly, bringing your free hand up to his cheek.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at you. You stroked his cheek with your thumb and tried to smile weakly. His hair was getting a little long, you noticed then for some reason. He was supposed to keep it short to stay in uniform, but now it looked long enough for you to run your fingers through.

Namjoon’s eyes were wide and innocent, searching your face. Around you, the base was chaotic and busy as other pilots ran to their planes and officers barked out orders and engines started up. The two of you just stood there in your quiet moment, both a lot less excited about your first mission than you’d thought you’d be, everything happening so much sooner then you’d both thought and on such a larger scale than you ever could have anticipated. You remembered almost wanting this when you were young, promising yourself that you’d be ready if they ever came back. Maybe the universe was punishing you; whenever you loved someone, the universe immediately sought to take it from you. Your family when you were young, and now Namjoon.

He looked like he wanted to kiss you or tell you something. He parted his lips and glanced at your mouth, his brow furrowing as he breathed, and he looked back up at your eyes, his expression so worried.

“I’ll see you soon,” you said, smiling gently.

You turned and climbed up into your plane without another word.

V.

There had been twenty pilots in your squadron when you left, and four when you returned.

You didn’t really remember the aliens from when you were little, but you’d seen countless videos. You knew what they looked like, how they performed, what their technology was supposed to be like, what their weaknesses had been.

You saw so many planes go down. The alien ship had a different defense than last time, and the fight was only over when the alien ship suddenly left and moved on, seemingly just because it wanted to, not because the humans posed any kind of threat to it. When it left, it had taken out an entire city, just like last time. The town near the base had only recently gotten its infrastructure set up.

You and your three surviving pilots returned first out of all the other squadrons. You quickly climbed out of your plane and ran down to the hangar, asking about the other pilots still out there. You needed to know if Namjoon was okay.

Before you even got to the hangar, another alarm started blaring. A plane near you exploded, and you spun around, looking up at the sky.

There had to be over a hundred alien ships in the sky, all firing on the base and the planes.

“Get inside, now!” you yelled, pointing at the pilots from your squadron who’d ducked down near their planes. You knew the base had a bunker, and the number of people at the base now could easily survive down there long-term.

There was panic as people got down there as fast as they could, all climbing over each other and yelling. You stayed back where you could see the sky, ducking down in a safe spot and watching as long as you could. You only saw alien ships, none of your own.

You imagined Namjoon’s last seconds. If he hadn’t made it back to the base, there was no way he’d survive. The ships would find him. You could only see the planes you’d seen exploding earlier, hear the voices of the pilots in your squadron on your coms as their ships exploded. A cut-off shout, and then nothing.

You finally made yourself run down to the bunker. In the distance, you could hear the ships destroying every visible part of the base, every last truck and car and plane and tank exploding as the blasts hit them. The walls shook and lights flickered and dust fell from the ceiling as you made your way down the stairwell to the bunker.

Over the destruction above you, you could hear Namjoon’s voice that morning in his bed, the world frozen around you then, the only things that mattered his large, gentle hands, his slow, exploring mouth, and his soft voice.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’d breathed against your neck. You'd been able to feel his smile, the tip of his nose tracing your jaw, the warmth of his breath on your skin. You'd never felt safer than when you were laying in bed with him.

You pushed the door of the bunker shut behind you, your hands shaking and eyes welling up. You could not think about this; you had to push all of that aside for now. You had a job to do.

After about five minutes down in the bunker, the lights went out. The weak backup generator kicked on near-immediately, but now there was no connection to the outside world. If any pilots managed to survive this long, the base wouldn’t know about it or have any way of contacting them.

When you’d taken off, both you and Namjoon had been promoted to captains, to lead your squadrons. Once all of the remaining people at the base were down in the bunker and accounted for, you were promoted again, this time to major.

Almost everyone out of the thousand or so people on the base had gone out to fight. The only people who’d stayed behind were ground control officers, technicians, first years, civilians who worked on the base, and the top few people in charge. There were maybe a few hundred people down in the massive bunker now, and you ranked sixth in command out of all of them.

Namjoon would’ve been so jealous you outranked him, you thought with a small smile.

VI.

Four days passed with no news.

There was no service. There was no internet, radio, or any connection to the outside world.

You were itching to get out. There was no news from the outside world, but there also hadn’t been any explosions since the first day. The alien ships had to be gone by now. On the second day, you’d tried to suggest to the general that you could go up to the surface and see if an evacuation could be planned, but the general and other officers had all said that there was no need to evacuate, because there were plenty of supplies down here. They would continue to work on regaining communications with other bases, and nothing else immediately mattered until then.

Now, you were on your cot, staring at the ceiling above you. It was the middle of the night and just about everyone else was asleep. Most people slept on cots in what looked like an old gym, all lined up in long rows. Everyone had been given two changes of clothes, all gray jumpsuits. You felt like you were in prison.

The scratchy wool blanket was pulled up to your neck. You tried to imagine sharing the cot with Namjoon, the two of you squeezed onto the spot only meant for one and giggling when you just barely fit. You imagined him spooning you, kissing your neck and shoulder and holding you close to him. You imagined feeling his heartbeat in his chest. You imagined his face when his plane exploded.

It wasn’t fair. You’d literally just become something more than friends, maybe, kind of. Your relationship with Namjoon meant everything to you, and it had suddenly been changing in such amazing ways, and then he’d immediately been taken from you.

You refused to cry about this. You refused to even accept he was gone. There were ways he could’ve survived. There had to be. He could’ve flown low and ejected and hidden in the rubble of the city. Except he wasn’t a coward; you knew him, and you knew he was the type to win or die fighting. He could’ve led other survivors away from the city. Except there was no way these planes could’ve outrun the alien ships. They weren’t fast enough.

There had to be a way. You had to get up to the surface and find out. You had to find him.

VII.

After one week down in the bunker, you felt like you were going out of your mind.

You had a plan. You were going to go to the surface whether they let you or not. You were going to find Namjoon, or at least the remains of his plane. You were going to find him or find closure.

You needed climbing gear to get up the destroyed stairwell. You’d need to find rope and gear, a lot of water, and survival supplies. You began your plan, looking around for spare supplies nobody would notice was missing until you were gone. You knew where to find rope, but you had to figure out how to acquire and carry enough water. Plus you would need to bring medical supplies, in case Namjoon was injured. God, you could just imagine him, laying somewhere, bleeding out and barely conscious. You wondered if he’d thought of you, imagined you coming to save him.

You were seconds away from stealing rope from a supply closet when a short little man walked around the corner.

“Major?”

You froze in place. You weren’t in the room yet; you were innocent.

“Yes?” you said, smiling politely.

“The general wants to see you,” he said, and left without adding anything else.

Shit. How had they known? You hadn’t done anything yet, or told anyone or written anything down.

You made your way to the command center. Not much was going on there in the way of commanding anything, but it was where the higher ups — which now included you — met, and it was where they were attempting to reestablish communications with the outside world.

The room was busy with officers buzzing around. There were a lot of exposed wires hanging out of the walls. It looked like they were rebuilding a computer system circa 1970.

“Major,” the general said, motioning you over.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re the highest ranking field officer, so this goes to you first,” he said, handing you a manila folder. “We’ve established communication with a base a hundred and fifty miles from here, but only briefly. They said they have seven survivors from our base. They didn’t say who.” The general quickly added the last part when he saw your face light up at the mention of survivors.

You glanced down at the folder. Before you could speak, the general continued.

“We need someone — a pilot — to go up to the surface and see if any planes are still intact, and if so, fly to Walker Base. If there aren’t any planes left, we’ll probably have you try to find a car, or hike if you have to. We need to get our relay codes to that base, and once we do, we’ll have full communication with them again. You up for it?”

You looked up at the general, smiling.

VIII.

It took you about an hour to climb the staircase. Most of it was rubble and a lot of it involved throwing up a rope and securing it on something to climb the huge gaps where the stairs had fallen out, but you eventually got to the top, pushing aside debris to get yourself outside.

The base was gone. There was no way any planes survived this. Still, you walked out onto the strip, just in case.

Some of the piles of charred metal were still smoking. A few small fires were still going, most of them out in the lot, where jet fuel must still be feeding them. You tried to see if you could spot where your and Namjoon’s rooms used to be, but it was all just rubble, ash, and charred cinderblocks.

You walked down the landing strip, looking at the piles of scorched plane parts, blasted to nothing. Pieces of metal jutted up, a plane wing here, a part of engine there. Every pile you saw, you imagined seeing Namjoon’s body among them. You knew if he was dead, he wouldn’t be here, he’d be out in the city — but seeing all of the destroyed planes wasn’t helping.

You stopped in your tracks.

At the end of the landing strip, under a broken wing of a much larger plane, was the most beautiful F-15 Eagle you had ever seen.

You ran to it, climbing on it when you reached it and pushing aside the wing of the bigger plane until it clamored to the ground. You climbed into the cockpit, dropping your backpack with supplies and the relay codes into the little compartment, feeling nearly dizzy in euphoria. You prepped the jet for takeoff, everything going smoothly, and you imagined Namjoon’s face when you showed up at the base. He’d be so happy to see you, but so surprised, and when you told him that you got promoted to major–

You stopped for a moment, your smile falling as you stared blankly at your hands on the switches and dials.

You didn’t know if he was one of the survivors at the other base. You shouldn’t get your hopes up just to show up and find out he wasn’t one of the pilots who made it. For all you knew, you’d get there and one of the pilots from Namjoon’s squadron would tell you all about how he died.

You focused on the task in front of you. You were on a mission, first and foremost, to get the relay codes to the base. That was the important thing right now, not yourself or Namjoon.

You got the plane prepped and ready to go. The center of the runway was clear, since most of the planes had been gone.

F-15s were always your favorite.

IX.

You didn’t attract any alien attention while flying, thankfully. You got there in just over twenty minutes; around the fifteen minute mark, you slowed down and the base contacted you on your descent into their airspace. You had to identify yourself and state your intentions, but the base seemed completely willing to let anyone human land.

When you landed, a few people ran out and took care of your plane for you, as you were escorted inside. You handed over the relay codes and quickly asked if you could see the survivors from your base.

“Most of them were pretty shell-shocked when they got here, but they’re soldiers. They know how it is,” the officer escorting you said as the two of you walked. “How many survivors at your base?”

“Three hundred and forty-two,” you said flatly, staring straight in front of you as you walked. “We had four pilots including myself return, the rest were non-flight officers and civilians. No casualties on the ground, but the base was destroyed in an aerial attack shortly after we landed.”

“Yeah, we heard about that. That’s why we got your other pilots,” the guy said, motioning in front of him in the direction you were walking, assumedly at the surviving pilots. “They didn’t have anywhere to land and thought the base was gone, so they came here. All from different squadrons, but led by one captain.”

You perked up when you heard that. A captain had survived.

You really did try not to get your hopes up. Your base was huge; there were so many squadrons, only one captain surviving was not good news for Namjoon. Still, you were hopeful.

You were led to a barrack where a few pilots were sitting around together, all men looking bored out of their minds. You recognized Park from your training class, and a few others as well. You scanned their faces quickly, looking from person to person, desperately searching for him, frantic and anxious and despairing when you looked and didn’t see him–

“Y/N?” a voice said from behind you, and you spun around.

Namjoon had walked in behind you from the other direction; he looked like he’d just taken a shower, from the wet hair, clean clothes, and bag over his shoulder, which he dropped as he stared at you in disbelief.

Neither of you even said anything. You were only about ten feet apart already, but you immediately met in the middle, desperately grabbing at each other, hugging tightly. Your legs were up around his waist and he held you to him as he kissed all over your face. The room was spinning or maybe Namjoon was just spinning you around, you didn’t care, you just held onto him and tried to kiss him, one hand in his hair and the other arm around his shoulder, trying to pull him closer.

As much as you wanted and tried to kiss him, Namjoon was just too much; it was like he was trying to kiss every last millimeter of your face at least twice. He was holding you so tight you almost couldn’t breathe, but you didn’t even care. His skin, his hair, his mouth, his kisses were all the most amazing things you’d ever felt. You were pressed chest-to-chest, arms wrapped around each other, and you could almost feel his heartbeat pumping along with your own.

Namjoon stopped kissing you long enough to nuzzle against you, closing his eyes as he rubbed his cheek against yours, nearly animalistic.

“I missed you so much, my love,” he breathed. You swore his face was wet with tears, his cheek still pressed against your own. “I haven’t thought about anything other than you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you this whole time, I love you so much… god, fuck, when I thought I’d lost you…” He started kissing your cheek again desperately, his hand coming up to hold your other cheek and hold you in place.

“I missed you too,” you gasped, your voice small and high-pitched as you tried and failed to hold in your tears.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he kept repeating, not even stopping speaking as he kissed you, so some of his words were muffled.

“I love you, too, Joon,” you managed to say before he kissed your mouth, tilting his head to kiss you so deeply it took your breath away.

“Okay, Jesus Christ,” somebody else in the room said then. “Do you guys want us to, like, leave or something?”

Namjoon stopped, catching his breath as you turned your head to look back at the six other pilots and the officer all awkwardly watching you.

“Uh, sorry,” you muttered, putting your feet back on the ground and turning around. Namjoon kept touching you, not taking his hands off you, even as you faced the others.

“I know you both outrank us, but get a room,” a different pilot laughed, his smile boxy and voice deep.

“You have a room, actually,” the officer that led you in said, perking up like that was his cue.

“We do?” Namjoon asked, confused. He stood behind you, hands on your hips, tall enough to see over your head.

“She does,” the officer gestured to you. “She’s a major. All superior officers class O4 and up get their own private room.”

“Major?” Namjoon said, tilting a little to look at your face. You smiled to yourself smugly.

“I can take you there now,” the officer said, motioning to the door behind him.

Namjoon stepped to the side and looked down at the ground shyly, glancing up at you and pouting. You wanted to roll your eyes; he actually thought you weren’t going to invite him to come with you.

“You too,” you said, holding out your hand for him.

Namjoon beamed, and quickly picked up his bag and jogged over to what must be his bed, grabbing the few belongings he had, and shuffled back over to your side, taking your hand and kissing you on the cheek before following along with you.

“Go get it, captain,” one of the pilots jeered at him, the others all snickering and wolf-whistling as Namjoon dropped your hand long enough to flip all the other pilots off while the officer led the two of you out and down the hallway.

As soon as the door was shut behind you in your room, the officer gone and the two of you alone, Namjoon dropped his belongings and picked you up again, your legs tight around him, the two of you kissing again. You felt your back against the cold metal of the old-fashioned blast door, one of Namjoon’s hands holding your face.

“How’d you get here?” he murmured against your neck after a moment, kissing your cheek between gasps. “They said the base was destroyed, no contact.”

“The attack happened right after I landed. Everyone got down in the bunker, no casualties on the ground,” you gasped, still a little short on breath. As you spoke, Namjoon kissed your neck, working his way up to your jaw. “They needed a pilot to bring relay codes here.”

“What’s this about you being a major now?” he said, smirking, his lips not leaving your cheek.

“Got an upgrade while you were gone,” you said, and then you gasped, laughing as Namjoon suddenly sucked your skin over your pulse on your neck, leaving behind a deep purple hickey.

“Well, Miss Major, that means you outrank me now,” he said, leaning back enough to smile at you, his expression a mix of mischievous and proud.

He stepped backward then, still supporting you with his arms, and walked back until he got to the bed, sitting down on it. He laid back, pulling you down on top of him gently, your mouths connected the whole way down.

He was the best thing you’d ever felt, his large, firm body contrasting his gentle touches and kisses. You couldn’t get close enough to him, but it was slow, lazy, loving, everything you’d ever wanted with him, his soft tongue in your mouth, his firm arms around you, his warm body under you.

You couldn’t get over how good he smelled. There was the soap he’d just used, but you’d known him and been close to him long enough to know his scent. He tasted so good too; he swirled his tongue with yours slowly, tracing lazy patterns on your tongue, kissing you so deeply your head spun. His hands rested on your back, his fingers spreading wider as he tried to touch more of you.

You parted for air as he rolled you both, holding your body to his with one hand as he pulled you up the bed, resting your head on the pillow as he gently laid you down. Even though you would’ve only fallen a few inches and the bed was soft, he set you down like you were made of glass, looking down at you with love and hearts in his eyes, not breaking eye contact as he gave you a small, warm smile.

His dark hair was mussed up a little from you running your fingers through it, and it looked fantastic on him. His face was flushed and his parted lips were red and a little swollen, and he looked like he’d been crying, or was about to cry, or both.

You pulled him down to you and kissed him again. He set his body against yours, lining himself up with you as you wrapped your legs around him. You were both still fully clothed, but you could feel him, pressed perfectly against you from your collars to his growing erection and your throbbing core.

“I love you,” he groaned against your neck, grinding slowly against you. “I’ve loved you for so long, I wanted to die when I thought something happened to you and I never told you. I promise I’m going to tell you now, every single day, every time I see you, every time we make love, every second of every day–” He cut himself off by kissing your neck desperately, moving down toward your breast.

“I love you, my angel. You’re the most beautiful thing in the world, I love you so much,” he said, kissing along your skin frantically by the collar of your ugly flight jumpsuit. “You’re my best friend, and I love you, I love you, I love you,” he said, kissing up the center of your chest toward your clavicle. His messy hair tickled your chin, and you rested one of your hands on the back of his head as he worked, gently stroking his hair.

“I love you too,” you managed to say, though words weren’t really coming to you right now, with all Namjoon was doing to you.

Namjoon got up then, and you watched for a moment as he started quickly stripping off his clothes. You sat up too, pulling off your jumpsuit, and Namjoon got all but his boxers off before your arms were even out. He helped you, running his hands along your skin as you peeled off the jumpsuit, leaving you in just the undershirt and shorts you’d had on underneath.

There was a moment where the two of you just sat there looking at each other. You’d both seen each other in this context — nearly naked — before, from sleeping in the same room to swimming to other random things you’d done together over the years, but this was the first time it was ever like this.

Namjoon raised his hands slowly, his fingers just barely skimming against your hips. His eyes were on your breasts, his mouth nearly watering, and you smiled at that. He looked up at you, his eyes innocent and showing every emotion he had within him; he was asking for permission.

You brought your hand up to his face and kissed him slowly, savoring every movement of his lips, the feel of his tongue, the taste of him. His hands went to your thighs and helped you wrap your legs around him, and then you were laying down again, Namjoon on top of you.

He kissed down your chest, this time simultaneously running one of his hands up your stomach under your thin undershirt. He cupped your breast with that hand, feeling you fully, while his mouth kissed back up to your neck. He got your undershirt off without either of you having to get up, though he did have to lean back a little to give you room to wiggle around, and then he unhooked your bra and threw that and your undershirt somewhere behind him.

Namjoon swirled his tongue around one of your nipples, gently squeezing your other breast with his hand, your peaked nipple hard against his palm. He rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger slowly while sucking the other, just barely using teeth and making you gasp, and then he switched sides, doing the same thing again.

“That feels so good, Joonie,” you sighed, closing your eyes and smiling to yourself. You stroked his hair while he worked, closing your eyes and tilting your head back. Every moment or so, you’d let out a moan for him, tightening your fingers in his hair whenever he did something that made you see stars, and he’d hum back to you, responding without taking his mouth off you.

Namjoon moved down your abdomen, kissing every rib, every freckle, every last inch of your skin. He dipped his tongue into your belly button and you gasped and giggled, feeling his grin against your skin as he kissed down your navel, his tongue tracing along the edge of the little shorts you still had on.

You reached down and tried to pull off your shorts, but Namjoon’s hands replaced your own, slowly pulling just your shorts off and leaving your panties. He tossed your shorts the same direction he’d tossed your bra, and then looked down at you, sitting back on his legs. Your legs were spread wide, your soaked panties the only thing covering you, your eyes desperate for him, your breasts rising and falling as your breath quickened in anticipation and need for him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his expression almost dazed in love and adoration. He looked like he didn’t know where to look, his eyes scanning your face, your breasts, your spread thighs, the spot on your panties where you were already wet and soaking for him. You bit your lip and whimpered, and he closed his eyes, sighing and smiling to himself, like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

Namjoon bent over and kissed your ankle, slowly, chastely. He moved to the other side and repeated that, kissing your anklebone. He moved up your calf, staying on that side, kissing you over and over and moving so slowly you started to whine for him, begging him to go faster and reaching down for him. He reached up and took one of your hands, holding it and lacing your fingers together as he continued what he was doing, not at all speeding up.

He kissed your knee, the side of it, the front of it, and tilting your leg gently to kiss the back of it. He moved up, kissing your inner thigh while still holding your hand. You spread your legs further for him, whimpering and squeezing his hand as he got closer and closer to your center.

Namjoon pulled back then, a smug smile on his face as he started moving down to kiss his way up your other leg, starting again at your ankle. You let out a whiney moan, pulling his hand and looking down at him, pleading.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” he said gently, moving back to where you wanted him most.

He kissed you right over your panties, a deep, open-mouthed kiss that made you cry out. You could feel him breathing hard through his nose, smelling and inhaling you as he moved his mouth against you, letting go of your hand so he could hold your thighs with both his large, perfect hands.

He licked and sucked the fabric of your panties, tasting where you were soaked for him. It was the most amazing thing you’d ever felt, and you spread your legs even further for him, your hands holding onto the sheets of the bed, your knuckles turning white.

You gasped when you felt teeth, and then Namjoon was slowly pulling your panties down your legs with his mouth, looking up at you with playful eyes and a smirk. You wanted to roll your eyes at him, but instead just closed your legs enough for him to get your panties off of you, letting him have his fun. He let out a small growl at you, your panties still in his mouth, and you giggled, a soft noise that made his eyes light up.

Before you could think or do anything, Namjoon was back between your legs, spreading you open with his fingers and licking a slow, thick line up your folds to your clit.

You cried out, your head falling back and eyes squeezing closed. Namjoon repeated the motion, even slower this time, moaning a little too as he let the tip of his tongue enter you for just a moment. You whined, pulling his hair hard and trying to spread your legs even further, and Namjoon stopped, humming softly as he turned his head and kissed your thigh.

“I love you so fucking much,” Namjoon murmured against your skin, kissing you there again. “Your pussy’s so pretty, my love. So soft and wet for me.”

“Joonie,” you sighed, stroking his hair. You could feel his smile against your thigh, and it made you smile, too. You felt warm, like you were glowing from his love.

Namjoon turned his head back and dipped his tongue into you again, this time further, like he was trying to see how far he could go. His lips sucked at your entrance as his tongue flicked in and out, not fast enough to get you off, but not slow, either. He moved his tongue like he was trying to drink you, lapping you up, bringing your wetness into his mouth and down his throat.

You moaned loudly for him, pulling his face harder against you by his hair, and he reached up and grabbed one of your hands, lacing his fingers with yours over one of your thighs.

He moved his mouth up to your clit, drawing random shapes over it with the tip of his tongue lazily while he curled two fingers into you. He moved clumsily, like he wasn’t exactly sure of what he was doing but just wanted to make you feel good, and what he was doing was definitely working. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for in eagerness and love, and when he moaned around your clit, and you nearly screamed.

“Jesus Christ, Joon, fuck. God, your mouth is… mmm, god, you’re so fucking good, that feels so good, Joonie, Joonie–” You cut yourself off with a long, agonized cry as Namjoon sucked your clit into his mouth hard, swirling his tongue around it as he suctioned his mouth and moved his fingers inside you faster. You repeated a chorus of nothing but his name between breathy moans as you held onto his hair with your free hand, your other hand squeezing his.

You gasped when you came, your whole body tensing as you saw stars and every nerve in your body exploded in pleasure. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream as you failed to breathe, your lungs tightening and your orgasm only building and building as Namjoon kept moving his tongue and fingers. You felt like you were floating in space, millions of stars around you all bursting at once, the entire universe stopping for you and Namjoon and the love you felt for each other.

After a moment, you took in a shaky breath, trying to recover while your mind was still mush. Namjoon was still moving his mouth on you, now licking up your wetness at your entrance and moaning to himself at the taste. If he kept that up, you were going to come again, and soon.

You moaned, pulling on his hair enough for him to look up at you, not stopping what his mouth was doing. You pleaded with your eyes, whimpering and pulling his hair again, and he put his lips to your entrance one last time, this time spreading his lips as wide as possible and sucking as he slowly closed his mouth. You gasped and almost screamed at the sensation of him actually drinking you, desperate to taste you.

Your second orgasm was smaller, making you shudder and gasp for just a moment before steadily breathing deeply as you tried to recover again. You looked down at him, barely able to lift your head; Namjoon was kissing your thigh, your hips, pressing gentle kisses to your skin as he slowly worked his way up your stomach. You could see how hard he was, his precum glistening on the head of his cock as it bounced against his stomach with his movements.

You started to reach down to grasp him, but he gently stopped you, bringing your hand back up by your head and lacing his fingers with yours. He kissed your collarbone, leaving a trail of wet kiss spots all over your body, your own wetness in the shape of his lips and chin.

“Please, Joonie,” you hummed, and he came back to you, kissing your lips slowly and letting you taste yourself on him. You wrapped your legs around him tightly as he lined himself up with your entrance, moaning when you felt the head of his cock against your folds, gasping when he started slowly sliding into you, every amazing inch of him filling and stretching you.

Namjoon buried his face in your neck, the length of his nose pressed against the curve of your jaw. He turned his head enough to kiss your neck, feeling your rapid, heavy pulse with his lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your neck, not opening his eyes. “So fucking tight and wet for me, my angel, my princess, my heart, my love. I love you so fucking much.” He kissed your neck again gently before pushing all the way into you and bottoming out, the stretch so wonderfully tight and full. You cried out, spreading your legs further and higher for him, grabbing at his shoulders, scraping your fingernails down his back as he filled you up so completely.

Namjoon pulled out slowly and then pushed in again, rocking into you. You were desperate, nearly delirious and just about ready to cry if he didn’t start moving faster. He seemed to just barely be holding on by a thread, his own orgasm already one sudden movement away from overwhelming him.

“God, Jesus Christ, Joon, fuck,” you cried, close to actually in tears now. You started to say something else but it turned into a small whimper as he thrust into you again, hard.

“I love you,” he groaned against your neck, “I love you so much, Y/N…” Your name turned into a long moan as he began his slow, torturous pace, both of you so close to the edge already. You didn’t know how he was possibly going so slow still, other than the fact he must want to torture you.

“Go faster, please,” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders as tight as you could and digging in your fingernails. “I need you so bad, Joonie. God, fuck me, please…”

“I love you, angel,” he said, kissing your shoulder. He picked up the pace a little, but it wasn’t enough. “I love you, baby, I love you so much. I love you, I love you–”

“Go fucking faster, now, please…” you sobbed, pulling his hair, making him hiss in pain, but he listened, reaching down and holding your hip with one hand as he started pounding into you, the force of it making the bed creak and your breasts bounce with each quick, powerful thrust. You were long past gone, moaning loudly with each exhale, and Namjoon groaned and grunted, his head against your shoulder as the two of you moved together, you rolling your hips up to meet him thrust for thrust.

Namjoon broke first. His orgasm hit him suddenly and he tried to keep moving, his thrusts sloppy, erratic, and uneven as he spilled into you, his mouth hanging open and eyes squeezed shut. He let out a long groan until he ran out of air, and then he didn’t inhale again until he finished, suddenly and harshly gasping in again, his whole body shaking in your arms.

He reached down and rubbed your clit furiously, and you only lasted a few seconds before you gasped too, clenching around his still half-hard erection inside you, which only made him groan in overstimulation as you squeezed and spasmed around him, gasping nothing but his name and feeling nothing but him, your love, your Namjoon.

Namjoon somehow managed to keep himself from collapsing on top of you. He moved to the side enough to fall beside you, one of his legs still between your thighs as he laid on his stomach, slightly turned in toward you. His hand moved up to cup and stroke your cheek as he lazily kissed your shoulder.

“I love you too, Joonie,” you said between shaky breaths, your vision almost blurry from lust and exhaustion and a dumb happy smile on your face. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

X.

You laid there for a little while together before you eventually went another round, this time as slow as Namjoon had wanted to go the first time.

When you came this time, your orgasm had to have lasted at least five full minutes (or at least, it felt like that) as Namjoon kept moving in and out of you, keeping up his steady, slow, overwhelming movements that left you delirious with his cock inside you, his thumb on your clit, and his lips on yours, breathing in every moan of his name.

After you both laid there a while again, lazy in post coital haze, you eventually got up and went to your room’s personal little bathroom, where you turned on the tiny shower and let it warm up. You stood there feeling the water’s temperature with your hand while Namjoon stood behind you, arms wrapped around you and lips on your neck. It was like he couldn’t go more than a few minutes without saying “I love you,” not that you were complaining.

You showered together, Namjoon standing behind you the whole time and washing your body for you. He massaged your breasts, hands sudsy as the warm water fell down over them as he kissed your neck, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. One of his hands fell down to your folds, stroking you slowly as his other hand moved to your breast, arm wrapping around you so that his forearm could also press against your nipple, stimulating and touching both of your breasts at once.

Namjoon slid two fingers into you as he kissed your temple. You could feel him hard against your ass, and that feeling made your eyes flutter.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of touching you, pleasing you, making love to you,” he murmured into your hair. You responded with an agonized moan, reaching back and holding onto his shoulder for support. “I’ve wanted you like this since we first met. I dreamed about eating your perfect little pussy so many times, doing exactly this to you, feeling you squeeze my cock like you did earlier when you came so prettily. You’re better than anything I ever could’ve imagined though, baby. Your pussy tastes like heaven and feels even better. You’re so fucking perfect, princess, I love you so much, more than my heart can bare.”

You felt like he had to be bending you over slightly, his firm chest against your back. You swore you could actually feel his cock throbbing.

“I need you,” you moaned, your eyes closed as you felt nothing but his hands.

“I’m here,” he said, kissing your cheek. “I’m here, angel. I love you.”

“Need you inside me,” you said, spreading your legs to stand with your feet braced wider apart. “I love you, too, Joonie. Please…”

Namjoon didn’t need to be told twice. Hooking his arm around your waist for support, he bent you both over a little more, sliding into you from behind in one smooth motion. You cried out in ecstasy, he felt so good and big and yours.

It was fast and sloppy; he hugged you against him with both arms while you braced yourself on the tile wall in front of you. The sound of skin smacking against wet skin, his hips hitting your ass coupled with both your quiet moans and the wet squelching of him moving hard and fast inside you, echoing off the tile walls with the sound of the running water. He filled you so perfectly, stretched you out so far, you felt like he was fucking up into your guts, so hard and deep and good.

You came at the same time, Namjoon groaning and squeezing you harder as your eyes rolled back in your head.

When you’d both recovered some, you stood there under the water, still in the same position. You both knew base rules about wasting water, so you needed to wrap this up, but neither of you wanted to move.

You eventually got out and dried off, both of you getting ready for bed with the toiletries provided by the base. He couldn’t keep his hands off of you the whole time though, so the whole process probably took three times longer than it should’ve.

When you both finished, he pulled you to him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he kissed you, his hands spreading out on your bare back. Namjoon’s tongue slowly swirled with yours as he let out a small, contented hum, and he wrapped your legs up around his body, supporting you with one hand on your back and the other on your thigh.

Namjoon walked to your bed, carrying you, and laid down with you on top of him. You didn’t end up going another round, but you kissed for a while until eventually you started to move off of him to sleep beside him. Namjoon, though, held you there on top of him, keeping you there.

He murmured a soft little “please,” stroking your back gently, begging you to stay where you were on top of him. You laid back down and kissed right over his heart, before turning your head and resting your cheek on his chest, nuzzling in against him to sleep as he pulled the sheets up around you both.

You were safe in his arms. The world around you didn’t matter; not the people down the hall, not anything outside the base, none of it. The whole universe was just you and Namjoon in this bed, and nothing else existed. He was yours, and you were his.

[mytwilightimagines13]

Memories from the past (Part Fourteen)(Caius Volturi)

Masterlist

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Word count: 2421

The beasts within Caius and Athenodora calmed down once they knew the venom was in Xandria’s bloodstream. Caius grabbed his robe he had tossed over a chair and quickly put it on, calling for Jane and Alec. They appeared shortly and Caius informed them of what was occurring at the moment. “Inform my brothers and sister of Xandria transformation. And make sure Felix and Demetri stay near.” Was all he said before closing the door again, helping his wife clean their little mate up. Dora put her in a comfortable red dress, trying to give their mate as much comfort as was possible. Caius quickly put on his boxers again and tossed the robe again. Dora put on a less sexy night gown type of dress. It may have taken the couple about five minutes to do all of this but the first screams escaped Xandria’s lips. Their hearts broke and soon Caius had curled her against his bare chest, hoping the contact would perhaps sooth her pain, or calm her down at the bare minimum. Dora quickly followed, sitting beside her husband and holding her little mates hands in hers. And they stayed like that for the following three days, holding her close, slightly flinching at her screams and trying to sooth her as much as possible.

Their bites send me over the edge even more and a warm feeling nestled in my neck, a satisfied smile on my face while I laid down on my back, enjoying the high of what had just happened. I finally made love to my mates and it was the best and most wonderful feeling in the world. Although the high was slowly wearing off as the warmth in my neck increased. It got hotter. Uncomfortable now. Too hot. Much, much too hot. Like grabbing the wrong end of a curling iron. My automatic response was to try and get whatever was on my neck to hit it off. But there was nothing on my neck. The heat was inside me. The burning grew—rose and peaked and rose again until it surpassed anything I’d ever felt. I felt the pulse behind the fire raging now in my chest and realized that I’d found my heart, just in time to wish I never had. This felt like pure torture. The fire blazed hotter and I screamed. I wanted to move my arms, to try to end myself and the fire within me, but I couldn’t move. My body was being kept in an iron grip impossible for me to escape from. I started to beg for someone to kill me now, not wanting to live a second longer in the pain. “Shh, my love.” I hear Caius whisper in my ear. “You can do this, amore.” Athenodora said, her voice seeming to come from besides Caius. My body felt heavy and another scream escaped my lips and hot tears run down my face. The flames nestled in my chest and engulfed my heart. Burying me in the flames that were chewing their way out from my heart now, spreading with impossible pain through my shoulders and stomach, scalding their way up my throat, licking at my face. “Please, please. I don’t want, it hurts too much.” I cried out. My mind was unbearably clear—sharpened by the fierce pain and I could hear them clearly. “We know, we know. Shh. You are doing great. It will be over soon.” Caius whispered, his voice cracking softly. I had never heard him like this, so fragile. He was a warrior, a king yet now he sounded like a man in despair. I tried to stay strong, to fight against the pain that soared through my veins, changing every cell one at a time. But I had no idea how long I could manage to stay quiet and fight this fire. All I wanted was to die. To never have been born. The whole of my existence did not outweigh this pain. Wasn’t worth living through it for one more heartbeat. Let me die, let me die, let me die. And, for a never-ending space, that was all there was. Just the fiery torture, and my soundless shrieks, pleading for death to come. Nothing else, not even time. So that made it infinite, with no beginning and no end. One infinite moment of pain. The only change came when suddenly, impossibly, my pain was doubled. The lower half of my body was suddenly on fire, too. I could not help the scream that erupted from deep within me and I tried to curl my back, trying to keep the heat in my upper body, but to no avail. The endless burn raged on. It could have been seconds or days, weeks or years, but, eventually, time came to mean something again. Three things happened together, grew from each other so that I didn’t know which came first: time restarted and I got stronger. Though the fire did not decrease one tiny degree—in fact, I began to develop a new capacity for experiencing it, a new sensitivity to appreciate, separately, each blistering tongue of flame that licked through my veins—I discovered that I could think around it. I could remember why I shouldn’t scream. I could remember the reason why I’d committed to enduring this unendurable agony. I could remember that, though it felt impossible now, there was something that might be worth the torture. I could feel strong arms surrounding me while two delicate hands held onto mine. I knew I should keep my screams in for them. For my mates. For my beautiful Dora and my handsome Caius. And so I did. I kept quiet and tried to endure it as much as I could. To anyone watching me, there would be no change. But for me, as I struggled to keep the screams and thrashing locked up inside my body, where they couldn’t hurt anyone else, it

felt like I’d gone from being tied to the stake as I burned, to gripping that stake to hold myself in the fire. I had just enough strength to lie there unmoving while I was charred alive. My hearing got clearer and clearer, and I could count the frantic, pounding beats of my heart to mark the time. I could count the shallow breaths that gasped through my teeth. I could count the low, even breaths that came from Caius as he gently inhaled my scent, trying to keep himself as calm as possible. I could hear Dora’s steady breaths as well and I slowly felt that she had moved her head to rest on my belly, curling around my legs, trying to keep me as still as possible. These moved slowest, so I concentrated on them. They meant the most time passing. More even than a clock’s pendulum, those breaths pulled me through the burning seconds toward the end. I continued to get stronger, my thoughts clearer. When new noises came, I could listen. “You are doing amazing, my love.” Caius whispered and I felt his lips press against my temple. “We love you so much. And we are so grateful for what you do for us.” Dora said as she pulled my wrist towards her lips, pressing her lips against it. It calmed me down but something wasn’t right. Normally their cool skin cooled me down, yet I could only feel their touch without a difference in temperature. I wanted to response but I stayed paralyzed, too afraid that I would start screaming again or trash around. Not while I had the strength to hold myself still. Through all this, the racking fire went right on burning me. But there was so much space in my head now. Room to ponder their conversation, room to remember what had happened, room to look ahead to the future, with still endless room left over to suffer in. Also room to worry. Would I be able to do it? Be a vampire? Make them proud? Or will they regret their decision? I quickly shook those thoughts away. It was too late to dwell on actions from the past. I went back to counting their breaths to mark the time. Ten thousand, nine hundred forty-three breaths later Dora spoke again. “How much longer?” she asked. “It won’t be long now,” Caius told her. How long? Couldn’t they at least say it aloud for me? Was that too much to ask? How many more seconds would I burn? Ten thousand? Twenty? Another day— eighty-six thousand, four hundred? More than that? “I never thought it was possible but she is becoming even more breathtakingly beautiful than before.” Dora said and I felt her slender fingers gently caress my cheek and her fingers gently followed the curves of my lower lip. If I wasn’t in so much pain I would have gently bit down, just to tease her. “I am afraid others will think the same way. If one of them as much point a finger at her in a way that displeases me I will not stand for myself.” Caius growled softly. Dora chuckled. “Neither will I.” Their words gave me hope that maybe I didn’t resemble the charcoal briquette I felt like. It seemed as if I must be just a pile of charred bones by now. Every cell in my body had been razed to ash. “I still cannot believe we are finally complete, after all those centuries.” Caius said, his voice so soft and full of love. “I know, my love. And I promise I won’t go back to the tower. I will pick up my duties again.” Dora said. “You will?” Caius’ voice was filled with amazement and admiration. “I will. I am sorry I distanced myself from you for centuries. I- I had just lost all hope of finding Xandria. But you pulled me through and now I want to repay you both. Give you both my time and energy and love.” I felt a slight movement and Dora’s head lifted off of my belly. I heard the distant sound of vampire lips colliding in a passionate kiss. I never knew she had distanced herself from Caius. Maybe that is why he had grown cruel according to the stories I was told in the two weeks I have been here. They whispered things in ancient greek to each other, but it sounded very soft and lovingly that I was almost certain they told each other how much they loved one another. A small smile made its way around

my lips. “She is smiling, Caius. Look.” Dora said. “You are almost there, my love. Hang on.” Caius whispered and I felt Dora place her head back on my belly, a small sigh of content escaping her lips. I heard the quiet buzz of the light hanging from the ceiling. I heard the faint wind brushing against the outside of the castle, and I could even feel the soft breeze against my skin from the opened balcony doors. Although, sadly, it did nothing to soothe the fires within me. I could hear everything. I could hear tourists and locals chatting, children laughing. Merchants trying to sell their wares. Singers and musicians trying to entertain the crowds. I counted the seconds along with the rhythm of the music. Twenty-one thousand, nine hundred seventeen and a half seconds later, the pain changed. On the good-news side of things, it started to fade from my fingertips and toes. Fading slowly, but at least it was doing something new. This had to be it. The pain was on its way out.… And then the bad news. The fire in my throat wasn’t the same as before. I wasn’t only on fire, but I was now parched, too. Dry as bone. So thirsty. Burning fire, and burning thirst… Also bad news: The fire inside my heart got hotter. How was that possible? My heartbeat, already too fast, picked up—the fire drove its rhythm to a new frantic pace. “Dora, listen.” Caius said as he heart my heartbeat picking up in a frantic pace. “Finally.” Dora breathed out in relief. The fire retreated from my palms, leaving them blissfully pain-free and cool. But it retreated to my heart, which blazed hot as the sun and beat at a furious new speed. The loudest sound in the room was my frenzied heart, pounding to the rhythm of the fire. “It is almost over, my love.” Caius whispered, holding me even closer to his chest. My relief at his words was overshadowed by the excruciating pain in my heart. My wrists were free, though, and my ankles. The fire was totally extinguished there. The room went silent besides the jack-hammering of my heart as they all stopped breathing for a second in response. I considered speaking for a moment, and when I opened my mouth to call out to them then the fire ripped hotter still through my chest, draining in from my elbows and knees. I screamed once more. My heart took off, beating like helicopter blades, the sound almost a single sustained note; it felt like it would grind through my ribs. The fire flared up in the center of my chest, sucking the last remnants of the flames from the rest of my body to fuel the most scorching blaze yet. The pain was enough to stun me, to break through my iron grip on the stake. My back arched, bowed as if the fire was dragging me upward by my heart. My hands broke free from Dora’s grip and I was scratching at my chest, trying to rip out my heart. Caius and Dora quickly held onto one hand each, preventing me from possibly hurting myself in the process. It became a battle inside me—my sprinting heart racing against the attacking fire. Both were losing. The fire was doomed, having consumed everything that was combustible; my heart galloped toward its last beat. The fire constricted, concentrating inside that one remaining human organ with a final, unbearable surge. One final and agonizing scream left my lips and my entire back arched as my head fell backwards. The surge was answered by a deep, hollow-sounding thud. My heart stuttered twice, and then thudded quietly again just once more. There was no sound. No breathing. Not even mine. For a moment, the absence of pain was all I could comprehend. And then I opened my eyes and gazed above me in wonder.

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - The Girls and Their Ghosts

For @evaroze, a sweet gal who inspired me with her super kawaii art. I hope you enjoyed it! And a special shout out goes to @stephreynaart and her comic, who never fails to make me laugh and I couldn’t help but include it in this piece. (There may or may not be a part 2...)

(slight name change to better fit a cute headcanon)

~~~~~~~~~~

“MOVE! MOVE! OUTTA THE WAY!”

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“Oh, dear me!”

“SHADDUP! MOVE!”

“Stanley, calm down.”

“PICK UP THE PACE, SIXER, I AIN’T MISSING THIS!”

Ford rolled his eyes with a smile on his worn face, weather-beaten and tired, but he continually ran after his twin. Despite the fact that their bodies would hate them for this later, they ran through the hospital as fast as they could. They weren’t this late when Soos had his son. Luck just hadn’t been by their side this time.

After battling a fierce storm to reach the coastline, finding the Stanmobile and having to explain why they were picking it up earlier than scheduled, racing to the center of the state, and parking in an emergency handicap spot, the old sailors in their mid-eighties used all of their strength to reach the Gravity Falls Hospital in time. While Ford was beyond jubilant, Stan was the most frantic and spirited, but that didn’t mean Ford didn’t punch three jerks in the face when confronted at the docks and that he would have no issue using a recovered memory gun to wipe some cops’ memories of a speeding Diablo.

Stan jammed the button for the elevator a few times, decided it was too slow, and bolted to the stairs. Ford followed, pulling out his magnet gun, and called, “Stanley, grab hold of me!”

Inside the stair-covered hallway, Stan grabbed his brother tightly and Ford shot upward, zapping them up a few floors and they landed like cats at the door to the sixth floor. They ran down the hall and Stan counted the doors. “Four… five… six… damn it, where’s eighteen?!”

“Grunkle Stan?”

Stan would recognize that voice anywhere. He ran faster (Ford didn’t think that was even possible) and around the corner Mabel, Gideon, Soos, and Dipper and Mabel’s parents were in a small waiting lobby. Mabel skipped to the old men happily, letting her orange-haired fiancee stay behind at a safe distance, and she hugged them tightly. Ford and Stan squeezed her tightly, haven’t seen her since the summer, the old tradition of a long reunion still going strong, and they soon let her go to have a look at the beautiful young lady with long brown hair, eyes that matched their own, and black lips with pink eyeshadow.

“Well?” Ford huffed, low on oxygen.

“She’s fine, everything’s okay.” Mabel giggled and patted their shoulders. “Any minute now.”

“We did miss it?” Stan checked hopefully.

“Nope!” Mabel said cheerfully. “They wanted to be alone for this, but when the baby’s born we can all go in.”

Stan held his pounding chest and collapsed into a chair. Soos was there to pat his shoulder and welcome him home, to which he immediately asked where his grandson was and if he was too cool for him now, but Soos just laughed and said that Melody would bring him once everything had calmed down.

An hour or so passed before nurses and the doctor started to leave the room. A few more minutes passed with everyone watching the door carefully and soon a very tired-looking Dipper emerged, pinching the bridge of his nose with a bandaged hand. It was amazing how much he resembled the men before him, sturdy and strong like his Grunkle Stan, but still fluffy and favored layers of clothing, like his Grunkle Ford. Like most men in the family, he required glasses, which he happily sported, alongside a small golden band on his left hand and a brown fur coat an old friend had given to him as a wedding present. Dipper had a little bit of stubble, promising a short old dutch beard and possibly a mustache (Stan prayed not a stupid mustache), and despite the bags under his eyes and the tiniest bit of redness that circles his soft brown spears, the windows to his soul sparkled with pure joy and his smile was radiant.

In an instant, his twin sister ran to him and he engulfed her in a huge hug, one that swept her off her feet and spun her around and made her giggle like the child she was at heart. Mabel eventually let him go to ruffle his hair and then asked, “So…”

Dipper grinned, his eyes sweeping the area to see who had arrived in time, and he croaked, his throat thick with emotion, “It’s a girl.”

Mabel squealed and bounced like there were springs at the bottom of her heels. Their parents high-fived and the new grandmother looked close to tears. Soos punched Gideon’s shoulder with a smile. Stan sneakily handed Ford a ten dollar bill, both grinning widely at the arrival of their first great-grandniece. God, that made them sound ancient.

“Congratulations, Dipper!” Ford cheered and clapped a six-fingered hand on his shoulder.

“So when can we see the little princess?” Stan asked with a huge smile.

“Right now,” Dipper said and opened the door for the small crowd.

Stan slipped his beanie off and held it with hands that trembled with excitement. Every time he was allowed in a delivery room had been special. Dipper and Mabel being born had been both painful and joyful, being the first new family members that didn’t hate him or pity him. Jacob Stanley Ramirez’s birth had been honorable with tears and hugs and no hint of pain, though Stan never became a father like he had once dreamed, he was now a grandfather. Now, his own little niblings had a baby to call their own. Stan had been terrified that he might not live to see this day, so he was grateful that not only he got to be here, but that Ford was here with him.

In the bed, freshly cleaned, tired, and glowing with pride and love, Pacifica held a pink bundle in her arms. Dipper was by her side soon enough, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her forehead in thanks. Her smirk immediately went to the old men, but it was too distracted by a trembling, squealing woman her age.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Paz, she’s perfect!”

“You haven’t even seen her yet, Mabel.”

“Don’t care, she’s my niece, therefore she’s perfect!”

“Well, come here and meet your goddaughter.” Dipper chuckled.

Mabel was suddenly deadly still, the still-est she had been all day. With the color drained from her face and making her look like a vampire thanks to her mixture of pink and black outfit, she whispered, “I’m… I’m…”

The new parents nodded with supportive smiles. “No one’s better for the job, hon.” Pacifica said earnestly.

Mabel could only bite her lip as she stood by her twin and peered down at the bundle.

Stan and Ford stood by her side, now at the foot of the bed, and awed at the sight. A teeny tiny head was swaddled in the midst of the soft blanket. It was like when Stan saw those newborn twins all over again. A blank canvas with small resemblances to their parents. Stan swore this gal had that Pines’ baby button nose and she somehow already had that perfect Northwest skin complexion. His opinion may be biased, but who cares? This baby was the most beautiful Stan had ever seen (right next to his other kids, duh).

“Wow…” Stan choked. “She’s p-p-pretty.”

“Stanley, are you crying?” Ford chuckled.

“Shaddup.” He said weakly and wiped his wet eyes with his arm.

Pacifica smiled warmly and offered, “Wanna hold her, you old fart?”

With a quick cough and a clearing of his throat, Stan nodded and sat in the offered chair by Pacifica’s side. At this point the old man was an expert on accepting babies and how to hold them properly. He had been practicing since he was seventeen and got to hold Shermie’s son, who today became a grandfather and looked ready to fight Stan for a chance to hold the baby.

However, this time was different. Stan couldn’t be selfish with his time with her. She had tons of other people to love her and make sure she was happy. She didn’t need him. So much unlike Stan, who fought Shermie for five more minutes to hold the twins, and who held Jacob for hours as he cried silently, he let Ford hold the newborn after a few minutes and was content in watching. The rapid trip had tired him out.

“What’s her name?” Ford asked his grandnephew.

“Angelina Susan.” Dipper said proudly.

Everyone was merciful enough to ignore how wet Pacifica’s eyes were.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford had been having a conversation with Dipper over mugs of coffee while Stan entertained Angel when the conversation accidentally morphed into a monologue of Dipper explaining the progress of his ghost-hunting show to his old idol. Ford was listening. Or, half-listening.

As it was customary, Stan found a new snuggle buddy by letting Dipper’s daughter sleep on his chest, a hand over Angel protectively. The baby was almost a year old now and slept with her thumb in her mouth with dirty-blonde hair that she inherited from both parents. Ford smiled at the bright child. While Stan had always been amazing with children, there was something special about Angel that Ford couldn’t quite shake. Seeing her so happy and at peace made him feel the same way.

Later that night, Ford was in the kitchen for something to drink when he heard the start of a baby’s cries. He and Stan were staying with Dipper and Pacifica for the holidays this year while the Mystery Shack was undertaking repairs, and so the old sailor had no issue assisting with the baby if he could to repay the parents for their hospitality by letting them sleep. In his cozy blue flannel pajamas, Ford quietly entered Angel’s nursery and peeked inside, his ears cursed with the stressed cries and he was determined to solve whatever problem the baby had and to put her at ease.

Angel’s cries morphed into whimpers at the sight of the old man above her crib. Her lip trembled and she held her little arms up for him. Ford chuckled and gently scooped her up. “Oh, it’s alright, my dear. It’s alright. I’m here.” He cooed softly and rubbed her back, letting Angel rest her tiny head on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Ford ran through his big head for a diagnosis of Angel’s distress. No bad smells, no sign of pain or injury. She might be hungry, Ford thought, but just as he was about to leave with her for the kitchen to try to find some milk to give her, the aged scientist noticed something. Angel was holding him very tight. Though she was no longer wailing, she was still crying, even trembling a little, but she did not feel cold. Ford re-positioned Angel to feel her forehead, but she did not feel warm. He then saw her beautiful baby blue eyes and knew what was wrong. Angel had been terrified by something.

Ford smiled softly and held her by his shoulder again to rub her back and he swayed slightly where he stood. “It’s alright, it’s alright, my lovely. It was only a nightmare. They all go away eventually, trust me.”

He and Angel slowly settled into the rocker for restless babies and Ford gently pushed back and forward. Angel was no longer crying now, still clinging onto her uncle’s pajamas tightly, like he was a lifeline, but she was starting to calm down and understand that she was safe. “That’s it, my little angel, that’s it.” Ford praised her quietly.

A quick glance outside told him that it had started to snow in the middle of the night. He smiled at the idea of playing with Angel in the morning, wrapped up like Eskimos and enjoying the gift nature had provided. An old song came to mind and so Ford hummed it quietly to the baby. Perhaps Ma had sung it a fair few times, or maybe it was a brand new tune Ford had made up. Who knows? Regardless, soon Angel was fast asleep and the old man had no strength to get up, so Dipper would simply have to find them in the morning and sneak a picture for jokes and memories.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three years passed. Angel was a bubbly, curious child with a pair of baby twin sisters, Stella and Estelle. It was nice to know Dipper and Mabel wouldn’t be the only set of twins in the family. Mabel and Gideon had their own family, Jacob had even grown up and graduated high-school just a few weeks ago. Stan was beyond proud, and the last four years on land with Dipper and his family to help around the house and practically work at the Mystery Shack had brought its own joys as did sailing around the world. But he was tired.

Ford held his hand when he didn’t have the strength one morning to get out of bed. They had been silent, simply enjoying each other’s presence, for they had already said everything that needed to be said. Not only said it, but said it a million times in the years they had spent sailing around the world and retiring in Gravity Falls together. But Ford wanted to assure his brother of one thing, detecting how hard he was fighting to stay.

He cleared his throat, squeezed his twin’s hand, and croaked, “You can let go, Stanley.”

Stan chuckled weakly. “Nah, I ain’t ready to go. Believe it or not, there’s still something I wanna stick around for.”

Ford smiled at that. He had feared that after so many years of neglect and only staying alive because he had something to do, that when there was nothing to do, he wouldn’t have the will to stay. He was beyond relieved to discover he was wrong. “What is that?”

Stan gave his brother a cocky look, despite being so tired and weak. “My family, Sixer. I’m not leaving them anytime soon.”

Ford found that he completely understood, and privately agreed. “Neither am I.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Not many people thought Ford would last long after Stan died, but the eldest twin managed to stick around for five years before he died of a peaceful heart attack in his sleep. The Pines family were saddened, but they were also happy that the brothers were reunited and that they had both lived full and happy lives. And they knew them well enough to know they would not have been pleased if everyone was sad and made their names taboo.

Angel remembered her grunkles vividly. She was eight when Grunkle Ford died and she took it hard, being very close to him and admiring him like her father before her had, but her family helped her get through it and Dipper assured her daughter that he was happy. That was all Angel cared about.

There were times she enjoyed being a big sister, and times she didn’t. Stella and Estelle caused so much trouble and were the biggest handful anyone had ever seen. Ford once said before he died that the girls gave him and Stan a run for their money. It was like the girls had unknowingly accepted a challenge, and now were pure trouble-making terrors that kept Gravity Falls interesting thanks to their father’s curiosity and their mother’s attitude.

One night, when Angel was ten, she left her room for a glass of water or milk, something to satisfy her thirst, and she tiptoed across the dark house with a smile, the glow of the moon creating squares on the floor through the windows, perfect for quiet hopscotch. Angel stopped at the fireplace that showcased so many old photos. There was the picture of Mommy and Grandma Susan in the diner, waitresses together, and pictures of weddings, fishing trips, holidays, and just hanging out with Aunt Mabel and Uncle Gideon and Uncle Soos and Jacob. One picture Angel carefully picked up and smiled at.

She was only a baby in this picture, maybe a few weeks old, and Grunkle Ford was holding her as he sat in an armchair (she had seen that same chair at the Mystery Shack), with Grunkle Stan leaning against the seat, ruffling his brother’s hair and smiling at the baby. Angel became a little sad; she didn’t remember Grunkle Stan as well as she remembered Grunkle Ford, but she loved them both and missed them. She took the framed photograph with her into the kitchen and looked at it as she drank her water at the table, remembering all she could.

Angel could remember the sound of Grunkle Ford’s voice. It was low and heavy, but soft and comforting, like a weighted blanket. He used that voice to read her stories, using a different voice or accent for each character and even doing the sound effects, whether Angel asked him to or not. She could also remember him and Aunt Mabel knitting and showing Angel how to do it. She didn’t have the patience to learn, but she liked watching the yarn magically turn into clothing and listening to the two swap stories.

Angel can remember Grunkle Ford’s shadow puppets. He was the best at it, and sometimes he would shine a light against a wall, build a mini pillow fort for Angel to rest on, and make pictures on the wall with his special hands. Susie had a vague memory of once saying she wishes she had six fingers so she was more like Grunkle Ford. And he may or may not have started to cry, though Angel to this day had no idea why.

As for Grunkle Stan she mostly only remembered him through Grunkle Ford; Angel was only three when Grunkle Stan died, and all she could remember independently was a very distinct laugh and his smile, but she could remember everything Grunkle Ford said about him and the stories he told. Everyone always said how great Grunkle Stan was, despite being a conman. Angel grinned at the idea of having such amazing relatives, both old men cunning and crafty and willing to do anything for their families. She really missed them.

Angel sighed and left her empty glass alone to put the picture back on the fireplace. As she passed the TV, a video tape fell out of a box below the screen, though she could have sworn she had never touched it. Angel grinned at that; she had a feeling something funny had happened before, but she told herself grief was imagining something that wasn’t there.

She picked up the tape and grinned to find a familiar cursive handwriting on some tape on the top of the black box. Angel quickly slid it into the very old machine and turned on the TV quietly, then sat on the carpeted floor before the glowing screen. What she saw made her jubilant and she had to bite her lip to keep from squealing.

Thirty minutes later she hurried to her sisters’ bedroom and shook them away, climbing on the ladder of the bunk-bed to reach Estelle and kicking Stella awake. “Girls! Get up!”

“What?” Estelle snorted, rubbing her eyes.

“Why?” Stella groaned, burying her head under her pillow.

“There’s something you gotta see, now c’mon!” Angel urged and eventually pulled the twins by their wrists out of bed and practically dragged them out of the room.

Stella and Estelle were a bit less pissed when they saw the TV was on and all Angel wanted was for them to watch something, so they settled on the couch with their sister and Angel re-winded it to a certain point. The twins gasped to find an uncle they didn’t remember on screen.

“My name’s Stanley Pines.” He said seriously, in his beanie, boxers, slippers, and stained undershirt, sitting in his famous armchair. “I was sixty-seven when I made this tape, but now… I’m dead.” He said in a low voice with a strained face and wide eyes, then wiggled his fingers and asked with laughter in his throat, “Trapped in a box underground! Pretty spooky, huh? Haha!”

There it was! That laugh Angel could so distinctly remember. She grinned at hearing that laugh again and glanced down at her sisters, both wide-eyed with wonder.

A sharp voice that was slightly more recognizable interrupted Grunkle Stan’s laugh. “Stanley!” Grunkle Ford scolded behind the camera, while Grunkle Stan rolled his eyes. “Stan, this is for future Pines generations, the children Dipper and Mabel will have that we might not get to meet, their grandchildren! Surely you have a message you want to leave them.”

“Alright alright, I do.” Grunkle Stan said and smiled at the camera as he pointed at his audience. “Remember to work hard and that family always comes first. Also,” Now Grunkle Stan grew slightly more serious again. “I have several pounds of gold and millions in unmarked bills in a safe buried under the Shack, next to the…” His face suddenly dropped, and then their grunkle went on to over-exaggerate, putting a hand to his chest to fake a heart attack, then proceeded to limp over his chair with his tongue sticking out, making dying noises.

As the twins were laughing loudly and probably waking up their parents and Angel tried to shush them but was giggling nonetheless, the camera spun around and Grunkle Ford appeared on screen. “I’m sorry, kids, but this is what I have to work with.” Then he raised an eyebrow annoyingly as Grunkle Stan continued to make dying noises.

Angel paused the TV as the girls tried to silence their laughter, but despite Stella biting her shirt and Estelle holding her breath until she was blue, all three couldn’t help but laugh, not only from the comedic scene recorded for them, but the overwhelming joy they had from seeing their grunkles. Not only seeing their grunkles, but via a message they had created just for them.

Stella wiped a teary eye and asked, “Is that it?”

Angel shook her head. “No, there’s thirty minutes of Grunkle Ford just talking to us and showing us their favorite things, even the Stan O’ War. That was just my favorite part.”

“Forget sleep!” Stella said and ran off for the kitchen. “Start the movie over! I’ll make popcorn!”

“I’ll get the drinks!” Estelle volunteered and followed her twin to the kitchen.

Angel smiled, loving the idea of seeing her family again, and alone in the room, she could feel a presence she couldn’t quite explain, but she looked at the old men in the photograph above the fireplace and whispered, “Thanks, guys. I miss you.”

Meanwhile, invisible to the Earth they dwelled on, Stan stood by his niece with his brother by his side. Proudly grinning, he clamped a hand over Ford’s shoulder and said, “They love us!”

Ford smiled and chuckled, his eyes still on his little angel, who looked at the picture hungrily. With any luck, she won’t miss them for much longer.

[adamantiumfcrged]

Wolverine is one of the shorter human male characters in his comic verse, generally coming in at around 5’3”.  While Hugh Jackman comes in at around six feet, there was some effort made in the movies to depict him as shorter than he was though it still did not quite reach the shorter stature that he is given (or should be given) in the comics.

Wolverine weighed around 195 pre-bonding and tops over 300 pounds with the adamantium skeleton coating.

One of his defining features is the extreme amount of body hair that he possesses, i.e. very hairy arms, etc. and of course, the trademark sideburns and swept back hair.

He has looked the same for the last eighty-odd years since he hit his full maturity / adult-hood and could continue to look the same for upwards of a couple hundred more years before there was a marked difference thanks to a retarded aging factor.

In direct opposition, he possesses an incredibly high metabolism which correlates into an insanely powerful healing / regenerative factor and also makes it pretty close to impossible to sedate him as his body processes chemicals at an incredible rate.  The down side to this is that it makes it very, very difficult for him to get drunk, though this does not stop him from trying.

Logan possesses heightened senses which allow him to see and hear farther, identify someone by scent even within a crowd and to track them by their scent through even the worst terrains.  These also correlate into being able to sense more of a person’s state of mind / emotional state of being, i.e. lust, fear, anxiety, signs that point to someone attempting to deceive him, etc.

Thanks to his thick skin and regenerative abilities Logan can survive in temperatures to the extremes, though because of his incredibly high metabolism he runs a few degrees higher than normal and tends to prefer the colder climates.

His skeleton is coated in the extraterrestrial metal adamantium.  The metal used in Wolverine’s skeleton is called true adamantium and can be reproduced on Earth though it is astronomically expensive to do so.  It is bested only by what is called Proto-Adamantium, of which the only known sample of is used in Captain America’s shield, though what laces Logan’s skeleton is a very close second and is only marginally bested by the metal in the Captain’s Shield.  All forms of adamantium are very very rare and once the metal has been liquefied it must remain in a liquid state until it is formed / shaped / coated onto its target because once it cools it is forever in that shape.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Saving Face” (Rated PG13)

Summary: A gang of bullies use Warlock to trap Adam on Halloween night, herding him towards a big, old, haunted house where no one goes ... and few who enter are ever seen alive again. (3904 words)

Notes: This is one of two stories I wrote for A Big Spooky Fan Zine. Be sure to check the rest of the collection for some amazing spooky works from other wonderful fandom creators :)

Read on AO3.

“Warlock … man,” Adam implores, backing away, hands raised in surrender “... come on. You don’t have to do this.”

Warlock grins at Adam’s trembling voice, his eyes wide with fear reflecting Warlock’s triumphant grin.

“Yeah,” he says, taking measured steps forward, eating up this moment. “I do.”

A pack of five boys in costume creeps up behind Warlock like the jackals they are. They’re not standing with him. They’re there to ensure their plan goes off without a hitch. This initiation into their gang will not only provide them with a minion in Warlock, whose father’s money and connections make the boy more valuable to them than Midas. But it will knock precious prince Adam Young off his popularity pedestal - a position he’s held on to for far too long.

Adam looks from Warlock to his cronies closing in on him, taking their time since they know he’s at their mercy. Talking will not help him, and he can’t fight his way out. Six against one? The odds are not on his side. So he does the only thing he can do.

He runs.

He turns tail and bolts, feet inside his battered trainers pounding the pavement, lungs burning from the strain he’s putting them through. But he has no illusions that he’s getting away, even when he gains a considerable lead. He knows how this gang operates. They’re herding him to one specific place: The Parsons House - an abandoned house at the end of this deserted lane; a monstrous, crooked, ramshackle nightmare overlooking the largest cemetery in their village. It’s the oldest house in this corner of the countryside. A worn, wooden sign attached to a single post that no longer stands upright proclaims it to be so.

No one ever goes there, regardless of the fact that its last known owner, Emily Parsons, lived for over eighty-three years inside, all alone, until the day she died of old age. But it’s been said that her frail body can be seen hanging from a noose in the upper attic window, leading to speculation by local townsfolk that the story of her dying peacefully in her sleep may be nothing but a tall tale.

This gang of boys (sans Warlock) have done this before - chased some poor, frightened soul that they hate to the house and forced them inside …

Kids that never came back to school, who were never heard from again.

In an act that could be described as simultaneously brave and stupid, Adam heads for the house, leaps over its rickety fence, and runs straight for the stairs.

All six boys crow when they see him skid to a stop at the base of the porch.

He’s right where they want him.

Whether he goes in himself or they grab him by his arms and legs and toss him in, he’s going in that house.

“Go on then!” one of the boys yells. “Get yer bony arse in there!”

The boys cackle, lending further to the impression that they are hunchbacked, sharp-toothed predators.

“And what if I don’t?” Adam calls over his shoulder, not fully facing them. Keeping his back turned to this lot is just as foolhardy as seeking safety inside this house, but he can’t turn his back on the house either. It has an essence - something he can feel deep inside his body, into the marrow of his bones.

“I don’t see you have much of a choice,” a different boy yells. “One way or the other, yer going in there. It just depends on whether you’re walking in or crawling in on two broken legs!”

Adam looks at the boys, stopped by the fence, with a slight smirk and a furrowed brow.

“How on earth am I supposed to crawl anywhere on two broken legs?” he asks.

“I …” The boy who made the original comment chokes on the rest of his sentence, realizing then how much that threat doesn’t make any sense. “I don’t know! You’re just gonna!”

“Adam … buddy …” Warlock grips the pointed tops of the fence posts and leans over “… my friends here are going to make sure you get into that house one way or the other. So you might as well get it over with.”

Adam answers Warlock’s comment with a hard swallow. He doesn’t honestly believe those boys are going to grab him up and toss him into the house. They’re too scared to even come past the fence, standing just beyond the splintered pickets, dressed in an array of stereotypical monster costumes – a werewolf, a vampire, a mummy, Frankenstein’s monster, and a ghost – each one blocking Adam’s escape.

Warlock is the only one among them not wearing a costume, opting for slate gray trousers, a white button-down, and the thick, navy wool coat he wears for school. With the exception of being only twelve, he looks, for all intents and purposes, like he’s going on a job interview.

Just an everyday average Joe.

That’s because, he’d explained, serial killers blend in, look like everyone else.

In reality, Adam has the upper hand. He should run inside and hide.

It’s a good plan.

A reasonable plan.

A solid plan.

So why doesn’t he make his feet go?

He searches for a weapon since it seems that fighting might become an option.

The house shifts on its foundation when a particularly forceful breeze passes through it. Adam eyes the graying wood slats falling from the siding, dusty windows clattering while shutters swing off their hinges, smacking dully against one another.

A rock flies in out of nowhere and strikes Adam on the shoulder. He stumbles forward onto the first creaky step. He glares at the house, as if of all the people there meaning to do him harm, it’s the house that decided to throw the first punch.

But it wasn’t the house.

He knows it wasn’t.

And the stakes in this game of cat-and-mouse have just gone up a notch.

“Go on already!” the boy dressed as a mummy yells, tossing a second rock straight up and catching it as it comes down like he’s warming up for baseball practice. “We haven’t got all night! We still have egging to do!”

“Well, why don’t you go do that and come back? I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

Adam ducks in time to miss the rock whiz by his head, coming close enough to nick his left ear.

“No more jokes, Adam!” werewolf boy growls. “You either go inside and take your chances, or we pound you into the dirt!”

Adam looks at the faces around him – mean, unfriendly, shrouded by masks and makeup, which makes these boys feel braver.

It also makes them more dangerous.

But they’re far from anonymous. Adam knows who the boys are underneath their masks. The vampire is Vince: the leader of the gang and the eldest, having retaken two grades twice. The werewolf is his younger brother, David. The mummy is Troy, their best friend from birth. Frankenstein’s monster is Leroy, and the ghost, in his thin white sheet, hiding him from absolutely no one, is Devin.

Yes, Adam knows them. He knows an awful lot about them, really. They’ve lived in the same village together their entire lives. They’ve been to each others’ houses at one point or another, hunted for eggs in the courtyard of the church every Easter till they were ten. But he doesn’t appeal to them. Because somewhere down the line, they changed. Rumors about them run rampant all over town. Outlandish rumors.

Still, Adam is far from impressed.

But Warlock … Adam had had high hopes for him. But Vince and his merry band of delinquents got their hooks into him.

Now, it might be too late for both of them.

Adam looks at the four short stairs leading to the porch. He knows the devils that wait for him if he doesn’t go up those stairs. He might as well try his luck contending with the unknown.

As a former Antichrist, a murderous spirit might be easier to reckon with.

He climbs unsteadily to the second step, ticking it off in his head.

Three more to go.

Somewhere above him, a shutter slams, causing him to skip step three and fall face-first onto step number four.

In the space of a second, he went from starting to nearly done.

He lifts a foot and plants it on the stair beneath him, raising himself up slowly as the plank bends in the middle. He brings his other leg up to the fourth step.

One more, and he’ll be standing on the porch.

Another breeze blows. The front door swings open, making all the kids present jump. Adam finds himself at a crossroads.

Whether he likes it or not, there’s only one way out of this.

He can’t make it past. He has to go through.

Adam flies into the house, the front door slamming shut the second he’s inside, as if receiving him.

Or swallowing him.

Then … everything grinds to a halt.

The wind ceases to blow.

The shutters hang limply, no longer bang.

The house stops its listing.

And from the pits of the boys’ stomachs to the tips of their toes, the earth stops spinning.

“What … what just happened?” David asks in a hoarse whisper.

“I think he went in there,” Leroy says.

“Went in, or was pushed?” Troy asks.

“Who would have pushed him? We’re all out here! Not a one of us has moved!”

“Maybe it wasn’t us,” Devin offers.

“Who was it then? Who was it!?” Troy asks, becoming unhinged. “Tell me!”

The sound of Adam screaming silences their arguing.

“Help! Help me! Vince! Troy! Devin! Warlock! Help me!”

“A … Adam?” Leroy says. “Is that …?”

“Yeah,” David answers quietly. “Yeah, that’s …”

“David! Leroy! Please!”

The boys have heard kids scream in this house before. And they’ve enjoyed it. It’s part of what they live for, why they do this every Halloween. But something about the way Adam is screaming is different. He isn’t just begging for help.

He’s calling out to them, each one by name.

Not only is it unsettling to hear Adam’s fearful voice calling for them, the thought of this house knowing their names sends chills up each of their spines.

Except for Warlock, who looks bored out of his mind.

Silence falls over the house again. A silence that drags on by the skin of its teeth and goes on for far too long.

Right when three of the boys summon up the courage to organize a search party, they hear another scream, this one worse than the last.

Adam again, but his screams have changed.

He’s beyond asking for help, gone from panicked, to bloodcurdling, to strangled, as if someone is pouring cupfuls of sand into his mouth. Above the sound of Adam choking for air comes a hollow, evil laugh, rising in volume and pitch, echoing around the walls and shaking the whole house.

“Vince!” it mimics, chuckling in between. “Troy! Devin! Warlock! David! Leroy!”

The boys stand up straight when they hear it, stepping back as the sound grabs at their insides and squeezes tight.

“We … we should go check on him … maybe?” Devin suggests.

“Yeah,” Leroy agrees. “Why don’t you go ahead and check on him, Vince?”

Vince glares at the boys flanking him side-to-side. “Nu-uh! I’m not opening that door for shite!”

“This was your brilliant idea!” Devin argues. “You’re the one who wanted to bring him here, despite the fact that we could end up dead! Or worse!”

“What’s worse than dead?” Vince asks.

“My mum could find out! I could be grounded till I’m married!”

Vince’s eyebrows snap in the middle. “B-but … you’re gay!”

“Marriage equality exists, Vince!” Devin crosses his arms. “Don’t be an arse, all right?”

“Point is,” Troy intervenes, “this was your plan from the start, so you should go check on him! Man!” He kicks at the pebbles beneath his feet. “I just want for one year to get some tricks or treats! I’m so tired of this shite!”

“Same here!” Leroy chimes in.

The five boys bicker back and forth. Warlock watches, gaze bouncing between them like he’s at a football match - a dull football match, one destined to end in a stalemate. He rolls his eyes.

He’s definitely done with this.

“Oh, I’ll do it!” Warlock says, blowing through the lopsided gate and trudging up the steps. “Ya bunch of pansies …”

“Yeah,” Vince says, visibly relieved. “Yeah, Warlock should go. It’s his initiation.”

“Oh, shut the eff up!” Troy says, unamused.

Warlock stomps up the stairs without a care, daring whatever is in the house that grabbed Adam to grab him as well. “Adam!” he yells, hand cupped to the side of his mouth to ensure he can be heard. “Adam! Where the hell are you?”

When Adam doesn’t answer, Warlock does the unthinkable.

He knocks on the front door.

The gang takes another step back.

“A-dam!” Warlock calls in a teasing, sing-song voice. “Come out here, ya coward! You trynna pull one over on us? Well, it won’t work. I’m gonna count to five, and then Vince is gonna come in and beat the crap out of you!”

“What!?” Vince yelps, his next step backward twice the size of the rest. “Oh, heck no! No no no no no no no!”

Warlock stops knocking. He puts an ear to the door. The boys watch, completely engrossed but prepared to run if anything else should happen.

If anything should eat him, then come for them next.

“Well?” Leroy calls up after a minute. “Do you hear anything?”

“I hear … something,” Warlock moves his ear from the center of the door to the seam. “It sounds like a …”

“Like a what? Like a what?” Troy screams, one creaky floorboard away from losing it entirely.

“I don’t know,” Warlock says, “but it sounds kind of like a … a …”

“A …?”

“... a … burp.”

The boys stare at one another, expressions wasted underneath their disguises.

“A burp?” David says. “Warlock, man! I’m gonna …”

The door breaks off its hinges and flies over their heads. The five boys duck down to avoid being beamed. When the coast is clear, and the cacophony of the door cartwheeling down the street dies down, they stand back up and look to the spot where Warlock had been standing, hoping to get an answer …

… but he’s not there anymore.

Not a scrap of him.

The gaping doorway stands open like a giant mouth breathing in the twilight air.

And Vince can’t stand it anymore.

“Warlock! Adam!” he bellows, then waits for an answer. When he doesn’t get one, he leaps over the fence and storms up to the house. “WARLOCK! ADAM! Come on out, all right? This isn’t funny anymore!”

Vince isn’t necessarily concerned with whether or not Warlock or Adam is alive or dead. He’s much more concerned with his sanity. He’s been to this house dozens of times, and nothing even close to this has ever happened. They have to be making this up. They had to have gotten together before tonight and planned on pranking him, probably hoping to see him mess himself.

Well, that’s not gonna happen!

He makes his way to the doorway with none of his gang behind him. He leans in, looks left and right.

“Warlock?” he calls out. “Adam? Where are you guys?”

He turns back to his crew, all of whom have migrated further down the walkway, preparing to run for their lives.

“They’re not … they’re not in there,” Vince says.

“You’re going to have to go inside then.”

“No way! Fuck that!”

“Vince …!”

“Don’t Vince me! They went into that house on their own! Ain’t no one to blame for that!”

“Adam went in because we threatened him!” Leroy points out.

“He wouldn’t have even come here if Warlock hadn’t invited him,” Vince counters.

“We helped! That makes us accessories!” Devin argues.

“Accessories?” Vince snickers. “What? Are you a solicitor now?”

“Just get in there, Vince!” Leroy says. “Or are you chicken?”

“I’m not chicken! I’m smart! I’m not gonna go in there and die because of fucking peer pressure, and not a one of you can make me!”

A tortured howl shakes the loose boards on the house, pulling the boys’ attention. But it doesn’t sound like Adam this time.

It sounds like Warlock.

“H-holy shit! Holy shit! Vince!” David yells, pointing at the house.

Pointing at Adam, standing in the doorway, two feet in front of Vince, his shirt front drenched in blood. None of the boys can tell if that blood belongs to him or not. Not even Vince, looking him dead in the eye.

But he doesn’t look too much worse for wear.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Vince cries, stumbling backward, missing the stairs altogether and falling straight off the porch onto his tailbone. He lands with a resounding thud, sprays of liquid hot pain shooting up his back.

“What … what happened to you, A---Adam?” Leroy asks.

“I was given a choice,” Adam growls in a new voice as he steps out onto the porch. An inhuman voice. “To submit … or die. And I chose …” He lifts his arms and his body follows, rising into the air above the boys’ heads as Adam grins down at them “… to conquer.”

“Wh-where is Warlock?” David asks.

Adam laughs. “You mean him?” With a sweep of his arm, the limp body of a young boy flies out one of the windows, landing on the ground inside the fence. The five boys scream, staring into the open and unseeing eyes of Warlock Dowling, his face ashen, his mouth opened wide, locked in a horrified scream so that the only conclusion they can come to is that he was literally scared to death.

“L-let’s get out of here!” Leroy yells.

“Oh …” Adam chuckles “… you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here … with us!”

“U-us?” Troy whimpers. “Who’s us?”

A fist busts through the floorboards of the porch, then an arm clad in rags and the shredded remains of what was once a flannel shirt. Another hand emerges, clawing through the wood to hoist up the rest - the head and torso of a corpse tearing themselves from the earth to do Adam’s bidding. Adam’s eyes - blistering red orbs glowing in their sockets - stare down at his tormentors, so frightened for their lives, they can barely scream. Vince scuttles backward to avoid the eruption. A hand explodes through the dirt beside him, grabbing hold of his ankle, and Vince launches to his feet. He manages a shrill wail as he flips over the gate and sprints off down the street, his four compatriots hot on his heels, one urinating noticeably.

Not until the boys are out of sight does Adam begin to laugh in earnest, his body lowering to the ground, carried gingerly by angelic power. He looks down as the glamour fades – the stain withdrawing, his eyes returning from the spell that made them transform. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, watching as the last remaining blood disappears from the fabric.

Warlock climbs up off the filthy ground. He was never really hurt, helped out the window and through the air by demonic intervention. “That was fun.”

“Better than what we did last year,” Wensleydale groans, clambering out of his hole in the porch.

“Hey!” Brian yelps, pulling off his sweaty mask and sucking in a breath of fresh air. “Last year’s costume contest was epic!”

“That’s because you won it!” says Pepper, pulling off her own oppressive mask.

“Yeah. And that was because your mum was one of the judges!”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t have the best costume!”

“Don’t you children think that was a little much?” Aziraphale asks, walking out on to the porch from where he and Crowley had been hiding in the living room, peeking out through a downstairs window. He’d disapproved of this scheme from the start, back when the Them found out what those bullies were concocting for Halloween night, how they had strong-armed Warlock into helping them. “Wouldn’t it have been better to approach their parents about their brutish behavior?”

“Nah,” Crowley says, slipping an arm around his husband’s waist. “Woulda done no good. Most of the time, the parents are no better than the kids. Who d’ya think the blighters get it from?”

“Isn’t this all going to be moot when they find out that Adam hasn’t been possessed by the devil, and Warlock did not, in fact, get devoured by bloodthirsty zombies?” Aziraphale asks, grimacing at the absurdity.

“No,” Adam assures him, “because no one is going to find out until school on Monday after they’ve already called everyone they know and told them about it. I can’t imagine the amount of trouble they’re going to get into!”

“Yeah!” Wensleydale agrees. “Look at all of the rules they’re breaking! Bullying, assault, trespassing. With any luck, they’ll get grounded for life!”

“Or at least three months.” Aziraphale shoots his husband a significant look that takes Crowley a moment to catch.

“Oh! Yeah, right.” Crowley snaps his fingers, performing the truly demonic miracle of making sure five bastards get their comeuppance.

“Besides, something good is coming out of all this,” Pepper reminds them. “Mrs. Parsons’s grandniece will have a brand new house after we help get this wreck fixed up. It was nice of her to let us borrow it for the night. We must have sounded bonkers when we asked.”

“Not at all. She understood,” Aziraphale assures them. “She was glad that after years of people using her great aunt’s house to scare people that someone asked permission for a change.”

“I think things turned out exactly the way they were meant to,” Pepper says.

“Yup!” Brian concurs. “Let the punishment fit the crime, I always say.”

“When do you say that?” Wensleydale asks, beating dirt and cobwebs out of his ear.

“All the time,” Brian argues.

“I’ve known you my entire life, and I’ve never once heard you say that!”

“Then you haven’t been listening hard enough!”

“Pepper? Have you ever heard him say that?”

“Don’t know. I tend to ignore every third word that comes out of his mouth.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“You were right, Warlock. Go big or go home,” Adam says over the argument ensuing.

“Yeah.” Warlock smiles at his new friends. They were never angry at him for the part he almost played in conspiring against their leader. They offered to help him out with no arguments given. It was Pepper's idea to pretend to turn into the undead. Brian got their costumes together. Wensleydale found out about Mrs. Parsons's grandniece and suggested they give her a call. Then they spent most of Halloween night hiding out in this creepy old house when they could have been roaming the neighborhood begging for candy.

But the best thing they did was let him join their group even though he probably didn't deserve it.

“We went big." Warlock smirks, watching the five boys clamor down the street and, unbeknownst to them, to a two-hour lecture and three months in solitary confinement. “Let’s go home.”

[sooibian]

An Eye For An Eye

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader

Genre: Angst, Ambiguous AU

Themes / Warnings: Mildly suggestive, exes, mentions of blood, murder and abortion, dark!kyungsoo, poor life decisions. Nothing too graphic but please proceed with caution!!

A/N: I have obsessed over this little piece over the last two weeks. I am literally shaking as I upload this simply because of how vastly different it is from the stuff I usually write. Anxiously await your feedback :) 

Shy tagging @changshapatrol ! Not Baek or Yeol but hopefully worth your time

Word Count: ~ 1.2k

Photocreds to @sefuns​

The heady redolence of cigarette, musk and whiskey makes your dwelling it’s own by coercion and sheer habit. The unmistakable gleam of anguish in his eyes hooded by strong brows and the intimacy of it all, re-acquaints you with the relativity of time. Maybe it had only been six fleeting months. Or one hundred and eighty excruciatingly endless nights of you waging war against your moral scruples that you’d held in high regard for the entirety of your existence. Only he could make you question everything you’d known to be true. Everything that you thought was virtuous and just. With the blood on his hands he'd exquisitely smeared the unambiguous line that distinguished good from evil. Or maybe it was the doing of your own imprudent heart. One massive heartache caused you to lose your bearings, it made you the evil that you deplore, the evil you always sought to escape. You trudge your feet through the cobweb of life with mind forged manacles of guilt and a heart ensnared with phantom memories of the devil.

The click-clack of your high heels against the wooden floorboard doesn’t intimidate the intruder. He revels in the auditory sensation, instead. Drawing in a sharp breath, he throws his head back as though inundated by a bittersweet symphony. The barely perceptible curve of his lips entices you. Makes you want to plunge straight into the familiar pit of deceit and malignity with the hope of feeling something different, even if it kills you. 

Albeit harrowing, you pick survival. 

What are you doing here? How did you get in? We agreed to never see each other again.

Impotent arguments - certain of disintegrating the ounce of sanity you held so dear. You laugh inwardly at your own foolishness.

Trespassing is the least Doh Kyungsoo is capable of.

“Get out.” The slight part in your nude lips and your clenched fists tend to the shiver that his overwhelming presence maledicts you with.

“You’ve not been eating well.” He says languidly, shooting a quick glance at the mouldering fruits in the basket that sat before him, in stark contrast to the opulent periphery. The leather-jacket clad man reclines further into the bergère chair, flirting with the silver bands on his slender digits while you’ve held the graceless stance of an unwelcome guest in your own living room. 

You drop all sense of propriety with Doh Kyungsoo, for your own sake. “Just leave”, you say to him in your inherent voice of authority, crossing your arms over your chest. You are nothing if not adept at masking your inner turmoil. It was a skill you’d finely honed by years of experience. His incisive stare is invading your most surreptitious thoughts, it’s demanding you to come clean. And with each passing second you feel frost settle deep in your bones.

It takes him three easy, self-assured strides and a slight crouch. His face is levelled with yours and he explores your desolate soul through the depths of your parched eyes. Patiently, in a meticulous manner, as if making up for the lost time. You fix your gaze on the little scar peeking through the hinge of his heavy glasses as his scent continues to obscure your senses. He says nothing and you find succour in the unsettling silence, terrified of your own unbidden justifications. His calloused fingers tentatively seek the warmth of your emaciated cheek and you feel your heart stop and start simultaneously.

The PVC card bore the identification of an infamous name that was ruthlessly dragged through the mud by every media outlet barely two months ago, even in his death - your estranged brother’s. The shattered glass case of the phone that lay dead beside it, screamed at you to refocus your now muddled senses. Your eyes then fell on the smashed car keys and the battered wallet. Your trembling fingers, misty eyes and perplexed mind worked in tandem to confirm your worst suspicion - they all belonged to him. Your heart lurches to your throat in panic.

The mental image of a man in his late twenties being run over by a truck is stuck on loop in your head as you scurry to the window to snatch a breath of air, miserable in your out-of-body experience. A numbness sweeps over you, your vision blurs and your head pounds. 

The bottle of champagne comes crashing to the floor. You realise it’s the kind of celebration you’ll probably never have. Especially after this, you think, it’s best to not tell him. Kyungsoo’s eyes fall on the nefariousness that you weren’t meant to unveil. You ransack his conscience for answers to the questions you were too petrified to ask. 

Sweet, sweet Doh Kyungsoo. Was that even his name or an alias? Was his restaurant business just a front for something notorious? Did he have a part to play in the death of your brother? Were you an unwitting accomplice?

Did he ever truly love you?

Teary eyed, he anxiously inched closer to you, scarcely avoiding the glass shards.

Your mind is a whirlpool of dread and disbelief. The tentative touch of his hand on your shoulder fails at softening the shock. Instead it makes you squirm in disgust.

“He was bad news. That’s all you need to know. I beg you not to look into this further. For your own sake and mine.” He surmises with a severe finality in dulcet sounds of a string quartet, leaving you with more questions than answers.

“He was my brother.” Your voice is but a quiver as you wrestle with what to say next. An inferno of feelings rage within you.

This was it. The point of no return.

He drops to his knees at the thought that this could be the last time he sees you. The static in your head scrambles his earth shattering cry of agony as you bolt out of the apartment of the man you thought you knew.

***

Two weeks later

Sleep evades you. The pull of betrayal and fear is stronger than better judgement. 

You finally begin to move, your feet sinking into the snow with each step you take. Your fingers are instinctively wrapped around the ultrasound, as you shed bitter tears at the sad provenance of the object.

The sterility of the ward takes you in. Cold. It’s the last feeling you remember before they rip the remnants of your soul out.

His lips on yours catapult you into wakefulness. Breathless, you tear away from him in outrage and your heart threatens to burst out of your chest. A grim smile spreads across his face as he takes two rueful steps away from you.

“If I leave today, I am never coming back.” The primacy in his voice warns you but the glint of yearning in his eyes tell an entirely different story.

He’s clearly unaware of your transgression.

Anguish and hostility dominate in the darkness of your living room causing you to collapse in silent tears. The sound of his heavy footsteps finding their way out magnifies the guilt you’ve solemnly carried in every fragment of your being. 

What’s left of you is the inviolable string that binds your heart with his in broken promises and unresolved mysteries.

[alarawriting]

Inktober 2020 #17: Storm

Iris was laughing as she got in the car. “Weather reports say it’s gonna be a big one!”

Caitlyn had just met this woman. This was a ridiculous idea. Chasing a violent thunderstorm had to be the dumbest idea any human ever had, surpassed only by chasing tornados, which apparently Iris also did when she was further west. There was no way in which it was a good idea to get into the passenger seat of the car.

Caitlyn slid into the passenger seat. “Just so you know, I feel like this is probably a dumb idea.”

“Of course it’s a dumb idea!” Iris started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. “Humanity only progresses by having dumb ideas!”

Her laughter, her cheer, was infectious. Iris was nearly six feet tall and easily two hundred eighty pounds, her hair buzzed short and her arms tattooed. She was everything Caitlyn’s mother would have told her to be wary of. She was also sunlight in human form. Her force of personality was blinding, overwhelming, but warm, and it lit up the world.

On the interstate, the miles per hour crossed the 55 line and continued to go up. “Where are we going?” Caitlyn asked. “I mean, yeah, a thunderstorm, but physically where?”

“We’re going south to intercept it. Probably hit it near the Maryland border, so we’ll take the bypass to the wild side of Delaware and follow it down on local roads.”

“This is crazy. You know that, right? It’s just a storm.”

“They’re never just storms, Caity.” Caitlyn could have gone a long time not knowing how Iris was spelling that, but unfortunately, Iris had addressed her by name in the text she’d sent to provide her number and email address. “Storms can kill people. They don’t have to be hurricanes. They knock down trees, they take out the power, they cause accidents. So I hunt them down.”

“That… really doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, you’ll see! It’ll be fun, I haven’t had a friend along on one of these trips in a year!”

Iris cut off a tractor trailer, causing the bellow of an air horn behind them. Small wonder no one wanted to go with her. “What happened with the last friend?”

“We broke up. She thought I was reckless! Can you imagine?” The smile Iris briefly flashed at Caitlyn before turning back to the road knew exactly why her ex thought her reckless, and was self-mocking about it.

“No, I can’t imagine it,” Caitlyn said, deadpan.

“But you know I’m reckless and you got in the car with me anyway, so if sometime in the future you say to me, ‘you’re too reckless’, I can say, ‘you knew that about me on the first date.’”

“This is a date?”

Iris’s laughter this time was almost a bark. “Pretty sure it must be! You’re not in love with storm chasing and you don’t like the way I drive, so you must have gotten in the car on the strength of my beauty and charisma, or something.”

“Something,” Caitlyn agreed, though in fact that was exactly why she got in the car. There was no way Iris could be considered beautiful by airbrushed Hollywood standards, but Caitlyn had always thought those women seemed somehow plastic, unreal, and now she knew why. Iris was realer than real, larger than life, and since they’d met and started talking at the mixer less than an hour ago, she’d known she was willing to get in Iris’s car and go anywhere. Including to Maryland to find a thunderstorm.

“You must be looking to add some chaos and recklessness to your life. Every woman who gets in my car is looking for that, or they wouldn’t get in the car.”

“How many women have gotten in your car like that?” Caitlyn asked, somewhat taken aback.

“Oh, only three.” Iris wove in and out of a wolfpack of cars. “Four, now, counting you. I don’t exactly run around luring all the women in with my siren song.” She laughed. “How about you, any ex-girlfriends? Or boyfriends, I don’t judge.”

“One boyfriend when I was fifteen, back before I knew I was a lesbian. One girlfriend. We were together for ten years.”

“Oh no! What happened?”

Caitlyn shrugged. “She thought I was boring. And not very good in bed. She wasn’t rude enough to say it in those words, but I can read between the lines.” Strange; Caitlyn hadn’t told anyone else that, and would normally have thought it oversharing. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was telling Iris, now. It didn’t seem like a great idea to warn a woman you were interested in that your last girlfriend thought you were boring in bed.

“Well, my philosophy is, if your girlfriend is bad in bed, it’s usually because you’re a lousy communicator and you never told her what you wanted, or else you’re a picky picky princess and you have a very narrow range of tolerance for what you like. At least, if she’s a cool human being in the first place, which you seem like you probably are.”

“No, it – she was wilder than me, and she wanted more than I could give.”

“Then it just sounds like you were incompatible,” Iris declared.

She glanced down at her tablet. “Huh. It’s changing course. We’re going to take the highway all the way down, Caity, be faster that way. I think we’ll be able to intersect it at Delaware House.”

“At where?”

“It’s a rest stop on I-95 near the Maryland border. I’m gonna need somewhere to pull over and it’s not a great idea to do that on the highway itself if you have any choice in the matter.”

“What’re you going to do when you catch it?” Caitlyn asked.

“I’m gonna punch it in the nose!” Iris laughed.

Caitlyn chuckled. “Okay, but seriously. You take pictures of them? Do you send them to NOAA or something? What do you do when you catch the storm you’re chasing?”

“You’ll see!”

***

An hour later and they were inside the storm, according to Iris’ tablet, which was set to a live feed of satellite imaging from weather.com or someplace. They’d just crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge, and it was raining hard. The tablet said it was eleven minutes to Delaware House, but that was probably assuming normal highway speed, and despite the rain, Iris was still driving at least 75 miles an hour.

“So you wanna get some food or something after we’re done here? Delaware House has a Popeye’s, we could get fried chicken.”

“Sure, why not.” Caitlyn had spent the past hour talking about herself, which was weird, because usually she was quiet and would hang back in any conversation, and she usually preferred to listen rather than talk. And you’d think Iris’ boisterousness would make it so she’d always be the one talking, but in fact she’d said almost nothing about herself. She’d talked a lot, but mostly questions for Caitlyn, who’d found herself as a result telling Iris her entire life story. “Maybe you can tell me some things about yourself. I feel like I’ve been talking and talking. You must be sick of hearing my voice.”

“I would never get sick of that voice, Caity. You have a lovely voice.”

“Most people don’t think so. They think I’m quiet and monotonous. Or, sometimes, loud and monotonous.”

“Some people have no grasp of subtlety,” Iris said. “Oh, good, the timing’s perfect. Looks like the center of the storm’s going to be passing over here in minutes. If I speed up just a little, we should get to Delaware House in time.”

“Why is the center of the storm so important? Does it look any different than the rest of the storm?”

“Not to most people,” Iris said cryptically, and leaned forward like a race car driver, her foot presumably turning into a block of lead from how the car sped up.

“Uh, aren’t you worried about hydroplaning?” Caitlyn yelled over the sound of the engine revving as they accelerated.

“Water knows better than to do that to me!” Iris yelled back, grinning.

“No, but seriously--!”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got the car under control!”

Caitlyn held onto the handle above the car door, awkwardly – it really wasn’t positioned well to be a safety handle – as Iris raced through the storm, only slowing down when she reached Delaware House. She coasted onto the left-side exit and allowed momentum to carry her to the parking lot, only braking once she was there.

As she pulled into a parking spot in the back, she said, “I don’t know if you wanna stay in the car or come out with me, but you can do whatever you like. I gotta get a move on, though, the storm center’s almost here.”

“I’ll stay in the car for now,” Caitlyn said, wondering if all of this was a terrible mistake. Maybe Iris was right and she was looking to add some recklessness and chaos to her life, but maybe this was too much.

“Okay.” Iris got out of the car, and looked up at the sky. The rain was coming down in sheets so thick, it was hard for Caitlyn to actually see her through it – she was a blob of color, not a clear human shape. But she heard Iris’ voice with surprising clarity.

“OKAY, MOTHERFUCKER! IT’S ON, NOW!”

What.

“COME ON, YOU LITTLE PISS TRICKLE! YOU CALL THIS RAIN, MY MOMMA DUMPED MORE WATER DOWN MY THROAT WHEN SHE GAVE ME A SIPPY CUP TO DRINK FROM! GET OVER HERE, YOU COWARD, AND FACE ME!”

The wind moaned, making the car creak.

“YEAH? YOU WANNA SAY THAT TO MY FACE, YOU DUMB SHIT? COME ON! LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!”

And then, as Caitlyn stared in absolute shock, Iris punched the sky… and the sky reeled, the clouds parting for a bare moment, before thunder rolled and lightning slammed down, hitting a nearby tree.

“YOUR AIM’S WORSE THAN A BLIND GRANDMA THROWING A DISHRAG! THINK YOU CAN HIT ME? COME AT ME, FUCKER!” Iris punched the clouds again – impossibly, because they were however many thousands of feet in the air and she was here on the ground, but the clouds roiled as if they’d been struck. Then she went to the ground, rolling, and came up to a sitting position next to an oversized pickup truck. Lightning struck the truck, and Iris sprang up and swung her fists at the sky again, her body language suggesting that she was putting all of her body’s force into the punches, and meeting resistance. One, two, three punches, and a gap opened in the clouds and stayed that way. Lightning came down again and hit a tree in the picnic area.

“OH, YEAH! GOTCHA ON THE ROPES NOW! GIVE IT UP, YOU SUMBITCH, IT’S ALL OVER FOR YOU!”

She swung her left arm out in a blocking gesture. A moment later, lightning struck inches away from the arm. Iris followed up with multiple punches, clearing more of the sky. The rain had significantly diminished, making it much easier to see what she was doing. “GET OUT OF MY GODDAMN SKY, MOFO! DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO BE HERE? WELL, DID I, DIPSHIT?” More punches, more clear sky. Another lightning strike, and an increase in the wind, blowing hard enough that the car actually rocked in it. And then Iris swung her arm out against the wind, and it dissipated. “THAT’S RIGHT, YOU LITTLE SHIT CREEK, WHO’S YOUR MAMA? WHO’S YOUR MAMA? I’M THE GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING RAINBOW, KIDDO, NOW GET BACK TO YOUR FUCKING PLAYPEN AND DRINK YOUR BABA!”

There was, in fact, a rainbow glittering in the sky, as the storm turned to mist.

Iris pulled the car door open. She was completely drenched. “Well, I kicked that thing’s ass,” she reported gleefully. “You up for fried chicken?”

“How – how did you –”

“Hon. You are the Greek mythology expert. How do you think? I said I was the goddamn rainbow, and I know you heard me, right?” She grinned widely.

“Iris was the goddess of the rainbow, and messenger of the gods,” Caitlyn said, mechanically, “but there was nothing in mythology about her fighting storms.”

“That’s because the Greeks were a bunch of patriarchal assholes. They saw Zeus throw some lightning bolts around one time and decided he was the god of storms. Never thought about the fact that rainbows come out after a storm’s over, did they?” She took a step back from the car and shook herself, like a dog, sending raindrops flying everywhere. “So. Do I drive you home now or do we go get fried chicken?”

Caitlyn took a deep breath. “Fried chicken. I have so many questions.”

“And I’ve got so many answers, so this will work out great!”

The storm had turned into nothing but a misty drizzle. Caitlyn got out of the car and followed Iris toward the glassed-in building that was Delaware House.

------------------------------------------------

While this is far from the only story idea of mine inspired by it, I definitely do have to credit “Fear for the Storm” by Jessica Best, from the podcast series “Starship Iris”, for inspiring this story. Also the Holly Near song “How Bold”, but with a happier outcome.

[rocohen20]

Happiest Day of Your Life- Chapter 1

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, AO3 (if you prefer there)

Before you start reading this series, I wanted to put a bit of a disclaimer ahead.

First of all, the idea for this series came to me at the summer prior to the 2017-2018 season, that's why at the base of it, it is a future fic. Due to its long writing process I took inspiration from the current season.

Second of all, as you may concluded from my first point, this series was a long time in the making. And for a few months my dead-line for the upload of the first chapter was at the end of the regular season. Meaning, that it was all before Covid-19 and the stoppage of the current season. That's why for the sake of the story let's just ignore the epidamic that is going on right now.

For your information, I am planning on updating a new chapter every two months. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and the series. I worked very hard on it, and I'm quite proud of it. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~

Welcome back all the viewers from home, I'm Josh Bogorad and with me here is Brent Severyn. You are watching the SECOND OVERTIME OF GAME SIX OF THE STANLEY CUP FINALS with the traveling crew of Fox Sports Southwest. We are right here at Air Canada Center, seconds away from puck drop.

For those who are joining us right now let me just inform you that from the first second of this game the Dallas Stars and the Toronto Maple Leafs had been at each other's neck. Each team came to this game with the knowledge that tonight the Dallas Stars may potentially become the 2020 Stanley Cup Champions. This game so far had been a terrific eighty minutes of hockey, from both teams.

And now the players get positioned for the faceoff of DOUBLE OVERTIME. Each team sent their top line, and the score is two-two. Remember, if Dallas win this game they would win the series. Seguin and Matthews are at the faceoff circle aaand we're underway.

+++

Welcome back from the the T.V. break, we are at the eleven minutes mark. So far the two teams kept their consisted defensive game which we saw all throughout the game. In general Dallas had kept that consistency all season long, and just took it to the next level during the playoffs!

The referee just dropped the puck at Toronto's endzone, and Toronto won the draw easily. Matthews sent it to Hyman who sent it to Nylander. And it is one on one with only Heiskanen at the diffense. Nylander still with the puck, Trying to keep the puck tucked away. He just fired a shot, top shelf, BUT BISHOP READ THE PLAY EASILY. And the puck is now at the board and there is a little battle going on. Hintz was able to take the puck along the boards, to the center line. Reilly is after him, trying to steal the puck away. OH AND JUST NOW Reilly tripped Hintz and Hintz went flying. 

The play is blown dead and it seems like Dallas will have a powerplay. This game was fairly clean up until now, and this is the second powerplay of Dallas so far this game. The first penalty was at the first period which back then Toronto was able to kill. Let's see if they will once again succeed.

+++

Dallas first powerplay unit is on the ice. Seguin won the faceoff, sent it to Benn AND WITH THE QUICK RELEASE, SHOT THE PUCK HARD ONTO THE NET. Andersen was able to save it, and he covered it. OH BOY, I have a feeling it's going to be an interesting shift.

Once again Seguin won the draw and Benn with the puck, searching for an opening. Now Radulov with the puck skating along the boards. He passed it to Klingberg who faked a pass to Seguin, and now is alone in front of the net. He rocketed a shot, HOWEVER ANDERSEN IS ON FIRE AND MADE THE SAVE!

Andersen sent the puck all the way to the other end where Bishop went to play the puck. Meanwhile the two teams took this opportunity to have a partial change. Bishop passed the puck to Heiskanen and let's see what they are going to do at the lasting forty two seconds.

The puck is now with Pavelski who tries to find an opening. He seemed to find none, so he sent the puck along the boards to Gurianov. Gurianov sent it to Johns who is at the blue line. OH AND HE SENT A BEAUTIFUL PASS TO PAVELSKI WHO'S WIDE OPEN. Two of Toronto's players just double teamed him in mere seconds and any good chance he might had, was gone. 

There are still four seconds left for the man advantage, and it seem that also this powerplay was killed.

Holl sent the puck flying to the other end and with that end the powerplay arrived. HOWEVER DALLAS ISN'T FAST ENOUGH AND REILLY FRESH OUT OFF THE BOX IS RACING TOWARDS THE PUCK. He won the race and it's him and Marner on Bishop. Reilly still got the puck, and he's getting closer to the crease. Meanwhile the closest player of Dallas is catching up to them and he's almost at arm's reach to Marner. Reilly shot the puck, but Bishop stopped it and sent it quickly to Gurianov at the faceoff dot. Gurianov and Seguin are the players further back out of Dallas, and they are off to their own two on one against Andersen. Gurianov have a shot at the net, and Andersen saved it. BUT HE DIDN'T RECOVER FAST ENOUGH AND SEGUIN WAS ABLE TO BARRY THE PUCK TO THE END OF THE NET!!!

AND THIS IS OVER, WITH SEVEN AND A HALF MINUTES LEFT TO DOUBLE OT. THE DALLAS STARS HAD WON THE STANLEY CUP!!! IT HAS BEEN TWENTY ONE YEARS SINCE THE LAST TIME, AND TWENTY YEARS SINCE THEIR LAST APPEARANCE AT THE FINALS. YET THIS TEAM WAS ABLE TO WIN AGAINST THE TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS IN SIX GAMES TO END THE SERIES.

☆☆☆

After double-shifting (and a little more) Tyler was too exhausted to register that this goal which he just had, had ended the game. But more importantly, that they won the game and the series. That they did it! That they went all the way and won the Cup!

It really registered two seconds afterwards, when all of his team formed a ever-growing pile of white and green players. After the initial embrace he started to get pulled to one hundred and one different directions from verious teammates, all with the same goal of thanking him and to show their effection. He of course took part at the ritual like the others.

Yet, he wasn't really present in the moment. Pretty much like the rest of the playoffs, once the game had ended and his presence wasn't necessery anymore, his brain allowed itself to be occupied with different matters, much more alarming matters. Like the fact that his grandfather had been since like two weeks prior to the start of the playoffs at the hospital. About the fact that his condition hadn't improved much since then, and it became clearer and clearer that his days were counted.

During the duration of the playoffs he would fly to Toronto and drive the fifty minute drive to the hospital when he was able to. However it was always for a day at most, so it never felt enough. The organization knew about the situation, so they were understanding and accomodating. The media found out about the situation halfway through the second round, against the Blues. He was pleasently surprised to see that the majority of the players chose to respect him and not to adress it on the ice. That was honestly the only way he was able to keep his sanity during this stressful time.

During his distracted daze he kind of resurfaced as they all stood at the side, mere seconds before Bettman would announce the Conn Smythe winner and the team as the Stanley Cup Champions. He let himself be present at that moment, enjoy it. The team knew beforehand that even if the were to win this game, he would go immidiately afterwards to see his grandpa. Just like he did following every other away game of this series. When Jamie was finally awarded the Cup, he and the rest of the team were ecstatic. Jamie took a second to calm himself, and then he hoisted the Cup and took off with it. 

Tyler didn't really let himself imagine before hand what it would be like if they won the Cup, out of some absord superstition. Yet everytime that he had thought about it, he didn't guess that after Jamie's lap he would be the second out of the team to hoist the Cup above his head. That's why he was a bit surprised when Jamie handed him the Cup. 

During his surprise he still instinctively reached for the Cup. However he searched for many of the older guys who hadn't had the chance to touch the Cup beforehand. He was able to catch Cameu's eyes. He wasn't sure what he expected to see exactly, but when Cameu's only reaction was a "Go on" motion with his hand while having a face splitting grin, he felt relaxed and happily hoisted the Cup above his head.

It may had been his second opportunity to have a victory lap with the Cup, however this time he felt like he trully diserved it. This run was so different from the run with Boston as a rookie in the legue. That was why every emotion and sensation felt so much stronger than last time. The feeling of the ice beneath his skates, the crowd screaming with so many fans who got there all the way from Dallas just to show their support, the wind which ruffled his hair, and the most intoxicating loop of his his and his teammates (who were basically family at that point) screaming and cheering. 

The only similarity was the fact that it still was hands down the lightest fifteen pounds he ever held above his hand. At least up until the point where he saw his uncle, Brandon, standing at the end of the tunnel near a police officer. In mere seconds he felt like he was holding a ton of bricks above his head. Then he was curious about how he was able to do so if all his blood left his body. It took him a few calming breaths to gather himself enough for the impanding news. The daze once again took over as he gave the Cup to the next player (he honestly couldn't tell you who it was) and skated towards his uncle. 

On his way over numerous reporters tried to stop him for an interview. He didn't care and just blantantly ignored them. Once he reached Brandon the first thing out of his mouth was "Grandpa died. Didn't he?"

He watched as his uncle's throat worked on nothing, while looking genuanly moments away from crying. It was unsetteling, so Tyler gave him free range as calling the shots. Brandon then just looked questionably at the officer. Only after getting  whatever answer he was waiting for, he reached forward and put a reassuring hand on Tyler's back and said "Let's go to some place quiet ".

Tyler understood why it was hard on Brandon this all situation, especially with his mission. But Tyler still kind of wanted to rip the band-aid off, and not delay it any further. Eventually Tyler did step off the ice, slipping away from the mayhem towards the locker room. During the quiet walk he tried to appreciate the last few ignorant seconds before hearing how his grandpa passed away.

Inside the locker room all the noise from the ice felt like a million yards away. The only noise still aavailable was heard as a gentle barely there echo. Tyler sat down in his stall, taking how his uncle took the neighboring stall of his and the officer mirrored his action and took the stall on the other side of him. As they sendwiched him in he tried to ignore the chills that ran down his spine. Their seriousness let his anxious mind come up with much more tragic situations than the most likely reality. At that moment he really wanted to rip the Band-Aid. So he tilted his body to the right, in the direction of his uncle and practically bagged him to tell him what happened. After a whole minutes where he was met with maddening silence he half-shouted "Brandon, come on I'm a big boy, you can tell me what happened. I can deal with the bad news".

And that was when his uncle lost it completly. Brandon just started to cry histerically. Brandon was never really emotional guy so it really effected Tyler to see him like that. Instinctively he reached over to hug his uncle. Generally all throughout that stressful time Tyler hadn't really reached out to his extensive family. It was out of selfish reasons and his wishes to not fuck up with the team playoff's run. However, during the hug he felt bad for not realizing how badly the whole family was coping for the past few months. 

Usually, Brandon was about an inch taller than Tyler, but currently with Tyler still dressed in full gear and skates he was taller and could feel the tears soaking up the collar of his jersey. At some point during the embrace Brandon opened his mouth and tried to tell Tyler the news. After three attempts of him never getting past the first two words, Tyler realized the simple fact-something else had happened.

With that realization a tsunami of encompassing dread washed all over his body. After a few deep breaths he turned to the officer and asked politely for what happened. Up until that moment he hadn't really paid much attention to the officer, his uncle was the main attention grabber. But now he was able to focus on the officer. The officer was a large tall man who wore a sad face and fidgeted with his wedding ring, a nervous tick Tyler recognized from various past and present teammates. Tyler looked closely to the way the officer rose to his full frame and nervously coughed two times before actually opening his mouth.

"Hello, I'm Officer Thompson and I'm sorry to inform you that earlier this evening there had been an accident. A fatal car accident I might had, which sadly left no survivors from both involved vehicles…"

Officer Thompson paused after that, obviously waiting for Tyler's reaction. However Tyler hadn't reacted in the way Officer Thompson expected. His initial reaction was to start taking deep breaths. He thought that maybe it would calm him down. Although it didn't really help in calming him down, he kept taking them. Well until he litterally felt like he was on the cusp of hyperventilation. Then and only then he turned to Brandon, who during Officer Thompson speech detached himself from Tyler's front. He studied Brandon closely and then stated more than asked "All of them died on the way to the hospital?"

Tyler was present to catch the affirmative nod to his mind blowing question, but since then he wasn't really conscious to the surrounding of his. He just spaced out and tried to grasp the idea that his mother, father and sisters, whom he all saw a few hours prior, before he had to go to the arena and them to grandpa, were all gone. At the time he was a little bummed that none of them would be present at the game, yet he tried to remind himself that they were going to watch the game with grandpa and the rest of the family. But now he just felt numb with the realization that he would never get to see them again.

He resurfaced partially when Brandon started to talk about what happened, from their perspective. By the end of the story he also learned that grandpa passed away as well. 

Hearing about grandpa's passing was the last straw and before he registered it he had started crying. At first mildly until it developed into full-body sobs. Following that, Brandon manhandled him into a bone crushing hug while whispering encouraging words directly into his ear. Yet, Tyler couldn't hear a thing past the deafening ringing in his ears. 

He stayed in Brandon's embrace even after his full-body shudders stopped. It was comforting and safe, so he stayed like that up until they heard the locker room's doors getting opened. Once he indeed heard foreign footsteps inside of the room he quickly raised his head from Brandon's shoulder, actually fast enough for him to get a head rush. It was a mild side affect in his rush to hide what he was doing. Yet, it didn't help him with understanding what Miro wanted out of him. It took him awhile, but at last he understood what was expected out of him. So he just rose to his feet, absent mindedly glad that it hadn't occurred to him to get out of the uniform. He shot a quick "Be right back" to his uncle and followed Miro through the locker-room back to the ice. 

In his clarification to the team about his action after the game he did say that he would stick around for the team picture. So he didn't blame Miro for taking him back to the chaos. Miro, the wonderfull human being that he was, sensed his lack of social ability and left him to his own thoughts. And that was how they got to the team, who pretty much arranged itself for the photo. Jamie was in the front, and called him over for an open spot right next to him. However, Tyler just ignored him and stood at the outskirt of the group. He didn't want to ruin thar day for the team. So he tried to play it cool, while putting his best effort of a smile (it was a grimace) and waited for the pictures to end. At the end he could feel himself beginning to tear up again, yet he couldn't stop himself. From the happiest day of his life it just turned to living hell.

On his way back to the tunnel Coach caught up to him and followed him back to the locker room. Tyler wasn't in the mood to speak, so he just waited for Coach Bowness to speak. That's why they remained silent up until the locker room's door. Once inside, Coach started talking. 

"I'm sorry for just now, we were lining up for the picture when some of the guys noticed your absence and insisted on calling you, despite my best efforts."

 Coach paused while Tyler mumbled something that resembled "It's fine", yet he wasn't too sure. Afterwards Coach just looked at Tyler for a long moment until he pulled him into a tight hug. Still at the embrace Tyler heard him talk.

 "Your uncle told me what happened. It's awful to hear about it, and the organization is there for you with whatever you need".

To that Tyler mumbled a silent "Thanks".

Coach seemed satisfied with his speech, because from there he went on to some logistical points. Tyler didn't really care, yet he appreciated Coach directness. They agreed that they would let the team celebrate uninterrupted tonight, and tomorrow Coach would gather them together and tell them the news.

After that it wasn't long until Coach left and Tyler was once again alone with Brandon and Officer Thompson. He headed to his stall and midway through Brandon got up and said "We'll wait for you outside, at the hallway. Shower fast and then Officer Thompson will drive us to the hospital".

It was for sure the quickest shower of his entire life, yet he didn't care. Ten minutes later he was in the hallway, dressed in street clothes with only the essential stuff on him. The rest he left for someone else to deal with.

+++

Throughout the drive Tyler stubbornly looked out the window, focusing on the ever changing landscape (during the day at least) and keeping his mind as blank as possible. He fairly succeeded once they got out of Toronto and continued through the province. Yet with every passing kilometer the realization that they were one kilometer closer to the destination started to haunt him.

Their arrival to the hospital would mark the finality of the situation- five family members dead in one day. And Tyler didn't think he would ever be ready for that. His breathing once again picked up within the 500 meters mark from the hospital. 

In the dead silence of the car he felt like the others knew what was up with him, however no one addressed his uneven breathing. Then at last, they arrived to the hospital. With his descent from the vehicle he kind of took a stumble, not a serious one. In other situation it would be nothing at all, but now he was too dizzy to righten himself in time, resulting in his fall. It wasn't a hard fall, however Brandon within seconds lifted him from the ground. He also did a once over to make sure that Tyler was fine.

Tyler was kind of occupied with being dizzy and light headed to care about whether or not he hurt himself with that fall and on whether or not he hurt himself. Apparently he right palm was bleeding a bit and Brandon tried to make a fuss out of it. However Tyler couldn't care less about a little bit of blood so he just said "It's just a cut, it will stop bleed in a minute".

It seemed to satisfy Brandon to not worry about the hand, but then he found something else to fixate on.

"Ty, are you alright? You look unwell".

And to that Tyler didn't have an answer, so he just shrugged and replied with one word "Dizzy". In response Brandon led him to a bench by the hospital's entrance. Once Tyler sat down Brandon repositioned Tyler's head between his legs and coached him through his breathing until he felt better. When he was aware of himself, Tyler just sat there for a few minutes, content to just postpone his entrance as long as he could. Brandon sat next to him, resting a reassuring hand around his shoulders.

After what felt like ages Brandon just nudged him and said "Come on, time to face the music". 

Tyler wanted to disagree, however he resignedly stood up and headed for the entrance.

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me - Chapter 4

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @thunderintheshadows​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​

While it is a more peaceful existence, it is often a lonelier one. The safety and security of seclusion at times feeling like isolation. Their property…their home itself…is beautiful beyond anything she could have imagined; surrounded by the sights and sounds of nature, the dense and lush woodlands and the pristine beach and majesty of the ocean. Aside from the noise and activity of their own residence, they are very much shut off from the rest of the world; two hundred yards from their closest neighbour, tucked at the very end of a three kilometer stretch of recently paved road. Weeks can pass by before she even sees another human being, let alone speaks to them.  There’d been scares and complications during the last three months of her final pregnancy and she’d had to relegate herself to living the life of a ‘shut in’ for the sake of both her health and that of her unborn daughter; never leaving the property aside from specialist appointments. Addie had been an incredibly determined little girl; wanting to make her debut long before it was safe for her to do so. It had been nothing short of a miracle when the doctors had managed to tide things over until week thirty-four, and everyone that had been providing care had thought she’d been in the NICU for the long haul. Only for her to prove them all wrong; being released after only a week and a half.

 A fighter. All five pounds, ten ounces of her.

 Normally Esme would spend the first part of her morning -after the older kids had been shipped off to school-  on the beach; Addie in the carrier strapped to her body, Declan toddling along beside them, allowing him to stop every so often to splash and stomp in the water or play in the sand. Today they walk the road instead, Mac’s leash secured around her waist, one hand pushing the baby in her stroller, the other tightly gripping Declan by the wrist. He is quick and has no fear and won’t think twice about bolting into the woods or onto someone else’s property.

 The pavement is hot but comfortable against their bare feet. It was one of the things that she had found so unusual at about Australia at first; no one ever seemed to wear shoes unless going into businesses, and even then, occasionally footwear would be noticeably absent. It is one of the charming ‘quirks’, going hand in hand with their laid-back natures and accents and hilarious slang words. An entirely different way of life; a refreshing and welcoming change of pace. Everyone seeming much more relaxed and calmer.  Friendly. Always willing to help one another out, whether friends or strangers. And while Colorado had been lovely in its own right, it often felt too ‘fast.’ That life was constantly hectic, barely given you a chance to catch your breath, never mind admire your surroundings. Everything about Australia is incredible to her; the scenery, the people, the way you just take time to enjoy everyone and everything around you.

 But it is still lonely at times. Outside of her own family, she doesn’t really have a life; no relatives that can visit, no friends to talk to or hang out with. It has been that way for years; long before she’d ever met Tyler. Once her first marriage had disintegrated, she’d begun the long and arduous journey of ‘rediscovery;’ more than content with the job she had, jumping from place to place, and living out of suitcases, never forming bonds, or putting down roots. She’s older now though; almost thirty-six. And lately she’s found herself craving more.  She had thought that she was perfect content with just being a wife and a mother, but her heart has begun to yearn for something extra.  Mom friends that she can talk to whether it be face to face or through a text, other women she could have lunch dates and engage in ‘girl talk’ with. Needing to be more than that someone’s spouse. Someone’s mother. Needing…wanting… to exist outside of the comforts of those two realms.

 And she feels guilty for that. As if she’s taking every thing she already has for granted. That she is makes her selfish for wanting more and she should just be happy with the way her life already is. She has a lot more than a lot of women in the world:  a supportive, loving, and helpful husband, five beautiful and amazing kids. Shouldn’t that be enough?

 ****

 It is a beautiful morning. Brilliant sunshine, the sky a vivid shade of blue and cluttered with enormous, pure white clouds. The temperature is always cooler where they are; a few to several degrees lower thanks to the abundance of trees and the winds that roll in off the ocean. And she is comfortable in a pair of tattered and weather jean shorts and a hoodie over her t-shirt, one of her husband’s ball caps pulled low over her eyes. It’s become a habit that she wishes she could break herself of; a hat used more for disguise than a cute accessory or protection from the sun. That paranoia still lingers; that there could always be someone out there watching, hell bent on revenge and looking for the perfect opportunity to enforce it.

 The walk is slow going; Declan routinely stopping to investigate things, whether it be rocks and sticks he finds particularly interesting, or wildlife that lingers at the tree line that he wants to watch. He is infinitely curious about the world around him, noticing everything and anything, big or small. He hasn’t met and animal or person he hasn’t liked, and vice vera. Out of the five, he’s the ‘charming’ one; able to melt hearts with those striking blue eyes and mischievous smile. Extremely affectionate and loving to everyone he meets, even old ladies in the grocery store who always seem to be enamoured by the thick red hair and the outrageously long eyelashes. While Esme may be biased -as all mothers are- he is just damn cute. A sweet little personality to go along with an even sweeter face. And she can’t resist pausing to take pictures of him with her phone; so adorable in his backwards baseball hat, loose tendrils of hair sticking out at the ears.

 She sends one of the photos -of Declan holding a baby garter snake and flashing that trademark smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes (his father’s smile)- to her husband’s cell, along with a text that reads: see what cute babies you make?

 The house closest to them has been up for sale for three months; a one-story white stucco place with elaborate Japanese inspired front gardens and an interlocking brick driveway. The property itself is much smaller that what they own, but no less stunning. She notices that not only has the ‘for sale’ sign been taken down, but there’s a bright blue Suzuki hatch back in the driveway; tailgate up, surrounded by boxes being unloaded by the home’s new owner. A tall, statuesque blond with vibrant pink, purple, and aquamarine highlights in her shoulder length tresses. And she watches -albeit briefly- as the woman continues to remove items from the back of the car. The couple that had lived there before had been in their eighties and absolutely hated kids and would complain about Millie and the twins ‘running wild and unsupervised’ in the road despite the fact that their father would have been  less than ten feet away. Never directing the complaints to Tyler himself, but waiting until they’d see him leave and then knock on the door to confront her. So it’s nice to see someone younger. That hopefully won’t be such a miserable asshole.

 The front door of the house has been left open and a pug comes waddling out; immediately noticing them at the end of the driveway, which starts off a round of barking from both the smaller dog and Mac and absolute excitement from Declan who begins repeatedly shrieking ‘oggie!’ and tries to yank his wrist out of her grasp. He’s incredibly strong for a little guy; heavy, solid, and powerful. And Mac -still barking yet thankfully not bolting- parks himself right in front of the toddler to block his path.

 The woman in the driveway smiles and waves to them in greeting, and that’s when Esme makes the ultimate mistake; letting go of her son’s hand to wave back. He seizes the opportunity; taking off up the driveway the second he feels his mother’s grasp release.

 “Oh my god Declan! Get back here!” she bellows, and unleashes Mac from around her waist, allowing the dog to chase after him. At the most he’ll grab the toddler by the back of the shirt or knock him to the ground. He’s done it before with each one of the kids; showing an incredible instinct -and with no training- to protect the little humans. “Declan William!” she hollers as she hurries after him and the dog. The latter now making friends with the initially startled pug; the new homeowner scooping Declan up and settling him on her hip.

 “Well hey there cutie,” the blond gushes, gently taking hold of his hands as he tries to tear the unique and colourful glasses off her face. “Who are you?”

 “This is Declan,” Esme responds. “And he’s not usually this much of a shit head, I swear.”

 “You’re just a curious little man, aren’t you! You just wanted to come and meet Stan-Lee. Here, let me introduce you…” their new neighbour drops down to one knee and places Declan on her thigh, taking his hand in hers and then running it over the pug’s fur. The toddler giggling with the dog licks at his hand. “See that? He likes you already! He loves to meet new friends. Especially little ones.”

 “I am so sorry,” Esme can feel the blush in her cheeks. “I’m usually not that stupid. Letting him get away like that. Especially on the road. Although no one but us ever comes down this far. We used to get people that would speed down here and park on our property to get into the woods. But we own all that, so my husband went out and scared the crap out of them with a hunting rifle and they never came back. You must think I’m a shitty parent.”

 The blond waves off the mere suggestion. “Not at all. They get away sometimes. No matter how hard we try to stop them. Not to mention he’s crazy strong! Two? Two and a half?”

 “Seventeen months. I know. He’s absurdly tall. But so is his dad. I am sorry he ran over like that. Bothering you and your dog and…”

 “It’s no bother. Honest. I’m Salena,” she offers a hand, and Esme accepts it warmly.

 “I’m Esme. And that’s Mac,” she nods at the German Shepherd as he playfights with the pug. “It’s actually Macaroni. Don’t ask. My son named him. And this is Adeline,” she gestures to the stroller. “Be we call her Addie.”

 “Is this your little sister?” Salena speaks to Declan as she places him on the ground and takes him by the hand, leading him to the stroller. “How about you show me your little sister. I bet she’s a cutie, just like you. May I?” she asks Esme, taking hold of the corner of the blanket that covers the buggy.

 “Of course.”

 She peels the blanket back, then places a hand over her chest. “Oh my gracious! Look at you, pretty girl! Aren’t you just a darling! You’re just new.”

 “Very new,” Esme confirms. “Only two weeks.”

 “And you already look like that?”  Salena looks over the top rim of her glasses as she eyes Esme from head to toe.

 “Please! The clothes hide everything, trust me. I’m huge. And I feel gross.”

 “You’re crazy! You look amazing. Are these your only two?”

 “No. There’s three more,” she says, and the neighbour’s eyes widen. “Five-year-old twin boys and a soon to be six-year-old daughter. I know,’ she laughs. “I’m crazy.”

 “I just can’t believe that body’s had five kids. Five’s the limit?”

 “Four was the original limit but by husband wanted one more. I don’t know who is more insane. Me or him.”

 “Well if these two are as beautiful as they are, I can only imagine what the other three look like. The red hair comes from your husband?”

 “His mother. Declan’s the only one with it. The other three are blond. Or light brown. Whatever you want to call it. And the last one is all me. Which I feel I deserved after having four that look and act exactly like their father. All that work and getting fat and I don’t get one that looks like me? That is some bullshit.”

 “Would you like to come in?” Salena inquires, nodding towards the house. “I have a breakfast casserole in the oven, and it is way too much for just one person, even with leftovers.”

 “We shouldn’t. We were just on a walk before lunch and we don’t want to impose or…”

 “You won’t be imposing at all. We can sit out back and chat some more. You’re the first person I’ve met since moving to Cookstown. I was staying a hotel right in town while waiting for the house to close. It would be nice to have a friend that’s close by.”

 It’s tempting, and as much as she loves the idea of having a friend…especially a neighbour…she knows Tyler will be hesitant. He’s severely overprotective. Beginning after Dhaka and becoming increasingly worse over the years, hitting its peak after the McMann incident. In his mind, everyone is a possible threat. Including the neighbour with the funky glasses and the colorful hair.

 “Just stay for a little while,” the other woman urges. “Just for something to eat and a little chat. I don’t bite. I promise.”

 “It’s not that and it’s not you, believe me,” Esme attempts to explain. “This is going to sound really weird, but things went really bad before we moved here and I’m a little…apprehensive…when it comes to new people. It’s not personal. I swear. It’s all my own issues.”

 “I promise I am not a serial killer. Just come in and have some lunch and let me spend some more with this cutie pie,” she tickles Declan’s stomach until he’s giggling hysterically and beaming up at her with the utmost adoration. “Just an hour,” she says. “If I bore you or I annoy before then, you can leave. I won’t hold you hostage.”

 “Okay,” Esme finally agrees, as Salena scoops Declan up once more and leads the way towards the house.

 ****

He receives the text message just as he pulls his truck up in front of his father’s new place; a small, cottage style bungalow in a newly established retirement and nursing care community in Port Douglas. It had been bittersweet when he’d eventually found out that the old man had sold the family home. The years there hadn’t all been horrible; there’d been a handful of good memories made between those four walls. That house was the last physical tie that Tyler had had to his mother, and the new owners had bulldozed it with plans on custom build for the lot. The demolition had finally erased all the dark secrets that the place had once held. All the cruel words, all the tears, all the holes in the walls, all the beatings.

 Killing the engine, his pulls his cell from the side pocket of his cargos and checks the message. A slow smile spreading across his face when he sees the picture of his youngest son, and the words that his wife had sent afterwards. If there is one thing they excel at, it’s making beautiful children. And the activities that help with the actual creation of them. He texts her back, telling her that they’ve just reached his dad’s place and have two stops afterwards close to home. That he loves her and the kids and will see them soon.

 He begins to ask where she is but decides against it. It will only irritate her if she feels as if he’s keeping tabs on her and attempting to control her. She claims he’s overprotective to the point of suffocation, something that the therapist had said they’d touch on in the next session. Why he is the way he is and what he can do to either control it or stop it altogether. Tyler doesn’t necessarily want to be that way; he doesn’t want her to feel as if he’s locking her away in the house and controlling every move she makes. But he’s already come so close to losing her. Twice. And he doesn’t want to take the chance of there being a third time.

 So he doesn’t ask. Even though it gnaws at his stomach that she’s out there. Off the property. With two of his kids in tow. Instead he pockets his cell, pulls the keys from the ignition, and then finishes the coffee that sits in one of the cup holders between the front seats.

 “How are we going to explain me?” Ovi inquires. “Am I just going to be some guy that you hired or…?”

 “He already knows all about you.”

 “How much does he know? Or what does he know?”

 “Your folks were friends of mine and Esme’s, they died, left us you in their will. Nice and simple. It doesn’t need to be complicated.”

 The lying never stops. Not when it comes to the old life. To the old Tyler. But at this stage in the game -with his father not functioning properly in the first place- he doesn’t see the need to burden the old man with the truth. Chances are he’d be extremely pissed and/or disgusted and wouldn’t even remember what he’d been told the next day.

 “And you think he believes it?” Ovi asks.

 “Mate, I don’t even know if he knows who I am anymore. Chances are he doesn’t even remember I have a wife and kids. Or that I even told him about you already. But if he asks, that’s what we tell him. Got it?”

 Ovi nods.

 Tyler opens the compartment between their seats and fishes out the extra bottle of anti anxiety meds. It’s always smart to have them on hand; never knowing what situations or environments will bring on an attack. But he can already feel the heaviness in his chest and the dryness in his mouth, and he takes three of the pills and places them under his tongue, waiting for them to full dissolve before putting the bottle in his pocket.

 It’s a hell of a way to live. Having to dope yourself up just to be able to get out of the goddamn car.

 And he’s plain fucking sick of it.

 ****

 The personal support worker greets them at the front door; a short and stocky Aboriginal woman clad in brightly patterned scrubs and bearing a name tag that identifies her as Maggie. She as kind, almost sad eyes, and a soft, pleasant smile and her grip is deceptively strong when she shakes their hands.

 “You must be Trevor,” she addresses him.

 “Tyler,” he gently corrects, and removing his sunglasses, hangs them on the neck of his t-shirt.

 She offers an apologetic smile. “He told me he was expecting someone named Trevor.”

 “Trevor was his brother. My uncle. He died twenty years ago. But I’m Tyler. His son.”

 “This happens, you know,” she sighs. “Moment when they can’t remember the people in the present, but they remember the ones from the past. It isn’t personal. It’s just the disease. It’s a cruel thing; what it does to people.”

 He nods in agreement, trying to at least appear sympathetic. But he feels nothing. No empathy. No pity. No sorrow that his father is slipping away. No regrets that they’ve let the years go by without even attempting a reconciliation.

 “You just moved back, I hear,” Maggie comments, as she leads them from the front foyer and towards the back of the house. “Were you gone long?”

 “Five and a half years.”

 “That’s a long time to be away from home. What made you come back?”

 “I came into some money and I was able to retire early,” Tyler explains. It’s not a total lie; that part did happen. It just wasn’t as easy as he’s making it sound. “My wife and I decided this was the best place to raise our kids.”

 “Well I can’t argue with that. Is this them?”  Maggie pauses in the hall between the living room and kitchen, nodding at the frame photographs on the wall. “Your kids?”

 It’s their school pictures from last year when they’d still been in Telluride. Before they’d ever heard of Michael McMann. And one of Declan when he’d just been a baby; not even crawling or walking yet.

 Tyler nods. “They’re a year older now. And we added another. A little girl. Two weeks old.”

 Maggie arches an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you have five kids?”

 “Yup.”

 “Five kids,” she breathes and shakes her head. “Boy, you’re either both brave as hell or you’re both just plain crazy.”

 “Maybe both?” Ovi suggests, and then laughs when Tyler directs a playful elbow into his stomach.

 “I actually have six kids,” Tyler says. “If we count him,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “When he’s not being a smart ass.”

 Maggie looks Ovi up and down. “You’re one of his…” she nods at Tyler. “…kids?”

 The young man nods.

 “And just how does that work? When you look like you do…” she looks at Tyler, then at Ovi. “…and you look like you do.”

 “They took me in,” Ovi explains. “Six years ago. After my parents died. It was in my mother’s will. That I was supposed to go to Tyler. So…. here I am.”

 “Here he is,” Tyler confirms, and tousles Ovi’s hair. “Congratulations. It’s a boy. All six foot one and two hundred pounds of him.”

 “He’s not my father, but he is my dad,” Ovi says. “And that’s good enough for me.”

 Maggie gives a slow nod of agreement, and then once again leads the way down the hall. “Your father insisted we put those pictures up as soon as he moved in. He’s extremely proud of his grandkids.”

 Tyler doubts it. On both counts.

 “He’s having one of his ‘okay’ days,” she says. “Woke up knowing what day is, what month, what year.”

 “But thinks his dead brother is going to show up,” Tyler tosses out. And again, nothing. Not even the slightest hint of sadness. The man doesn’t deserve any. Not after the life he’s lived. Not with all the things he’s said and all the things he’s done.

 “He may have just screwed the name up,” she suggests. “I mean, you’re his son. He obviously knows your name.”

 “I haven’t been his son in a long time,” Tyler says. It doesn’t hurt to admit. It just is what it is. In the same way that Ovi may still bear the Mahajan name, but his father had stopped being a part of his life a long time ago because of his own selfish and evil choices. Just as Tyler’s old man had destroyed their relationship with the use of a belt or a fist or whatever else his father could get his hands on.

 “You’ll always be his son,” Maggie’s tone has a scolding tone to it. “He helped give you life.”

 “That’s about all he did. He knocked my mum up. That’s it. I know you mean well, but you shouldn’t be lecturing about how things are between him and I. I lived with him. You didn’t. So how about we just cut the chit chat and you mind your own business.”

 She holds her hands up un surrender, then nods towards the sliding glass door that leads out onto a small patio. “He’s out there. Likes to sit in the sun and listen to the birds. He’s a very sweet man. Very gentle. Very good to us.”

 Tyler gives a derisive snort. It will be a cold day in hell before he acknowledges any of those traits. Because before the old man’s brain started going on him, he was a tyrant. Controlling and manipulative. Drinking far too much. Treating his mother like a slave and then degrading her and beating her if she dared stand up for herself. And when she’d died, all that cruelty and abuse had been turned onto his only child. He could forgive what his father had done to him, but there’s no goddamn way he’d ever forgive him for what he’d done to his mum.

 ****

 His father sits in an old porch swing; frail and sickly looking, a far cry from the man he’d been the last time Tyler had seen him six years ago. When he’d still carried himself with a hint of cockiness and superiority; shoulders still broad, eyes still icy and intimidating. He’s a shell of his former self, and Tyler almost hates himself for viewing this as a form of karma. That after years of treating people horribly, the old man has been reduced to needing help from complete strangers to perform even the smallest of tasks.

 “William, “ Maggie speaks from the doorway. “You have company. Your son and your...” she looks at Ovi for clarification as to just who he is.

 “Grandson,” Tyler finishes for her.

 “Your son and your grandson are here,” she continues. “They’ve come to visit.”

 Tyler gives her a small, appreciative smile and then waits until she steps back into the house and shuts the door before turning to Ovi. “Why don’t you go and find that list he supposedly made of the things we need to fix. Probably on the fridge or the kitchen table or...”

 “TV,” his father speaks up. “It’s by the TV.”

 Tyler smirks. “Go check there. See what you can do on your own. I’ll be in in a few.”

 Ovi nods, then gives a nervous smile and a small wave when he notices Tyler’s father watching him, a puzzled look on his face.

 “Go on,” Tyler encourages. “I need a few minutes here.”

 “Okay,” Ovi agrees, and slips back into the house.

 “Hey dad,” Tyler greets, as he grabs one of the patio chairs and places it facing the swing, sighing heavily as he sinks down into it. “You know who I am right?”

 His father nods, then leans forward and takes a hold of Tyler’s chin, turning his face to one side, then the other. “They let you keep that fur in the army?”

 “I’m not in the army anymore. I haven’t been in it for a long time.”

 “The war is over? They sent you home? From Afghanistan?”

 “I was in Afghanistan sixteen years ago. The war’s been over for a while. That one at least.”

 “So you’re home now?”

 Tyler nods.

 “I don’t know if I have enough room here for you. There’s not a lot of space. I had to get rid of the old place and downsize and...”

 “Dad, I have my own place to live. In Cookstown. With my wife and my kids.”

 He looks puzzled. “You have more than one now? When did that happen? Wasn’t Sarah just getting ready to have Austin?”

 Tyler sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then over his face. “Sarah and I haven’t been together in a long time. Since Austin died. That’s almost sixteen years ago now.”

 His father cocks his head to the side, confusion in his eyes and lining his face. “It is?”

 “I got married again. You were at the wedding. In Sydney. Same little place you and mum got married at. Near the opera house.”

 “Tiny little dark haired thing?”

 “Esme. You made a joke about her having a weird name.”

 “Esme...Esme...” his eyes squint as he tries to remember. “...cute wee thing. I like her. She’s a sweetheart. You’re still married to her?”

 “Six years and counting. She’s still putting up with me somehow. Do you remember meeting your granddaughter? Amelia? I brought her to the old house.”

 His father nods.

 “She’s going to be six in a couple months. I’ve also got twin boys that just turned five. Tyler and Tanner and another boy that’s seventeen months, Declan. And we just had another baby two weeks ago. A little girl. Adeline.”

 The old man smiles. “Your mother’s name.”

 “We call her Addie for short.”

 “That’s nice. Real nice. That you named her after your mother. She loved you so much, you know. Your mother. You were her pride and joy. The light of her life. I’d never seen her so as happy as she was the day you were born. She was a good mom to you. A real good mom.”

 “Yeah....” Tyler clears his throat noisily, trying to rid himself of the lump of emotion that sits squarely in his windpipe. “...she was.”

 “She’s a good mom? Your wife?”

 “She’s an incredible mom. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother for my kids. Or for a better woman to give me children.”

 “Six years?” his father asks. That you’ve been together?”

 “Six years and a couple of months,” Tyler confirms. “I haven’t screwed this one up. Not yet, anyway.”

 “Must be a good woman. A strong woman. To put up with the likes of you. You’ve always been a handful.”  It isn’t said with malice; there’s a soft smile curving the old man’s lips.

 “She keeps hanging in there. Keeps giving me another chance every time I screw up. Which has been a lot, unfortunately. But she never gives up on us. On me.”

 “Don’t let her get away. You’ll regret it if you do. And treat her right. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. You’re better than that. You always have been. You’re better than me. Thank Christ.”

 “Well I guess that’s one thing I do have to thank you for,” Tyler muses. “Showing me how not to be.”

 “And you’re back home? In Australia?”

 “We were in Colorado. We just move back six months ago. We should get you out to the house. You’d love it. It’s right on the beach. Awesome spot. And you’d get to see Amelia again. And meet your other grandkids.”

 His father smiles. “I’d like that.”

 “Maybe for Amelia’s birthday,” Tyler suggests, and then stares down at his hands; palms up, studying all the callouses and scars that years on the job have left behind.

 There’s so much he wants to say. Things that he needs to get off his chest in regard to the nightmare that he’d lived through growing up. He wants to punish his father; make him feel even the slightest bit of regret and remorse for all the things he’s said and done.

 But he doesn’t. Because whatever he says will never come close to the torment that’s always taking place in father’s broken mind.

[theviolentabyss]

Hot-headed Bugsy makes his mind up. Don't mess with Bugsy or you'll wind up. Wishing you'd left well enough alone.

:: Debut Solo ::

Part One

It maybe a new city, a new country and even a new set of targets, but the job, the goal and the aim was still the same. Regardless of where we were, the objective was to make sure that we were known and we took no crap from anyone. We believed we were above the law. Everyone has a price. Even the police, judges and jurors. They all had a price and they could all be bought to make sure that everything went our way.

Fat Sam’s grandfather had built his empire up in Chicago in the nineteen-forties, just after the second world war. Fat Sam’s father moved the empire to New York in the nineteen-eighties and now, Fat Sam himself has bought the empire to the United Kingdom. A new start. Of sorts.

After the show down with Dandy Dan six years ago, where a truce was called between both Fat Sam’s gang and Dandy Dan’s gang. Things went sour real big in New York after I left. Blousy and I headed off to Hollywood. She was destined for the great stage. Blonde, talented and beautiful. A modern day Marilyn Monroe. Hollywood wasn’t for me though, the straight and narrow life was not for me.

I wanted nothing but the best for Blousy. We just weren’t compatible. We were too different. So after two years, we went from fighting for each other, to fighting with each other. One day soon after I got the call from Fat Sam about moving to England and I didn’t hesitate to take him up on it. I begged Blousy to come but she had made it big in Hollywood, everyone knew her name now. That was the end.

That was four years ago. Four years. I thought of Blousy often. We never called, we never wrote and we never had any communication. I kept up with her ins and outs through social media but other than that, there was nothing between us. There was far too much here for me to concentrate on anyway and I spent more time in trouble than I did anything else these days.

So now, as I sat at the bar in Fat Sam’s Speakeasy club, I was rolling a ten pence piece over and under my fingers skilfully with one hand, while I swirled the brownish-orange liquid in the glass in the other. I needed to see Fat Sam before I headed to the Boxing Gym I owned in Kentish Town. A shipment of AK-47’s were coming into the Dover Docks tomorrow and I have had a tip off that the cops are all over it. So I wanted to re-route the shipment to Southampton, meaning we needed to get our men down there in time to receive the shipment before the cops got wind of it.

It was Sod’s law really that Fat Sam wasn’t here yet and the longer I waited, the more pissed I was getting. I stopped rolling the coin when I heard the door of the club open and I looked up to see Leroy Smith coming through the door. He joined Fat Sam’s gang the year of the truce and has stood by us ever since. Flicking the coin up in to the air and catching it, I shoved it into my leather jacket pocket and raised a finger to the bartender to signal a drink for Leroy as he sat down beside me.

“Hey Boss”

I glanced to him briefly, watching as he leaned up on the bar with a cheery disposition about him.

“What has you in a good mood?”

A knowingly cheeky grin spread across his lips, like he had some big secret to tell but wasn’t going to tell me unless I worked for it.

“Bugs; my man, why do I need a reason?”

I shifted uneasy on the stool. Once Leroy had his drink. I pushed my line of questioning once more, without very much tact.

“Cut the shit, Leroy”

He raised the glass to his lips and took large gulp. His deep throaty chuckle echoed around the nearly empty club. Only members, and visitors of members were allowed in here and it wasn’t even lunch time yet. So the usual suspects wouldn’t be rolling in until darkness fell.

“You’re no fun anymore, Bugsy”

He adjusted his cap on his head, before removing it and running his fingers through his messy hair. Dropping the hat to the counter top, I watched his every movement like a silent assassin ready to strike if need be.

“We got a sponsor for the fight between Trigger and Fingers Saturday night, he wants to meet with you tomorrow”

His grin widened as he spoke to me. Once a month. Every gang called a truce, and beat the shit out of each in the boxing ring. This week one of our own Trigger was fighting Frankie Randall’s guy, Fingers. He was dumb as fuck, but he knew how to fight, so it was going to be an interesting fight. I had been training Trigger myself and he was a force to be reckoned with. He was built like a brick shit house. Was also a few planks short of a decking but he was muscle and I had no doubts he would wipe the floor with Fingers this weekend. Picking up my whiskey glass and taking a sip. I cocked my head in Leroy’s direction.

“Who’s the sponsor?”

I eyed him inquisitively. It wasn’t unusual for a rival or local gang to sponsor the events. It gives them the access to be the only ones who could run bets at the match and monopolise the fight. Though I was strict as fuck and if I believed for one moment anyone was throwing the match I would shut that shit down and the person in charge would be blacklisted, if not dead.

We were all crooks, thieves and gangsters of the worse kind. We were deadly, we carried guns and we didn’t give much of a damn about anything that wasn’t business. But in my boxing club, on my property, you played by the rules and left your dodgy shit at the door because I had no issues putting a bullet in someone’s ass for trying to do over what was mine.

“Rusty Evans”

Leroy finally confessed after mulling everything over on how to tell me and my blood instantly boiled. My hand gripping around the whiskey glass. Rusty had been trying to muscle in on Fat Sam’s territory since we got here. Due to our New York connections, we were known before we even arrived. Reputation was everything and Rusty had made us his main target. The whites of my knuckles were straining around the glass, the tendons twitching with frustration. My lips curled up in a snarl and I kept my gaze forward. Focusing on the rows upon rows of bottled spirits on the back of the bar.

“Three quarters of a mill or he can take his rat ass business else where”

Barking my demand, as I raised the glass and knocked back the final contents of the glass. Slamming it back down on the bar. I saw Leroy jump in the corner of my eye in shock. He remained silent for a long time. Mulling over my terms. My club, my property, my price. People took it or left it. If we didn’t get a sponsor then I became the main bookie, so it wasn’t any loss for me. The stake was third quarters up front, or he could shove his sponsorship up his weak ass. It took all my will power to not stick a bullet in his chest and rip out his heart with my bare hands.

“Sure thing boss. Take it easy.”

He gave me a nod and slipped from his stool, my head cocked in his direction as I watched him replace his cap, tipping the front before leaving the Speakeasy club. Fuck this shit. I wasn’t in a good mood when I came in here, now my mood had gone to complete shit. Rusty was the lowest of the low. He got his men to play dirty and then ran like a coward. I wouldn’t put it past him to have tipped the Feds off on the incoming shipment. Looking across the bar to Louis.

“Another Louis. Thanks”

He gave me a nod and bought the bottle over. Nudging the tumbler closer so he could pour out another shot. Giving him a thankful nod. I picked up the glass and knocked it all back in one. I didn’t have to wait too much longer for Fat Sam to arrive. The door of the club came slamming open, smashing into the wall with such force. As usual he was ranting and raving about something but not making much sense. He was followed by his lackey Knuckles and his on and off girlfriend, and main lounge singer here at the Speakeasy, Tallulah.

“Ah, Bugsy; you here to see me? Course you are, sure, give me five, five and I’m all yours. Yo Louis, make sure my man has got a drink. Five minutes... five”

He was always all over the place. You could never get a word in edge ways and I wasn’t about to attempt to talk to him either until I was sure was going to listen. He disappeared into his office and I turned my head back around. My hand wrapping around the newly filled glass. I could smell the strong scent of Tallulah’s perfume before I saw her or heard her. I think she swam in it on a daily basis and it got right into the sinus’ and left a nasty taste in your mouth. As she now propped herself up against the bar. Her body turned directly at me. I didn’t bother to look at her.

Tallulah was a girl that you didn’t want to get involved with. Face piled with heavy make up, tight cocktail dresses that clung to every curve of her slender figure and purposely enlarged her ample breasts and cleavage to make sure that she got every man in eye line a chance to stare with their tongues hanging out. I was a conquest of Tallulah’s. But I’ve been there. Long before her and Fat Sam started dating and long before she was this high maintenance lush who would sleep with any man with money. That’s why her and Sam were on and off. She was too high maintenance for anyone to keep up with and I refused to be another notch of rich men on her bed post.

I could get my own women, whenever I wanted. I didn’t need to scrap the bottle of the barrel with girls like Tallulah who only saw pound and danger signs, to keep her interested. Her hand finally rose, to trail a red polished finger nail down over my arm slowly, causing me to finally turn my head in her direction.

“Not gonna buy a girl a drink there, handsome, it’s impolite to leave a lady hanging”

I snorted a laugh knocking back the entirety of my glass.

“I see no lady here though Tallulah, just you”

That fake smile she had plastered on her face faded quickly and she scowled at me. I kept my gaze on hers. Unwavering from her intense glare as I locked in her into this show down.

“Hey, Louis, give this girl her usual and put it on Fat Sam’s tab, will you?”

“Sure Bugsy”

Reaching into my pocket and pulling out my wallet, I grabbed out a few notes and dropped them down onto the bar to pay my tab. Leaving a hefty tip as usual. Replacing my wallet into my leather jacket. I slipped from the bar stool, closing the small gap between Tallulah and I. Looking down at her, I raised a hand, to hook my finger under her chin, and tilting her head to look at me.

“Never, Tallulah, never, and you can bet your Gucci heels on that shit too”

Giving her a wink and dropping my hand from her chin, I looked over towards Louis.

“Thanks man, see you later”

He gave me a salute and said no more as he made Tallulah’s drink and I headed towards Fat Sam’s office. It took a long time for Tallulah to shout back. Still stunned she had been shot down before she could even get started.

“You’ll be sorry Bugsy Malone, you will come crawling back to me one day, mark my words”

I chuckled under my breath but didn’t respond. I could hear her heels stomping against the wooden flooring before her screeching scream rang out through the empty club.

[dauntlcssly]

☾ — SCOTT SUMMERS/CYCLOPS is here! HE has found themselves wandering about new gotham attempting to find their place in this challenging world. they were once a HERO who used to be associated with THE X-MEN. hope they make it in this world. 

PINTEREST BOARD LINK.

the basics —

NAME: scott summers

ALIASES: cyclops, the first x-man, scotty, cyke, fearless leader, slim, captain commander

AGE: 34

BIRTHDAY & ZODIAC: unknown & virgo

MBTI: entj

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: he / him.

FACECLAIM: bob morley

a deeper look —

FAMILY: christopher summers (father), katherine summers (mother, deceased), jack winters (foster father), alexander summers (brother), gabriel summers (brother), jean grey (wife), nathan summers (son), rachel summers (daughter), hope summers (granddaughter)

AFFILIATION: the x-men (he’s their leader)

THREE FAVORITE THINGS: laser tag as a training exercise in the danger room, a hot bowl of soup, eighties music blasting through the speakers of his car  

THREE HATED THINGS: sentinels attacking his people, not remembering what it’s like to see the world in color outside of everything being red, living with the trauma from his abuse growing up as a child

EDUCATION: college graduate, xavier’s school for gifted youngsters

SKILLS:

EXPERT PILOT: an expert pilot of fixed-wing aircraft, a skill he shares with his father.

MASTER TACTICIAN AND STRATEGIST: has spent most of his superhero career as the leader of either the x-men and has developed exceptional leadership skills. it is notable that regardless of their general attitude towards him, all of the x-men tend to obey his orders in battle — because they know that he is usually right.

EXPERT MARTIAL ARTIST: cyclops also has extensive training in martial arts and unarmed combat, holding black belts in judo and aikido. his level of skill is sufficient to defeat six normal men with his eyes closed, and he has in the past held his own against dangerous hand-to-hand enemies.

WEAPONS: he doesn’t need one

ABILITIES: cyclops is an alpha-mutant.

OPTIC BLAST: possesses the mutant ability to project a powerful beam of concussive, ruby-colored force from his eyes. his powers come from ambient energies (such as solar radiation, photons, and cosmic rays) absorbed and metabolized by his body into concussive blasts released by his eyes.

cyclops’s mind has a particular psionic field that is attuned to the forces that maintain the apertures that have taken the place of his eyes. because his mind’s psionic field envelops his body, it automatically shunts the other-dimensional particles back into their point of origin when they collide with his body. so, his body is protected from the effects of the particles, and even the thin membrane of his eyelids is sufficient to block the emission of energy.

the width of cyclops’s eye-blasts seems to be focused by his mind’s psionic field with the same autonomic function that regulated his original eyes’ ability to focus. as cyclops focuses, the size of the aperture changes and thus act as a valve to control the flow of particles and beam’s relative power. the height of cyclops’s eye-blast is controlled by his visor’s adjustable slit.

his narrowest beam, about the diameter of a pencil at a distance of 4 feet has a force of about two pounds per square inch.

his broadest beam, about 90 feet across at a distance of fifty feet, has a force of about 10 pounds per square inch.

his most powerful eye-blast is a beam four feet across which, at a distance of 50 feet, has a force of 500 pounds per square inch.

SPATIAL AWARENESS:  possesses an uncanny sense of trigonometry, in this sense used to describe his observation of objects around himself and the angles found between surfaces of these objects. cyclops has repeatedly demonstrated the ability to cause his optic blasts to ricochet and/or reflect off those objects in a trajectory to his liking. this is commonly called a “banked shot” when applied to this talent. cyclops has been observed causing beams to reflect from over a dozen surfaces in the course of one blast, and still hit his intended target accurately.

ENERGY RESISTANCE: is resistant to the effects of his own powers. this is linked to him being capable of withstanding his brother’s ability with no ill effects, a result of their close genetics and a quirk of mutant genetics that is common among siblings.

TELEPATHIC RESISTANCE: years of being in intimate situations with telepaths have allowed cyclops to hone his mind to the point where he can resist telepathic intrusion and withhold certain information from high level telepaths.

the questionnaire —

WHAT IS SOMETHING YOUR CHARACTER LIKES ABOUT NEW GOTHAM? SOMETHING THEY DISLIKE? DO THEY MISS THE WAY THINGS WERE - OR DO THE LIKE HOW THE WORLD IS NOW? IS IT WEIRD TO THEM TO SEE MULTIPLE TYPES OF PEOPLE AND CREATURES AROUND? OR ARE THEY USED TO IT? WERE THEY ORIGINALLY FROM ONE OF THE TWO MAIN CITIES - OR SOMEWHERE ELSE?

scott is used to being around so much diversity since he grew up as a mutant. he cares about his people a lot, willing to do anything to protect a fellow mutant. he will also stick his neck out for almost anyone that needs help, no matter where they’re from and what their genetics say. it’s more about doing the right thing. he hopes that maybe with this new world, the changes will open up for more acceptance from humankind this time around. between the sentinels and the purifiers life can be exhausting, being out through so many hate speeches, but scott is a leader. he isn’t afraid to speak up for mutants especially the children.  this of course is why he doesn’t mind seeing other creatures walking around — more open to treating them as an equal. he does miss the way everything used to be, it seems less chaotic now that he looks back on it. he‘s always been busy between leading the x-men and the geometry classes he taught back in his own reality. scott wishes to return back to his version of normal, not sure if these changes will offer the promise of hope he wants his people to have. plus he worries about the kids being left behind if they’re all showing up here. he needs to explore new gotham to figure out what’s to like it dislike necessarily. his kind has been occupied by other priorities.

WHERE WAS YOUR CHARACTER WHEN EVERYTHING CHANGED? ARE THEY SUSPICIOUS OF EVERYONE OR ARE THEY TRYING TO REMAIN UNDER THE RADAR? HAVE THEY REUNITED WITH THEIR FRIENDS OR ARE THEY LOST? WERE THEY AT HOME IN BED? OUT PATROLLING THE STREETS? IN THE MIDDLE OF A WAR? WHAT’S HAPPENED TO THEM NOW?

scott was just coming back from a mission when everything changed. he had his glasses in hand — about to change out his visor for them, but then everything was different. he should be thankful to have been transported with his uniform and his casual eyewear. he was concerned about what caused the worlds to collide like this. scott has more questions than answers right now. he’s mostly spending his time looking for his team, viewing them as the priority more than anything else.  scott is always suspicious after what happened as a child, the abuse and manipulation from sinister and his adoptive father makes him hesitant with some new faces. he’s been working on it, even if that man somehow always finds away to keep an eye on him. which he hates, but is going to try being open minded to making new alliances. the x-men would need to unite with the unknown to somehow make it home OR make a new, safe haven here in new gotham.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION —

ANYTHING YOU WANT US TO KNOW? ANY HEADCANONS?

origin —

scott summers is the oldest son of major christopher summers and katherine summers. he was born in the largest city in alaska. his father was a test pilot for the united states air force. his younger brother was born a couple years later, and his name is alex.

when the two boys were flying home from a family vacation on their father’s vintage plane, a scout ship from the alien shi’ar empire materialized suddenly — setting their plane on fire. their mother pushed scott and alex our of the plane door with the only available parachute. the parachute caught on fire, and this is when scott used his optic blasts for the first time to slow their descent. he was a mutant! the boys were completely unaware that the shi’at teleported their parents before the plane exploded. they were believed to be orphans.

one night scott woke up and destroyed the entire roof of the hospital with his optic blast. the next time waking up after that an entire year passed. once recovered he was placed into an orphanage in omaha, nebraska called the state home for foundlings. here it was that scott was forced to be subjected to batteries of tests and experiments by the owner of the orphanage — mr. milbury which was just an alias for mr. sinister. sinister placed mental blocks on scott and took on playing the role of the boy’s roommate that would bully him constantly. if anyone tried to adopt Scott sinister would intervene.

when scott was a teenager he started to suffer from severe headaches and he was sent to a specialist — also sinister in disguise. he provided the boy with lenses made of ruby quartz.

soon after his mutant power erupted from his eyes as an uncontrollable blast — demolishing a crane, causing it to drop the payload toward a terrified crowd. he uses another blast to obliterate the object, but the people believed that the teenager tries to kill them. an angry mob formed, so scott fled onto a freight train.

this is where the mutant would meet a criminal named jack winters, who would became his foster father for a short time. he would use his telepathic abilities to manipulate scott into joining up with him. he was physically abused if there was any refusal.

the use of his abilities attracted the attention of professor charles xavier. he was rescued from the clutches of jack winters, and taken in by charles to be the first member of the x-men. a team of mutants trained to use their powers for the professor’s dream for mutant equality.

the original x-men became best friends, and were tutored by professor x. he trained them to use their powers inside of the danger room. scott was provided with a special visor made of ruby quartz to help him control his powers in the field.

scott takes on the alias cyclops. he becomes the leader of the x-men, and continues to hold that position. he’s completely aware of what mister sinister did to him growing up during his traumatic experiences at the orphanage, and him playing the role of his doctor.  

he also moves on to become a professor at the school when reaching adulthood. scott taught geometry mainly, while also offering a leadership and tactics course. if the students wanted to form a small team of their own it has to be approved through him. he misses teaching now that the world has changed.

weaknesses —

POWER REGULATION DISABILITY: due to psychological trauma and physical injury at a young age, cyclops is unable to control his optic blasts. In connection, his eyes have become more reliant on the ruby quartz he uses rather than affecting change to the injury. emma frost has claimed the psychological trauma of losing his parents and being separated from his brother are primarily responsible for his inability to control his powers. sinister has also claimed that his eyes have become reliant on the ruby quartz sunglasses and visor, therefore making it hard for cyclops to control the blasts on his own. after overcoming the trauma, he was able to control his blasts and open his eyes for a period of time. however, he gradually began losing control of the blasts and had to revert back to using the sunglasses and visor again.

SURPLUS ENERGY: he needs to fire blasts frequently, because he gathers surplus energy within him if not. he apparently needs an outlet for that energy

equipment —

VISOR: to prevent random discharge it’s lined with powdered ruby quartz crystal. as a safety factor their is a constant positive closing pressure provided by springs. there is an overriding finger-operated control mechanism on either side of the mask, and normal operation is through a flat micro-switch installed in the thumb of either glove.

he also has emergency ruby quartz contacts.

X-SUIT:  current costume of cyclops is a variation of the basic costume designed by charles to their first and original x-men.

[captainshellbooty]

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[insideabunker]

The Games: Chapter 2

"I don't care how good she is, Mike, there's just no reason to take her. There are more than enough good tall guys out there, and it would be a strict disadvantage to put someone so small behind the net."

In a cradle of loose netting behind the crossbar, a tiny transistor radio crackled to life, filling the frozen air with the staticky voices of commentators.  The sound echoed through the empty rink, followed by the sharp metal ding of a puck as it ricocheted off the goal post.

"We gonna listen to that thing the whole fucking time?"

"It motivates me."

"To what, have an aneurysm?"

The crack of a slap shot rang out like a bullet from a gun, followed immediately by the hard thud of vulcanized rubber hitting leather at 80 miles an hour.

"Are you throwing softballs?"

Lincoln eyed the goalie skeptically.  "Why am I even shooting from the line? You should be working on close up stuff. The teams you're going to be playing will be focusing on dekes, tips, and wrists more than they will slap shots.  You need to work on reading the body."

"Pussy."

Another crack filled the area, another hollow thud as the puck was stopped mid-flight.

"That's more like it."

Lincoln scowled.  As irritating as she could be, there was no denying his friend's talent.  The problem was that Lexa would be the first one to the point that out, and it made the goaltender hard to bear, and on rare occasions, pretty tough to like.

The radio crackled to life again, the static fragmenting the voices as they droned on.

"Oh, come on!  Remember Enroth?  He was five foot eleven, and the fans up in Buffalo didn't seem to mind him."

"Enroth? Enroth!?  Mike, if you're going to use someone as an example at least pick someone who still plays in the NHL.  The last time I checked Enroth was sent packing to a KHL team in Belarus or some such place.  Meanwhile, Halak and Khudobin, the only goalies in the league I can think of that are under six feet tall, haven't started more than half the games in a season."

"Keith, I played with Gerry Cheevers, who is arguably one of the greatest goaltenders in history.  He had to have been no taller than five foot eleven, and a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet.  Now, Woods is only one inch and five pounds smaller than that.  You cannot tell me that she can't compete at a professional level."

"Ok Mike, thousands of years ago, when you played, it wasn't uncommon to see a guy five foot ten or five foot eleven between the pipes.  And for the record, I'm not arguing that she can't play.  She's good. I've seen her play. I know she's good. She might even be better than good. My point is there's just no reason to take her in an era of giant goaltenders.  Right now, the average goalie in the NHL is six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds.  And that's just the average.  Ben Bishop is six foot seven, two hundred and sixteen pounds.  Why on earth would you bother taking this girl when there are guys like that out there? Does she have the chops for the NHL? Sure. Fine. But, why sign a small, average quality NHL prospect, when you've got guys playing at the same level who can also fill up the net like they're the Rock of Gibraltar?"

"Well, either way, her selection to the Canadian national team should make this Olympics an interesting one."

"One thing is for sure.  If this girl wants a shot at being selected to a professional team, there had better be a shiny, gold medal hanging around her neck at the end of the games.  I doubt any NHL team is going to sustain interest if she can't bring home gold when she's just playing against other women."

“Can we please turn that crap off,” Lincoln pleaded with her, his arms dangling at his sides as he kicked a puck into position for another shot."

“I don’t want to.” Lexa adjusting her footing as she waited for him to snap the puck.

“Dante's gonna be pissed when he hears you've been binge-listening to this crap again.”

“He won't,” she crouched low in the net, superstitious that the mere mention of the surly, wizened goalie coach might summon him to appear before her.

“It's gonna get into your head.”

“It won't,” she crouching lower still, dismissing the momentary sting of guilt at her dishonesty.

“Whatever you say.”

Lincoln wound back, his body twisting forward violently as he slapped the puck in her direction, full force.

Most people would have believed Lexa when she told them that the detractors and skeptics didn’t get to her, but not Lincoln. He had known her too intimately for far too long.  Lincoln knew when Lexa was lying to herself. When they were children, it had been easier to recognize, easier to see the hurt hidden behind the brave face. Now though, the cracks around the edges were almost imperceptible, and when the naysaying was at its worst, Lexa only doubled down on her cocksure bravado.  It was an act that had become so calculated, so much a part of her, that he doubted she could tell the difference between the facade and the emotional truth behind it.

On the rare occasions that Lexa's emotions did break the surface, they always came out convoluted, manifesting themselves as anger and aggression rather than hurt and disappointment.  There were times when Lincoln wanted to do more, say more to help her, but his oldest friend lived in abject fear of losing her competitive edge. Frustratingly, Lexa believed that it was her fury, rather than her natural talent alone, that continued to propel her forward. Lincoln knew that his words would fall on deaf ears.

“So you want me to bring it in close?”

“Nope.”

Lincoln sighed, kicking at a puck.

“Lex, the teams at the Olympics...”

“I'm not training to play the teams at the Olympics, Lincoln."

"Lexa..."

They're women, Lincoln!  I've been playing in the damn OHL for three years now.  Men's professional hockey is my reality.  The Olympic games are a distraction at best, and when they're over, I need to be playing at a level that's going to get me drafted out of here. Training for the women's game isn't going to help me with that."

"And training like you're about to play Zdeno Chara is going to lose you the gold!"

Lincoln sent a puck flying towards the stands in frustration. It barely missed the glass, making a terrible rattling sound as it shook the board.

"Lexa, just listen to me for once! You're minimizing how good these players are."

The hulking former defenseman skated over to his friend, pulling off his helmet and discarding it gently on ice as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"You're not wrong.  The women's game is different, but different doesn't mean worse, it doesn't mean unskilled.  These women play a different style of hockey, and all of them are extremely good at it.  Some of them are unbelievably good at it.  More importantly, because you've spent your entire career playing in all-male leagues, their style of hockey isn't one you've played before.  If you underestimate how hard it's going to be for you to adjust to that, you do so at your own peril."

Lexa sighed, pulling her goalie mask off. “I swear Lincoln; coaching women has gotten you soft.”

She winked, smirking at her already exacerbated friend. After a two year stint in the NHL, a catastrophic injury had realigned Lincoln's stars, setting him on a new path as the assistant coach of a collegiate women's team in Wisconsin.  His transition from rising playboy all-star to a champion of Title IX and female athletes was a sensitive matter, though he remained a good sport when it came to teasing.  She expected him to roll his eyes, groan, or perhaps playfully punch her in the arm.  Instead, he made Lexa jump as he threw his stick onto the ice, furious.

“Lexa! Can you just drop your fucking attitude for once?”

He skated away from her, his hands resting behind his head as he took a moment to cool off.

"You know… I get it. I grew up with you. I was there when you and those other girls petitioned to play in the boy’s league.  I saw how you were the only one left standing after years of harassment and abuse.  I've been with you every step of the way, so I understand how you ended up with the mindset you have, but you've got to get over this toxic masculinity shit! Somewhere, deep down inside of you, you still believe that you've gotten this far in spite of being a woman.  That belief is wrong, Lexa.  That thinking is your Achille's heel."

He turned back to her, rubbing his temples to soothe the headache form an afternoon of clenching his jaw.

"Those girls don't think that way.  I know you believe that if they were as good as you, they'd be playing in the men's leagues too, but you're wrong.  They didn't grow up where we did; they didn't have to walk that path.  They grew up playing in women's leagues, where nobody ever told them they weren't good enough.  They're not playing to prove anything to anyone."

He eyed her knowingly, an unspoken truth passing between them."

"If you shove it in their face that you think you're better than them because you play with men, they're going to use that attitude to humiliate you."

Lexa's face was red, her eyes fixed and furious.  She threw her goalie stick in Lincoln's general direction and tossed her glove and blocker down in disgust.

“I didn't even want to compete with these women! Playing for the stupid Olympic team was your idea; you and Dante!  I don't understand why the hell I'm supposed to learn some whole new style of play for something that's going to last all of three weeks!"

"Because it's a damn honor!"

Lincoln and Lexa both froze as the gravelly voice of Dante Wallace rumbled at them from across the ice.

"And would either of you care to tell me what you're doing here on a day that I specifically told you to take off?"

For a second, Lexa just watched her coach approaching, frozen in shock as though she were an eight-year-old who'd just been caught goofing off in practice. She was accustomed to her coach's frequent irritability, but this was a different mood altogether. The old salt was raging, his anger fueled by the audacity of his protege's defiance. Dante was the kind of man who refused to take insubordination lightly, and as he stomped towards them, fisherman's cap pulled low on his brow, unlit cigarette gripped between his gritted teeth, unshaven jaw clenched, Lexa knew she was about to catch hell.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!"

"Dante, I..."

Dante held up his hand, pointing directly at Lincoln as he continued to stare Lexa down.

"Don't you even start!"

He thrust his index finger in Lexa's direction.

"You want to practice? Fine, let's practice.  Suicides, go!"

Lexa remained frozen for a moment, trying in vain to process an excuse.

"Now!" He pointed at Lincoln.  "You too, blockhead!"  

The pair finally sprung into action, dashing off towards the closest line and hustling back towards the goal.

Dante watched his unfortunate trainees sprint towards center ice, already panting.  He muttered, pulling up the zipper on the ancient Red Wings Starter jacket he was never without.  He stood there, letting a full five minutes pass until the suffering athletes had begun to turn red and pour sweat before he launched into his lecture.

"You're a damn fool, Woods! Only a fool would underestimate their opponent to service their individual, selfish pride."

He chewed on the end of the unlit cigarette, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other.

"You've been granted the privilege of representing your country because you're the best it has to offer, a paragon of true Olympic prowess, and like a jackass, you choose to squander that opportunity. Why? Because you don't like the stipulations?!"

He spat his cigarette out on the ice, finally blowing the whistle around his neck to give the go-ahead for Lexa and Lincoln to stop.  The two dropped to the ice, gasping for breath.

"Woods, you're one of the best goalies I've ever coached, you might even be the best. Right now, however, you could fit the number of people that believe that into a pee-wee locker room. This season is the last one you'll be eligible to play Major Junior, and if you're betting on those NHL scouts suddenly coming to their senses, you've got another thing coming."

Dante walked over to where the players were slumped over on the ice, still trying to catch their breaths.  He crouched directly in front of Lexa's face, staring her dead in the eye.

"Kid, you've spent the last three years playing for the worst team in Northern Ontario.  Nobody gives a rat's ass how good you are if they don't see you play.  You're invisible up here, and as long as you're invisible, the NHL can ignore you all they like.   Play net at the Olympics and you get to show the whole world what you can do.  Nobody will be able to ignore you after that.  That's why I insisted you play for the women's national team."

Dante stood, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants, and popping another cigarette into his mouth.

"Now get off my ice and go clean yourselves up.”  He paused looking over the pathetic, exhausted skaters with disdain.  "You two look like a damn soup sandwich."

With that, he trudged off, the scent of bay rum and stale Camel Straights lingering in his wake.

Next Chapter ->

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[garden-of-jem-eden]

Hello World, I’m Jem (Day 12 I think.) (Edit: It’s day 11 oops)

THIS POST CONTAINS MENTIONS OF EATING DISORDERS, DEPRESSION, AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS... Please don’t read if these things might be a trigger. Nothing is in great detail, but still a word of caution. Also, negativity about my sexuality or gender identity will result in a block. 

So I’ve been wanting to make this post for a while. I’ve only had this account for a few months, and I’ve only been posting for a few days. So here this goes. 

I’m 17, I’ll be 18 in about a month and I’ve been struggling with body image since I was eight years old. I was looking through old journals a few months ago and saw I had written, at 8, I wanted surgery to change my stomach and my nose. 

My heart broke into a million pieces reading that. 

I was not an overweight child, through most of my childhood I was severely underweight. But at eight years old I was already planning on plastic surgery to change the parts of my body that I didn’t like. 

It only got worse as I got older. When I was around thirteen my weight spiked, along with my height. Somehow in my mind though, I didn’t notice that my height was up, only that the scale had a bigger number. 

Compounded on top of my first major growth spurt, I also was beginning to figure out that I wasn’t straight, and that there was something else wrong with my body that I could not figure out. I was also in and out of court from 6th-8th grade trying to get away from the boy who’d been sexually harassing and assaulting me since the first grade. It all played a part in my eating disorder. 

I won’t go into details, but it was essentially the beginnings of anorexia/bulimia. I wasn’t eating, and what I did eat only managed to make me violently sick. I lived off of coffee, energy drinks, as little food as I could get away with. 

It was bad enough I was starving myself, but I was also on my junior high volleyball team, and I ended up getting very sick throughout all of junior high. I had pneumonia for a solid three months, and while I was sick I continued to participate in volleyball and I continued to not eat. 

Somewhere between 7th and 8th grade, I figured out that I was not cis, and a huge part of my body issues was chest dysphoria. Being from a small town I didn’t even know that not female was an option. Around this time I was depressed, suicidal on a near daily basis, and not sure if I had a future to worry about.

I don’t know what snapped me out of it. March, about two months before the start of summer, I started eating again. It was like a complete one-eighty. I was happier, I was more active and I got sick a lot less. I started figuring out things with my identity and while it would be a few more years before I found what made me happy, I was getting better. 

Freshman year was the best year of my life. While I still struggled a little with my body, I weighed about 143 freshman year, I was happy with how it looked, the muscle in my legs and the how flat my stomach was and how I felt alive and healthy. There were still bad days, but I got passed them.

The day before my birthday a person I’d been talking to for a while asked me out, and we’re about to celebrate two years in a few weeks. 

I won’t be sharing a name or anything at the moment because I don’t have their permission to, but I will share that they have been the best thing to ever come into my life. 

So it almost sounds like after freshman year things were great. I was in a relationship, I was thrilled with my body, and I was finally eating again. 

The summer between freshman and sophomore year I gained about 5 to 6 pounds. Five or six pounds is not a lot of weight to gain, but I’m only 5′1. On my frame, it looked more like I gained 10. I babysat over that summer to make money, which means I was eating what the kids ate, and I was inside a lot more. The depression also came back in monumental amounts. And so did my tendencies to skip meals. 

I’m not going to lie, I remember none of my sophomore year, other than I continued to gain weight, and the only time it really bothered me was during intimate moments with my partner. I figured out on top of being bisexual I was also nonbinary and my life kind of got easier.

Then Prom happened. 

Prom was a great experience in itself. I had a blast and I got to see the friends that don’t go to my school (Did I mention my partner goes to a different school?) I had an amazing time overall. 

And then I saw the pictures. And all I could think was what the fuck what the actual hell happened to my body. From January to April I’d gained almost ten pounds and it showed. I had no definition on my face or neck, my arms were huge and It looked like there were three people in that dress instead of one. I was absolutely disgusted with myself, and it was almost enough to ruin all of the memories I’d had that night. But in the end, the good outweighed the bad. 

I decided I was going to start working out and eating better. And god I wish that I had. But I just started skipping meals again. Skipping meals, and telling myself that I’d start working out Sunday and that everyone would wonder “Who’s that” when I walked through the doors. 

I ran out of Sundays. School was back and I was suddenly swamped with homework and college work and essays and I barely had time to breath let alone workout. At least that's what I kept telling myself. 

I’m currently One hundred and seventy-three pounds. In two years I gained a full thirty pounds and completely destroyed my self-esteem. 

Over winter break I started looking over my life. I realized how unhappy my weight is making me. And how I feel weak and sick and tired, all the time. I’m unhappy and struggling to keep eating and keep myself out of my depression. My partner has been here the whole time though, and they’ve been the only thing keeping me from falling down the spiral again. So I decided for myself, my mental and physical health, and for the good of my relationship, I’d start this blog. 

Honestly, being here has helped me stay aware of what I’m doing, and even if I don’t post about it, I ask myself, “Do you want to tell everyone you did this.” and it’s helping me make better choices most the time. 

I live at home still, I have no income of my own and so I’m limited to what’s here to eat. I haven’t started working out yet and my junk food intake has 100% increased because “I’m about to start working out, I’ll be fine.” 

Prom is April 20th, my goal is to be about 20 to thirty pounds lighter in the next three to four months. 

I’m sure there’s a lot that I glossed over, or that I tuned out of my mind. I’m sharing this less for you guys, and more so I can look over my life and see what’s brought me to this moment, but if it helps you guys review your own lives, I’m glad I could help. 

So that’s it. Hi, My name is Jem Eden, I’m 17, nonbinary, and -hopefully- on track to making my life better once and for all. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m so ready.