war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖝𝖝𝖎𝖎. Reunion
Maeve
THE GREEN-UNIFORMED TELEPORTER lands evenly, on steady feet. It's been a long time since the world squeezed and blurred for Maeve. The last time was Cassian. The split-second memory of him aches. Paired with her wound and the nauseating rush of pain, it's no wonder she collapses to her hands and knees. Spots dance before her eyes, threatening to spread and consume. She wills herself to stay awake and not vomit all over . . . wherever she is.
Before she can look much farther than the metal beneath her fingers, someone pulls her up into a crushing embrace. She clings on as hard as she can.
Matt. Matt. Matt.
"Matt," she whispers in his ear, lips brushing flesh. He smells like smoke and blood, heat and sweat. He smells like home. Her head fits perfectly in the space between his neck and shoulder.
He trembles in her arms, shaking. Even his breath hitches. He's thinking the same thing she is.
This can't be real.
Slowly, he pulls back, bringing his hands to cup her face. He searches her eyes and glares over every inch of her, committing her face and features to his memory. She does the same, looking for the trick, the lie, the betrayal. Maybe Chris has skin changers like Mags. Maybe this is another Silvius hallucination. She could wake up on Chris' train, to his ice eyes and Valencia's razor smile. The entire wedding, her escape, the battle ━ some horrific joke. But Matt feels real.
He's paler than Maeve remembers, his hair grown longer since she last saw him all those months ago, looking like curtains around his face. It seems as though he hasn't shaved in a while, as stubble lines his cheeks, along with a few minor nicks and cuts along the sharp edges of his jaw. He looks older, the six months apart shifting his features ever so slightly. Only his eyes remain the exact same. They look so like Chris', the same blue. But unlike his brother's, Matt's eyes hold an unwavering warmth. Maeve missed that warmth more than anything.
She looks different, too. A skeleton, an echo. He runs a limp lock of hair through his fingers, the brown curls brittle and unhealthy. And then he touches the scars. At the back of her neck, her spine, ending with the brand below her ruined dress. His fingers are gentle, shockingly so after they almost ripped each other apart. She's glass to him, a fragile thing that might shatter or disappear at any moment.
"It's me," she tells him, whispering words they both need to hear. "I'm back."
