#those things just happen those steps are made wordlessly without the need for recognition

[separatist-apologist]

If you have the chance, would you be able to write something along the lines of Elain moving on from Graysen (the asshole) and deciding to give Lucien a chance?

Hi anon! I hope you don't mind but I made this a one-shot. It's on AO3, but I'll post it here as well.

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1 year:

Elain sat in the window of Feyre’s home, staring down at the city stretched beneath her. She could see the people of Velaris moving about, smiling, talking, living. Some part of her was jealous, though not enough to prompt her into moving from the same spot she’d been in for weeks. Every time she stood, the memory of Graysen came crashing through the gates of her mind, demanding recognition. It would have been fine if all she thought about was that last, painful reunion but her mind replayed all their best moments. Over and over on a loop, Elain watched herself fall in love with Graysen like it was the first time. Every whispered compliment, every shared laugh, every promise, over and over until she could scarcely breathe.

Her skin felt too tight, unable to contain the breadth of emotion constantly roiling inside her. She barely slept and when she did, her brain convinced her she was still human, still his. Each time, she woke to the crushing realization he was really gone. She’d never hear his voice, see him smile, feel his touch. It was too much.

So she sat, waiting for the moment she could finally house the pain somewhere manageable. She knew she’d never love again and to that end, Elain only hoped to learn how to move around while she carried it. She thought if she could just force a smile and pretend, somehow everything would be alright.

She resented the strangers before, so blissfully unaware of her, of what was happening just above them. Look up! Her mind screamed. Look at me! But no one did. No one but him, without fail, every time. He was walking up to the house as she watched, a little package tucked beneath his arm. He tilted his head, the sun reflecting off his bright red hair, and their eyes met just like always. He held her gaze for a moment, as if to say hello, and Elain, like always, looked away.

Leave me alone.

He didn’t acknowledge her beyond those shared looks, didn’t speak to her, didn’t stand too close if he happened upon her. She wondered, at times, if he didn’t know how she felt. Perhaps he sensed she didn’t want to talk to him. Graysen’s replacement, she thought bitterly. Everyone was waiting for her to get over her engagement, to forget him and move on with him. She didn’t want another, didn’t want to try again, to start over.

She wanted Graysen. She wanted him so badly it made her teeth ache. Her stomach constantly bubbled with anxiety, her chest flooded with sadness. What good was life without him? Was Graysen missing her? Would he move on, love again? That thought terrified her to the point of distraction. She wanted to run away, to see him, to beg him to take her back. She crafted arguments in her mind, imagined scenarios in which he came to find her. She daydreamed of a way to become human again so she could have him back.

None of it made living alone any easier. So Elain stayed, curled in her window.

Waiting.

9 months:

Elain looked down at the pen in her hand with a sigh. Three months of letters, all unanswered. She wanted a chance to explain, to tell him what happened. To see him, if she was honest. She’d begged and pleaded and screamed all to no avail. Graysen didn’t respond, not even to tell her to leave him alone. His silence was a response, though it didn’t make things any easier. She set down her pen next to an untouched piece of paper and rose, resisting the urge to try again. She felt insane, constantly reaching out, constantly waiting. Nothing could fix what was broken, though it hardly made her feel better.

She’d stopped crying every night though the dreams persisted, and her appetite hadn’t altogether returned. Her sisters stopped watching her so carefully when she managed to plaster a smile on her face and pretend she was moving on. Was she? Was this what moving on felt like? She felt empty, numb. She was going through the motions, baking and gardening and reading but none of it gave her joy. She felt no sense of purpose.

At times she thought she could throw herself into the Sidra and it wouldn’t matter at all. She was wondering, again, if she ought to walk out to the bridge and see if this was the day she might hurl herself over the railing. How long would it take anyone to notice she’d left? A day? A week? Would they sigh with relief, no longer burdened by her presence?

She jammed the heel of her palm into the bread dough she worked. Perhaps they’d miss her cooking, but not her. No one looked at her long enough to see what was missing. No one really saw her at all. She could have been the paint on the walls, the—

“Elain?” A deep, male voice asked from the swinging door of the kitchen. Elain froze. She recognized that voice. His voice.

She looked over her shoulder wordlessly as he stepped inside, his black boots clicking softly on the tile beneath his feet. He seemed uncomfortable and out of place so finely dressed among her flour coated dress. Two steps were all he took, close enough to reach the black marble counter at the furthest end of the room. He set a small box atop it, his eyes fixed on her face. She didn’t move.

“Have a good day,” he murmured, offering her a slight bow before stepping back out. She breathed a sigh of relief and pulled her hands out of the dough to get the package he’d left. She wondered if he’d wrapped it, running her fingers over the shiny gold paper. Carefully, cringing when she accidentally ripped some of it, Elain opened the perfectly wrapped gift to find a hard covered book sitting inside. She opened it with trembling fingers.

Fairy tales, the kind she’d grown up with, complete with beautiful paintings done with vibrant oil. He’d left a silver foiled bookmark in front of one of the stories and Elain flipped to it, gasping softly. A brilliant picture of a sunlit sea and a story of mermaids awaited her and she wondered absently if he was trying to tell her that was his favorite. Elain closed the book reverently, hugging it to her chest.

It wasn’t until later that night, buried under a blanket with nothing but a candle for light, that Elain realized that book was the first thing that made her feel anything in months.

She wondered if he knew he’d kept her from trying to jump off a bridge that day.

She wondered if he knew how she felt at all.

6 months:

Ripping up weeds offered Elain a small amount of savage pleasure. Over and over, she imagined it was Graysen she pulled at, her mind angrily replaying the speech she wished she could scream at him. You act like I wanted this! She yelled silently at a particularly deep-rooted weed. You act as though I left you! She tossed the weed onto the pile she was collecting, tsking when she realized she’d broken another nail. Feyre would chide her for not using gloves, his gloves, but she liked the feeling of her hands in the dirt. She liked feeling the earth give way, bending to her will.

Retribution, she thought savagely, ripping another. You abandoned me! She imagined she’d scream. You promised forever and then left me to rot! She imagined how he’d blubber, what pathetic, cowardly excuses he might offer. Would he apologize? She wanted him to. She wanted him to get on his knees and beg her forgiveness so she could ruthlessly tell him no. She wanted him to feel every second of agony he’d put her through. It wasn’t fair he got to get on with his life, got to move on and be happy while she’d been left with the mess he’d made.

Truthfully, it was too cold to be out digging but Rhys’ magic kept that garden alive year-round, she suspected as a gift, and Elain wasn’t about to let it become overrun. It was something to do, a small thing that made her feel like she mattered. In the scheme of things, she didn’t matter. She laughed and smiled and everyone thought her all better. No one saw her, not that she expected them to.

It didn’t make things hurt any less. Elain sighed loudly, reaching for another weed when she heard the sound of boots crunching on the gravel. Something tightened in her stomach, that familiar cord humming softly as he approached. Elain kept her hands in the dirt, fisted tightly to prevent herself from getting up and yielding to the mating bond.

“Good afternoon,” he said, hidden from view by her curtain of hair. Her spine straightened ever-so-slightly at the rich timbre of his voice, washing over her like warm water. She wondered if he expected her to respond. She nodded her head instead, her thoughts drifting towards the book he’d left, dog eared, the spine cracked. She read it almost every night, despite having the entire thing memorized. He didn’t need to know that. How had he even known she was there?

“I recognized your handiwork on the way in,” he continued pleasantly. Handiwork? She thought. “Maybe one day you could show me how you manage to make the azaleas bloom so nicely, even in the cold.”

He’d recognized her gardening? That was impossible. Anyone could plant azaleas. She stiffened, swallowing hard when he crouched beside her, his impeccable boots pressed right up against her pile of weeds.

“From the continent,” he told her, setting an ivory pouch just beside her gardening tools. She looked up, finally parting her hair with her chin, but he’d already turned his back, revealing nothing but the broadness of his back hidden beneath a cerulean coat. Elain waited until she was sure he wasn’t watching to unearth her hands and pick up the bag.

Inside were tulip bulbs from the continent. She’d always wanted to see them, had heard they bloomed more beautifully there than anywhere else in the world. Her father had told her of valleys filled with nothing but tulips. Had he seen them? How had he known she wanted to?

She brought that little bag inside with her when she finished, tucking them carefully away in her sock drawer just beside the pearl earrings he’d given her for solstice. She’d hidden those so she wouldn’t have to see them but this…this should be protected, she thought. She wanted to plant them somewhere special, somewhere just for her.

“You look good today,” Cassian commented when Elain half skipped down the stairs for dinner. She paused, turning for a bathroom so she could look at her reflection. She was surprised to find Cassian was right. She looked…almost happy.

Someone had seen her.

3 months:

All she had to do was hand him the package from Rhysand. Simple, in and out, a hello and a goodbye and nothing more. Elain concentrated, having been dropped off by Mor on her way to do other business in the human lands. Mor assured Elain she could return to where they’d arrived and wait, that she didn’t have to remain with the humans…the band of exiles… if she didn’t want to. Elain didn’t. In fact, she wished Mor could do it all and she could have remained where she was.

She saw the manor, an estate really, made of polished gray stone that made it look like a thing of legend. A fortress that might repel the truly terrible, monsters and dragons and—

“Elain?” An all too familiar voice asked. Her heart sank to her feet and time seemed to stop as she turned to face Graysen. He was human…she was in the human lands…it hadn’t occurred to her that she might see him. She’d been too absorbed at the thought of seeing him.

Graysen looked exactly as she remembered. Thick, brown hair almost flopped into his soft, puppy eyes. Angular, strong face…toned body…Graysen.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, taking three steps towards her and Elain instinctively took one back. Hurt flashed over his features for just a moment before his eyes strayed towards her arched, pointed ears peeking through her hair.

She swallowed. “Am I not allowed to be here?” She replied, refusing to give him a straight answer. He’d forfeited his right to know about her life when he left all her letters unanswered. Graysen’s eyes shifted, looking towards the manor.

“You’re here to see him,” he said, disgust curling over his words. Elain merely shrugged, as if to say so? Why did he care, she wondered? Her fear began to settle, and Elain couldn’t deny that some little part of her still missed him.

“I would hate to keep the fine, Fae Lord waiting,” he sneered, his anger clearly not directed at her. Not completely, anyway. Did he miss her, she wondered?

I don’t care, a soft voice whispered in her mind. “So would I,” she agreed, offering Graysen a soft nod of her head. Everything she’d ever imagined saying to him, every angry accusation or begged plea slipped from her mind. Instead, Elain said, “It was nice seeing you.”

Graysen’s eyes warmed, not enough to convince Elain he still cared. “You, as well.”

Elain turned, then, readjusting Rhysand’s package, and finished walking to the manor. By the time she got to the door, her anxiety was back…and Graysen was forgotten. She blew out a soft breath, raised her fist, and knocked.

It was a servant who answered. Why was she suddenly so disappointed, she wondered?

“This is for—”

“Elain?” He asked, his body appearing in the hall behind. Elain sucked in air at the sight of him. She’d never seen him so casual before, in well-fitted, brown trousers and a billowing white shirt he’d half tucked into his pants, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He held them up with black suspenders that matched the color of his boots and his hair, typically pulled off his face, hung loose.

“From Rhysand,” she said when the servant melted away, leaving just Lucien standing in the doorway. Her eyes drifted towards his forearms, corded with muscle. Why did she like that, she wondered absently.

“Ah. I was told you would be Mor,” he informed her with a frown. Her heart sank.

“Sorry,” she murmured, moving to step off the porch and back to her meeting place with Mor. Lucien surged forward, one hand outstretched as though he meant to grab her but thought better of it.

“I’m not,” he assured her. From behind him, Elain saw a pair of bright blue eyes half hidden beneath copper colored hair peer at the pair of them. A tall, surly man stood just above her, his face etched with disapproval. “Would you like to come inside?”

She opened her mouth, about to say yes, when she remembered who this was. Who he was.

“I uh…I’m supposed to meet Mor,” she replied instead. He nodded, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear.

“Of course. Another time.”

And Elain, for reasons she’d never understand, said, “I would like that,” just as Lucien was about to shut the door. He froze, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll send word?” He asked hesitantly, as though he expected her to back out. Her heart pounded painfully, her tongue sticky in her mouth. She nodded, unable to speak and he smiled.

“Another time, then.”

Elain waited until the door clicked shut to exhale the air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She walked back to where Mor was waiting, her expression one of apology.

“I’m so sorry,” Mor said the moment Elain was within earshot.

“For what?” Elain replied, still thinking of his smile.

“I didn’t know Graysen would be nearby. I heard he spoke to you. Elain…if I had known…” Mor’s voice trailed off as she studied Elain’s face. “Did you see him?”

“I did,” she agreed, blinking. “I guess I forgot.”

Mor arched delicate, blonde eyebrows and offered Elain her hand to winnow back to Velaris. She looked over her shoulder, back towards the estate hidden in the distance.

All she could see was him, standing in that doorway.

When had that happened?

1 year:

It had been raining non-stop for days and Elain was going out of her mind. She wanted to be out in the world, to see people, to do anything. Instead she sat in the window of her bedroom, looking wistfully out at the empty streets as lightning cracked across the sky. Spring storms seemed endless, trapping her in her bedroom to pace restlessly. She pressed her forehead to the glass, wishing for the barest hint of sunlight. Elain pulled her bare feet beneath her lilac-colored dress as her mind wandered towards a letter he’d sent two weeks before. He was traveling again and he wrote of what he saw, of the things that fascinated him, of what made him laugh. She’d written back, desperate to hear more but he hadn’t responded.

Perhaps he’d tired of their constant communication through letter alone. It disappointed her, each morning that she woke with nothing new on her desk. She didn’t want him to tire of her. She wanted to see him, if she was perfectly honest. She thought she’d been obvious regarding her intentions, but perhaps something she’d said made him think she was no longer interested.

Elain glanced back down at the street where a figure was walking, a dark hood pulled over their head, body covered in a long, cloak. Her thoughts of him vanished as her interest peaked. Who was brave enough to come out in the middle of the thunderstorm raging around them? What could possibly have pulled them outdoors? Elain watched as they approached, closer and closer until they removed their hood. Red hair, a flash of gold and Elain launched herself off the windowsill and out of her room without a second thought. Her feet slapped loudly against the floor beneath her even as thunder shook the walls. She practically jumped the steps, half-tripped over a carpet runner in the hall, and yanked open the front door. Warm, spring air hit her in the face as a bolt of white lit up the dark gray sky around her. She didn’t care. She plunged into the pouring rain where he was, still walking to the front door.

He caught her the second she flew into his arms. “Lucien,” she breathed into his neck, her hands in his hair. They’d never been so close before and yet it felt right.

He chuckled, his arms tight around her waist. “Hello to you, too,” he replied, lifting her off her feet. Water drenched them both, her dress clinging to her skin but she didn’t care. She touched his face as he lowered her back to the pavement, directly into a puddle of water.

“You didn’t write,” she said, her face mere inches from his own. His expression softened, that russet eye melting into flame even as the golden one clicked softly as though responding to her words. “Things suddenly became very hectic. I came to offer you my apologies in person—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she assured him as he held her face in his broad hands. Beautiful, she thought. He was so incredibly beautiful. Lucien smiled.

“Of course I do,” he assured her, lowering his mouth ever so slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed the moment they touched. Thunder boomed around them again, not that either of them noticed. It might as well have been her pounding heart, leaping with excitement. His lips were soft and somehow, and she couldn’t explain it, he tasted the way sunshine felt.

“We should probably change out of these clothes,” Lucien told her, eyes still closed, voice strangled, when they broke the kiss.

Elain burst into giggles. He looked at her, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course not,” Elain agreed, her hand slipping into his own. “But perhaps you could help me all the same?”

Lucien nodded, following as she led him back to the house.

And as she walked through that door, soaking wet and beaming, Elain thought she’d never been half as happy as she was in that moment.

With Lucien.

[monsoonblooms12]

What Ethan & Pooja AU is this? #OpenHeartAU

Selcouth (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Set in Book 2, Pooja gets the recognition she deserves for solving Naveen Banerji's case.

Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange and yet, marvelous🤎

A/N: Thank you so much @beastlyinstrument for the visual prompt❤ I had fun thinking up and writing this piece.

A/N 2: The flashback portions are indented

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 3.2K (I am sorry!)

Rating: General

Category: A bit angst, A bit fluff

Warnings: 1 Curse Word (again 😆)

Prompts: Late Submission for @choicesmonthlychallenge July challenge day 4: celebration

There was stark silence surrounding him as he scribbled out points from the morning meeting of the Diagnostics Team along with some of his own observations from the patient charts. The days have been nothing out of the blue since his return from the Cholera-ridden district of Amazons.

The steam from the warm coffee filled the entire office with its sweet aroma. With winters in their full force, there was a mystic chill all around the city and the warmth the coffee gave was extremely welcomed.

It took him 30 minutes to the tee to complete his morning paperwork. And as he arranged the white sheets in a clean stack, a slow groan escapes him. He had been so engrossed in work, that he had completely missed the fact that he had emptied his coffee cup.

Ethan looks up from his desk to the windows giving an enchanting view of the brumal grounds. Snowflakes, basking in the distant sun's glory, shining like iridescent jewels, fell slowly, silently to meet their origin.

It's too serene of a day to waste indoors.

The thought caught him somewhat by surprise, even if it was his encephalon producing it.

He had spent long years of his life away from focusing on diminutive happenings like the weather or the warmth of his favourite Vienna on a frosty day.

To appreciate the beauty of falling of the snowflakes today, was a slightly unusual change. He couldn't help but wonder as to what would have caused it.

He didn't need to wait long for an answer. Like a response to his unuttered query, the notification bell of his phone brought him out of his reverie and displayed her name with the joy of a student who had solved a difficult problem with ease on the first try. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just an email of her completed reports.

And yet, he was unable to control the breakout of butterflies in his stomach.

The feeling was orphic, and yet irenic.

As his heels tapped on the white floors, supposedly conducting an intriguing conversation with them, a faint intermix of voices reached him and stopped him in his tracks.

"You're wearing all black." It wasn't a question, but a fact that Alexandra's voice enunciated.

"Are you surprised?" A concordant voice questioned. Even if he didn't acknowledge it, it was one of his favourite euphonies.

"No. Impressed."

"I lost a bet to Bryce, and this is what I get in return." There is a pause. "It's a nice change though."

He can feel the smile that emerges out on her face at the end and feels his lips curl up, like a magnetic connection. He was caught off guard as he stood there thinking of the sweet nothings and sweet everythings of his reminiscences with her.

"Good Morning Dr Ramsey!"

It took him all his power to straighten himself, and to put on the stoic façade before responding,

"Good Morning Dr Walton."

Alexandra didn't initiate a conversation, just like he had expected. Bidding goodbye to her companion, she strode off her way.

Now, it was just him and her, standing in the middle of nowhere, eyes locked in intense focus, tied together with a string they find themselves unable to break.

She looked striking like she always did.

In every hue, every ensemble, at every hour, she knew how to induce that unnamed feeling in his heart.

All she had to do was to look at him the way she did, and his idiotic heart would skip a beat, and an ambrosial emotion would follow.

And what does one do when emotions go out of control?

Self Preservation.

Giving her a brisk nod, he dropped his gaze, hurrying away past her, not having the courage to look at the hurt caused.

Idiotic.

That's the only word he could use to describe his actions.

He could think of a trillion excuses, travel through a hundred bends on the roads of justification, but nothing would be enough to balance out the pain he was giving her. Not even his playlist of curses that he played in his mind every day to remind himself what he truly was.

An asshole.

As soon as his steps took him to the outdoors, the crisp cold winds blew through his hair, and he cherished the moment.

The apricity hugged him, and the scene that met his eyes, the world draped with a veil of phosphorescing snow, generated a euphoria he was unfamiliar with. As a minuscule flakelet fell on his outstretched hand, he realized that no one needs to spend a billion dollars to get happiness.

It is hidden amidst mundane things, and the only thing one has to do is to keep foraging for it.

Happiness can be made, it can be found. But can it be bought?

Never.

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It was unusually calm at Derry's in the morning hours.

Not that he was complaining, of course.

In comfortable, long sips, he lets the caffeine overtake the tiredness and the heartache coursing through his body. The glare of the screen and ping of his cellular broke the aura of comfort that had spread out through the coffee shop. He wants to shut it off and throw it in a corner away from his sight, but decides against it.

It's a text from Naveen.

Skipping is not an option for today night!

A groan escapes him, the annoyance of another meet and greet taking away all the calm. He tried to convince him, but all efforts went futile. He plays the discussion all over again to find any loophole he can to escape the torture.

Flashback:

It's after hours and the wing of the hospital where Naveen's office was situated bore a silence. The amicable old man sat in his chair, leaning back as the younger one stood, with his back at him. It was obvious they had been arguing, but it seemed more like amusement for the old mentor and annoyance for the young protégé.

"There is no need-"

"Ethan, you have been repeating the same words for fifteen minutes now." Naveen chuckles.

"I very well know that there is no need for anything, dear friend. I just want a little bit of happiness and merriment in the hard times."

"I am not stopping you from doing that, Naveen, you know that. But what is the need of the celebration being about me?"

"Because you are a reason I am alive today." The man gives a melancholy smile, vision blurred as the near-death experience of the past year come sailing in front of him.

"This celebration is about you and Dr Sharma. Without the two of you, I would not have been here."

Ethan's features are clouded by the pain of losing his mentor, who has been like a father to him, and inspiration. His frown softens, annoyance long lost, as he comes as takes a seat and places his hand on his.

"Fine. I will do this. But only for you, okay?"

Naveen's lips curl up in a grateful, happy smile as if wordlessly conveying his thanks. As Ethan stands up and proceeds to leave, he cannot stop himself from laying out his observation,

"For her too."

And Ethan knew. He knew exactly whom this was about. And as much as he wanted to deny the assumption, he couldn't help but accept the truth in it. Of course, he was doing it for Naveen. But he was doing it for her too. She deserved it so much more than him. If she hadn't been there, the seat occupied by his mentor today would have been...

Flashback ends

As his eyes skim through the crisp pages of the medical journal absent-mindedly, he thinks of her again. The permanent occupant of his daydreams, who would still manage to come back, no matter how many resets he carried out.

He thinks of her attire from the hour before, hair in a neat long braid, dressed in a meticulously embroidered Indian attire. And then of the celebration at dusk, where she will finally receive the recognition she deserves.

All the doubts regarding her promotion to the Diagnostics Team would be washed away.

He remembers what she had told him a few days after he had heard those nasty rumours,

"I have proved myself and I know what's true. I don't need to show anyone else the testament of my abilities. As long as I am fair and just, their words can do no harm to me."

His admiration for her had increased phenomenally when she spoke those words to him.

His pride, his faith had not been misplaced when he picked her for the difficult voyage named Edenbrook.

He has never felt so proud of any other intern as much as he does of her.

His heart sings to him, his choice was correct. He doesn't let it elaborate itself, because one wrong move from his side would be more than enough to ruin this unpolished gem before she even gets a chance to shine.

Yes, he did tell her that some things are worth any risk, she is worth any risk, back in Miami. The reminiscences of the day still played on the screen of his mind in sepia, they lulled him to sleep.

But the risk to harm her fragile career before it even blossoms?

It wasn't just a risk, it was like a crime for him.

One which he refused to commit.

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

As dusk falls and winter blues colour the land of snow in multichromatic hues, hiding any bit of orange from the setting sun, Pooja Sharma hums along with her favourite songs as she dresses up for the special evening.

No matter how much she wants to curl up in the folds of the soft Cashmere, she has to be in attendance. It's a strict order from her grand mentor and impossible for her to go past.

It's all black day, she reminds herself when picking the outfit. And she doesn't forget to leave a thank you note for Lekh as she finds the perfect one.

And now, as she stands, trying to complete the arduous job of creating a perfect eyeliner wing, a certain someone's reminiscences trouble her pained heart.

No matter how much she scolds it for its stupidity, trying to explain the futility of the hope of getting together, it never heeds, just continues to trouble her with the baritone of his that enchants her mind, the cologne that overpowers all her senses.

As she looks at the reflection in the speculum, she cannot help but imagine his reaction.

Will she even get a reaction?

Maybe just a nod, or a look.

No words.

She has convinced herself with it. It took some time, some stops, some pulls of an invisible harness, but she has convinced herself.

She's stopped hoping, soothing herself with whatever they shared, memories that felt like they belong to a bygone era, and a promise of treasuring them, just in case he ever decided to come back.

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

In the vespertine hours, the diamond dust made the sun devoid city look like a fairytale. Any other time, he would have just worried about the sharp chill, probably cursing the snow.

Being so observant of the places he is a regular visitor at, it was a new experience for him.

Strange, even.

It's something that will take some time to get used to.

The interiors are warm. Minimally decorated, as he had requested. Not wanting to create a fuss, he bee-lines to the corner of the room, where the only occupant was emptiness. He decided to cherish the moments of solace before the bother of the vivacious crowd began, wanting to start a colloquy.

On instinct, he looks around, not being able to comprehend the reason why his heart leaps to his throat. And then a pang of disappointment overlaps that sudden nervousness.

The absence of one person, the feeling so profound.

It's magical.

Dangerous, but still, magical.

A mute scold follows. No matter how hard he tries, strives towards that unannounced aim of reset, his stupid heart and its childishness always ruin his plans.

The call of his name makes him turn around.

Naveen stands, jolly smile fixed in place, eyes sparkling with joy and...

Gratitude.

They chat, topics ranging from Diagnostic team cases to complaints of coffee. His orbs casually drift towards the entryway, in hope of seeing his dearest.

And as the astrologers say, the stars align, the universe comes into play, and the shimmer of black in the lambent atmosphere makes his heart skip a beat. He feels a smile emerging and hastily hides it with a scowl.

If he had to, he would have sworn that he looked like a clown.

Her ambers gaze around in a lucid, tender manner, in strike contrast to his a while ago.

There is a lack of haste, of worry, of unease.

Her very presence fills the air with tranquility and without his consent, his soul basks in it. After what felt like an eternity, their gazes meet.

Melt into each other like the wax of two candles.

Become inseparable.

She smiles, it's faint.

It seems more of a formality than a wish. The momentary cheer is replaced by a somber, melancholic expression. Her orbs drift away, gaze turns away as if to hide whatever was to come from him.

And he knows.

He's the reason.

Silence is suffocating, but right now, the chaos is even more constricting to him.

Everyone chatters, mingles, smiles.

Everyone except her.

She stands too still, flashing a half-hearted smile and half-hearted gaze here and there, as she is surrounded by the rest of her friends, preventing him from getting a better look.

As conflict rises in his interior, a to go or not to debate, the gulps of scotch become more frequent, the frown gets tighter and guilt gets heavier. Before he can drown down into the never-ending cascade of crippling self-hatred, there is a call of his name.

Naveen.

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

Claps and whoots surround her, along with a cheer. She becomes the recipient of numerous bear hugs, and compliments as Naveen elaborates on her contribution to his recovery. It feels like a reel of situations played from her sweven. It took a pinch for her to realize that it wasn't.

A mic tap follows, it's Ethan's turn to speak. She freezes upon hearing her name getting repeated again. There is an uncanny depth to it, she notices. An indication that it conceals so much more than is visible. Not just pride, not just intoxicating happiness.

Gratitude, raw and pure gratitude.

And something else (or maybe not?)

Her focus all over the place, she missed a lot of the address. What stayed carved in golden words was a single sentence, unremarkably remarkable.

"It's not me, it's her. I lost all hope, but she was the one who fought till the very end, never giving up, even if she had thousands of storms to navigate through."

"There can be only one recipient of the applause today, and it's Dr Sharma."

Two contrasting emotions put her in a dilemma. Whether to let the water drops she held strongly to herself or to let the heartfelt joy induce the grin that would shine brighter than the stars the twinkle along with the forlorn moon?

Unable to decide, she let the cracks in her stoic mask deepen, let the faint upturn of lips become visible to the world. Every applaud fell short, in a haze, as the mere words spoken mere moments before played in a loop like a soft harmony.

The 360-degree turn of the evening gave her the most unexpected and the most precious memories.

The change of the blithe chilly eve to heartwarming dusk.

Rare, mysterious and yet, magnificent.

Selcouth.

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

Ethan Ramsey, for the past decade of his extremely brilliant career, has never displayed even a minuscule amount of emotions. Never. The mask of stoicism fixed so perfectly, that no power could ever induce a crack in it.

No one could.

Until one day, an intern waltzed into his life like an unforeseen plot twist and induced changes no one ever could.

The mask has cracked, even if to a small degree, letting the minuscule details of a transformation out. Sometimes it could be as evident as a smile, or a genuine compliment to an intern. In other instances, it would be just the absence of the forehead frown (which had become a permanent resident at a point).

And now, the beloved plot twist of his novel stood before him, her eyes expertly decorated with kohl. She was quieter than usual, engaging in casual conversation, but prevented going into depths of it.

Their gazes never meet, only slide past each other.

He missed looking into the amber of hers, trying to figure out her thoughts like someone engaged with a very complex puzzle that ends up in a phenomenal picture.

He missed listening to her sweet whispers, mumbles which made him smile more than he had for the past decade.

He missed her.

The universe is always planning a conspiracy to make destiny true. And it's definitely an action of its, that his hand extends towards her, wordlessly.

She gazes at it, gazes at him, thinks for a while.

And finally, slips her hand, bejeweled with that bracelet she wore in Miami. He still remembers it placed on his heart, which beat at an erratic rhythm.

Which beats at an erratic rhythm now.

Looking at the Bostonian sky, only drapes of translucent mist could be seen all around. No twinkles, even the moonbeams were struggling to reach them. The silence is comfortable, only interrupted by the sips of steaming hot coffee.

Her eyes are fixed above, in a search for the hidden celestial elements. His focus stayed on the snowflakes resting on his jacket.

He leans back, places a hand down.

There is a lack of warmth.

Soon enough, another hand joins him.

The cold is gone.

And so is his search of moonbeams.

Her touch felt like light, his own moonbeam. So soft, so warm, so dear. Something he could keep etched on his skin forever.

She was his moon.

And for her, those summery blue orbs held depths of the ocean, the faint, soft wrinkles that languid years leave behind as a mark of their passing like map lines of some unknown lands.

He was her world.

In every universe, through trials and tribulations, through pain and smiles, they were destined to find their way to each other. No one powerful enough to keep them apart.

Not even they themselves.

It was a cosmic state of comfort they found themselves in. His hand in hers, their fingers interwoven, the reflex etched in his mind with an everlasting ink.

He has never believed in soulmates, but as he as leans back, eyes closed, hair fluttering along with the icy-cold breeze, having her by his side, he couldn't bring himself to believe this was anything less than destiny.

That even after so many trials of forgetting her, he would always come back to her, searching for the serenity he only finds in her presence.

The feeling is rare, confusing, maybe terrifying.

But right now, he basks in the warmth that it provides, all worries and all woes are hidden in a wooden box, discarded away from his sight. And unbeknownst to even him, he waits for the day he can kiss her the way he wants to, no ties, no binds holding them away.

Yes, he waits for the day.

PS: If you are reading this, I am very grateful for you. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day🤎

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[jamespotterthefirst]

Adrenaline Rush

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 1,400 Warning: None Premise: Another stolen kiss. Set after the Kenmore Heist of Chapter 9

______________

“Great work today, team,” Baz said with a grin and a mock salute. “Enjoy your night.”

The last words he accentuated by shooting Ethan a significant look. Thankfully, Lilac missed it entirely, too preoccupied with switching seats to the front now that Baz was being dropped off. 

Once alone, they drove in a silence that started off comfortable as Lilac fiddled with the radio. When she couldn’t find a station that pleased her, she switched the audio mode to play CD. The monotonous narration of the latest historical audio book he had been listening to filled the car, which prompted her to scrunch his nose at him. 

Ethan chuckled as she turned it off, feeling his shoulders relax. In the silence, he finally thought back on the excitement of the day. There was a part of him that felt reckless in agreeing to her plan in the first place. There was another part, a more insistent one, that thoroughly liked it. 

His mind swiveled to thoughts of their kiss, more proof that his carefully constructed conviction was crumbling. The memory of her lips on his, her body relaxing into his without hesitation despite the surprise, made him suddenly aware of how close their bodies were in the confined space of the car. 

He could feel her eyes on him and unsurprisingly his body flared with heat. She was thinking about their kiss, too. He knew her well enough to know that with certainty. 

The tension thickened until she could no longer take the silence. He also knew she would attempt to dispel it with characteristic humor. 

“So,” she started, the smirk evident in her voice. “The great Ethan Ramsey kissing in supply closets, huh?” 

“Here we go.” He suppressed a grin of his own, gratified he was correct about her. 

Lilac laughed and he could see her hands raise in a gesture of defeat. “I’m impressed,” she confessed. “Besides we all did it.”

Ethan recalled the first weeks of her intern year, when rumors of her and Bryce Lahela were all the nurses talked about. At the time, he felt mildly annoyed that one of his interns ran around stirring up gossip and speculation, even if it made him a hypocrite. Now, he could begrudgingly admit that chagrin might have been something else entirely. 

“Jealous, Ramsey?” The question was playful and terribly accurate. 

Ethan focused on driving, allowing a grin to break through and shaking his head slowly, concealing nothing. 

He didn't care. He was done hiding from her. 

“You must’ve been so popular,” she teased. “I almost wish I had been there.”

“Hardly,” he said. “I was obsessively focused and not exactly the friendliest or warmest. I mostly kept to myself. That’s hardly attractive.”

 Lilac made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “You are so clueless about the effect you have on people,” she declared. 

He chanced a glimpse at her when it was safe to look away from the road. At the same time, Lilac glanced up at him, their eyes locking together like magnets. Her smile was too deliberately coy and if Ethan was being honest, it had the intended effect. He felt his pulse accelerate, a palpable energy sizzling between them. Perhaps Ethan wasn't that clueless because he could've sworn that the way she looked back at him, wide eyes dark with something left unsaid, she was flirting with him. 

Eyes back on the road, he decided to play along. 

“Jealous, Allende?”

She let out a breathy sort of laugh, one that could ensnare a man forever. “Honestly? Yes.”

He coughed on his reply. Her delighted laugh filled the car, almost musical in the sound of the traffic that whizzed past them. 

“I'm messing with you,” she admitted, unaware of how true the words were. “I'm sure young Ethan Ramsey was a hit. Those poor interns never stood a chance.” She shrugged, before adding, “Besides, my mother always says, 'Lo que no fue en tu año no te hace daño.'” 

Ethan understood the words and meaning well enough, even if he struggled to formulate a precise translation. It seemed Lilac struggled too for she gave up with a sheepish smile that was entirely too endearing. 

“Wise woman, your mother,” Ethan commented in response. 

The red glare of break lights interrupted any response she may have offered. Ethan stepped on the break.  

“Dammit. I forgot there was construction on Congress Street,” he said, mindful of keeping his eyes ahead. Blindly, he reached for his phone and handed it to her. “Do you mind checking if there's other side streets open we can take?”

Lilac opened her mouth, perhaps to argue she could just look it up in hers. However, something on his screen caught her eye. 

“No lock code?” she asked with something close to jest. Ethan was certain she was cataloging this in her mental arsenal of jokes about his age. 

“There's nothing in there I'm worried about anyone seeing,” he replied, glancing at the rear view mirror. 

Except he was wrong. 

As he said the words, he remembered the picture set as his home screen. It was a photo of the Biscayne Bay in Miami at dusk, taken by him from the balcony of their hotel room in the minutes before they kissed for the first time.  

He was certain she recognized it because she stared at the screen in silence. When he glanced at her, he could see all traces of humor had vanished from her face, eyes examining the picture with recognition.

“This is from Miami,” she said in an oddly small voice. Those eyes he loved so much were fixed on the screen, as though she could not drink in the sight enough.  “When we…”

Lilac did not need to finish the sentence to ignite the memories. That night would be seared into his mind forever, not only because it was commemorated on a screen he glanced at every day, but because it was the first time he dared to hope she would want him just as badly as he wanted her. 

Lilac emitted a soft sigh, so quiet he almost did not catch it.

She was thinking about that night too.

 With a stab of guilt, he realized she must also be inevitably remembering how he’d push her away. He had been so convinced then he knew exactly what was best for her that he never bothered to give her a choice. Ethan had decided for both of them with ruthless and unmoving conviction.

Yet, she was there, right by his side. She had forgiven him when all he did was punish her for his own mistakes. His chest felt tighter with a powerful, all-consuming emotion – one he was too cowardly to admit.

“Ethan?” 

But her words broke off into a startled little cry as Ethan abruptly maneuvered into a different lane. The move inspired the shrill honking of several car horns and even one rude gesture from a driver passing them by. 

“What are you–”

Ethan safely parked the car on the side of the road and turned to face her. Wide eyes looked at him with a mixture of confusion and concern. 

Fueled by the sudden onslaught of emotion and the adrenaline of the day, Ethan caught her face in his hands, leaned in, and kissed her. His fervent lips moved against hers almost as if in anguish, desperately holding her to him as though she might disappear. Although initially surprised, she did not hesitate to respond just as fiercely, her lips submitting to his desperation, her hands resting at the planes of his chest. Her sweet, lush need for him made his heart skip, inspiring his tongue to part her delicate mouth. 

When they pulled apart to catch breath, his hands helplessly held on to her, relishing in her warmth. Lilac studied him curiously, a radiant smile illuminating her already lovely face. In the gold glow of the Boston streetlights, she looked ethereal to Ethan.

“What?” he asked breathlessly when she continued to wordlessly stare at him in wonder.

“You've been... loose lately.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows and she huffed a quiet laugh at that. 

“I meant, you’re loosening up.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ethan asked, nipping at her bottom lip when he couldn’t resist the sight of it.

“I like it,” she admitted, sounding deliciously dazed from the small, sweeping kisses he brushed against her lips. “It makes you seem...happier.”

It was not a strong enough word for what she made him feel.

________

Author’s Note: Roughly translated, that Spanish saying means something like “if it didn’t happen during your time, it doesn’t hurt you”. I am obsessed with Ethan knowing/understanding Spanish (among other languages).  

Very pointless drabble, I know. But today is a very sad day for my family and I just needed to write to get my mind off things. 

If you made it this far, thank you, as always.

My love and gratitude to every single one of you

_______

Tags:  @openheart12 | @ethandaddyramsey | @noboundariesplease | @silverlitskies | @infinitiestones | @flyawayboo | @paulfwesley | @hatescapsicum | @myusualnerdyself | @thatysn | @choicesyouplayandmore | @chasingrobbie | @trappedinfandoms | @togetherwearerapture | @nooruleman | @caseyvalentineramsey | @axwalker | @parkerattano | @i-bloody-love-drake-walker | @kaavyaethanramsey | @edith-eggs1 | @choices-lurker | @jens-diamondchoices | @tefigranger | @ethanrcmsey | @coffeebeandragon | @senator-adrian-raines-wifey | @aestheticartwriting | @longneckramsey | @binny1985 | @mvalentine | @sanchita012 | @drethanramslay | @ ethanbrook |@ramseysno1rookie | @lion-ess24 | @emotionalswift2 | @the-soot-sprite | @takeharryandgo | @aworldoffandoms | @desmaranj | @ josieplayschoices | @magicalshepherdtreeprofessor | @oofchoices | @ethxnrxmsey | @octobereighth | @colossalpainintheass​

[toothpastecanyon]

Stolen Slate, Chapter 1

As the years go on, Dipper finds the cultists summoning him are becoming increasingly obsessive, increasingly creepy. It had gone too far long before a group of them broke into the Mystery Shack and stole Mabel's memories, but now he has to get them back before they find out about Alcor the Dreambender's ultimate secret... and before Mabel gets too freaked out by the news that her brother has turned into a demon.

See most updated version on Archive of Our Own.

______________________________________________________________

It was quiet, here. Quiet like a grave. Quiet, but not peaceful. The dust was still settling, the blood was still pooling, and Alcor the Dreambender stood still in the remains of yet another basement.

The light - it was out, had been blown out. One small shattered window tilted up to the moon revealed what it could not; revealed the scuffed up chalk dust in the air, the candles knocked over, the bodies piled up by a locked door - even the desperate nail-marks they’d made in the paint, it revealed those too.

It revealed Alcor, standing over the closest one. This one, nearer to the circle - had less time to get away, left less of a body to inspect. Still he could see a necklace glinting at him from the gristle; he picked it up, and frowned.

It was a symbol of the Dreambender, the Twin Star. An elaborate one, made of spelled silver that singed his hand a little as he held it. A lot of time and skill and money had gone into making this… and that was the problem, wasn’t it?

These Alcor cultists, they were getting sophisticated. They were getting dangerous. He still got those summons from people who were choosing him out of dozens of other demons, but now there were people dedicating their life to him, studying his every move, immortalising his every decision. The Alcor/Mizar stuff was only supposed to be an alias; the dumb twin star design he slapped on his public circles was something Mabel made in a night, but now it was taking on a whole new life before his eyes.

Alcor stared at the blood on the symbol before him, and knew there were people worshipping him.

His face twisted, and he crumpled it it into a ball and threw it at the wall so hard it brought the roof down. The window was crushed under a slab of concrete, and Alcor stood still in the darkness, breathing.

Breathing.

Breathing.

In the distance, police sirens were beginning to cut through the quiet. He bared his teeth a little at that, then stepped back, stepped away-

Stepped into the living room of the Mystery Shack, where a TV was on, playing quietly an episode of that soap opera Stan wouldn’t admit he liked. He followed the light over to Stan himself, snoring on the couch with a half-empty bottle of pitt cola in his hand. He didn’t stay asleep for long, though; Dipper could see his aura register the presence of someone else in the room, and without opening his eyes Stan spoke:

“You’re a better door than a window, kid. Move.”

Dipper snorted and stepped aside. “”I thought you didn’t like this show.”

“And I don’t.” He changed the channel. “Wanna watch Ducktective? Might be in the reruns.”

Something struck Dipper as odd in Stan’s tone, there. He frowned, looked down, and immediately saw the problem: he was covered head to toe in blood.

“Oh,” he said, in a small voice. He’d hardly noticed this time.

Faintly, he could hear Stan rise from his chair. “I’ll getcha a cola, kid,” he heard, and then there was a squeeze on his shoulder. “Looks like you need it.”

“Wait, I don’t…” Dipper shook his head. “Do you know where Mabel is? I-I just, I-I kinda wanna talk to her, please.”

“Oh, sure, kid. She’s upstairs, go to her.”

That… immediately struck Dipper as strange. He hadn’t felt Mabel in the house; he cast his mind upwards, and found only quiet.

“What do you mean, Grunkle Stan?”

Stan stopped by the doorway. “She’s upstairs. She went to go to sleep after you left - I didn’t hear nothing after that.” He turned to look at Dipper, and there was something glinting in his eyes. “What, is she not there?”

Dipper frowned. The quiet upstairs… it was strange. Unsettled. In the attic, he could feel some kind of presence, but it was masked somehow; every time he grabbed at it, it slid through his fingers like soap.

It wasn’t quiet.

Something was wrong.

He looked back to Stan, and saw him with a baseball bat gripped tight in his hands. Wordlessly, they started up the stairs.

One step. Two steps. Softly on the third - it creaked. Dipper’s glowing eyes cut through the darkness, and his ears picked up the faintest hum of a working ward. He could feel his human form melting into void as they approached the attic door; he had no heart, but he could feel black anger pounding through him. Their bedroom, their safe place, was taken over and obscured by some powerful magic, but he pressed his long claws to the wood and felt no resistance at all. Whatever was in there, it couldn’t hide from him.

Alcor bared several rows of teeth, and burst through the door with a deafening snarl.

The first thing he saw: shadows. Humans wearing black. About seven souls were clustered around Mizar’s sleeping form; one of them was shining something blue at her head, and he flew across the room to clamp his teeth around its neck. He landed a bit higher than he expected - more around the jaw - but he bit down and felt it scream and break and bleed all the same. There were screams all around him, humans running for the open window, but Alcor savoured this moment, savoured the fear in its eyes as its blood painted the ceiling.

It had something in its hand, didn’t it? Alcor’s eyes darted to the side, but the blue thing was gone. Huh.

For the moment, that didn’t concern him. He saw the soul dislodging itself from this human, and caught it just as it bubbled out of his throat.

Ohhhhh, sweet soul. Alcor couldn’t help but close his eyes and tilt his head back as he chewed it; it had been a while since he’d treated himself to one of these, and in the moment he couldn’t imagine why he’d ever deny himself the pleasure. It tasted like every candy in the world, every dish he loved, every time he’d ever been happy.

It tasted like a piece of heaven, and from the sound of the screams surrounding him, it seemed like he’d have a few more pieces tonight.

...or just a scream, it seemed.

A scream, and a yell.

“-snap out of it, kid! They’re gone! Dipper!”

Alcor blinked, and looked up at the human.

“Dipper!”

He opened his mouth. “...Gr̕un͘k҉l͢e ͘Stan?”

“Ah, there we go. Took you long enough.” Stan offered a hand as the void cleared from his skin. “See, he’s alright. Not gonna hurt ya.”

“Not gonna hurt who?” Dipper squinted as the lights turned on. “Where’d they go?”

“Through the window, but we got a bigger problem.”

Dipper suddenly realised the fear still watering his mouth didn’t come from any cultist. It came from one terrified person, and as Stan pointed to the bed, he felt his heart stop.

“It’s your sister.”

Mabel was there. Mabel was staring at his bloodsoaked clothes, at his glowing eyes, at his huge wings… like she didn’t recognise him at all.

“Wh-what the fuck is that, Stan?” Mabel flattened herself against the wall. “What’s going on? Where’s Dipper?”

And all at once, a horrible realisation clicked into place for Dipper. That blue light - the memory gun. Oh, no. Oh, please, no.

“Mabel-”

“Don’t come any closer!” She flinched when he tried to step forwards. “I saw what you did to that man. I swear, if you hurt my brother like that-”

“I am your brother.”

“What?”

“Mabel, I…” Dipper looked down at himself, and back up at the terror in her eyes. He felt sick. “You don’t remember what happened, do you?”

“What happened?”

“The Transcendence? Bill dying? Me becoming a demon?” He pleaded for a bit of recognition, but all he got was fear. “You don’t, no… They wiped it all. It’s all gone.”

“What’s all gone? Grunkle Stan, what’s happening?”

Stan was like a statue. He sighed at Mabel’s words, and walked over to her.

“It’s… a long story, Pumpkin. How about we go downstairs and tell it over some pancakes, huh?”

[fbdo1986]

Bye Bye Love - A Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Fanfic

a/n: My pride and joy, the OT3 work I’ve been working on for months! A hopefully angsty number that details Sloane’s, Cameron’s, and Ferris’s journey through heartbreak and loss after their Sophomore year in college. The title is named after a song by The Cars by the same name!

Warnings: Death Mention (of none of the main characters)

Word Count: 6,111

I can’t feel this way much longer

Expect me to survive

Heartbreak is such a shallow, meaningless word. Well, it becomes one. Before Sloane leaves, heartbreak is foreign, but Ferris and Cameron can think of the times before they confessed their feelings, and that was ugly, streaming tears, holding in shouts and the sense that everything could be gone in a flash. Cameron knew it well, despite the misconceptions Sloane and Ferris had about him not being in love. But after getting together, heartbreak is a distant, funny memory that loses its sting. And then Sloane leaves. 

Sloane went back home at first. Her grandmother had fallen ill their second year at college and she had no choice but to go back. Ferris and Cameron miss her, but they survive. They bury their heads in their studies—Ferris more into music and other beautiful things that kill time—and coast along. It’s not that hard, Cameron and Ferris spend more time together, Cameron gets A’s on his psychology papers and Ferris has a part time job at a local art gallery. They go to the movies and get pizza at night and crash on the couch in Cameron’s dorm. They dance in the kitchen and hold hands as they dream up things to do with Sloane when she gets back. They call to catch up. But she starts answering less frequently.

In the summer: a funeral. Cameron and Ferris are there, stoic but somehow deep down know that they haven’t talked to Sloane in months, so there’s more than grief and commiseration stirring. Anxious anticipation. They just want to be there for her. They know the ache they feel in their chests is different from how everyone else is aching, and Cameron reels with guilt. But before they go inside Ferris squeezes Cameron’s shoulder, an unspoken recognition that he understands.

Sloane looks… like there aren’t words accurate enough to describe her. She’s hurting, definitely, but she feels… strong, solid. Like Cam and Ferris need the brave faces more than she does. The two knew she always took on a lot of responsibility in the family, so this seemed to be no exception. She was holding up for the rest. But she’s still stunningly beautiful. The two boys see her from behind at first, but they’d know her anywhere. Maybe the passage of time made her seem that much more gorgeous, but it’s Sloane—their Sloane—and their hearts drop in their stomachs immediately as she turns around to find them standing there. Her face lights up, as though there’s nothing more that she’d want to see in front of her. She lunges at them, immediately enveloping them both in a hug. Her arms hold them tightly; she has no intention of letting them go. She breathes them in happily, letting out a laugh that is soon tinged with tears. They pull her in tighter. 

“I’ve missed you both,” She hiccups. “So much.” 

She lets them go reluctantly. Ferris immediately takes her hand and Cameron forces himself to take a step away from her. Obviously, Sloane��s family only knows about her and Ferris, so Cameron must sacrifice his affections for the both of them. A sudden twinge of heartbreak as his heart stirs in his stomach and his shoulders hunch forward. But he’d do anything for Sloane, absolutely anything, so he’ll keep himself a secret. Sloane feels her heart being torn into pieces, her face morphing to house a frown. She fights the urge to find comfort in his arms again, to kiss him, to caress his face, anything that can prove that if it weren’t for her family and the circumstances they were under right now that she would absolutely prove her adoration to him. She settles for: “You know I don’t mean it.” She lowers her voice. “I love you.” Cameron feels like crying. It’s hard to process, all of it. He doesn’t realize how much he’s missed her until now and now he can’t even show how he feels. He bites back these feelings. They sink to the bottom of his stomach and he’s stoic again. 

“Are you alright?” Ferris asks suddenly, and they all know he's not just talking about today. Not just about her grandmother. 

Sloane doesn’t know where to begin. “Things are just… hard. Complicated. The worst part is how my parents are taking it.” The three of them look over to the Peterson’s, clad in black. They look hollow, and as though they haven’t slept in several days. “I’m basically taking care of them now. I helped take care of Nana before she…” Sloane nods through the implication. “And now I’m taking care of them.” They have no problem conjuring up images of Sloane cooking breakfast for her parents and helping her mother get dressed. Her chest heaves out a heavy breath. “I didn’t know something like this could happen. That could change them—change us. Life was so simple. So good, so easy. I guess I didn’t know they could even feel like that. I just feel so guilty. Like I let that happen to them.”

“Trust me, you didn’t.” Ferris eyes lock her own with seriousness.

“You couldn’t have known.” Cameron adds.

“I know. Like, inside, I know. But I just can’t—” The service begins and Sloane has no choice but to part from them. Her eyes trace them longingly for a few moments as she turns away. The priest begins the service by quoting scripture, and Sloane is not among the audible mourners that soon start. 

Eventually, the procession begins. They step out into the foggy, gray afternoon; a fitting sight for such an occasion. Ferris and Cameron ache to be at Sloane’s side, to be her crutch, yet they know that she’s needed by her parents' sides instead. The clouds hang dark and somber in the sky, and only slivers of light filter on the damp grass. The patrons stiff bodies shuffle to set flowers on the casket and say their kind words about the Peterson matriarch. The burial finishes, and they wordlessly trudge back inside to enjoy a lavish spread of refreshments. 

Ferris and Cameron find their way back to Sloane effortlessly, although they give her space that she seems like she needs for a few moments. Ferris notes Cameron’s tensity, he looks as though he could be holding back tears, and despite the fact that he knows they might not be about the funeral, Ferris doesn’t blame him. He flashes Cam a warm smile. Cam’s always been extremely empathetic, so he guesses their new awareness of Sloane’s life while she’s been away is taking a toll on him. Ferris feels stiff, but he feels lighter, better, when he’s around Sloane and Cameron. In Ferris and Cameron’s unspoken language (which, aside from circumstances like these, includes Sloane) they note how she must be the one to come back to them. She’ll let them in, tell them everything that’s been going on. They can’t pry it out of her.

Sloane comes back to them and they wait for what’s next in tense silence. Ferris wonders on his lucky stars if there’s any chance they’re getting out of here, if they can go back to his place and seek refuge from the world outside. That Sloane can change from her black dress and they can laze around with the window open and forget about grief, loss, and all things heartbreak. She pulls up a chair in between them at the table the two boys are sat at and breathes. She reads his mind. “I’m not ready.”

“What?” Ferris asks. Cameron’s gaze turns to Sloane instantly. 

Sloane’s eyes find the floor in between her heels. Her eyes brim with hot tears. “I… I can’t. It’s too much. I’m sorry. It’s like everything is all tangled up and you know I trust you two more than anyone else in the entire world, but it’s all too much and even I can’t wrap my head around it. I’m so sorry.” She breaks. Her head falls into her hands and Sloane is sobbing. Ferris and Cameron say nothing. In mere moments their arms are around her, holding her as she shakes from the heft of her cries. 

When Sloane calms finally she peers out of hands gently and she can feel Ferris and Cameron still there. The warm, stable bodies of the only two people in the world she would try to make understand. It wouldn’t take a lot. It never does. But against all instinct, she keeps it in. She leans into their bodies instead, and she knows without them she would sink. They are her life raft. But things still aren’t normal yet and she doesn’t know how to force out those words. Not now, not here.

So finally, when they have no choice, Cameron and Ferris gather themselves and say goodbye. They offer their condolences to Sloane’s parents, first and foremost, who meet them with tearful thank you’s and genuine expressions of appreciation. They both warmly take turns embracing Mrs. Peterson and offering Mr. Peterson a firm handshake and a pat on the back. Despite how long they’ve been in Sloane’s life they’ve never been quite close to her parents, Cameron in particular, but they wish them all the best regardless; they know that they need it. Ferris hates that Sloane is left with them, while still being their much needed support system, he aches knowing that she will, inevitably, absorb some of their sadness, or crack while trying to be strong for them. He wishes harder.

And with all the energy it seems she has in her tender, sentimental body, she faces Cameron and Ferris once more. Her eyes linger on them with all the love she could ever hold. She takes each of her lovers and kisses him softly on the cheek, because fuck it, she couldn’t care less who saw or what they thought.

“Please, take care of yourself.” Cameron whispers in her ear as she pulls away from him. He doesn’t know how soon it will be until they will see her again, he prays it will be soon. Their touches on her icy skin burn like summer, and the feeling of their soft hands holding her as she presses a kiss into each of them lingers on her. Sloane swallows her tears and it takes everything in her not to run into their arms again and plead for them to never let go. Instead, she nods, her lips pressing together in a tight smile as her eyes fill like swimming pools. 

Sloane doesn’t come back to school. Somewhere along the way Ferris and Cameron learn she’s dropped out and moved back to Chicago full time. Despite their nagging wishes, they fight every urge they have to pack up Cam’s car and immediately drive to go see her. They still have tests to study for, papers to write, and jobs to clock in to. Instead, they phone the Peterson’s, assuming that understandably, she had moved back home to take care of her family. Each time, it’s either her mother or her father solemnly answering, saying that Sloane isn’t at home at the moment. The first time he calls, Cameron asks where she is and if she can return the call later, and Mrs. Peterson informs her that she’ll tell Sloane that he called. She doesn’t return their calls. Each time, Sloane’s hands nervously fiddle with the chord, and as she chews at her lip she can no longer handle the dial tone, and hangs up before she can hear the warm voice of either the lively or recorded voices of her boyfriends. She’s already let them down, and she doesn’t know how to build that back up again. She settles for small tidbits of letters in the mail, along with messages that somehow manage to reach them through a long chain of mutual friends that say she’s doing alright.

They can’t fully adjust to life without Sloane. Heartbreak eats away at them. Cameron and Ferris are basically joined at the hip nowadays, clinging to one another as though their lives depend on it. No one is surprised, not fully, as the two boys basically have functioned as a unit since the fifth grade, but it was also easy to see that without Sloane, they’re seen less frequently altogether. They sit in Cameron’s dorm and pretend. They talk and kiss—and stop watching romance movies. The artificiality mocks them, these cheesy things that used to make them laugh, the heartbreak that they found unfathomable once—complete with their silly quips of “kiss and make up!” or “you just need to talk it out!” while holding onto one another’s limbs as they threw popcorn at the screen, giggling—feels cold and real. It’s more than the absence of a body that fits in theirs like a puzzle piece, it’s Sloane. Even her name makes them ache sometimes, because without Sloane there’s a loss of her warm, angelic face, her heart that holds them in it like there’s always been room for the two of them, her soft, wide eyes that take in the world in her loveliest, kindest and determined way, and her presence, like gentle, steady and streaming sunshine. There’s so much of her that clings to everything, the radio that used to play the mixtapes she made for the both of them, her scent on their shirts (Cameron walks in on Ferris one day and catches him sheepishly cradling one of his shirts she loved to wear), the coffee maker in Cam’s dorm she and Ferris bought for him, she even lingers on them both. Sloane’s in how they talk to one another; after all, they’re the things she loved most of all. They can’t help but keep the traces of how she loved them, in how they hold each other’s gazes—the brown of Ferris’ eyes in the sun can almost be hers, when Cameron stands on his left side, arm draped across his shoulders Ferris can almost pretend Sloane is at his left—and the way they can’t take up the whole space of the bed. They cannot abandon what is hers. Ferris and Cameron talk about it, occasionally, with uncomfortable pauses, long sighs and deep swallows.

After a year passes, during a quiet morning when the two scruffy twenty year olds sleepily drink their coffees before class, Ferris leads with: “She isn’t coming back, is she.” A statement, not a question. Cameron’s eyebrows dart upwards. He’s been writing her letters this whole time. Calling her on the phone, keeping his eyes open wide and ears perked for just a hint of possibility that she hasn’t completely left. Like one day he’ll go to the library and turn a corner and she’ll be there. That maybe she’s sitting at home, on her bed, perched by the phone and waiting for it to ring—waiting for her hands to find the courage to pick it up. Cameron’s used to ultimatums, and has been since birth, basically. Familiar with harsh statements that are just as painful as they are true. Acceptance is the request: accept that love isn’t a promise and once you do you can feel better about when it leaves. But once Ferris and Sloane come into his life he cannot accept bargaining his life away, cannot accept that people that precious are allowed to not love him. It’s not even selfish to want her back because he knows that’s what Ferris wants, but he’s instead accepted the chances. Ferris clears his throat awkwardly. “Sloane.” He barely trips over it, pushes the syllable through his lips no problem. 

Cameron thinks to himself: Dimwit, I know who you’re talking about.

“I’m not gonna stop waiting for her.” Cameron says with conviction, pretending like it’s nothing as he focuses his attention on stirring creamer into his drink. 

“She hasn’t gone to war, Cameron,” Ferris snaps suddenly. He exhales out of his nose sharply and then breathes in again. “She’s gone. She left.” There is silence as Ferris makes the two of them process it. A timid laugh eventually breaks it. “We can make it, just the two of us. Huh?” He prods Cameron’s ribs with his elbow.

Cameron bats him away with annoyance. “You realize we’re talking about Sloane, right? The girl you were going to marry? Does that mean nothing to you? She goes home because her grandmother died and she takes care of her parents. Then she drops out of school, all with minimal to no communication with us, Fer. And you’re about ready to say ‘Ah, we don’t need her?’ and just fucking pretend? I’m sick of pretending. I want to know what’s going on, and the only reason I don’t hightail my ass back to Chicago to get her myself is because I’m not going without you. Sloane is the love of my life, Fer. And I know she’s yours.” Cam looks deeply at Ferris, who is frozen to the spot with accusation. “And you’re the love of my life too, okay. It’s all of us or nothing. I don’t care how long it fucking takes. I miss her. I miss us!” He grabs for Ferris’s hand. “I know that’s what you want, too, Fer. Don’t try and hide it for me, babe.” Cameron cracks a smile, pointing to himself. “Come on, me! Cameron? Don’t pretend. I know you.” He draws that last part out slowly, taking in Ferris’s smile that begins to form. For one of a few memorable moments, Ferris Bueller is speechless. Cameron presses a kiss into his cheek, and he can feel Ferris’s grin beneath his lips.

Before the two finish college, they receive a response from Sloane. It is the biggest sigh of relief when they find a letter in her sprawling, rushed handwriting addressed to the two of them. Inside the envelope it’s obviously quickly scrawled, which detailed that she was doing okay, but rarely had time to reply, due to her caretaking duties and job, to any of their phone calls. They can almost read it in her voice, and both of them hover over the paper as though it were an announcement that they had won the lottery. By the end she wishes them a happy (nearly!) graduation and how she hopes to be there and just how proud she is of them. It’s been ages since she’s reached out this much, and they unconsciously hold their breath as they read her words again, again, and again.

Yet graduation comes and as Ferris and Cameron scan the crowd hopefully Sloane is nowhere to be found. Cameron tries to keep things lighthearted—after all, they’ve graduated! (why is it so easy to hear that in Sloane’s voice as a reminder?)—and that it’s very well possible her parents have adopted health issues which require even more of her attention, so there’s no reason to be worried or upset that it was because she didn’t care. But with every breath they take they know that this day was equally supposed to be shared by their girlfriend, who worked even harder than they did on a daily basis just to catch up to their grade level so that they could share this moment together. And she couldn’t be there.

So Ferris and Cameron have no choice but to go on about their lives again, which includes getting used to functioning as a two person unit again. They rent a small apartment in the city and Ferris takes the full time shift at the art gallery, while Cameron picks up a job at the local library cataloging and shelving books. Ferris loves the atmosphere for Cameron, in fact he’s recently started shedding the need to wear contacts consistently and even bought a pair of oversized glasses that he wears to work. The art gallery works perfect for Ferris, he guides tours of students and other visitors, which is surprisingly less boring than he first thought it would be. Of course, cursing their sentimental brains for thinking of it, they secretly contemplate what Sloane could be doing if she’d finished with her journalism degree. The two don’t stop writing her letters or leaving voicemails. She’s just now quiet background noise which was once a lively conversation.

So when the two receive invitations from their high school regarding the upcoming five year reunion for the class of 1986, they feel a weird sense of indecision. For once, in the strangest way, since time has passed so long without Sloane and their lives at eighteen, it’s hard to see what high school reminiscing has left to offer them. Cameron takes the pitch that it would be fun for Ferris, maybe, to take a taste of being adored again. By a whole room, everyone would be infatuated with whatever adventures he had been up to. He chuckles, claiming that he’s not missing anything by just being adored how he is now, and that he’s afraid that he’d disappoint (things weren’t very captivating these days). Besides, despite going into college, Ferris’ notoriety didn’t escape him fully. After all, that’s what makes Ferris Bueller, well, Ferris Bueller.

But they show, and the boyfriends make a plan amongst themselves to entertain them throughout the night. Not that Ferris needs supplemental activities—Cameron bets the senior class of 86’ hasn’t ever had enough of Ferris Bueller, and he knows that spark isn’t completely gone from the charming character Cam knows so well. But Cameron’s going to keep himself busy, and without Sloane by his side that means alternating between alcoholic beverages and water each time someone makes an encouraging reply or inquiry. “What about you, Ferris?”, “How about another story from Bueller, huh?” and the like. It’s less fun to get drunk just sitting alone, so he's ready to mainly hydrate while laughing at his boyfriend’s antics. Cam doesn’t mind it, honestly. He's never had a problem living outside of Ferris’ popularity bubble, the only attention that really matters to him is that of Ferris’ and Sloane’s, anyway. He’s perfectly content feeling invisible to the crowds Ferris inevitably attracts, since out of all the attention he attracts, Cameron’s own is the one that means the most.

So they discuss that Cameron has no problems sitting on the sidelines, aside from being his ‘arm candy’ when they walk in, and unless Ferris ever flashes him a desperate expression to have someone genuine to talk to. They laugh about it, since upon Ferris’ arrival there is no way he can avoid such proddings, (and honestly, would he want to?) and of course Cameron is cool as ice about it all, since the best parts of high school were inevitably spent with Ferris and Sloane outside of school anyway. But they agree that perhaps it’s time for Ferris to get that uncanny energy of showing up for an eager audience, it’s one of the things he does best.

Cameron settles contently, solidifying his position on the bleachers—oh, just like old times, away from the main event —with a glass of water and a drink in his hands. He is a complete eager audience for Ferris handling his eager audiences, and he chuckles to himself as he fades easily into the background, avoiding potential prodding of questions from people who didn’t give him a second look when they were in school together, now because he was seen with Ferris.

As the night continues and Ferris makes his way over to Cameron—with eager listeners trailing at his heels—the two lock eyes and acknowledge, well, more like Cameron acknowledges, that he’d enjoy a breath of fresh, unaccompanied air. Cameron used this time of observance of Ferris to have some time to think uninterrupted while being simultaneously entertained. But eventually things get a bit boring and Cameron longs for conversation to break from his thoughts.

“Ferris...” Cameron begins, watching Ferris in his most amicable manner break from a conversation, politely excusing himself with a sincere smile.

“I’ll talk to you soon, man.”

Ferris turns to Cam, who playfully rolls his eyes. That’s my boyfriend, for g-d’s sake.

He slings an arm over Cameron’s shoulders as they quietly break from the chatter inside the gymnasium, at points relying on the darkness along the walls to sneak away from innocent but incessant questions and prodding towards Ferris. They finally escape into the hallway, nearly breathless and laughing to themselves. “Fer, you have got to stop making people fall in love with you.” Cameron grins, lovingly shaking his head as Ferris removes his arm from his shoulders. They feel eighteen again, for just a moment; their bodies mimicking their younger selves, full of love and adrenaline waiting in the car garage for Cameron’s father’s Ferrari. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

Ferris sighs, as though exhaling out the bittersweetness, reminded of the absence of Sloane’s body that stood so naturally between them. They walk along the hallways that didn’t feel like much to them then, but now signify the naivety and lack of breathing room they didn’t realize they had. The walls of high school don’t feel like much anymore, but they house the memory of their heartbeats, rushed pulses and lips that begged to spill the secrets they were hiding equally from one another and from themselves. Stolen glances and how suffocating other people’s expectations can be. They don’t realize that until they leave, though. Instead, it’s somehow the nostalgic ideal, it was everything—the love they shared when they didn’t realize it yet, when the world was small. Now the world is more wide open, the problems they were deathly afraid of became things they worked through together. But they miss when their love wasn't quite there, but Sloane was still solid. Despite fears of leaving her next year which were ultimately solved, Sloane was a constant, along with every adventure, having no cares while spending time with the two people she cared about most.

The two boys, at 23 years old now, contemplate this in their familiar, comfortable silence. They walk just a bit too close together, pausing in their reflections once they both realize the other has tears brimming in his eyes. Cameron cracks a smile. He recognizes their shared sentimentality and they lean against the walls of the school that feels like only theirs. They gaze at one another: all that their bodies allow them to do is talk in hushed voices, barely able to express the realizations they’ve made in fear of them becoming true.

Until Ferris, opposite Cameron, looks past his shoulder and breaks the silence in the most Ferris Bueller way possible. 

“Cameron. Cameron!” He places his hands on Cameron’s shoulders solidly, instinctively almost slapping him at first just to get his attention to move towards his line of sight. Cameron’s brows furrow, nearly laughing in surprise of his sudden, forceful touch. He turns slowly, squinting to see what Ferris has very evidently noticed.

“Christ, Fer, what the…” Once his eyes follow Ferris’s own his heart instinctively falls three stories into the pit of his stomach. In the lobby which connects to the hallway they see a lovely figure of a young woman, elegantly clad in a pencil skirt and blazer combination; her long brown hair falling neatly in the middle of her back. Even from far away there’s no need for confirmation, their bodies shared instantaneous reactions are proof enough. It’s her. Sloane. Cameron is paralyzed with indecision, while his heart races as though it were its primary function. Ferris is seconds away from abandoning all formalities and getting as close to her as quickly as physically possible, but she notices them first. A quick glint of her eye is all it takes. So they move closer, as though they are approaching a sleeping dog, even though she is walking towards them with the same carefulness. 

Sloane knows that if she keeps their gazes she will break, but tears are already falling on her cheeks, an inevitable smile also already creeping onto her face. She quickens her pace suddenly and before her lovers can realize it she is right in front of them again. Whole. Here. Real. It’s been years since they’ve seen her in person, it feels impossible. Sloane begins, her voice already shaking. “I am so, so sorry.” A few quick breaths unsteadily exit her mouth. She can’t look at them directly. Cameron and Ferris remain silent, equally shocked and patient. “It took a lot to get in here, and I know that’s not the first thing I should be telling you but I wanted to be here sooner.” As she exhales deeply, trying to regain composure her eyes turn upward to look at the two people she loves most in the world, the two people she abandoned. She reaches out to touch them, her unsteady hands finding the soft, warm faces of Cameron and Ferris. “G-d, you look so different.” She smiles as she traces Cameron’s face, now 23, as though he has matured tremendously within the past three. Like he became the more full, whole version of himself, finally sure of who that was. He can’t help but lean into her touch, while hot tears too compliment the features she caresses. “You’re not eighteen anymore, Cam.” She says, beaming, but there is a deep sadness in her voice. She knows she has missed so much of what went into becoming 23 year old Cameron. She looks into Ferris’s loving gaze, his brown eyes full of adoration, but also holding strength in them unlike anything she's ever seen. And she knows she’s seen Ferris be strong before. He’s holding back something.

“What did we—?” He can’t bear to finish his sentence, and even when Ferris knows that there was no way any of them intentionally caused any of this hurt, he can’t help but blame himself now, because he was so quick to believe that she had moved on.

“Nothing. Nothing.” She breaks, sobbing as she takes turns holding each of their faces in her hands. Ferris puts his hands on her own to support her. “I was so terrified… I was so scared that my parents would collapse if I wasn’t there. I got a job to support myself outside of school… but I couldn’t stop worrying when I wasn’t with them. I couldn’t do anything. Eventually I couldn’t even work,” She takes in a deep breath. “I couldn't focus on anything unless it was when I took care of them. I had no choice… I couldn’t go to school… they suffered without me. It got better once they started seeing psychiatrists. Mom started taking medication—but it made her worse for a while before she got better. I don't have any family left. No one that could do the job like I did. It got easier slowly, and by the time I—” She continues to sob again. “By the time I thought it was okay to leave them alone again,” Her voice warps with sadness. “I knew I had left you for too long. I abandoned you! I couldn't handle it myself but I didn’t even let you know what was going on. I’m so sorry… I barely even said a word! It was too late, I couldn’t face you, coming back like this without an explanation of why I left. You deserved better than what I gave you, and I was absolutely terrified that you would realize how selfish I was being, and that you wouldn’t take me back. I didn't want to face how much I’d hurt you… so I left you alone instead.” She shakes her head, biting back continual sobs. “Which isn’t the right thing to do, obviously. I was so scared that I ended up taking it out on you both. Gd, I’m so sorry.” 

Ferris and Cameron stand in silence, but look at her sympathetically, offering their hands, shoulders, anything to support her physically in this moment. She finally buries her head into Ferris’ shirt, and he calmly begins to stroke her hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He and Cameron exchange knowing glances amongst themselves. They can’t pin this against her. Not in a million years. It hurt them immensely—painfully wondering when they’d see her again, or if she was in any trouble or if things had gotten worse. Of course, the thought of her getting over them or not wanting to see them again flickered through their minds, but they knew it was impossible that she had forgotten them. Yes, her support system—the two of them—could’ve been there for her in her most vulnerable points, but that would’ve included making some other sacrifices too. They know that Sloane loves them, and while she may have made a mistake, it was ultimately out of love and understanding of what Ferris and Cam might be feeling, and an understandable fear of heartbreak. They can work out the hurt they feel. That’s for certain, along with the fact that there is no way on Earth that they can’t forgive Sloane. Having her in front of them, her touching them, after years of trying to operate without her, is worth absolutely everything.

“I missed you so much.” Ferris plants a kiss on the top of her head. She looks up at him finally, after his words have soothed her enough to calm her properly. She turns back to Cameron, standing perfectly in between them, the way she fits so naturally.

“I missed you too. Gd, so much. I thought of you every day. I couldn’t stop thinking that you were still thinking of us. I knew Fer felt the same too, he just wanted to suppress how much he missed you.” He turns to Ferris lovingly and squeezes his hand, looking into his eyes for a moment. “It hurt to not have you here.” He sees Ferris tearing up, who’s overwhelmed by finally being able to let go of the fear and denial he’s kept inside for so long. He’s crying now, and it takes everything he has for Cameron not to join him in his sobs.

Sloane looks between the two of them. “I’ve loved you every day since I left. I never stopped. I promise. Please, take me back. I will make it up to you. I need you two more than anyone else in the entire world.” She looks deep into Ferris’s watery doe eyes that are pleading deep into hers, that it wouldn't happen again. She cups his face lovingly and he nods fiercely. His flame hasn’t burnt out yet, in fact, it’s only strengthened by the solidity of their relationship being complete again, with all three of them. He begins to kiss her face all over—forehead, eyebrows, cheeks, nose, mouth—with the utmost tender passion he thinks he’s ever bestowed on her. In a moment of surprised joy, she laughs. “Gd, Fer.” She smiles, and while there are still tears that grace her cheeks, she’s starting to fill finally with a sense of calm and happiness that hasn’t been felt in so long. He lingers on her mouth, kissing her properly and relishing how she feels on his skin again. She fits on him perfectly, and he knows they couldn’t forget just how easily this works, not in a million years. She kisses back, delightedly, breaking only to tell him something not muffled in between kisses. “I love you.” 

An instantaneous reply. “I love you too,” A perfect, lovestruck Ferris grin on his lips. 

She turns to Cameron, who’s wearing a lopsided smile. “You don’t even need to ask.” She gets on her tiptoes and kisses Cam as well, because years away from the loves of your life means you cannot waste opportunities to show how much you’ve missed them. She takes in all of how he feels, easily placing her hands—one on his neck and the other on his cheek—as though the last time they kissed was yesterday. They all feel like the luckiest people on Earth to be back together again, to fit just how they should. They show through their patient urgency of each kiss that they’ll never take this for granted. Of course, life isn’t suddenly perfect, their relationship is still more than taboo, but it has never been about what people think. They break from their embrace—Cameron is two seconds away from mumbling ‘I love you’ into her lips—and Cam and Ferris put their arms around Sloane’s shoulders. They stand together as a unit, taking in the sensation that things are now alright, and will only get better.

“Can we get out of here?” Sloane asks timidly, but can’t help but laugh as soon as she sees how Ferris’ eyes light up.

“I’m not keeping anyone waiting.” He jokes, only strengthening his hold on the two of them.

[vanillacaramelhoney]

Confused

Pairing(s): Hiccup Haddock x Reader

Summary: (Y/n) and Hiccup aren’t close, so it’s odd when Hiccup shows her something you don’t normally show a stranger.

Warning(s): None

A/N: THIS FEELS LIKE,,, THE PERFECT SET UP,,, TO A SLOW BURN FANFIC. EITHER STOP ME OR ENCOURAGE ME. If I do actually end up turning this into a series I’d rewrite this part longer and better tho.

Requests are open!

(Y/n) hated this.

Her entire body was sore, and she had never felt more guilt. And yet, she had no choice in what she did.

Dragon training had started only several days ago, and (Y/n) could already confidently say that it sucked.

There were only a few reasons she was pushing through it. The main one being that it got her parents off her back.

But there was something about training that she couldn't get over- Hiccup Haddock was training with them.

When they had started, she was shocked beyond belief to see him enter after all the others.

But, after the first day, he quickly proved himself. He didn't necessarily fight the dragons, but he did have a strange way with them.

(Y/n) had no idea what was going on. All she knew was that he'd show up for dragon training, own it, and then disappear until far too late in the night.

It confused (Y/n). He confused her.

The two weren't close, despite both being cast out.

There was just something about Hiccup that made (Y/n) keep her distance. Yes, it was rather rude of her to judge him without really knowing him, but her gut told her to keep to herself. So she did.

And yet, there was still a part of her that wanted to get to know him. There was a part of her that was oddly fascinated by him.

When he began sneaking around after training, (Y/n) felt pulled to find out where he went and what he was doing.

She wanted to track him down and confront him, but at the same time, he was allowed to do whatever he pleased.

(Y/n) sighed. She rested her head against her hand, staring blankly down at her food. She was startled when someone sat down not far from her. More specifically, Hiccup.

(Y/n) stared at him, shocked. Was he not aware that she was sitting there? He generally stayed away from her, and she did the same.

"Have you decided to eat for once?" she asked. It came out less of a joke than she anticipated.

Hiccup's head shot up, eyes wide with shock. He moved so fast he startled (Y/n) more. "U-uh, what?" he stuttered.

(Y/n)'s eyes were wide as she took in how panicked he was. It took a moment, but she could see him calm down.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked.

"Of course, I am," he laughed nervously. "What makes you ask that?"

"Well, you just acted as if I accused you of murder, and I'm hoping you didn't murder anyone," (Y/n) said, her face turning to a confused expression. "And while we're on that topic, you keep sneaking off every day. You avoid everyone."

"Uh, yeah, no, I'm- I'm fine," Hiccup stammered.

(Y/n) raised a brow. "You sure?" she asked, noting his nervous figure.

"Yeah, yeah," his voice squeaked. "I've just don't like all the attention." (Y/n) knew that the sudden increase of positive recognition had him overwhelmed, but it still felt like he was lying.

"You're just acting strange," (Y/n) paused. "Well, a lot stranger than normal."

He opened his mouth to speak but shut it. He thought for a moment.

"Wanna go walk around?" (Y/n) looked up, confused.

The boy had a hesitant but hopeful look on his face.

"Sure," (Y/n) answered.

The two got up, leaving their food behind.

They hurried out of the building, Hiccup ignoring anyone that tried to get his attention.

They quickly headed off to the forest. 

Hiccup and (Y/n) found themselves climbing around in the forest in the fading light.

Hiccup walked watching in amusement as (Y/n) tried to walk on a fallen tree, arms out to keep herself balanced.

"So, how do you know how to handle those dragons? The last you tried to deal with dragons you nearly died," (Y/n) said.

Hiccup laughed weakly at the memory. "I won't be revealing my tricks any time soon."

"Oh, really?" (Y/n) dropped off the tree trunk and landed in front of him. She stared him down with a harmless glare.

The two were silent for a moment until something came to Hiccup.

"(Y/n), can I ask you a question?" Hiccup asked. His voice had gone from joking to serious.

"Go for it."

"Do you even want to fight dragons?" (Y/n)'s look dropped. Instead, her eyes were wide with shock.

"W-what?" she laughed nervously. "O-of course I do. What makes you ask that?" She tried to play the question off with a lie.

Hiccup studied her. "You and I both know that you have more than enough strength to win against those dragons, but you're not even trying. Why?"

(Y/n) stared down at the forest floor, pushing around a rock with her foot.

Thoughts ran through her head, scenarios of what might happen if she told him.

"(Y/n)?" She sighed, closing her eyes tight.

"I don't try because I don't want to hurt them," (Y/n) answered softly. Hiccup tilted his head and tried to look at her face, wordlessly urging her to continue. "I've never wanted to hurt them. I'm only doing this because my parents have been on my back about."

A thick silence settled between them.

Hiccup glanced to the ground, then back up to (Y/n).

"Can I show you something?"

~

"Okay, there are a few things I need to tell you before I show you this." Hiccup and (Y/n) were at the bottom of a clearing, hidden.

"Alright," (Y/n) said, confused.

"You can't freak out," was Hiccup's immediate words, earning a glare from (Y/n).

"Depending on what you show me, I can't guarantee that," she told him.

"Fair enough," he nodded. "You can't tell anyone about this. And I mean anyone. It doesn't matter who it is. Got it?" (Y/n) nodded.

He said a quiet 'alright' before grabbing (Y/n)'s hand and pulling her out.

(Y/n)'s face flushed at the contact, but she didn't say anything.

"Toothless?" Hiccup called. (Y/n) watched him, confused.

Who was Toothless?

(Y/n) got her answer when a black figure came trailing into sight.

(Y/n)'s eyes widened at the sight of the dragon.

The dragon- Toothless- seemed more than thrilled to see Hiccup, but his mood immediately switched at the sight of another person.

Hiccup, noticing the switch, was quick to calm him. "Hey, bud, calm down," he let go of (Y/n)'s hand to step forward, holding a hand out. Toothless appeared to calm down but was still on guard. His eyes stared (Y/n) down with intensity.

"Y'know," (Y/n) whispered, "when you asked if you could show me something, I didn't think you meant a dragon." Hiccup smiled back at her nervously, patting the top of Toothless' head.

"Toothless, this is (Y/n)," Hiccup gestured to the girl. "(Y/n), this is Toothless." Toothless' glare dropped at the sound of the girl's name. Instead, he stared at her with interest.

"Does he normally just change like that?" (Y/n) asked about the shifts in his mood.

"Sometimes," Hiccup answered. He watched as the dragon slowly neared (Y/n). "Then again, I have told him about you."

"You've, uh... You've talked about me to him?" (Y/n) asked, turning to watch Toothless as he circled her.

"Yeah."

Toothless stepped closer to (Y/n), his nose going to sniff (Y/n)'s hand.

Seeing what he was doing, she lifted her hand for him.

He sniffed it for a moment before nuzzling against her hand, asking for attention.

(Y/n) giggled, gladly petting him. "So, are you going to explain how you befriended a dragon?"

~

The sky was dark now, and (Y/n) was sure that they should've been asleep a while ago. But, she was still up and in the clearing with Hiccup and Toothless.

Hiccup had started a small fire for light with the help of Toothless, who was curled up and sleeping.

"No wonder he didn't trust you at first," (Y/n) teased. "You shot him down!"

"Hey, I didn't think this would happen!" Hiccup defended himself.

The two sat in comfortable silence, staring at the fire.

"You do know you can't keep him a secret forever, right?" (Y/n) asked, looking over at Hiccup.

The mood shifted.

Hiccup looked back at Toothless with a somber gaze. "I know." His response was quiet.

"And what about dragon training? With the way things are going, this isn't going to end well no matter what," (Y/n) told him.

Hiccup pulled his legs to his chest and settled his head on his knees.

"I'll figure something out," he tried to assure her, but it sounded like it was more for himself. "Eventually."

(Y/n) hesitated as a thought came to mind.

"Hey," (Y/n) called out softly. Hiccup looked back at her. "If you need help, I'm here. Alright?"

A smile bloomed on his face as he nodded.

Suddenly it felt as if they were old friends.

[sofreddie]

The Winchester Way Part 25 (finale)

Summary: In dealing with the destructive aftermath, the remaining Council Members make a difficult and harsh decision, and set their sights on the future of The Way.

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam, Bobby, Cas, Garth, Mentioned: Walter, Melody, Kyle, Charlie, Benny

Warnings:  MAJOR ANGST, Mentions of past assault/non-con, Fluff (yup!), Smut (unprotected sex)

Word Count: 3,067

A/N: Here it is, the final installment of The Winchester Way! I had a hard time finishing it and I think a lot of that was a subconscious hesitation to let it go. This story grew into something I never imagined. Seriously, I initially planned it to go a completely different way and it ended up growing into its own direction and story. Thank you to everyone who has supported this fic and patiently awaited each part as I struggled to write. I am very proud of this story.

*See the end of work for additional A/N*

Series Masterlist

My Masterlist

Dean helped Sam down into a rickety, worn chair in the old, abandoned cabin nestled in the woods a short hike from the Bunker. The cabin had belonged to Elijah Winchester and was where The Way was originally founded and operated before the construction of the current Bunker facility. The brothers came to the cabin often in their youth, playing at being warriors and finding much-needed respite from the constant activity housed within the Bunker walls.

Dean found an old first aid kit, still hidden away in one of the cabinets, and wordlessly passed it to Sam, letting him tend to his wounds as Dean paced the small cabin. The Bunker facility was greatly damaged but luckily would only take several people and a few months to repair. The bigger issue was the great loss they suffered - the many, many people that had died with the release of all the creatures housed within the dungeon.

The burden of Leadership weighed heavily on Dean as he considered the actions that needed to be taken: Hunters would need to be sent out to kill and dispose of the escaped creatures; the Bunker would need to be repaired and cleaned of all the blood, gore, and bodies; and then there was John…and Sam. Dean knew any survivors would demand an explanation and justice. John and Sam would be brought forth before the Council - or what was left of it - that much Dean was certain.

The door to the cabin burst open, revealing Bobby. Behind him followed Walter, Melody, and Kyle. Dean hurried over, helping everyone into the cabin and getting them settled. Sam silently passed him the first aid kit which he handed to Bobby.

"Are there any other survivors?" Dean asked, choking slightly on his words.

Bobby let out a tired sigh as he shook his head. "Not that I saw."

Dean's heart clenched and an image of Y/N popped into his mind. He wondered if John had killed her, ready to blame it on the creatures. No one would be the wiser, and he certainly wouldn't put it past his father to do such a thing.

"I'm going back," Dean announced, grabbing his machete and making for the door.

"What?" Sam protested, rising from his seat with a wince, "Dean…you can't-"

"I can and I will!" Dean growled, spinning on his brother with a warning glare, causing Sam to shrink back from his brother's ire. Dean turned back to the door with a huff, throwing it wide, and taking a step before freezing in his tracks at the sound and sight of movement in the trees just beyond the cabin. He tightened his grip on the machete, trying to decide if he would barricade the survivors within the cabin or go forth and face the threat.

"Dean!"

Dean heard the familiar voice of his Angel friend calling out to him before seeing Cas break through the trees and brush, having Charlie, Garth, and Y/N with him.

"Cas?" Dean rushed towards the small group, ushering them inside the now cramped cabin and securing the door behind them, "Is there anyone else?"

"I'm afraid not," Cas stated, making his way around the room and healing the wounds of the injured before coming to face Dean once more, "You should know, your father didn't make it."

John was dead. His father was dead. A surge of sadness, regret, and relief welled up within Dean, but he buried it down, knowing now was not the time to allow himself to get emotional.

"How?" Dean sternly inquired.

"That damned hook-and-chain zombie that killed my Uncle," Y/N responded with a hiss, before turning a threatening glare on Sam, "You and your father turned Rufus into one of those things and he killed him. John died protecting me from that monstrosity."

"Rufus?" Dean asked in shock, looking to Sam for confirmation. Sam simply dropped his head in shame, unable to bear the judgment from his brother.

Dean turned back to the group, squaring his shoulders protectively as he stood in front of his brother as if to shield him from the accusing glares being sent his way, "Sam wasn't himself," Dean protested firmly, "He was made soulless against his will. Anything that happened while he was like that cannot be held against him."

"I was aware of my actions," Sam chimed in with a meek tone, "Being soulless just made me not care."

"Did you care when everyone died because of your actions?" Y/N spat, inching closer to Sam as her tone grew more vicious, "Did you care when John locked away Dean? Did you care when you raped me?!" she screeched. Dean put up his hands, holding Y/N back as she attempted to lean over Dean's shoulder to get closer to Sam. Although Sam was significantly larger than everyone in the room, he shrank away from Y/N's accusations.

"I do now," he whispered, ashamed of himself as the guilt he felt multiplied and twisted his insides painfully.

"I agree with Y/N," Bobby added, coming to stand beside her, "He was aware of everything. He needs to face the Council for his actions."

"No-" Dean began before he was stopped by Sam's hand on his shoulder.

Sam stepped forward to face Y/N and Bobby, "He's right. John and I are responsible for so much that happened within those walls. For the pain and suffering. I deserve to face the consequences of my actions."

"Sam, no," Dean pleaded with his brother. If it were anyone else, Dean would be quick to follow the tenants of The Way, to make the offender face justice. But this was Sam. He wasn't himself. He couldn't let him go down for everything…could he?

"Y/N, Garth, you and myself are the only remaining Elites and Council members," Bobby explained to Dean, "We need to collectively decide not only Sam's fate but the future of The Way."

Dean stood silent, his body nearly shaking from his growing anger as he stared down each of the other Council members defiantly. His eyes locked with Bobby's last, a long stare-off and silent communication before Dean's shoulder's slumped. He let out a defeated sigh before turning to face his brother. He didn't like it, but he knew all other members of the Council were determined.

"Sam," Dean said his brothers name apologetically and Sam gave him a small, reassuring smile in return. I understand. 

"Sam Winchester," Bobby spoke loud enough for all to hear, "You stand accused of breaking the tenants of The Way."

"Hunters do not kill other Hunters or cause them harm through action or inaction," Garth stated.

"Act with compassion and empathy towards all creatures," Y/N spat the words in disdain.

"See what is right and fair," Dean continued reluctantly, "In the behavior exhibited by others, and uphold the righteousness and the moral disposition to do good," he concluded with a heavy-hearted sigh.

"Usually, you'd be brought to face the Gauntlet for your crimes," Bobby explained, "But seeing as the Bunker and our resources are defunct, the only option that remains-"

"Is exile," Sam breathed out, knowing the laws inside and out. He dropped his head defeatedly, fighting with all he had to not break down or plead for mercy. He knew what he had done and in his mind, exile was generous. He met the eyes of each person in the room, seeing the determination and hatred in their eyes. He was nothing more than a dangerous outsider, an opponent, to them. He couldn't speak. He only nodded, turning to grab his weapon from the table and heading towards the cabin door, shoulders slumped and head down, "For what it's worth," he said, looking at his brother, "I'm sorry."

Without another word, Sam opened the door and closed it gently behind him. He took a deep breath of the forest air, trying to calm himself until he was alone and further away.

"This is beyond fucked up," Dean said after Sam had left the small cabin.

"It's also The Way, the laws we live by. As our Leader, you should be setting that example." Bobby pressed.

"I'm not your Leader. I haven't even completed the Trials-"

"I think you've more than proven yourself, Dean," Garth said with a humorless chuckle.

"I agree," Y/N and Bobby added in turn.

"Due to recent circumstances, the Council agrees to forgo the Trials. In tradition with The Way of Elijah Winchester and the ideals and traditions we live by, we name you, Dean Winchester, official Winchester representative on the Council and the new Leader of The Way."

Bobby completed his short speech by raising his right fist and tapping it against his chest in honor and recognition. Y/N and Garth followed the gesture.

Dean faced the group, mimicking their gesture, "I accept the role as Leader and Protector of The Way and promise to uphold the Tenants until my dying breath," he responded with the ceremonial line, feeling the weight of everything multiplying as it settled atop his shoulders with everything else.

Dean was pleasantly surprised that his new position - and the requirements it imposed upon him - were met with relative ease. In the beginning, he found it somewhat unnerving how everyone came to him for advice and decisions. His initial reaction was to direct them to his father, and then he would quickly remind himself of his position and take necessary action. In the months since the disaster, he found it came easier to him. With every instance, he made decisions and gave advice, using the tenants of The Way to guide him. Those who survived and those who returned to the Bunker in the wake of the carnage talked amongst themselves of how Dean was shaping up to be one of the greatest Leaders of The Way since Elijah Winchester himself.

In those months, Dean found himself confiding in and turning to, Y/N for her thoughts and advice when needed. Not only was she now a skilled and experienced Hunter and member of The Way, but she was also a fellow survivor, a fellow Elite, and his bride-to-be. After the initial clean-up and rebuilding of the damage to the Bunker, Bobby had come to Dean to press the importance of tradition - the Leader must have a wife. With Dean being the only Winchester remaining in The Way, he needed to ensure the future of The Way, as well as his line.

The pairing of himself and Y/N was something he had hoped for, but he didn't expect it to be so arranged and political in nature. He wouldn't admit it outwardly, but he longed for real love. For the kind of love his mother and father had shared before everything went dark. He was certainly fond of Y/N and he knew it was mutual. But it wasn't love. Not yet at least. With Bobby pressing the issue, and Dean determined to uphold traditions, he hoped that love would eventually blossom between them. But the foundations - friendship, trust, attraction - were all there, which made his nerves calm slightly as he prepared himself for the afternoon's ceremonies.

The wedding was the first big affair to be held in the aftermath of great loss and every available Hunter walked the halls of the Bunker in anticipation of the joyous event, which would be followed up by the naming of two new Elite families. Recent events left holes in the Council. The remaining members agreed and talked to the families they wished to name - The Bradburys and The LaFittes - who accepted without hesitation.

Dean sat at one of the many tables filling the room, Y/N sat at his side, the Elite families filling out the rest of their table. He sipped on his glass of whiskey, taking in the joviality around him. In the time since the destruction, all remaining Hunters banded together to rebuild the Bunker and The Way. Although he still carried the burden of the loss of his family, the exile of his brother, the loss of so many lives, Dean felt a moment of happiness and for the first time in a long time, looked forward to what the future might hold.

"Care to retire?" Dean's attention was brought to his blushing bride beside him, beckoning him away with a hint of a smirk. Dean nodded, bidding his farewell to the others for the night, attempting to ignore the woots and hollers that followed them as they made their way to Dean's chambers.

Y/N turned to Dean, beginning to disrobe before he could even close the door.

"Eager much?" he teased with a smirk as he approached her, stopping her movements. He took a deep breath, feeling his nerves get the better of him. Sex was always easy for Dean. He took it and enjoyed it whenever possible. But this was different. For the first time in his life, it wasn't just sex.

He forced his hands to steady as he took over her actions, sliding her sleeves down and letting her dress pool around her feet.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed out in awe. When she smiled, he returned the sentiment, leaning in to capture her lips once more. She responded eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning into his touch. Dean hummed at the contact, feeling his hunger grow. He had wanted her since he laid eyes on her. Initially, he wanted only to claim and own her innocence, but that had been taken from her. Now, he only wanted to make her feel safe and good and to connect with her.

Once they were both bare, he laid hem down on the bed, the two of them content for the moment with kissing and roaming hands. As Dean gazed down at her beneath him, he could see the worry and hesitation in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked in nearly a whisper, afraid to pop the bubble they found themselves in.

"A-are you going to be rough with me?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

"Do you want me to be?" he smirked.

"It doesn't matter what I think," she said, tearing her eyes from him.

Dean tilted her face back to meet his eyes, "It matters," he stated, "More than you realize."

"I," she swallowed hard, careful to choose her words, "I know marriage was necessary. And I know I was the only one who could-"

"Y/N," Dean stopped her, careful to keep his tone gentle, "I am very fond of you. I know I've never been kind or really shown much affection. But I need you to know this is different," he brushed the hair back from her face, looking at her in adoration, "I hope in time you can learn to love me." he admitted.

She stared at him for several long moments in silence, letting his words swirl in her mind before she gave a minute nod and leaned up to capture his lips once more. With renewed passion, he took his time to explore her body, learn what she liked and wanted, even if she didn't know it herself. He had brought her to climax twice before he even considered entering her.

He notched himself at her entrance, gazing into her eyes, "You ready?"

She nodded, bringing his lips to hers once more as he slowly filled her. When he could press no further, he paused, allowing both of them to adjust to the sensations. She felt incredible, more warm and wet and tight than anyone he'd ever experienced before.

He kissed her shoulder sweetly before he started to move, withdrawing slowly and pressing back in just as slow, his eyes locked on her face and her reactions. She moaned loudly, her hands gripping his shoulders tight, holding him to her, their skin sliding against one another as his pace slowly grew, stoking the fires within her.

Her experience with Benny was sweet, caring, slow, and tender. But something about Dean - the way he moved, the way his muscles rippled beneath her hands, the way she could feel restraint and passion fluttering within him - it was different from anything she had experienced or even fathomed.

"Dean," his name rolled off her tongue in a drawn-out moan, her legs lifting against his sides reflexively, allowing him to thrust deeper. He groaned at the sound, his face dropping to the crook of her neck as he intentionally and agonizingly drew out their pleasure. When her orgasm finally washed over her, the strength of it making her body quake, Dean fell over the edge behind her, grunting profanities and sweet nothings into her neck.

When he could move again, he flopped to his back, pulling her to rest across his chest. His fingers trailed over her skin as he stared at the ceiling. It was a little awkward. He had never stuck around long after the deed, always quick to redress and be on his way or to leave his conquest wherever they lay. It was all new, and not entirely unpleasant he admitted to himself. The feel of her against his side, the euphoria that still washed through his veins.

As she fell asleep, her soft snores filling the room, Dean looked down at her peaceful form. He had a wife, and most likely a child soon. His family was gone, but he was working towards a new one, one of his own. At that moment, he swore he'd be a better husband, a better Leader, a better man than his father. He'd protect his family - and The Way - with his life.

Hundreds of yards away, a dark shadow loomed under the moonlight, his dark and narrowed eyes fixed on the Bunker in the distance. His mind flashed with images of the building, its occupants, its history, before returning to the memories that haunted him. Memories of blood, monsters, carnage…and betrayal.

A low growl from his side drew his attention from the building in the distance and he sighed.

"Alright," Sam said, patting the head of the Hellhound beside him. He turned his black eyes back on the building, a wicked smirk adorning his lips, "Time to go home."

A/N #2: I have planned a sequel series called TWW: Sam’s Revenge. Way back in Part 10, I received a comment from someone who said they were looking forward to seeing Sam’s side of things and how he dealt with that because Sam’s feelings and reactions always seem to be brushed over. I agree. But his story was not something that could simply be a few extra chapters. The initial story is told, and now it’s time for Sam’s side. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged in the new series, as TWW tags are being dissolved. FOREVERS WILL BE TAGGED IN THE NEW SERIES!

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[warriorsrewrite]

Enter the Wild Chapter 9

( you can either read it under the cut, or here on ao3. it’d be very much appreciated if you interacted with both ! )

“Yellowfang…?” Graypaw took a cautious step forward. “You’re Yellowfang, aren’t you?”

She certainly looked like Yellowfang with her flat face and bright orange eyes, but she was also very different from the healer Firepaw had met over two moons ago. Her coat was matted like she hadn’t had the time to groom in moons, and she was limping on her hind leg. But the most drastic change visible was four distinct claw marks raked across her muzzle.

Graypaw suddenly gasped, and when Firepaw looked to see what had spooked him, he saw that his gaze was locked on those scars, his fear scent creeping back up as he took back his step. “That…” he stammered weakly, “that’s an… exile mark, isn’t it?”

An exile mark , Firepaw thought with alarm. He had heard about exile as a form of punishment, most notably when he had the fear of receiving a nightmare while visiting the Moonstone, but he hadn’t heard of anyone alive that had gone through it. And though he had heard of exile, this was the first time he had heard about an ‘exile mark’. The name carried a weight to it that sent shivers of unease down his spine.

“But…” Graypaw continued, or at least tried through his nervousness, “but you’re a healer… How can a healer get an exile mark?” He visibly swallowed. “What… what did you do to get it?”

The dark ginger molly, who was still on guard and had been the entire time, spat at the ground, “I’m not Yellowfang. Not anymore… I became Yellow after I was given this.” She lifted her head higher so the exile mark was more visible. Her voice was raspy like Firepaw remembered it to be, but it was also weaker, and it was obvious she was in need of a drink. She glanced up at the two of them and gave a low chuckle, free of mirth. “I suppose I should be lucky I came across two puny apprentices instead of a patrol full of warriors. Perhaps StarClan has not abandoned me after all…” She sniffed at them. “You’re Spottedleaf’s apprentice, aren’t you? What was it? Graypaw? And you… you were with him when he came to the Moonstone. Flamepaw… Blazepaw… Emberpaw…?”

“ Fire paw,” he muttered, feeling annoyance under his confusion of the situation.

She smirked at him. “Look scrawny enough to be a Squirrelpaw to me.”

He bristled, but Graypaw stepped over to him before he could respond. “You’re not answering my questions.” It seemed that he had gotten back his courage, as his voice no longer shook. “How exactly did you get an exile mark?”

Yellow glared down Graypaw. “Are you sure you want to know, kit?”

“Before I have to call a patrol on you, you should start explaining,” he said firmly, returning the stare even though his tail twitched uncomfortably.

Eventually she grunted, “all right then, but you have to promise you’ll listen to everything I have to say.”

Both Graypaw and Firepaw nodded.

Yellow sighed, briefly closing her eyes before finally saying, “I was accused of killing kits.”

Immediately Graypaw’s pelt was bristling, his hackles rising as horror dawned on his face. “Killing kits…” he repeated quietly.

Firepaw swallowed thickly. If he had learned anything about Clan life, it was that killing kits and healers were the most heinous crimes imaginable. But instead of saying anything, both he and Graypaw stayed silent to keep their promise, however difficult it was. To try and comfort the both of them, he pressed his flank to Graypaw’s as he prepared to hear the rest of the tale.

“ Accused ,” Yellow repeated with a hiss. “I would never even dream of doing such a thing. I’m a healer for StarClan’s sake; I help bring kits into this world, not take their lives! But I supposed it was the only thing Brokentail could think of to get rid of me without too much of an uprising…”

“Brokentail…?” Firepaw murmured. “You mean Brokenstar? Why would the leader of ShadowClan want to get rid of their healer?”

She spat to the ground. “No, I mean Broken tail. When he forced me and Runningnose to take him to the Moonstone to grant him his nine lives after he… killed Raggedstar, StarClan did not grant him his wish. He woke up screaming from a nightmare about his own death. But instead of obeying the will of StarClan, he declared our ancestors to be fools and forbade both Runningnose and I from going back to the Moonstone. When he returned to ShadowClan, he lied to the Clan by saying he had received all nine lives, further tricking them by having them think StarClan had really allowed him to do this…” She shook her head harshly. “Of course I was against everything, but he threatened me with all of his allies if I dared speak the truth. Once he realized even that wouldn’t stop me… he knew he had to drive me out before I could jeopardize his rule.”

Graypaw’s fur had mostly settled itself the more Yellow continued to speak, and once she became quiet, he asked softly, “if you were accused of killing kits, why didn’t they just kill you? The punishment for doing such a crime is death. Instead… you were exiled?”

A humorless laugh escaped Yellow’s lips. “When he ‘exposed’ my crime to the Clan, he announced that because of my position as healer, and because… because I personally brought him into this world… he would spare my life and exile me instead.” To herself, she muttered sarcastically, “and what a kind deed that was…”

Firepaw’s ears perked up. “You’re… Brokentail’s mother?”

“Yes… Raggedstar had been my mate before… well, you know.” He saw sorrow flash across her face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced again by anger.

“If you didn’t kill those kits…” Graypaw asked hesitantly, “then who did?”

“Brokentail, of course. He took them out of camp, killed them, and called on me to try and heal them. Little did I know his only goal was to get my scent all over them to make his story more believable. There were some who didn’t believe it, but they were too frightened to speak up and follow my fate.” She looked between them. “I’m sure you know that a cat with an exile mark is to be killed on sight if found on any Clan territory.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Firepaw challenged. “This is ThunderClan territory. Did you come here intent on dying?”

Yellow’s tail lashed out. “Perhaps I did. Or perhaps I thought there was a chance I would be spared upon recognition, knowing that I… used to be a healer. Either situation would be better than starving to death.”

Graypaw scanned her over. “How long have you been exiled…?”

“For around a moon, I’m guessing. It’s hard to keep track when you can barely sleep.”

Firepaw’s eyes widened considerably. “You’ve been fending for yourself for around a moon?! When was the last time you ate?” When Yellow didn’t respond, he stepped forward and plucked a rabbit from his pile, bringing it over to the old cat. Yellow tensed as he set it in front of her, but he backed away as soon as it fell from his mouth. “Eat.”

She raised a brow. “Are you sure? No matter what I haven’t done, I’m still an exiled cat.”

“But before you were a healer, and since joining ThunderClan, I’ve been taught that healers, especially those your elder, should be respected no matter which Clan they belong to.” He paused. “Or… don’t belong to, in this case.”

Yellow huffed, but finally settled down with a rough sigh. “I’m not that old…” she muttered to herself as she bit into the rabbit. Firepaw smiled when she couldn’t hide her small purr of bliss.

Graypaw made a worried noise beside him. “I’m not sure everyone will agree with this…” he murmured. “I’m not saying that it’s the wrong thing to do, but I’d expect your usual haters to protest once they find out.” Firepaw hummed lowly and nodded, mentally preparing himself for whatever awaited him once they returned to camp. “Anyway, there was a patrol sent to WindClan a little while before I left camp; they should be around here somewhere by now. I’ll go tell them what happened and send them back here, then I’ll stop by camp to inform Bluestar of everything.” He glanced to Yellow. “If you’re fine with me doing that, of course.”

“As long as I can keep eating this rabbit, I’m fine with anything,” Yellow muttered through a full mouth.

“All right then,” Graypaw sighed, looking to Firepaw. “You can keep an eye on her until I get back, right?”

“Of course,” he replied before lowering his voice, “I mean, looking at the condition she’s in, I don’t think she could get very far even if she does try to sneak off.”

“I heard that,” Yellow called, still chewing on a large bite. “It’s very rude to whisper about someone when they’re not even a fox-length away, you know.”

Firepaw’s ear tips burned as he glared in her direction while Graypaw chuckled. “Good luck,” he whispered to Firepaw as he slipped past and towards the WindClan border. He watched him go before nervously turning back to look at Yellow.

The old molly licked her lips, then sighed. “I don’t remember the last time I was this full…” she muttered, turning herself around to try and groom her matted fur, though Firepaw knew it would take many long sessions to get it back to what it once was.

They both sat there wordlessly after that as Firepaw tried to think of something to say to break the awkward silence. He was opening his mouth to try and make small talk when his eyes landed on the leftovers Yellow hadn’t finished. Whatever he was going to ask slipped from his mind as his stomach growled. Graypaw was no longer there to distract him from his hunger and a tempting part of his mind told him that if he didn’t eat the rest of the rabbit, it would go to waste.

Yellow lifted her head and saw him staring intently at the rabbit, beginning to sneer. “Oh, is someone hungry?” she asked lowly. “Well, I’m not going to eat the rest of that; my stomach isn’t as big as it used to be. So… do as you please with it.” Her smirk grew wider. “It really would be a shame to let all that meat go to waste, though…”

Firepaw swallowed, Yellow’s words not helping him drive off the temptation. But… that same part of his mind whispered, isn’t wasting prey almost as bad as eating before you’re told? If you tried to bring this back to camp, it’d be crowfood before anyone would be able to eat it. Besides, it’s only one bite. Hardly a meal for anyone…

As his treacherous mind tried to convince him, Yellow nudged the rabbit bones and meat closer to him with one of her paws, brow raised as if in challenge. She doesn’t think I’ll do it, he realized. She thinks I’d rather let the rest of it go to waste than eat it for myself. Well, I know what to do to wipe that smug grin off of her face…

While staring her straight in the eye, Firepaw bent down and gobbled the rabbit up, trying his best to hide the pleasure of finally having something in his belly after a long morning of hunting. Yellow blinked at him, then wheezed out a laugh. “My, maybe I should have paid more attention to you when we first met. You sure are an interesting kit, all right.”

“I’m not a kit…” he muttered, licking his lips as the guilt started to come to him. Had he really done that just to spite an old, exiled molly? He groaned to himself; now he really was going to be in trouble. Maybe if he was quick enough he could get rid of the evidence before -

“So, it is true,” a sharp voice suddenly said. Firepaw spun around in time to watch as a group of three cats entered the small clearing where they sat. Firepaw felt his heart sink to the ground as he realized the one who spoke to be Tigerclaw, and following behind him were Willowpelt and Darkstripe. “Yellowfang, one of ShadowClan’s healers, is here in ThunderClan territory.” His harsh yellow gaze fell upon her scars. “And she has an exile mark as well. I suppose that would just make her Yellow, then. Seems that your brother wasn’t lying after all, Darkstripe.”

Darkstripe spat, “he’s no brother of mine if he willingly let an exiled cat be left alone with a kittypet.”

Of course it had to be these two who were a part of the WindClan patrol, Firepaw thought with an inward groan. He glanced behind him and saw that Yellow was back on her guard, crouching with her fur bristling. Tigerclaw took a menacing step forward, but Firepaw was quick to dash between them. “Wait - ” he tried to say, but froze when Tigerclaw sniffed the air. His face darkened, and Firepaw knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“You fed this cat?” Tigerclaw growled lowly, taking another step forward. Firepaw swallowed and mirrored the step backwards. “And by the smell of you, you also decided to feed yourself while you were at it. Feeding an exiled cat and yourself before the rest of the Clan…” Tigerclaw moved another step forward while Firepaw stumbled over his own step back. “This isn’t looking good for you. Now, before you make this worse for yourself, step aside so I can deal with this scum.”

Firepaw felt his stance shaking, but he didn’t move a muscle.

He heard Yellow shuffle nervously from behind him. “It’s fine, Firepaw,” she hissed, “you shouldn’t throw away your life for someone like me. Do as he says and step aside.”

But he still didn’t move, ignoring her quiet plea.

“Step aside , Firepaw!” Yellow repeated, louder and with a small hint of worry.

Impatience written clear as day on his face, Tigerclaw took another step forward and shouted, “ Move! ” Firepaw flinched, ready to take a strike, but then a quiet voice spoke up and interrupted whatever was going his way.

“Tigerclaw, wait just a moment.” The voice belonged to Willowpelt, who had previously been standing silently next to Darkstripe. But now she slowly stepped forward, placing herself in front of the larger warrior. “Whatever her name and status is now, this is Yellowfang . She’s been a healer since before we were born. Don’t you think it’s odd such a respected healer has been exiled so soon after Brokenstar took control of ShadowClan?” She glanced in Firepaw’s direction. “And to have a loyal ThunderClan apprentice protect her so fiercely…” She looked back to Tigerclaw, gaze leveled on his chin. “You don’t believe there’s more to the story than just the exile mark?”

Before he could respond, the bushes rustled to reveal Bluestar emerging from them. “Willowpelt’s right, there is more to the story,” she said sternly. “Graypaw told me everything along the way.” As if summoned, Graypaw padded from the bushes as well, panting slightly. He scanned the clearing and upon seeing how close Tigerclaw was to Firepaw, quickly came to stand by Firepaw’s side. Bluestar also noted this and narrowed her eyes at Tigerclaw. “Stand down,” she commanded quietly.

Tigerclaw’s eye twitched, but he obeyed with a low dip to his head, taking several steps back until he was by Darkstripe.

Satisfied, Bluestar finally turned her attention to Yellow. The old molly had calmed down since Bluestar’s arrival, but she still looked warily at the leader, as if she expected Bluestar to sic Tigerclaw on her at a moment’s notice. “Yellowfang,” Bluestar began, her tone softened.

But before she could continue, Yellow muttered under her breath, “it’s Yellow , now.”

“…Yellow,” Bluestar corrected herself. “I’ve heard the story you told these apprentices, and I’ve decided to allow you shelter in ThunderClan.” Tigerclaw rose to protest, but a flick of her tail quickly silenced him. “That is, if you answer any and all questions we have for you.”

Yellow gazed at her for a long while, but eventually nodded. “If that is all I must do, then I will cooperate,” she murmured.

Bluestar returned the nod. “The Clan will hear your story once we return.” She glanced towards Tigerclaw, Willowpelt, and Darkstripe. “They will also hear about what one of our border patrols found.”

Firepaw blinked, following her gaze to the patrol. They found something over by WindClan? He looked to Graypaw, but he wasn’t looking at him, instead staring at the ground with unease.

Tigerclaw took a small step forward, head still bowed. “Bluestar,” he said cautiously. When she didn’t dismiss him, he continued, “when we arrived, we found evidence that Firepaw had fed Yellow, as well as himself.” His intense gaze slid towards Firepaw, who felt his dread creep into his bones. “As you know, it is against the warrior code to feed yourself before the Clan has been fed.”

When Bluestar’s eyes landed on Firepaw, it was everything he could do not to flinch in terror. “I see…” she murmured. “Then his punishment will also be announced during the Clan meeting. Once she hears, I expect Brindleface to be very disappointed, and talk to him about how important it is to follow all of the warrior code, even one as small as waiting one’s turn to eat.”

Shame filtered in with the dread as Firepaw kept his gaze to the ground. He could even feel Graypaw’s disbelieving eyes on him, which made it worse.

Bluestar cleared her throat. “Now, then, Willowpelt and Darkstripe will escort Yellow to camp. Until the Clan is satisfied with her story and her answers, she will be ThunderClan’s prisoner. But - ” she glanced at Tigerclaw, eyes firm - “I expect that she will still be treated with respect. Is that understood?”

Willowpelt murmured her agreement with Darkstripe copying only a moment later. Tigerclaw seemed to bite back something he wanted to say, but in the end only nodded stiffly.

“Good,” she said before turning her gaze to Graypaw. “And don’t think you get out of this scotch free. Spottedleaf will want to know why you were out here when you should be at camp learning.”

Graypaw swallowed, but nodded with his head low. “Yes, Bluestar.”

She hummed quietly. “Then I suppose that settles everything.” She looked to Yellow, who had gotten up to stand, but was favoring one of her hind legs. “Will you be able to walk?” she asked calmly.

“Of course,” Yellow spat, though her voice barely held any venom in it. “I’m really not that old…” Slowly, she began to move forward, Willowpelt and Darkstripe silently flanking her. She shot an especially dirty look to Darkstripe, who blinked in surprise about how open she was in her hostility, but didn’t dare say anything in Bluestar’s presence.

Firepaw couldn’t quite tell from where he sat, but he thought he heard Bluestar give a small chuckle.

“Let’s go, then,” Bluestar finally said, leading the way back through the bushes and towards camp. Yellow followed behind her with her two guards, Firepaw - after grabbing the rest of his prey - and Graypaw walking close behind them. Tigerclaw, after giving out a low growl only Firepaw seemed to hear, took up the rear of the party, and Firepaw felt as thought he could feel his glare at the back of his head.

“Did you really eat with Yellow?” Graypaw asked in a whisper.

Firepaw sighed, nodding his head with difficulty. “I was too hungry to think, and Yellow certainly wasn’t helping,” he said through the fur and feathers. “She practically goaded me into doing it…”

“That was pretty mouse-brained…” Graypaw murmured with a hint of teasing in his voice. “I was gone for only a couple of heartbeats and you go and do that.” He clicked his tongue. “Guess I really shouldn’t let you out of my sight then, huh.”

Firepaw snorted. “Oh, yeah, I’d be utterly lost without you around.”

“You know it.”

The rest of the journey was quick and quiet. Once they neared the gorse tunnel, Bluestar paused, taking in a breath as if to prepare herself, before pushing her way through and leading the rest of the group in.

Most of the Clan was already out in the clearing, waiting for their arrival. It wasn’t everyday a healer apprentice suddenly called the leader away with no explanation to the rest of the Clan, after all. As soon as Yellow stepped through, her exile mark on full display, gasps and shocked whispers echoed through the clearing, multiple cats taking a few steps back.

Lionheart was quick to approach them. “Bluestar…?” he asked hesitantly, eyes drawn to Yellow with thinly veiled confusion.

“I’ll explain everything in just a moment,” was all she said, brushing past him. “Bring Yellow to the foot of the Highrock. Make sure no cat comes near her,” she called to Willowpelt and Darkstripe, who quickly and wordlessly obeyed.

Firepaw slunk away to place all of his kill on the freshkill pile before he quickly followed the group to the Highrock, knowing he would need to be present during the meeting for the announcement of his punishment. Graypaw stuck by his side, which he was thankful for, though he knew part of the reason was to avoid speaking with Spottedleaf for as long as he could. He didn’t blame him; he sure wasn’t looking forward to hearing Brindleface’s lecture after all of this.

Bluestar was quick to jump on the Highrock, calling out the words, “all cats old enough to catch their own prey gather here for a Clan meeting!”

As the rest of the Clan gathered, Firepaw spotted Ravenpaw exiting the apprentice’s den. He saw the black apprentice spot Yellow, confusion and horror dawning his face before he found Firepaw and Graypaw in the crowd. Running past Sandpaw, who gave him a nasty glare for almost knocking her over, Ravenpaw quickly came to their sides.

“What’s happening?” he asked with a quiver in his voice. “Why is one of ShadowClan’s healers here, and why does she have an… an exile mark ?”

“It’s… complicated,” Firepaw murmured. “But Bluestar’s going to explain everything. Just… try to stay open minded about it.”

“I’m not worried about Ravenpaw,” Graypaw muttered, eyes trained on Tigerclaw. The dark brown tabby had made his way over to Longtail and was whispering into the younger warrior’s ear. “There are some cats who will need some serious convincing to allow this…”

Firepaw nodded, watching as Longtail’s face darkened.

“ThunderClan,” Bluestar suddenly spoke, immediately quieting any more whispers, “as you can see, we have a guest with us.

“Guest?” Runningfoot called out, pelt bristling. “She has an exile mark! How can she be a guest ?”

Many cats voiced their agreement, but all were silenced when Bluestar lifted her tail. “I will explain if you let me.” Her gaze scanned the crowd, and when no one spoke up again, she continued, “many of you may recognize this guest of ours. This is Yellow, formerly Yellowfang, and she was a healer of ShadowClan.” She paused to let that sink in. “Yes, I know you are confused. As was I when I first heard. How can a healer get an exile mark? Healers do not kill, and they do not want for power. But we all know the state ShadowClan is in right now. It seems that Brokenstar has not stopped at taking power for himself; he has abandoned StarClan altogether.

“Yellow has come to us with the story that Brokenstar falsely accused her of killing kits in order to stop her from telling the truth that StarClan did not give him nine lives, and instead rejected him with a nightmare at the Moonstone.” Cries of outrage sounded from the clearing, and Bluestar let them be for just a moment before calling for silence once more. “Spottedleaf.”

The healer stepped forward. “Yes, Bluestar?”

“As a healer, you know with a glance how many lives a cat has. You were at the last Gathering when Brokenstar claimed himself leader. Can you confirm that he did not have his nine lives?”

Spottedleaf’s brow furrowed as she thought back, then her eyes widened with realization. “Yes… yes, I do believe that’s true. He did not have the same aura as a newly appointed leader should. I suppose I was too shocked to fully notice.”

The Clan broke out into murmurs once more. “Then he is not Brokenstar like he claims he is,” Goldenflower loudly said for the clearing to hear. “He is still Brokentail in the eyes of StarClan.” At Spottedleaf’s nod, the volume of shock increased so much Bluestar had to caterwaul in order to maintain order.

“With evidence from our own healer, I can say that I believe Yellow’s story. But, in order for her to stay here, she will have to answer the questions we have about another piece of news a patrol found out today…” Bluestar’s frown was hard set, and she paused briefly, as if unsure how to tell it. Finally, she lifted her head to deliver the tale, “WindClan has been driven out of their territory by ShadowClan.”

If the clearing had been loud before, it was deafening now. Firepaw could barely hear each individual shout and question being thrown Bluestar’s way.

“How can this be?!” one cried.

“WindClan has always been on the small side… and to think the largest Clan drove them out… I don’t think they would have stood a chance,” another mourned.

“Where did they go? Where could they go?”

“Why would they do such a thing? The territories are supposed to have four Clans, as decreed by StarClan! Was SkyClan’s sacrifice not enough?”

As the shouting continued, Firepaw glanced to see Yellow’s reaction. Though his view was being partially blocked by standing cats, he could see her ears were pinned to the back of her head. Her head was lowered as her gaze stuck to the ground, so he could not gauge what her expression looked like.

Soon all voices quickly died down, not at Bluestar’s command, but when they all saw Brindleface, belly round with her WindClan mate’s unborn kits, padding up to the Highrock. Firepaw’s heart sank to the sandy ground as he saw his mentor look up at Bluestar with pure confusion. “All of WindClan… gone?” she asked hoarsely. “Were there… any casualties?”

Bluestar looked at Brindleface with softened eyes. “I do not know the details, but the leader of the patrol does.” She glanced up to the clearing’s edge. “Tigerclaw, if you would come up here and tell the Clan everything you know.”

Tigerclaw straightened, and if Firepaw thought the warrior was able to show any kind of happiness, he would say Tigerclaw’s face had a look of glee to it. He dipped his head briefly. “I would be honored to,” he said, making his way through the crowd. He leaped onto the Highrock like he was meant to be there, standing taller than Bluestar as he looked down at the rest of his Clanmates.

“ThunderClan,” he began, voice booming across the clearing, “as you know, I was the leader of the WindClan patrol. We began shortly after sunrise, and knew something was wrong as soon as we arrived at the border. There was little to no WindClan scent. Instead, it was ShadowClan that we smelled. I made the decision to lead my patrol deeper into the moor to find more information. The further we went, the more evidence there was that WindClan occupied the moor no more. Eventually, we came upon what was left of their camp. There we found the bodies of some senior WindClan warriors, along with a caretaker. We identified Pigeonwing, Wrenflight, Rabbitbelly, and Ryestalk.” He paused to look Brindleface in the eyes. “There was no evidence of any further WindClan death that we found, other than the blood from the battle.”

Brindleface relaxed immensely, but it was clear that her mind was still troubled. As questions began to spark up again, Firepaw watched as Spottedleaf padded to her side and led her gently towards the nursery.

“Did no ShadowClan warrior die?” someone shouted in disbelief above the noise.

“As I said, there was no evidence of any more deaths besides the bodies we found. However, if ShadowClan did indeed chase WindClan out of their territory, then they would have had time to gather their own dead to bury them properly. It was obvious WindClan did not have the same privilege.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“The bodies were not fresh, and it was no pretty sight. At least a half moon has passed since they died, if not more. We, of course, respectfully buried them outside their camp.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

Tigerclaw opened his mouth to answer, but Bluestar brushed past him to answer for herself, “we can only increase our patrols even more. Camp will have at least two guards on watch all the time. No one goes out unless it’s necessary, and they must be accompanied by at least two cats, one of which must be a warrior. The next Gathering is in a few days, and we will wait to confront ShadowClan there while the peace treaty of the fullmoon is behind us.” She glanced down at Yellow. “But there is something we can do now; get more information. Yellow.”

Yellow flinched, but turned herself around so she was facing the leader. Tigerclaw audibly growled at her, but Bluestar cut him off with a warning glare.

“Thank you for giving us your report, Tigerclaw,” Bluestar said with the faint hint of ice in her voice. “You may return to the clearing now.”

Tigerclaw hesitated for a heartbeat before he nodded and leaped off the Highrock, sulking back to the darker edges of the clearing where he previously sat.

“Yellow,” Bluestar said again, calling all attention back onto the former healer. “It is my understanding that you have been exiled for around a moon. Did you know of this plan?”

Silence filled the clearing for the first time since the meeting started. Yellow shifted and eventually nodded. “Yes, I was aware of it.”

Shouts of anger rose up, but Bluestar hushed them to allow Yellow to continue.

“I knew of Brokentail’s hunger for power, for more territory, for more cats to control. He wishes ShadowClan to take over as the leader of all Clans. I had overheard him talking with his followers about an attack on WindClan, saying that if they did not cooperate, they would run them off the moor and then take their land… and their kits.”

Bluestar’s brow rose. “And why would ShadowClan want more kits? That means more mouths to feed. It would be moons before they were ready to become apprentices.”

Yellow shook her head. “Brokentail wanted the kits because they were the easiest to control. And… he didn’t need to wait for them to become of age.” She paused, visibly swallowing. “Because he was already making underaged kits into apprentices.”

[rorykillmore]

okay not much to say about this except that it’s just a brief post-movie suspiria fic i wrote because i have a lot of feelings, and because this movie told us Nothing about the other two mothers

that being said, this specific idea for the mother lachrymarum is 100% @propheticnightwing‘s, she literally came up with the character tonight and i just wanted to write something au for her and susie

In some ways the world feels very much the same when she wakes up the next morning, and the next, and the next. It’s an illogical feeling, only surface level, because everything has changed.

In most senses - at least as far as the coven is concerned - for the better, Susie supposes. But the world (her world) feels a little emptier, too, marked by the glaring absence of what it has lost.

Madame Blanc, they tell her, will live. She will survive and recover from an injury no untouched mortal could have survived. No one needs to ask whose magic made that possible.

Yet in a sense, Susie has lost even her all the same, because nothing can be the way that it was before. Or the way that it would have been, if she hadn’t --

(If she hadn’t what? This was inevitable all along. She doesn’t want Madame Blanc to look at her as if she sees someone, something different, at least not while she is coming to terms with recognizing herself).

Time goes on. Things move forward. Berlin is still bleeding from its wounds -- the company is too, even if most of the girls can’t remember enough to see it clearly. But time will go on, with or without them. And maybe things will be better.

But because it hasn’t stopped hurting yet, she goes to the old man, and offers him closure, and then takes his heaviest burden from him. A small kindness after the lifetime of cruelty he’s endured. She’s gone before he can come to himself again. 

But when she steps outside, someone is waiting for her on the snowy sidewalk opposite.

Susie sees her before she senses her, and that is why she doesn’t question the illusion. Not at first.

Because those are Sara’s eyes gazing back at her, unclouded, with all the warmth and inquisitive curiosity they ever held when she was alive. Susie crosses to her wordlessly and only pauses when she’s a few feet away. She waits for Sara to speak, because it’s all she can do.

“I wouldn’t have expected that,” Sara says quietly. “So many small acts of mercy. Me, Olga, Patricia. Now the doctor. Who next?”

Susie says nothing as sadness bleeds into her chest, as rationality catches up to her. She granted Sara death herself. She knows this isn’t possible.

“Human life has changed you, Mother Suspiriorum. Lady of Sorrow.”

A kind of recognition Susie is only just beginning to understand wells up within her, and she asks, “Why do you look like her?” When she already knows the answer.

She ought to have recognized this woman - this entity - but the assessment was an accurate one. There is still too much of Susie in her, and still too much of her grief, and so she has fallen under the spell that gave the Mother of Tears her name. She is seeing what she loves, misses, grieves, instead of what is actually there.

But then something strange happens. The woman still wearing Sara’s face stirs as if waking from a dream, and uncertainty crosses her face.

“I was supposed to find you,” Is her only answer, and it sounds more like a question. It makes her sound that much more like Sara, and it tugs at Susie’s heart. And then she understands.

This woman doesn’t know everything. Not yet. Much as Susie herself didn’t.

It’s all suddenly so heartbreaking and plain and inevitable. 

The world has changed. With such deep and fierce divisions, it can never go back to the way it was again. And so the Three Mothers have been reborn. That’s the way it has to be.

And they’ve always learned best through suffering.

What she decides to do next is, in part, selfish. Susie knows she will never really see Sara again, never touch her, never hold her. But she closes the distance between them and embraces the other Mother fiercely, with a surge of love both ancient as the world itself and as new and raw as a fresh wound.

The woman less hugs her back and more touches her gingerly, wonderingly, and Susie closes her eyes to keep her tears from falling.

Inwardly, she braces herself to face a feature she knows none of them can escape, and wishes for something too simple and human to ever say aloud.

[the-redmane-family]

The Deaths of Emelye Nesterova, Part 3

[ Though it’s taken me slightly longer to complete than I initially imagined, Emelye’s introductory story concludes with this final part! Enjoy!

Link to Part 1: http://the-redmane-family.tumblr.com/post/172997503680/the-deaths-of-emelye-nesterova-part-1

Link to Part 2: http://the-redmane-family.tumblr.com/post/173295139370/the-deaths-of-emelye-nesterova-part-2 ]

For what seemed like an eternity, the priest and the ranger sat in silence. The memory of Emelye’s final moments hung between them like a thick tapestry, thicker still than the partition that now separated them in the rotted wooden confessional. She sat unbreathing, held in what seemed to be a duty-bound pause, until the dark bishop spoke again.

“And so, for a time, your mind was lost to the Scourge, your soul ensnared by the icy grasp of the Frozen Throne.”

“Yes.”

“But it was not so forever. She found you. She set you free.”

“Yes.”

Another paused followed from the deep voice. When next it spoke, there was a hushed reverence to it. “As it was with all of our people. Yes… the Shadows have chosen her to lead us unto that dark horizon.”

“It is as you say, bishop.”

“I digress, Darkmar. Tell me again of the killing of your brother. It was some time after your joining the Forsaken, was it not?” The air between them held an ominous charge, as if the man who now urged such recollections knew of the emotional weight they carried, perhaps even relished the chance to bring that sentimentality once more into the light—and once more to smash it to pieces with the hammer of Forsaken justice.

“Yes, it was,” she replied simply. “Neither my brother nor I much cared to reflect on our newfound freedom. I guess we’ve just never been ones to let our thoughts get in the way of our actions. So we found work to do. There was plenty to be done, and he soon found himself among the Royal Apothecary Society, while I joined the Forsaken military. It was an easy choice because it was duty. And duty has always made sense to me.”

“A credit to your father’s legacy. Even in death, his daughter remains steadfast.”

Emelye smiled bitterly, a smile that her confessor could not see. It was gone by the time she spoke again. “Me, yes. My brother, not so much.”

“Tell me of his crime.”

“He kept his misgivings a secret—even from me. Always he told me of things when we were younger, but being among the undead… being undead ourselves, it changed us forever. We both felt it. I accepted it, but Kegan… Kegan couldn’t handle the experiments that the apothecaries engaged in. Even having apprenticed with an apothecary in his life… of course, I didn’t find any of this out until later. After I was sent to hunt him down.”

“And why were you dispatched on such an errand?”

Emelye gave another brief pause before she continued. At last, the moment was upon her. The killing. Another chance to snuff out the unlife of the baby brother she’d once sung to sleep when the drafty loft of their home woke him from his tender rest. Safe in the loving hands of his sister. Hands that were fated to take the very life they once safeguarded.

“An apothecary reported a break in at the Society’s vaults. Kegan was clumsy, and didn’t take care to cover his tracks. None of his companions thought to dispose of the witnesses, either. They were on a mission of morality, and to kill anything was unthinkable to them.” She frowned. “But I’d have rather him killed fellow Forsaken than what he did next.”

“What did he do?”

“He went to the Alliance.” The chainmail-clad woman uttered the word venomously. “There were four in total—my brother, a woman called Alina, and two other men, Ricter and Dermot. Ordinary citizens who had joined the Society and, by chance, happened upon a collection of artifacts that set them on edge. The bloodstones.”

An audible shifting sounded from the other side of the partition. “Go on.”

“I still don’t know what power lurked within those stones. I’m not a mage, or a scholar. But whatever the bloodstones were capable of, it scared my brother. And apparently he wasn’t the only one frightened.” She grimaced, recalling the cold feel of the stones in her satchel as she had transported them back to the Forsaken magus—a formless malice that scratched at the corners of her mind, yearning to be let in. But she had ignored it then, as she ignored the temptation to dwell on it now.

“So, he convinced the others to help him. They stole from the Forsaken. They stole from the Dark Lady. And they fled south, to Hillsbrad, where they willingly turned themselves over to the humans at the Lordamere Internment Camp, to the warden who oversaw the installation. Belamoore was her name. It didn’t take long for our agents to track him down… and when they did, well.” The woman fell silent for a moment. “Well, the magus charged with their retrieval sent for me.”

“Wordeen Voidglare.” The brooding priest spoke the name disinterestedly.

“He saw an opportunity,” Emelye continued. “An opportunity to test me. To see if disloyalty ran in the family… to ensure that, one way or another, he wouldn’t have to worry about the Darkmar siblings ever again. You see, I’d been working out of Tarren Mill as a scout for some time, assisting the Deathstalkers in probing for weaknesses along the outskirts of Southshore and the Hillsbrad Fields. Before they were blighted into oblivion.” The ranger furrowed her brow, her face twisting into a hard, determined stare as she studied the decrepit floorboards of the confessional. “So Voidglare sent for me. And he instructed me to kill Kegan, to kill his companions, and to return the bloodstones to him.”

Silence followed from the other side of the small booth. After a pregnant pause, the deep voice sounded again. “How was the manner of his death? How did your brother meet his fate?”

“Like a coward.” The reply came without pause. Emelye lifted her eyes to study the far wooden wall, her voice tinged with bitterness as she spoke. “It was easy enough to slip through the camp’s perimeter. Just me and two others. That was all we needed. In and out, silent as the shadows. We found Alina, Ricter, Dermot, and disposed of them one by one. The Alliance fools hadn’t even taken the bloodstones from them. It was twice the reward for half the effort: the Dark Lady’s artifacts retrieved, and the traitors who stole them snuffed out.

“Then we found Kegan. The last of the four to die, fittingly. I remember every detail. The look on his face when he saw me enter. Recognition. Acceptance. Resignation. The fight had gone out of him—the light in his eyes that I remembered from so long ago. The first day he came home from his work at that apothecary in Stratholme,” Emelye said as her voice grew softer, “and the day that I drove a sword through his heart. I stared at him, disbelieving, and said ‘Little brother… what have you done?’” The ranger’s voice was barely a whisper now as she repeated the words, her face still set in a look of determination. “‘Little brother… what have you done?’ I’ll never forget his reply, just as I’ll never forget when father said goodbye for the last time. He said, ‘Remember father, sister. A choice between what’s right and what’s easy. This is right.’” The ranger stopped for a moment. “I had never hated him more. To invoke father like that. As if doing my duty was easy. Loyalty is right. Stealing is easy. Duty is right. Fleeing is easy.”

“He knew the price of his misdeeds. None can long elude the justice of the Forsaken.”

Emelye seemed not to hear him as she continued. “He was clutching the red, oval-shaped gemstone in his hand when my blade pierced his chest. Sometimes I wonder if he had intended to defend himself with it… to use it against me, somehow. But I don’t think he did. He would rather have died than be Forsaken any longer. He would rather have died than harm me.” The ruminative tone quickly evaporated. “He was weak. And a coward.”

“And yet, he was your brother.”

“Yes.” She paused. “He was my brother.” The final words of the woman’s confession echoed the first, signaling an unannounced end to the shadowy bishop’s methodical, meandering interrogation. For a moment longer, she sat in silence until the sound of creaking wood came from the other side of the partition.

“Come, Darkmar. We have work to do.”

Emelye stood wordlessly, moving with a soldier’s grace as she stepped out of the confessional and into the relatively small back room where it was located, her footsteps thudding dully on the wooden floorboards. The tall priest stood with his hands folded behind his back, peering down at her out of sickly, aged yellow eyes.

“I have an assignment for you, my shadow hand. It is an errand of great importance.”

The ranger mimicked the priest’s posture, straightening her back and standing with her armored hands clasped behind her, over the dark cloak she wore. “Yes, bishop. What do you require?”

Her confessor narrowed his gaze, his bushy eyebrows knitting together as the sallow skin on his face creased with lines of age and undeath. “The time has come for you to take up your brother’s place within the Royal Apothecary Society. I have worked among their ranks for some time, observing the apothecaries, assisting with inquiries, steering the wayward sheep from… seditious proclivities.” He continued, his low voice seeming to fill the space of the small room with its authoritative timbre. “And now that your duties have brought you back to Lordaeron, I ask that you continue the work of the Shadow in the halls of the Apothecarium. Learn their craft. Assist them with their weaponry and their constructs. Protect them in the field. Bring a steady hand and an equanimous mind.”

Emelye offered no protest, but the look on her face did little to hide her apparent surprise at the bishop’s instructions. The thought of joining the very organization that her brother had served years ago was one she hadn’t considered until this very moment.

“Understood, bishop. What of my work with the Forsaken military?”

“You will continue there as ever you have ere this meeting,” the man replied. “And therein lies your inherent value to the Society. The disparate entities that exist to protect the Forsaken must be inseparable. Doubtless you will find that much of the work overlaps… for the same blight created by the apothecaries is also deployed on the field of battle.”

“The Stormheim strain was quite potent,” Emelye said. “The wreck of the Black Rose in the Cove of Nashal had a remarkable effect on the wildlife. It was impressively destructive… to understand the subtleties of blight chemistry…” The ranger pursed her lips, slowly working her jaw in thought.

“You will be assigned to Branch 27-B, under Grand Apothecary Thaddeus Seenwood. I have sent a missive to the high apothecary of Testing and Deployment, Ethyl Plagueguts, regarding your imminent arrival. I would also have you speak with the branch’s chief of security, the warrior known as Helskorn.” The towering bishop squinted at her. “He, too, participated in the battle against Greymane’s forces that took place in Stormheim. A deathguard aboard the Black Rose, and a peerless fighter with as much reason to hate the worgen filth as any true Forsaken.”

Emelye nodded solemnly. “It will be done then, bishop. I will join the Royal Apothecary Society, offer them my assistance, and await any instruction from you.”

The dark priest grimaced. “You will be my eyes and ears, Darkmar. With the preparations for war well underway, the Cult must be rallied once more. The Forgotten Shadow will drive the heart and soul of our people as the Forsaken war machine heralds the dawn of a new era, and we shall ride the approaching storm to the bereavement of our enemies. I go hence to make such spiritual matters my foremost preoccupation, returning only as I am needed to assist the Forsaken government.”

The armor-clad ranger bowed her head respectfully, and then the bishop placed his hand on her shoulder, the dark cloth of his glove resting on the layered chainmail pauldron.

“Draw your strength from the aphotic divine that dwells inseparably in every soul. You will need to be fortified for the times ahead.”

“May the Shadows ever guide our way,” she replied, and as Maerlyn removed his hand from Emelye’s shoulder, her yellow, undead eyes burned with intensity. Then she spoke again, her light, almost delicate voice taking on a tone of stern authority. “It is as the Dark Lady has said. We will go forth and strike down our enemies, and once they have been vanquished, we will rebuild Lordaeron to its former glory.”

[bleachhaven]

The Red Tie That Binds - Part 1

Pairing: Byakuya Kuchiki x OFC

Summary:  

"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch of tangle, but it will never break."

Yoshina Shihoin, younger sister of Yoruichi Shihoin, has history with Byakuya Kuchiki, Captain of Squad 6 and head of the Kuchiki clan. What happens when they meet after 100 years apart on opposing sides?

A/N: I posted this initially on my primary blog but decided to continue posting it here instead. So here it is. REVIEWS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED! Thank you! <3

Part 1 - Reunion on the Bridge

Tumblr | AO3 | Fanfiction.net

“Scatter,” the command reverberated through the air stifled with saturated spiritual pressure. Hanataro’s eyes widened.  They had all just witnessed the devastation that followed Captain Kuchiki’s Shikai release. Ganju’s blood, mercilessly spilled, still stained the bridge. Even as Rukia gasped in fear of what would befall Ichigo, something just was not as it should be.

Byakuya Kuchiki only had a split second’s warning before a strip of white clothing effortlessly wrapped around his Senbonzakura, effectively halting his Shikai release midway.

“Yoruichi,” he murmured in recognition, seeing just who has landed as gracefully as a cat on all fours in front of him. The former head of the Shihoin clan, Yoruichi Shihoin.

She rose to her feet as elegantly as she had landed. She glanced back at her old pupil, an involuntary smirk playing at her lips. “It’s been a long time, Byakuya.”

But Byakuya was not even looking at her anymore. Instead, his eyes were intently focused on someone directly behind Yoruichi. The woman standing right in front of the Ryoka boy. It couldn’t be... he thought in disbelief. But it was. The midnight black hair, the exact same shade as the demon-cat’s, twisted up on her head hiding its length. The whisky amber eyes apprehensively glancing his way unconsciously seeking recognition. There was no denying it. It truly was her – Yoshina Shihoin.

Memories threatened to overwhelm him but he resolutely composed himself. A century had drifted them apart and he was no longer the hotheaded boy with emotions bubbling on the surface that he was back then. He had a law to uphold. Nothing, not even his past, could distract him from his conviction and duty.

Wordlessly, without even a word of acknowledgment of the new arrival, Byakuya turned away. “Yoruichi Shihoin. I haven’t seen your face in a while. You’ve been in hiding for over a hundred years. I thought you were dead.”

Though the words were uttered monotonously with no feeling behind them, they came across as if it was an accusation. At least that is what it felt like to Yoshina so she took it as such. The words were directed at Yoruichi but she knew they were actually meant for her.

From the moment Kisuke and her sister had dragged her into this whole fiasco with Ichigo, Yoshina had dreaded this very confrontation. She had played it over a countless times in her head – how he would rage at her, maybe fight her even. She never expected the Byakuya she had known to let her off the hook easily. She had expected his hotheaded temper to burn her but this was beyond any scenario she could have ever imagined. This cold indifference. He didn’t even acknowledge her. Though the pale angular face framed by stark black hair was familiar, the slate grey eyes that had dismissed her felt like they belonged to a stranger.

She took a moment to truly look at him. The white captain haori begrudgingly made her proud even though they were on opposing sides today. The kenseikan on his head meant that he was now truly embracing his noble heritage and the weight of what came with it. Of course she already knew everything there was to know about him. Like a sponge, she had absorbed every little bit of information about Byakuya Kuchiki, captain of the sixth division, and the 28th head of the Kuchiki clan. She told herself that it was in preparation to know all she could about her enemy but she couldn’t truly lie to herself. A hundred years had passed and yet a day hadn’t gone by when she had not worried about him or thought of him.

Now here he stood, right before her eyes, in flesh and blood, purposely ignoring her. I’ll fix this Byakuya. Once all this is past us, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix us, she swore to herself. Yet seeing the unyielding steel in his eyes, she wondered if they ever could fix what she had once broken.

The drug administered directly to Ichigo’s bloodstream made him unconscious instantly. Yoruichi hauled him over and flash stepped away taunting Byakuya. In a glorious move that made it evident once and for all just exactly who was the Flash Goddess, she lifted off to the roof.

“Go, sister,” Yoshina called out. “I’ll hold him off.”

Finally, Byakuya met her eyes. “You?” The snort of derision and disbelief was implied though his dignity did not allow him to truly let it out.

“Me,” Yoshina replied resolutely.

From above, Yoruichi addressed him. “Three days. In three days I shall make this boy stronger than you. Until then, consider the fight between you two postponed,” she declared. “Feel free to give chase if you wish,” she said glancing down at her sister effectively blocking Byakuya’s path. “But Yoruichi Shihoin is not about to be caught by the likes of you.” With that last taunt, she disappeared.

Byakuya shifted his focus to the younger Shihoin. He pointedly glanced at her waist, noting the absence of a Zanpakuto as if to ask how she even hoped to battle him without one.

She met his emotionless gaze. How many times had she stared into those grey eyes? She’d seen the calm sea in them, the stormy clouds, and the smoky confusion. She knew those eyes like she knew her own. Except maybe she didn’t. She couldn’t read those eyes anymore. Maybe there was nothing in them for her to read at all. So hard. So indifferent.

“I don’t need a Zanpakuto to fight you, Kuchiki,” she responded to the unasked question.

He sheathed his own to even the battle ground. Or perhaps he simply didn’t think her worthy of even using the sword against her. Deeming her too weak to even truly put up a fight. Never underestimate your opponent, Byakuya. First lesson your grandfather ever taught us, she mentally chided him.

Without warning, she flash stepped to his right intending to punch him on his side. He barely saw it coming but just in time, he shifted, evading her blow. He made a grab for her extended arm to counter but she stepped away putting distance between them once more. All in the span of a split second.

“You have improved,” he commended. He hated the involuntary sense of pride that laced his words. He crushed it before it could show.

She smirked at him. The twist of her lips so familiar. He hated it too. “So have you,” she replied.

His eyes couldn’t help it. They briefly glanced at the red ribbon that was twisted around her hair. His hair tie. So that had survived 100 years though their friendship had not been as lucky. He remembered that day as clear as if it had just been yesterday. The day she stole that tie. Their last day. The day he told her that he was going to marry her.

“Hado number thirty-three. Sokatusui,” he uttered, firing the kido without incantation.

For a moment, she did nothing. Time slowed. The blue fire came at her until it was blocked by a ball of red flame. The two cancelled each other out. “Hado number thirty-one. Shakkaho.”

His eyes widened. Unbelievable, he thought to himself as he realized that she had fired kido at him not just without the incantation but without even the saying the name of the spell.

“Amazing,” Ukitake’s voice reached Byakuya’s ear. “This is unprecedented. I’ve never seen such skill before.”

Byakuya ignored the older captain as well as the knowing smirk on Yoshina’s face. He couldn’t help but be impressed with her skill but he hid it well. Besides, he shouldn’t be this surprised anyway. She had always had an affinity to kido that he could not even compare to. With enough practice, he knew she would master it. It seems she had.

“I’ve been practicing,” she said, unable to hold back a grin.

His face showed no emotion. “So it seems.”

Right before his eyes, she disappeared. He sensed her right behind him just before he turned to face her. The punch she had aimed for his back hit his face. He stepped away instantly. She had landed the first strike.

Her eyes widened with disbelief as his smooth pale aristocratic cheek reddened with blood. She had cut him without even meaning to. She glanced down at her hand to notice that the clan’s ring on her index finger had a trace of his blood.

Her obvious shock told him that she had not intended to hurt him. In the split second it took her to recover from her misplaced guilt, he flash stepped bridging the distance between them until they were mere inches apart.

Her mouth opened in a gasp. They were so close, yet so far. So many years between them. So many words unsaid, so many things unfelt. How many times have they sparred against each other? Yet she knew this was different. This time, the fight was real. This time, they were truly on opposing sides.

His hand was right in front of her heart, index finger pointed forward to the center. He thought he could hear the crescendo of its beat. She knew before the words even left his mouth that she wouldn’t survive this. Not straight to the heart. Not this close.

“Hado number four. Byakurai,” he said, grey eyes staring into amber.

The pain hit her hard. Excruciating and numbing at the same time. She had been so focused on him that she hadn’t even noticed. He had shifted his hand in the very last second to hit her shoulder instead.

The lightning pushed her back away from him. Clutching her shoulder, feeling the blood wet her palm, she refused to glance at the hole that must obviously be there.

“You missed,” she told him flippantly in a lightness that completely belied the true fear she had felt a second ago.

She met his eyes. Finally there was some emotion in them – an accusation. “You were holding back,” he reproached her.

She pointedly looked at his sheathed Senbonzakura. “So were you.”

In an instant, she lifted off and in a flash step that would have made Yoruichi Shihoin proud, she was gone.

Byakuya stared after her. She was gone as unexpectedly as she had arrived, unaware of the turmoil she’d left behind. Something pricked him inside. He couldn’t tell if it was the ice in his veins or the fiery rage she ignited.

Years of resolution, indifference and carefully crafted separation. A century of convictions. All shaken in the wake of one slip of an amber eyed witch. How dare you, Yoshina Shihoin? He cursed her.

All these years he had thought there was nothing in him that felt anything intensely. But today, he felt it. He felt the rage boil his blood in reminiscence of his younger days. He felt the hate. He felt it. He felt it with a passion he’d never thought was possible.

Part 2

More Author’s Notes:

My OC, Yoshina Shihoin, is Yoruichi’s younger sister. She’s shorter and slighter of build, with caramel skin, long violet-black hair tied up meticulously in a bun, and amber/whiskey colored eyes just like her sister. She dresses quite similar too in a black body suit that hugs her figure and does not restrict her movements in anyway. I don’t want to give more away because you’ll find out who she is and what powers she has along the way.

“Yoshina” loosely means good, virtuous, charitable, and kind. It also means apple tree but obviously that is not relevant so we are going to ignore it. It may also refer to flowering cherry tree. *wink wink* What an unexpected coincidence?! 

I will try to keep the originals in character as much as possible but I will take liberties where creativity is necessary.

Reviews are the fuel that drives the writing. Please review!! THANK YOU!

This is completely new territory for me - Bleach I mean. So any feedback would be much appreciated!!

[darknesstodawnuniverse]

Whumptober Day 10 - Held at Gunpoint

Couldn’t pass up an opportunity for some PTSD Aramis with this one. This also ended up being another Modern AU oops :) 

You can find this on ff.net and Ao3 for your reading convenience as well.

Read the rest of my Whumptober 2017 prompt fills here.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Porthos snapped irritably as they tramped through the woods.

“It’s been nearly a year,” Athos shot back, equally perturbed. “He hasn’t had an episode in almost two months!”

Porthos whirled on him, gesturing around the woods with a wide sweep of his arm.

“Well he’s bloody well having one now!”

“Arguing isn’t going to help us find him any faster,” Athos pointed out, shoving past Porthos to continue their search.

Porthos threw up his arms in frustration.

“He’s ex-Special Forces. He can probably sense us coming a mile away!”

Athos rolled his eyes, and glanced over his shoulder at Porthos.

“With as loud as you’re being, he’ll likely hear us long before then.”

He frowned when Porthos eyes narrowed and then went abruptly very wide.

“What?” Athos barely got the question out before Porthos was yanking him to the dirt.

“Down!”

A shot cracked above their heads, imbedding in a tree just beyond where Athos had been standing.

They both laid there for a moment, breathing hard with the spike of adrenaline.

“Is that him?” Athos asked, shocked.

Porthos nodded.

“Saw the glint on his rifle by chance,” Porthos revealed. “Didn’t see him, though…he’s too bloody good at this.”

Silence reigned around them, but it wasn’t a comfort. A silent Aramis was usually a deadly one, or a dying one, neither option was welcome at the moment.

“What are our chances of getting out of this without him shooting us?” Athos wondered, easing his head above the log Porthos had pulled them down behind. He couldn’t see anything, but ducked down just as a bullet bit into the wood an inch from his nose.

Porthos put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Best keep your head down with ‘Mis behind the scope, yeah?”

“He didn’t kill me,” Athos stated.

“Lucky you.”

“No, Porthos, he hit the wood in front of me while I was still exposed enough to watch it happen.”

Understanding lit Porthos’ gaze.

“A warning.” Then he narrowed his eyes in thought before suddenly nodding. “I’m gonna risk it.”

He rolled out from behind their cover and flowed to his feet.

Athos reached fruitlessly after him, trying to pull him back.

“Wait, no!” He sighed. “Shit,” he muttered before climbing to his feet as well.

He followed Porthos example and raised his hands in a show of surrender.

“Aramis, you know me,” Porthos announced. “You know my voice. You’re not where you think you are.”

A bullet bit into the dirt before Porthos’ feet.

He obediently stopped his approach and waited. No other bullet tore into flesh, so he figured he was safe to keep talking.

“Hear me, Aramis. Follow me back.”

Abruptly, a figure swung down athletically from a tree, landing in a crouch. Aramis rose to face them, sniper rifle slung across his back and two Desert Eagle hand guns pointed at their heads. He’d camoflaugrd himself with mud spread across exposed skin and in the fading light, he cut white the lethal looking figure.

“What are you doing here?” Aramis demanded. “Who sent you?”

“He’s still there,” Athos murmured from Porthos shoulder.

“Aramis,” Porthos tried again, extending a calming hand.

“Did you kill them? Are they all dead?” Aramis demanded, guns steady in his hands despite how his voice shook. “Where’s Marsac? What have you done with him?”

“Aramis,” Porthos intoned firmly, stepping forward.

Aramis’ eyes homed in on him like a hawk spotting its prey and one of the guns rose to target Porthos’ forehead.

“Hear me,” Porthos commanded, not stopping his approach.

Aramis’ eyes narrowed at him, and Porthos could see his mind whirling as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“Follow me back,” Porthos repeated the mantra once more.

Every time this happened, those words were the key.

Aramis. Hear Me. Follow me back.

Porthos didn’t stop until the barrel of Aramis’ Desert Eagle was pressing against the skin of his forehead.

Aramis looked confused now, nearly painfully so. Porthos wondered, in moments like this, what the world looked like to the marksman. Was reality blending with memory before his eyes? That was how Aramis described it once. Like an old reel film, playing with the two pieces of film stuck together, one image overlaid on the other.

It was no wonder Aramis always looked his most vulnerable in these moments, as he clawed his way back to them.

“Porthos?” Aramis finally whispered, eyes widening fractionally as recognition settled in.

“I’m here,” Porthos assured.

“But…”

“You’re not there,” he went on before Aramis could argue. “You’re not in Savoy.”

“But…” Aramis looked to where Athos stood, obviously not having progressed far enough to recognize him yet. “Who…”

“Oh that’s just Athos,” Porthos replied, careful to keep his voice light and warm. He was keenly aware that the gun was still pressed to his forehead. And Aramis, made strong through years of training, had not wavered in his aim.

“Athos…” Aramis repeated the name slowly.

Porthos watched the rest of reality trickle in through Aramis’ eyes. The guns dropped to his side and he took a step back, eyes widening by the moment.

“Easy,” Porthos coached, taking a single step in pursuit. “Breathe.”

“What…what happened?” Aramis asked, eyes wide as saucers and breaths coming in sharp gasps. His eyes cut around them, confusion clouding them. “Where are we? How did we get here?”

Athos watched Porthos reach out, wrapping his hand around the back of Aramis’ neck and forcing him to look at him. Ever since Savoy Porthos had just always seemed to know what Aramis needed. He knew how to talk to him. When to be firm and when to be gentle. He’d known when a touch was needed and when it would only make things worse. Athos wasn’t sure how he did it; how he interpreted the various pitfalls that came with Aramis’ PTSD. But he was grateful that at least one of them knew how to get through to him.

“Focus on me and holster those weapons before you shoot your own foot,” Porthos instructed firmly. When Aramis did as instructed, Porthos went on. “Something triggered you. You took off with your rifle before we knew what was happening. We’ve been tracking you for hours.”

Aramis’ brow slid up and he frowned in contemplation.

“That explains why I’m so thirsty.”

Athos wordlessly produced his own water bottle and tossed it to him.

Aramis slid out of Porthos’ grip and unscrewed the lid, downing a mouthful, only to grimace and give the bottle an odd look. Then he tossed a disbelieving glance at Athos.

Athos shrugged. There wasn’t a rule that said he had to carry water when he was off duty.

“Thanks, but my liver isn’t as resilient as yours,” Aramis teased, tossing the bottle back. But then the marksman sobered, looking around again.

“Do you know what did it?” Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed, scrubbing a hand up into his hair.

“I don’t know. I could have been any number of things. I haven’t… I haven’t been camping since…”

He didn’t need to finish. They all knew how the sentence ended.

“Stop looking so worried,” Aramis joked suddenly, a familiar forced smile on his face. “I’m fine now.”

“Do you want to go home?” Athos asked seriously. They would, immediately, if that’s what Aramis wanted. But the marksman shook his head, brow pinching together seriously.

“I won’t tiptoe around for the rest of my life, worried about what could or might trigger me. I won’t live like that,” he stated firmly. “Maybe I wasn’t ready for this yet,” he admitted. “But I’m here and I won’t run home just because things haven’t gone as smoothly as we’d like. I’m a soldier, I need to be able to walk through the woods. Savoy took enough from me. I won’t let it take my ability to do my job.”

Athos shared a glance with Porthos, who shrugged in deference to Aramis’ wishes. Athos looked back at Aramis to find him waiting expectantly. He stood straight and tall, shoulders rolled back confidently. His eyes were haunted, but so were theirs.

Athos inclined his head in agreement.

“Okay.”

[tiedtogetherwithadagger]

Can you do a sterek fic where they look for a VCR?

Thank you for sending in this prompt, sweetie! I’m publishing it on the Fourth of July but it is sadly not Fourth of July themed. Hope you like fluff and angst, because apparently that’s all I can write right now :P

Also on AO3.

They were laying on the couch in the middle of a Criminal Minds marathon when Derek finally cracked. Stiles could tell that he’d been trying to say something all night but instead of trying to pull it out of Derek, he only pulled him closer in his arms and settled deeper into the couch. He stayed quiet, placing his head over Derek’s shoulder and breathing in deeply at his neck.

He knew Derek would eventually tell him what’s been on his mind. After being together for over a year, not everything seemed like it needed to be addressed immediately for Stiles anymore. He was content to wait for Derek because he knew how difficult it was for him to open up. And every time the sourwolf did open up, Stiles felt immeasurably privileged and weirdly honored. Derek had chosen him*, and kept choosing him.

Now, though, Derek was twisting in Stiles’ lap and turning to face him. He pursed his lips and looked down again before sighing and staring into Stiles’ eyes.

“It’s Cora’s birthday next week,” he said.

This was news to Stiles. While yes, he and Derek had known each other for a few years now and were obviously close – they were living together for Pete’s sake – the topic of Derek’s family was a poisoned pot of worms that Stiles would never push. He’d been slowly learning more about Derek’s childhood and life after the fire. There was no need to rush.

Stiles knew how Derek’s dad and grandma had taught him how to cook since he was old enough to hold a spoon. How Peter had been that cool uncle that took him out of school every once in awhile to go on a roadtrip to any and everywhere. How Laura pushed him to get his GED when they left Beacon Hills and how he started at SUNY when he was only seventeen afterwards. How his favorite color was pink because it was warm without reminding him of fire.

But every new story was never forced. It didn’t exactly feel natural, and it was hard as hell for Derek, but he wanted Stiles to know him. Every part of him.

But things like birthdays and anniversaries only came up when it was too hard for Derek to deal with on his own. Stiles knew this and understood that there were some things of his family that Derek wanted to keep just for himself. Stiles was the same when it came to his own mom. So if Derek was bringing up Cora’s birthday, and acting like this about it, something was wrong.

Stiles swallowed.

“Is it?”

“I, uh, went to our old safe last week. It’s mostly books and pack heirlooms, but I found a box there.”

Derek cleared his throat before opening his mouth again. “It was labeled ‘Family Videos’ in my mom’s handwriting and I didn’t think it would actually have anything in it but… Stiles. There are home videos of my family. They’re there. They exist and I have them.”

He sounded so bewildered, like he couldn’t believe that he deserved to have anything that personal of his family’s. It made Stiles’ heart hurt. Derek deserved the world.

“That’s great, Derek! Are you going to do something with them for Cora’s birthday?”

“Well I was. I wanted to watch them with her. But. They’re VHS tapes,” he said forlornly.

“And?” Stiles couldn’t tell what could be wrong with that.

“I don’t have a VCR, Stiles,” deadpanned Derek.

“Oh.” That could be what’s wrong with that

“Yeah, oh*.”

Derek turned back around in Stiles’ arms, crossing his arms and honest-to-god pouting*.

“I think I might have one at my dad’s place.”

“Really?” Derek looked so hopeful. So open. Stiles would do anything for that face.

*

Which is how Stiles finds himself knee deep in Stilinski debris in his old basement the next morning. He’d been looking for that VCR for hours. He was dirty, sweaty, covered in spiderwebs, and surrounded by opened and upturned boxes. This was exactly how Derek found him.

“Stiles?” He looked at where Stiles was currently buried under a pile of wires and cables. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for that VCR. What does it look like I’m doing?” Stiles retorted.

“Trying to find an entrance to Narnia,” said Derek. The eyebrows were in full force. “Can I help?”

Stiles grinned and his eyes softened. “Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks.”

They soon found themselves even deeper into the Stilinski basement. How, exactly, neither had a clue. Derek pulled a large, discolored box from the top of a rickety shelf that had been hidden behind a life-size cutout of Han Solo. The cutout belonged to the Sheriff, actually – where else do you think Stiles got his obsession from?

Stiles glanced up when he heard Derek bring the box down. He had his claw at the ready, about to cut open the box, when Stiles lunged.

“No!” He clutched Derek’s wrists in a tight hold, eyes wide and wild. “Not…that one,” he breathed.

Derek nodded his head, eyes locked on Stiles’. He swallowed and the air became dense with tension.

They went back to their search, the comfortable silence they had had earlier shattered. Stiles kept taking in deep, shaky breaths that made Derek ache to pull him into a hug. Each time Derek looked at him with his eyes furrowed in recognition and probably understanding – Stiles couldn’t be sure, he refused to look at him – Stiles only stared harder at whatever happened to be in front of him at the time.

“That’s my mom’s stuff,” Stiles finally said. He cleared his throat. “We couldn’t move her things for a while afterwards. My dad couldn’t even look at her things. He slept on the couch or at work whenever he could. About a year after, my dad and I went through everything of hers and put it in those boxes.”

Stiles’ voice was frayed and Derek could smell the salt in his tears. Wordlessly, he stepped forward and pulled Stiles in close, tucking his head under his jaw. Derek took deep, slow breaths until Stiles’ breaths matched his own.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek only pulled back and placed a kiss on his forehead. Then his cheek. And both his eyelids. Which made Stiles smile and huff out a laugh, like it always did.

“You’re ridiculous,” said Stiles.

“I’m yours,” said Derek.

*

After that, it was easier between them. The air was lighter, like there weren’t so many things weighing them both down. They didn’t open the boxes that night. They would eventually, but not then.

Instead Stiles talked.

He told Derek about the time he had wanted a mermaid-themed party for his eighth birthday. Jackson had sneered at Stiles when he heard him and said that Stiles couldn’t be a mermaid because he wasn’t a girl. He cried in his mom’s arms after school and she had looked him straight in the eye, her own glimmering in mischief, and had told him to put his shoes on.

Together, Stiles, his mom, and Scott had sewn and glued their own mermaid costumes with the most glittery, sparkly fabrics they could find from the fabric store.The next day, his mom had dropped them off wearing her mermaid creation. And when she’d walked them to the door, she had made sure to compliment them both for their own. That was one of the best days of Stiles’ life, everyone in class had gaped and fawned and gushed over them instead of ignoring them with their usual derision.

He shared stories of his mom when she was first in the hospital and Stiles had been scared of the place. He had been surrounded by people in mourning, people gray and barely holding on to life. It had been the last place his mom belonged. So his mom had given Stiles face paint and told him to go nuts. Not only had Stiles covered his mom’s face, but he had also painted her hair pastel blues and greens and purples. She had looked like a sea creature by the end of it, but it had made Stiles giggle and brought a soft glow to the too bright hospital room. It hadn’t been so scary after that.

*

It was the Sheriff that found the VCR. When he got home that night to a basement in shambles, Stiles asked if he knew where it was. He snorted before climbing the stairs and showing them where it was planted right under the TV in the living room.

Derek gave Stiles such a look. Oops.

It was worth the eternal embarrassment for the way Derek glowed in the weeks after Cora’s birthday. Needless to say, the gift had been a success.

[velannadisapproves]

safe

Lalia Tabris doesn’t handle the Broodmother very well and is refusing to sleep on their way out of the Deep Roads. Zevran offers some unexpectedly innocent comfort.

1,610 words. Sten has just shooed her to bed, and Lalia still doesn’t realize Zevran’s flirting is sincere. Warnings: Some Zev-typical sexual humour and a curse word.

~ Though she told herself she would try to get some rest, Lalia knew she would more likely be spending the next several hours staring up at the tunnel's ceiling from her bedroll, and she sighed heavily as she made her way to where she had left her pack near her scattered, now sleeping companions. She spotted it propped against a boulder on the far side of a still form and moved as soundlessly as she could toward it.

"I see our laconic friend convinced you to abandon your post," an Antivan accent teased softly from the dimness as Zevran stirred by her feet, a hint of grogginess in his voice. "Did he use his words or merely glare at you menacingly until you gave in?"

Lalia looked down at him with a tired smile. "Sorry for waking you, Zev," she apologized in a whisper. "I'll try to be quick." She hurriedly stepped around him to crouch by her pack and began unpacking her bedding.

Zevran sat up and turned to watch her. "No need to apologize. If you could approach without waking me, then I'd be a shame to the Crows," he replied, his usual playfulness still evident even in a hush. "Well, more of one, I suppose." He hunched over to rest his chin in his hands as he observed her trying to remove her bedroll and unfurl it as silently as possible. "Do you need any assistance? I could happily provide a number of services to help you get to sleep."

She focused on fixing her bedroll to keep from rolling her eyes, but she couldn't help smirking. "Oh yeah? Are we talking sexy services or potentially fatal services?"

"Both," he quipped with a grin before adding, "Or neither. I know an Antivan lullaby or two, or I could bore you unconscious by describing each rock around us in great detail. Truthfully, all it would take is my fingers on a few pressure points to render you unconscious, but whatever you might wish, I would be happy to help."

Finally finished with adjusting padding and covers, Lalia stripped off her boots and light armour before sitting down on her bedding and curling her knees up to her chest. "Thanks, I appreciate it, but I doubt I'm gonna be able to get any decent rest. Not while I can't stop thinking about this-" She was going to say 'broodmother shit', but she caught herself, unwilling to speak the monstrous name for fear she might vomit, either her guts onto the stone floor again or her fears onto unfortunate ears. Instead of searching for words to complete her sentence, she waved a hand vaguely at their surroundings.

Zevran clicked his tongue. "Come now, there must be something that helps you drift off."

Lalia considered keeping up their game of flirting - it was helping her mood, truth be told, just to be talking with him in this trivial way - but in her current vulnerable state, she was giving an honest answer before she even realized it. "When I was little, my cousin Shianni lived with me and my parents for a while, and whenever I couldn't sleep, I would sneak over to her bed and ask to sleep there." Her face softened at the memory, and her gaze slipped from Zevran to her knees as she continued, "She'd make fun of me for it, but she always let me in. Something about being next to another person made me feel...I dunno, relaxed? Safe? It helped."

Her confession was met with silence, and Lalia wondered if her story had bored Zevran back to sleep. Then she heard a rustling and looked up to see him moving his bedroll closer to hers. As he laid back down, she opened her mouth to make some deflecting remark, but then he held up the thin sheet he was using as a blanket in invitation. Lalia's first thought was that he was mocking her, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but the look in his eyes made his sincerity clear.

Zevran reached his free hand out to gently grasp hers and wordlessly led her under his cover until they were lying face to face. He rested his head on one arm and positioned the other lightly around her waist. After a few long minutes, Lalia's stiff discomfort began to drain away, and she slowly crept one hand forward to rest it against his chest. In the stillness, she could just feel his heart beating steadily under her fingers, and she closed her eyes and focused on the rhythm.

The smell of him surrounded her, and with the image of his golden eyes in mind and the sound of his quiet breathing in her ears, she finally let the darkness take her.

---

"-ia...Lalia. Wake up, my dear Warden."

Lalia slowly opened her eyes to find her face pressed against the warmth of another body. She quickly recoiled, sitting upright and stammering, "Ah, s-sorry, I didn't, uhm, I hope I didn't-"

Zevran's gentle laughter interrupted her, and he looked up at her with eyes sparkling in amusement. "This sort of thing tends to happen when you share a bed with someone, no?" he teased, keeping his voice down. "I'm glad you were able to sleep soundly. It's unfortunate that it had to end so soon, but I thought you might prefer to be in your own bedroll before the others awaken."

Shooting a quick glance toward where their party lie sleeping on nearby, Lalia absently brushed her hair behind an ear. "You got that right," she murmured, relief in her tone. She noticed Zevran's easy smile tighten almost imperceptibly, but she wrote it off as a trick of the shifting light and continued, "If Alistair found out I needed someone to hold me like a baby to get to sleep, I'd never hear the end of it. And Sten would probably think I'm even less fit to lead than he already does." She sighed in mock dejection before reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Thank you, Zevran."

His expression seemed to soften once more, and she was less sure that the ancient fire was to blame. "That's what everyone always says after a night with yours truly," he responded, but his tone didn't quite match his flippant words. He shifted his hand to lace their fingers together before bringing her knuckles to his lips for a chaste kiss, gazing up at her with an enticing look in those golden eyes all the while. "But from you, querida, thanks are unnecessary. You are welcome in my bed any time."

Lalia felt her heartbeat quicken and mentally cursed herself for being affected by his charm; she knew his words were insincere, but that didn't stop her from becoming more susceptible to them seemingly every time they spoke. "Is this the sultry look you give to all your unsuspecting targets?" she asked, forcing her visage to match his as best she could.

"Maybe."

"And does it work?"

"You tell me."

Lalia merely returned his gaze in silence for a moment before her lips parted and she began leaning toward him slowly. Zevran's eyebrows quirked upward so slightly and his breathing changed so briefly that she wouldn't have noticed had she not been looking for some signal that she'd caught him off guard. Her face cracked into a wide grin when recognition flashed in his eyes immediately after; he'd lost this round of their flirtation game. "Too bad I'm not an unsuspecting target."

Zevran sighed his agreement, "Too bad, indeed." He gave her hand one more kiss before letting it go and turning his head in a dramatic pout. "You are a cruel tease."

"I think you like it," she replied, slipping from under his sheet to stand and stretch.

"You caught me," he said cheerily, eyeing her figure with a blatancy only he could muster and humming in appreciation. He snickered when she playfully swatted at him and barely shifted to avoid the light smack that wouldn't have reached him anyhow.

Lalia packed her things swiftly, eager to continue their return trek to Orzammar. A night's rest had renewed her spirits remarkably. She still couldn't wait to be out of the tunnels and back under the sky, but at least she no longer felt such a crushing desperation to escape.

By the time she had her armour on and her boots laced up, Zevran had put away his bedroll, donned his own light armour, and was working on strapping his weapons to himself. Lalia moved to help him.

Zevran stilled as she grabbed the thick belts from his hands and quickly fastened their buckles across his chest, unsure of how to respond to such unprecedented assistance from her. "A beautiful woman helping me into a leather harness," he mused. "This is an excellent start to the day."

"Don't get too excited," Lalia chided. "I'm just trying to get a move on. Oghren said we should be able to make it to Orzammar shortly after nightfall; I want to try to catch the sunset."

"Such ambition," he said approvingly.

Without replying, Lalia pulled at the belts to ensure they were secure and looked him over before nodding her satisfaction. She looked up at his face, at those beautiful eyes gazing back at her, and felt the need to thank him once more. Rather than risking him brushing off her gratitude, however, she decided to plant a quick kiss on his cheek before turning just as suddenly to walk away. "Let's go wake the others."

"An excellent start to the day," she heard him repeat behind her, and she couldn't help but smile.

[dazzledbybooks]

I am so excited that WE THE WILDFLOWERS by L.B. Simmons is releasing one week from today and that I get to share the news! If you haven’t yet heard about this wonderful book by Author L.B. Simmons, be sure to check out all the details below. This blitz also includes a giveaway for a finished copy of the book, courtesy of Spencer Hill Press and Rockstar Book Tours. So if you’d like a chance to win, enter in the Rafflecopter at the bottom of this post. About The Book: Title: WE THE WILDFLOWERS Author: L.B. Simmons Pub. Date: February 11, 2020 Publisher: Spencer Hill Press Formats: Paperback, eBook Pages: 391 Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, TBD “Their strength and ferocity stem from below the surface where their roots are forever tangled, interwoven in such a way that for the remainder of time they bloom together …” Genesis Adam Chloe Lukas No one loves them, no one cares about them, no one even sees them until they end up in Mary Rodriguez’s home, an outpost for Sacred Heart’s troubled youth program. It is within these walls that the four teens forge unlikely friendships. They experience the intensity of first loves, share secrets, and suffer losses, vowing to make the world a better place in spite of their personal battles with addiction, depression, loneliness, and abuse. But when the unthinkable happens, those friendships are tested in ways they never could have imagined. Will they find strength enough to survive or will their bonds be too fractured to heal them yet again? We, the Wildflowers is a Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection. "It’s difficult to imagine anything more damaging than knowing your parents want nothing to do with you, so when Chloe’s life is signed away to a program for troubled youth, she goes silently. It’s there that she learns to truly “see” others and there that she is finally seen, too, by the loving Mrs. Rodriquez, who runs the program, and by Adam, Genny, and Lukas, her fiercely loyal wildflowers, who form a friendship holding all the love and acceptance they all could ever need. But in the wake of sudden change, all the progress they’ve made is about to be upended. In this story of misfits, Simmons evokes the spectrum of emotions her readers have come to expect from her. Writing teens who have otherwise been discarded ultimately finding purpose, Simmons sculpts characters who are damaged but introspective, pained by their past but in pursuit of meaning in their future. Readers will revel in the slow-budding romance, sympathize with the insurmountable pain, and be lifted by endless pages of resilience. Hand to fans of character-driven stories of growth." — Mahjabeen Syed, Booklist The seasons play an important and meaningful role in We, the Wildflowers.  The Wildflowers find commonality with each other and even name themselves after a resilient patch of wildflowers they visit at their pond. Because of this, they too are affected by seasons. Each season in the book represents not only the actual season at the time the story is happening, but also the emotional state of the Wildflowers themselves. A lot of growth tends to happen for the Wildflowers in spring, in summer they find confidence and start to really bloom, fall brings uncertainty and a tinge of fear, while winter brings devastation they could never imagine. Then the cycle begins again. I think we all face seasons as we live our lives, and the idea behind showcasing them in this book is to remind people that yes, you may face your winter or winters even, but strength can be found in the knowledge that spring isn’t far behind. It too will come. Excerpt: Excerpt from We, the Wildflowers Chapter 9 pages 76 - 81 Genny rises, flicks the light on, and signals with a jerk of her head. “This way.” Single file, we follow her through the long blades of grass. Interspersed are several patches of light purple and pink wildflowers. I try not to step on them as we walk. Several minutes later, we finally arrive at our destination. On a muddy bank lining the pond, our small patch of wildflowers is in full bloom, the stark white petals differing from the many other colorful blossoms that have overtaken the field behind us. They bend and bow with an oncoming breeze, and I smile, picturing them waving at us as if cheerfully greeting old friends. Genny grins with similar recognition. Slowly, she crouches to the ground, lovingly curling her fingers around the blossom of the closest wildflower. “Lukas.” He begins to take a step forward, but halts suddenly, his expression taut across his face. He stares at the ground in contemplation before turning to face me. Taken completely by surprise, I can do nothing but gape as he curls his fingers under the hem of his hoodie and whips it over his head in one swift movement. It’s quite possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. To make matters worse, I’m ogling the movement of his muscles beneath his white T-shirt as he wordlessly shoves the hoodie in my face. Even Adam is helpless facing this glorious display. He exhales sharply next to me, and I elbow him in the ribs. And then, the impossible happens. Because standing in front of me, Lukas holds my eyes for a brief moment, then—I kid you not—he shakes his head and…grins. Teeth flash, and Lord help me, a dimple sinks deep into his left cheek. Adam and I sigh in unison, which only serves to broaden his smile. And in this moment, I know I’m totally and utterly screwed. My entire body crackles as I take hold of his offering, the body heat trapped in his hoodie instantly warming my hands. It smells like him. And I know with absolute certainty I was right. A simple smile from Lukas White is most certainly enough to sustain a thousand broken souls. Mine included. He looks back to the ground. “You’re cold.” “Thank you,” I respond, smiling meekly in appreciation. He silently acknowledges my gratitude with a dip of his head before turning back to Genny. She’s looking at me, her grin unconcealed. When Lukas slowly kneels beside her, I lift the hoodie to slide it over my head. Adam chuckles beside me, elbowing me in the ribs this time while I’m defenseless. I curse him from within the heavenly confines of the hoodie before poking my head through the neck hole and pushing my arms through the sleeves. Ignoring us, Genny wisely continues with the introductions. “Lukas, these are our wildflowers. Our namesakes.” She gestures to the field behind us, brimming with colored blossoms. “You see, every one of these flowers will eventually succumb to the seasons’ brutality. Mark my words, all will be worn down by extreme heat and by the middle of summer, they’ll be gone. Every single one.” Her hand stalls on the white flowers still dancing happily in the breeze beside her. “Except these badasses, because they’re stubborn. Resilient. They will last long after the others are gone. Like us, they continue to flourish in defiance of the demanding seasons. Their strength and ferocity stem from below the surface where their roots are forever tangled, interwoven in such a way that for the remainder of time they will bloom together, and when winter finally prevails, they perish as one. But even in death they remain connected, thriving within the comfort only they can provide each other, until spring brings them to life once again.” Genny angles her head and smiles lovingly at the wildflowers, then cups an open blossom between her hands. After a silent moment shared between the two, she releases it and looks to Lukas. “Wildflowers, this is Lukas. He’s one of us.” Without another word, she rises and steps away, allowing ample time for Lukas to familiarize himself with the flowers in question. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I watch him reach forward and timidly brush the velvety petals with the tip of his finger. His hardened expression relaxes, and when the flower cheerfully waves back at him, the corner of his mouth lifts, softening it further. God, he’s beautiful. I take a quick sharp breath, to make sure I can still breathe. He gives the flower another gentle stroke, then gingerly trails his finger down the stem. Once through, he remains crouched in a silent moment of kindred connection, then after another meaningful touch of the white petal, he rises. And I as watch the encounter, the oddest thing happens. Or maybe I just imagine it. But I could swear that the flower stills, then with all its tiny might, lengthens its stem to follow him as he stands. She stretches herself to her limit, but sadly, she cannot follow. Eventually she concedes, drooping in defeat when he turns away before giving him a despondent wave goodbye. I offer her a sympathetic grin. I know how you feel, my friend. As soon as Lukas has risen to his full height, Genny pins each of us with a lengthy stare. “We, the four of us, are bound together by our own horrific pasts. But within this group, we find solace in each other because only we can truly comprehend the devastation endured. And the devastation we will endure. Because the truth is, winter is inevitable. But I find comfort in the fact that we have each other to hold on to until spring finds us once again.” She glances at the patch of white flowers then back to Lukas. “So yeah. The very definition of being a Wildflower is just that. We’re bound so closely that your pain is our pain. Your story is no longer just yours to bear—it’s ours. And when winter strikes any of us, we perish together knowing we will rise together as well. We are four, but we are one. And together, there’s nothing we can’t overcome.” Genny’s face splits into a wide, shit-eating grin as she concludes, “Plus, I’m Genesis. I’m the creator. So, you really don’t have a say. You just are.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. Adam barks a laugh. Lukas remains silent, but his gaze drops to the wildflowers before it lifts to meet our eyes. And when he finds mine, I know her message has been received loud and clear. Vulnerable Lukas looks back at me. And although we’ve always known he would, he now has finally accepted his fate. As the Fourth and final Wildflower. Top Ten Songs and Playlist Link, While Writing We, the Wildflowers: https://ift.tt/3bdjueo  1) “Heathens” – Twenty One Pilots 2) “Sweater Weather” – The Neighborhood  3) “Echo” – Jason Walker  4) Go – Meg Myers 5) “Under the Tide” – CHVRCHES 6) “I Don’t Wanna Be In Love” – Dark Waves  7) “Illusory Light” – Sarah Blasko  8) “Tongue Tied” – Grouplove  9) “Hymnal” – In the Valley Below  10) “Bravest Everything” – Yuna  Bonus Track: “Best Part of Me” – St. Leonards About L.B.: After graduating from Texas A&M University, L.B. Simmons did what any biomedical science major could do. She entered the workforce as a full-time chemist. Years later, never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined herself a USA Today Bestselling contemporary romance author as well. What began as a memoir for her children, ended up being her first self-published book, Running on Empty. Initially it was written to chronicle their actions, their phrases, and their silly arguments so that when they were older, they would always have those memories. The memoir soon began to take on a life of its own, morphing into the story of a single mother with three little girls finding love when she least expected it. Soon after, her girls were given reoccurring roles in the remainder of what became the Mending Hearts series. That's how her journey as an author began, and she hopes to God it never ends. L.B. Simmons doesn’t just write books. With each new work, she attempts to compose journeys of love and self-discovery so she may impart life lessons to readers. Several novels later, she’s tackled suicide, depression, bullying, eating disorders, as well as physical and sexual abuse, all the while weaving elements of humor into the storylines in effort to balance the difficult topics. Often described as roller coaster rides, her novels are known for eliciting a wide range of emotions in each story she tells. Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads Giveaway Details: 1 winner will receive a finished copy of WE THE WILDFLOWERS, US only. Giveaway ends February 14th at midnight EST. a Rafflecopter giveaway

http://www.dazzledbybooks.com/2020/02/we-wildflowers-pre-release-blitz.html

[ramblinganthropologist]

Dragon Age 100 - 3 (Hate)

Summary: Well... it was bound to happen eventually. Kaaras has one rule to his life, but to save Ataashi he must break it. The fallout of his choices are less than pleasant. (Set 1-2 years before Inquisition)

---

Yep... everything was going well. If by 'well', of course, you meant everything was on fire and they were running out of room to move.

Kaaras' arms screamed from exhaustion as he blocked yet another incoming blow with crossed swords. The man in front of him was strong, but his footing was weak. One strong shove and the balance was upset, and down he went. One down... way too many to go.

It was supposed to be an easy job. Go to the forest, take out the bandits, and get back with what they had stolen. They had done jobs like it hundreds of times since he had joined, probably triple that before he arrived. It should have been a no-brainer, but these things often had the potential to go bad. And oh, had it. As it turned out, they had walked straight into a turf war over an artifact from the Blessed era like a bunch of idiots. Now they had to not only take out the main group, but make sure their little rivals didn't make off with the goods.

And of course, everything was on fire. This was why he judged other demolitions experts so harshly: they were fucking stupid.

“I'm going to fucking kill her when we get out of this!”

Ataashi's deep voice bellowed over the field. Last Kaaras had seen him, he had taken off to the left with his maul swinging. He was still there, covered in blood and sweat as he beat down yet another opponent. Some of the blood was his, an alarming fact that made his heart pound faster. How badly was he injured?

“Don't drop dead until they do!”

Another one of their companions shouted over the din as the fire raged around them. Panic bit at Kaaras' stomach as he continued to fight towards their goal. Just a few more yards, and they would be there and able to escape. With any luck, the fire wouldn't burn further and reduce the forest to ash. There were too many people nearby that needed it.

Of course, he couldn't think about that then. With his adrenaline pumping, every instinct said keep swinging and ducking. So he did, feeling every throb in his sore arms as he blocked yet another blow from one side or the other. He had lost track of what side was swinging for him – it didn't matter. They wanted him dead, and the feeling was rapidly becoming mutual.

Kaaras ducked and slammed his body weight hard into a merc that quickly stopped moving. He blinked the sweat away from his eyes and glanced around to get a sense of the goings on. It looked like they were winning, but the light was fading and the fire was growing closer. Their time was limited if they didn't want to risk serious burns or death. Whatever they did, they had to do it now.

“Ataashi, get over here!”

His voice carried the other qunari to his side as the two raced for their target. Bodies littered the ground, burned beyond recognition but all too small to be any of them. The smell almost emptied his stomach, but he pressed on. It wouldn't do him any good to throw up there. Into the darkness of a small cave they went,  guided only by his eyes and the glow of the fire behind them.

Ataashi's voice barely rose above a whisper. “See it yet, big guy?”

He was close, so much so that Kaaras' heart threatened to beat out of his chest. Luckily he had a binder to prevent that. Instead of focusing on that, he kept glancing around the cave, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Even like that, he was already miles above what the other man could see.

“There's something in the back to the right.”

As soon as he spoke, the man rushed forward. The minute his foot got close, the hairs on the back of Kaaras' neck stood up. A familiar electric sensation rushed through his entire body, the cave itself. He tried to call out, but by then it was too late. Ataashi was well on his way to triggering the trap laid around the perimeter of the cave.

In the split second between triggering and detonation, Kaaras didn't think. Instead, he threw out his hand and begged for something deep within to please listen. Energy welled up from his fingers and shot outward, wobbly but solid. A barrier of violet light split Ataashi from the rest of the room as dark lightning rained down on the spot where he should have been, crackling with intense heat and fury. Behind his barrier, they were both spared the effects that had gotten those at the mouth of the cave. Instead it bounced off the wall, making his fingers ache and nose twitch.

Lightning magic. It was the literal worst.

After a few seconds it was over. Sweat dripped down Kaaras' forehead as he extinguished the barrier, energy all but spent. When it came to mana, he was in the low level of barely there – just enough for one or two spells when his emotions were focused. It was why he had never been properly trained – besides the fact he had been nearly 16 when he had first developed the sense. So, really, he didn't consider himself much of a mage to begin with.

“Are you ok?”

His voice shook from exhaustion as he leaned against the cave wall. The rocks still hummed with energy, but it was a residual effect. From what he could tell, there were no more spells in the area. His services were no longer needed. It let him catch his breath and try to keep his heart from racing out of his chest.

Ataashi didn't answer him. Instead, he walked past without a word and found the box he had been seeking. He then tucked it under his arm and started to walk past. It was only at the last moment that he turned back to face Kaaras.

“Let's go, Adaar.”

His eyes and voice were cold. A heavy weight dropped to Kaaras' stomach as he managed to push himself away from the wall and fall in step behind. Outside the battle still raged, but everything felt cold. All he could see was the ground in front of him.

No doubt about it. He'd fucked up.

---

That night, a lot of injuries needed to be treated at camp. Kaaras wrapped more burns that he could count and advised the wounded not to pick at them. Quietly, he was grateful for his failed  training in first aid. He still remembered enough to be useful. Better yet, it kept him out of the tent.

Ataashi hadn't spoken to him since the cave. He wouldn't even look at him. It made him feel sick to his stomach, but what could he do but hope the other man would … well, not forgive. That seemed like a bad choice of words.

“Get some rest, Adaar. You've been double timing it since this morning.”

Someone – he didn't see who – patted him on the shoulder.  It was a friendly touch, one that was glad they could still do it. It barely registered to the qunari as he looked back down at the ground. Happiness was a weird thing then. Wordlessly he nodded and handed over his supply of bandages. His feet were heavy as he walked back to his tent, wanting nothing more than to stop existing. Of course, the gods hated him then. Just as he was about to crawl in, Ataashi made his way out, bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh.” He adjusted his bag over his shoulder. “I'm changing tents. You're going to be on your own until we find someone else.”

Kaaras found it hard to make his tongue work. “You are?”

There were those cold eyes again. “I'm not sleeping with a fucking saa-”

He stopped himself, but the damage was done. Kaaras knew exactly the word he was going for, felt it smack him full in the face. Maybe it would've been better if Ataashi had actually hit him – then he would've had a reason to flinch like that. Right then he wasn't sure what was worse – the words or the way the other man looked at him.

He thought he was dangerous.

The qunari sighed, closing his eyes. “Look. I'm not comfortable with this magic shit. You can't blame me. It's not like I'm not grateful but...”

His tone told the story he couldn't say. Kaaras' sick stomach kept rolling like a ship in the storm. He wanted to cry, but he didn't. Right then crying wouldn't have helped. If he did it at all, it would be later where nobody could see.

“I get it.”

Kaaras took a deep breath and willed back the urge to sob. “Whatever, do what makes you comfortable.”

Ataashi's face briefly looked hurt but the mask slid back over. He didn't say anything else, just headed off in the direction of where he would be sleeping. Wordlessly, Kaaras crawled into the now empty tent. With just his things off to one side, it looked so cold and empty. But he wasn't looking then – his face found his bedroll.

Bitter tears trickled down his face as he bit his lip to choke back the sob still fighting to make its way out. He wanted to scream, to do something, but instead he just laid there shaking. His heart, still beating like a drum, cracked straight in two.

Ataashi hated him now.

“Shit.”

The word came with more tears as Kaaras regretted doing anything at all. And in a way, that was worse – had he not, the man would've died. But that was no real consolation to his situation. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but one he had been preparing for. The taste still made him shudder as he tried and failed to pull himself together.

Ataashi hated him for saving his life. Talk about life's cruel ironies.