#i start every year with enthusiasm.. i try my best to survive all year and boom the year ends.

[scribblersobia]

Not being pessimistic but I have NO hopes from 2024.

[snowfll]

A Soldier I Will Be; Treech

pairing - Treech x mentor!reader summary - your one goal was to get him out of the arena, you didnt care what the Capital thought of you words - 2.54k warning - fluff! note - I am actually in love w Treech, there isn't enough fanfics about him on the internet so I decided to write my own! part 2 part 3

The day arrived for the reaping of the 10th annual Hunger Games, and you were far from excited. The games are cruel and unfair to district citizens, and your values set you apart from the heartless enthusiasm displayed by many in the Capitol.

Walking into the giant room filled with Academy students, you heard the whispers of those you passed. You learned to ignore everyone after years of being treated differently, but there were only two people you could tolerate: Sejanus Plinth and Coriolanus Snow.

“Ms. Graham, I'm glad you made it after all.” Sejanus Plinth, the only other person open about their hatred for the games.

“Oh, you know they would drag me into this either way, Sejanus.” He had previously warned you that the Plinth prize would not be awarded that day, and in its place, something that goes against everything the two of you stood for.

Although you voiced your opinions, you were still a capital sweetheart. As you come from one of the oldest and richest families in the capital, you were expected to act a certain way, despite your rebellious spirit.

Sitting between Coriolanus and Sejanus, you heard a throat being cleared, signaling the beginning of the reaping. Casca Highbottom, the one and only creator of Hunger Games, chugged down a vial of what looked to be morphling.

“The prize is a bit different this year. The top performing students will each receive a tribute, only one, and whichever tribute… performs the best, will receive the prize. Winning is set aside but will be taken into consideration…”

So this is what the capital had planned—put the capital kids in charge of the district kids? You couldn’t help but feel horrible for Sejanus, coming from the districts, he was bound to be given a tribute from his old home, District 2.

Dean Highbottom started announcing which student would mentor what district. When it came to Sejanus, you were right; they gave him the District 2 male tribute. Reaching over, you grabbed his hand in hopes of providing a sense of comfort. On multiple occasions, he has expressed to you how being from the districts has affected him.

“District 7 male,” you heard Highbottom pause before looking up to you, “belongs to Ms.Graham.”

Making your way to the big screen in front of you, you saw your tribute. He was staring straight into the camera, almost like he could sense you were watching him. ‘Treech’, you read below his figure. You couldn’t help but smile, but it was soon replaced with a frown once you saw the condition he was in.

You took in the image of the boy; he seemed your age—maybe 17 or 18? The hat he wore looked bent out of shape and covered his dark eyes. He looked as if he were about to scream or cry, and he was trying his hardest to act tough in front of his district. All you felt was pity and a sense of needing to help him survive.

After all the mentors were given their tribute and a speech from Dr. Gaul, the head gamemaker, the ceremony was brought to an end. Sejanus was called by his father, and he bid you goodbye. “I’m going to the tributes train arrival, and you’re coming with me." You jumped at the sudden voice and turned around to see Coriolanus staring at you.

“And why would I?” You crossed your arms, unsure why he wanted you, of all people, to accompany him. Sure, you were friends, but you didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on things, often bickering while Sejanus was there to calm you both down.

“The peacekeepers will let me in if you are with me,” he explained, knowing that most peacekeepers know not to mess with you. “They won’t turn you down; you’re the capital’s top sweetheart.”

It’s true; every peacekeeper knew of your existence and obeyed you in fear of upsetting your father. You didn’t like to take advantage of your capital status, but it did come in handy when you got into trouble.

“Fine,” you agreed, “but only on one condition: you leave me and my tribute alone.” Coriolanus nodded his head and explained that you two would meet at the train station the next morning before school.

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Arriving at the station, you walked up to Coriolanus, who was already waiting there with a white rose in his hand. Groups of peacekeepers were stationed every few feet. Guns in hand, ready to shoot at any kind of violent nature.

A loud whistle was heard, causing your head to snap towards the track, where a large mechanical train began to slow. Once the train pulled into the station, you took notice of the carriages; there were 12, one for each district. The peacekeepers that once stood still were now making their way towards the train. Slowly, they began to open the carts, and tribute after tribute came out. As each tribute climbed off the train, you were on the lookout for ‘Treech’.

Passing by each cart and watching each pair climb down, you eventually found the pair from District 7. Lamina, whom you remembered as Pliny’s tribute, noticed you as you walked up to her. Her eyes were red from the tears that hadn’t stopped falling. You gave her a warm smile, which she returned, except there was a sad look in her eye.

“Who are you?” A voice called out from next to Lamina, and your face turned to see your tribute. He had placed a protective hand in front of his district partner, like you were going to hurt her. You felt sad at the fact that he thought you would hurt either of them.

Reaching your hand out, you told him your name, “But everyone calls me by my last name, Graham, so it’s up to you!” As he looked at your hand, hesitant to shake it, you realized you hadn’t explained why you were there. "Oh, right, I’m your mentor. Thought it was the right thing to come and introduce myself as you arrived in the capital."

“Well, I don’t need no mentor. I don’t want your help." He spat with a look of disgust in his eyes, causing you to lower your hand and stare awkwardly at the ground. You heard Lamina whispering to him something about how he should be nice to you. Looking up, you smiled at her again as a sign of thanks for being kind to you, even though she didn’t know you.

“I don’t have to be nice to her, Lamina, she’s from the capital." He looked at you up and down as if trying to prove his point with your outfit. You could understand why he was acting like that—if you were in his spot, you wouldn’t trust anyone from the capital.

“I am just here to help you; I don’t mean any harm." You saw his face start to soften but quickly change back to his sour expression once two peacekeepers appeared behind you and began to drag the pair towards a big van being filled with the other tributes. The two stared at you as you began to chase after them.

“Hey, where is that van taking them?" You called out to a peacekeeper, who just rolled his eyes and walked away from you. “Don’t ignore me.” Before you could walk back up to them, you felt someone grab your arm. You were ready to hit whoever it was, but you realized it was only Coriolanus.

“Just wait; once the peacekeepers aren’t looking, we will sneak into the van.” You nodded softly, praying that you were able to be by Treech’s side the entire time.

As you made your way into the van, you were pushed to the ground as it started to move. You saw many of the tributes staring at you and Coriolanus as the two of you stuck out like a sore thumb with your bright red uniforms. The tributes had threatened to attack the two of you, one of them even grabbing Coriolanus by his shirt. Fortunately, Lucy Gray stepped in for Coriolanus as Treech pulled you up off the floor once he saw you sitting there, afraid for your life. He stayed standing in front of you, with Lamina behind you, instead of going back to his spot, standing with his hand grabbing the bar above his head.

There was a sudden stop, causing everyone in the van to jerk forward before it began to tip over. Once the doors opened, everyone flew out, falling on the hard rocks. You groaned as you tumbled down, and you ended up landing next to Treech, who groaned as well. Noticing his hat was no longer on his head, you looked around before crawling to grab it for him. He muttered a quick thank you as he took it from your grasp.

“Where are we?” He questioned, seeming confused about where they were dumped. As you fully took in your surroundings, you gasped. The tall bars and the animal-like environment—they dumped everyone in the Capital Zoo.

“They are keeping you in the zoo? You guys are not animals. How could they do this?” You were beyond outraged. They force them to fight each other to death and don’t even give you a decent sleeping place.

Turning to Treech, you kept apologizing over and over, “I am so sorry about this; I had no idea they were going to keep you here.” He looked like he did when you saw him at the reaping, as if he were about to cry.

"Well, look over here; is that another Academy student I see?” The two of you turned your heads to see Lucky Flickerman and his camera crew on the opposite side of the bars. It looked as if he had just finished talking to Coriolanus and Lucy Gray. "Ahh, isn’t it, Ms. Graham? You're certainly a favorite here in the  capital." You couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not; either way, you walked over to him, dragging Treech behind you, who was protesting the action.

"Hello, Lucky, it is nice to see you again. Have you met my tribute yet? Treech, here, is quite the gentleman." You continued to talk him up to the camera while he just stood there behind you.

“It was amazing to speak to you, and thank you for introducing Treech to us, but it seems as if you are about to be whisked out of the cage.” He warned you as you turned around to see a peacekeeper making his way to you as another made his way to Coriolanus. To try and avoid any more violence, you stepped away from Treech as a sign of your cooperation, but the peacekeeper still grabbed you with a great deal of force.

“Don’t touch her like that." Treech yelled as the peacekeeper tightened his grip on your arm, “You’re going to hurt her.”

“They won’t even dare to hurt me; don’t you worry about me." You called after him as he looked at you with fear in his eyes. Lamina had to hold his arm to warn him not to go after you. “Take care of yourself; I will be back later today." The last thing you saw before you were forced to exit the enclosure was Treech giving you a hesitant smile. It was barely noticeable, but, you know, it took a lot for him to do it.

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Unfortunately, you weren’t able to make it after school like many of your other classmates. By the time you arrived at the zoo, it was dark and everyone was already gone.

“Treech, where are you?” you whisper-yelled for him as you made your way to the bars. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it earlier in the day; my father did not like the little stunt I pulled. I had to sneak out to be here.” As he made his way to where you were, you started to pull packages of food and water out of your bag.

“Did you bring anything for me?” He asked, sitting down, once he saw you cross your legs on the floor.

“I sure did. Tons of stuff." You began to list off everything you brought. “I even brought enough for Lamina, so be sure to share with her.” As you handed him everything, he turned around and tossed some of it into her lap.

“Did her mentor stop by?” You nodded your head towards Lamina. You were curious to see if Pliny would actually take on his role as a mentor or just sit back and let you do it, knowing you cared for them.

“He did for a few minutes, but she didn’t speak to him,” he sighed, remembering the event that occurred a few hours prior. “She only wanted to speak to you. She seems to trust you, but how do I know I can?” He asked, taking a bite of the cookie you brought him.

"Well, for starters, I made that cookie you are eating, and I don’t bake for just anyone,” you said as he bit into it again. “Secondly, I care about you. I don’t agree with how the capital treats the district.”

He looked at you like he didn’t expect you to feel that way. “You better not be lying to me, sweetie. Are you sure you aren’t in it for the money? We heard that man mention it to his camera earlier.”

“Oh, I don’t care for the prize; even if I win it, it just ties me down to the capital like I owe them something, and that is the last thing I want when I try and escape this hell.” One day, you were going to leave the capital; you truly were not meant for this place. You explained to him that you wanted to hide out in one of the districts and live out your life away from the capital.

“Whose side are you on? Are you a saint or a sinner, Ms. Graham?” He shot you a look before continuing. “I have a feeling the way you treat me isn’t going to be liked by the capital. I’ve grown quite fond of you, so I’d hate to see them turn against you in the comfort of your own home.”

“I don’t care if the capital hates me for protecting you. It doesn’t matter if they won’t take me back, Treech; all I care about is getting you out of this.” You grabbed his hand through the bar to provide comfort. At that moment, he knew you weren’t lying, but just for safe measure, you spoke up again.

“I’ll throw away my status, just to keep you safe.”

The relationship between you and Treech evolved from mentor and tribute to something deeper. Bonds formed in the face of distress were not easily broken, and you both found strength in each other.

As the 10th annual Hunger Games continued, the Capitol was about to witness a different kind of uprising—one fueled by empathy, compassion, and a shared desire for freedom. And at the center of it all was the unexpected alliance between a Capitol sweetheart and a district tribute determined to defy the odds.

[rorja]

synopsis. you, suguru and the taste of victory lingering on his lips as intoxicating nectar — or, my humble thoughts about F1 driver ! suguru

a/n. i can’t stop thinking about formula 1 driver!geto and in honor of japan gp (that is only 4h away), here i bring my wild thoughts. i wrote this on a whim after seeing the qualifying results of today, lmao. unfortunately i really love this idea, so i hope i’ll be able to write a full and lengthy os one day — 🐣

F1 driver!geto who is the most successful driver in the whole season. age 27, suguru has already made a name for himself in the whole championship. shocking, entertaining and winning over the hearts of every single fan out there.

F1 driver!geto that started the season in melbourne with many problems with the car, but never once became a less dangerous competitor for the world drivers championship title. he managed to secure the podium at least in seventeen races out of twenty-one, his name becoming a guarantee for his whole team.

F1 driver!geto who is now racing for the very last race of the season, in one of the hardest circuits known to man in singapore. the humidity is high, the tension suffocating, the steering wheel slippery underneath the gloves. suguru has to survive two hours of pure adrenaline, remaining focused on the circuit and getting out of the twenty-three curves that create the circuit of marina bay.

F1 driver!geto who you easily spot amongst the waves of people starting to disappear from the box. the start of the race only measly hours away, and you can feel the pressure going up. higher than any other race you’ve attended until now. this is the finale and both the drivers have to do well to end the season in the top five at least.

F1 driver!geto with whom you’ve crossed paths with many times in the last year. it’s natural after all, you suppose. you’ve been working as haibara yū’s pr manager for two seasons now, marking probably the longest contract you’ve ever had with the formula one team. they have been impressed by your work and you’ve been more than happy to making it through so far.

F1 driver!geto who has always caught your attention from the beginning. a driver that left behind him only sparks in the narrowest of curves, the same ones that would proclaim him a hero all over again. you can see, as the people disperse inside the box, his gaze focused on the asphalt. his tight and firm hold over the steering wheel of the single-seater car.

F1 driver!geto that when locks his eyes with yours, make you feel weak and exposed all of the sudden. making your heart beat like that very first day you have met him.

F1 driver!geto that gets taken away together with haibara on the earned pole position from yesterday’s qualifying session. you watch him sprint from one of the many monitors of the box, his first lap time probably one of the best performances this season. you feel your knees tremble slightly as you bring your hands to your lips in a silent prayer: “please, let him come back safely from the circuit”

F1 driver!geto who is left on your hands for the upcoming press conferences as nanami is being called in the paddock for an urgent matter. you try to memorize the events listed on the paper left by nanami in a matter of three laps. three laps only to end this big and so anxiously awaited finale.

F1 driver!geto who takes home the golden ambitious prize of the season, earning his third consecutive title of world champion. and the scuderia becomes a complete mess once the car hits the finish line underneath the checkered flag, with never ending hugs and pats on each other’s backs for the hard work. haibara is confirmed fourth. you swear you saw tears of joy gathering on the corners of some engineers at the pit-wall.

F1 driver!geto that jumps out the car the moment he comes back on the pit-lane, indulging everyone’s excitement and answering back with more enthusiasm on his part. a japanese flag immediately being placed proudly on his tracksuit by his mother. a baseball hat taking over the place of the helmet in a blink.

F1 driver!geto whose party dies a little bit too soon once you grab his wrist and leads him down the hallway, telling him that he must reach the podium on the other side of the paddock in a few minutes. however, you don’t notice the smile that curls around his lips. a soft gleam in his eyes, dimming even further the heavy presence of adrenaline in his body.

F1 driver!geto that stops in his tracks and brings you closer with a hand on your hips, turning you around with a swift and smooth motion and making you yelp. “not even a kiss for your champion? that’s rude dear” and he’s teasing, you know he’s just teasing you. it’s infuriating. and yet, you fall for it once again. cupping his cheek with a hand and leaning in to kiss him. your emotions all over the place: worry, fear, happiness, excitement… love. your brain short circuiting as soon as your lips meets his, and you are acutely made aware of just how much he needed this tiny moment with you alone.

F1 driver!geto who announces publicly his relationship with you only a week later. a press conference at eight in the morning, only the two drivers of the scuderia sitting in front of the panel, and you can’t help but feeling giddy when you hear suguru confirming the rumors about a rumored relationship. your name sounding so soft coming from his lips. and you see the smile he gives, plastered on the TV screen, when he confirms his name for the next season. his adrenaline contagious. and you can’t wait to see him once again in the place he belongs to: the highest place on the podium after another great and successful season.

[sodamnradd]

(Slytherin Hermione, No Voldemort)

Since first year, they shared a hunger for knowledge, success, and tormenting obstinate Gryffindors.

Draco was mean. Hermione was sharp and temperamental. They made a fierce pair.

When they became older, Draco started sneaking girls into empty classrooms after curfew. Hermione maintained a long-distance relationship with Viktor. They were never single at the same time. And yet, they were never apart.

They spent candlelit evenings sharing magic and getting up to mischief. In fifth year, they created prohibited Portkeys, and on Hogsmeade weekends, slipped into Muggle disguises and snuck off. Crashing dazzling parties in Bath mansions and London lofts. They drank stolen wine and danced drunk. Sixteen, adrenaline-fuelled, fortified by one another’s presence.

At the end of seventh year, Hermione nailed her N.E.W.Ts, was graduating Hogwarts with a prestigious law apprenticeship and without a boyfriend.

It was time to date people in the real world, she claimed, oddly unaffected.

Graduation marked a new era. One where Draco would start his day without Hermione in their common room. Where they wouldn’t share every meal together, or divide-and-conquer assignments. It was a harrowing thought.

Imagining her ‘dating people in the real world’ ate at him. She would sit across the table from somebody else. Somebody else would know her better than he did.

Narcissa made a fuss when her son stubbornly attended his graduation party in Muggle formalwear. But if Hermione was wearing Muggle clothing, then so was Draco.

Hermione showed up at Malfoy Manor looking indecently gorgeous.

He had a way of making himself miserable, Draco. The words ‘old times’ ‘childhood best friend’ ‘the one that got away’ entrapped his mind like Devil’s Snare and weaved his stomach into knots.

At Hogwarts, whenever he felt lost, his internal compass pointed to Hermione. Tonight was no different.

She wasn’t a social butterfly like Draco. She thought niceties were a waste of time and preferred to hover on the outskirts of a social scene, observing the chaos in judgy silence.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, balancing a glass of weekend rosé between her fingers.

Moping. “Mingling. You should try it sometime.”

“I survived seven years of Hogwarts tolerating nobody but you. Can't kill my streak now.”

“In that case,” he offered her a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket, “got one more adventure in you?”

When Hermione stepped forward to take it, Draco’s hand twisted around her arm, tugging her into him. His mouth slipped over hers as the Portkey tided them away.

By the time they landed on the dewy grass, Hermione’s arm was around his neck, and she was kissing him with just as much enthusiasm.

He clutched her hip and held her close, fears that plagued him all day long misting away.

It was no surprise that the kiss was explosive. Draco had always known it would be. That they would be.

When they stepped apart, Hermione yanked the lapel of his jacket. Relief swimming in her eyes.

“You idiot,” she whispered, smoothing his shirt. Her palm pressed over his heart. “Why did it take you so long?”

(509 words, photo prompt from twitter, potential ecdysis au where hermione's accepted by the slytherins?)

[heliads]

jealousy, jealousy

Based on this request: "Eric Coulter x Reader: The reader is a new found leader with Eric and Four. Some of the boys try to hit on her but Eric gets a little protective"

masterlist

You have been through quite a lot as a member of Dauntless. You passed your round of initiation with flying colors, you survived a couple years taking on the most trying jobs you could, just to match that same rush of adrenaline. Now, as per usual, you’re looking to make life even harder for yourself. You’re going into your first year of teaching initiation. 

By all accounts, being a training leader should be easy. You’re just yelling at transfers all day, right? Wrong. It’s common knowledge in your faction that being stuck leading initiation after graduating is like hell on earth. The amount of patience it takes to corral dozens of newbies into some semblance of a proper Dauntless is unmatched by most people here. 

Yet for some reason you think you can manage it. Maybe your own success in initiation will help you lead a new round of kids to greatness, maybe not. If anything, it’ll give you a chance to relieve some stress by yelling at people who mess up in front of you. It’s all about the small victories, you know?

It’s not like you’re going to be alone in this, either. You’ll be sharing the role of training instructor with Four, a good friend of yours, and Eric Coulter, someone who you could probably consider a friend were it not for his habit of trying to stay away from any sort of relationships at all costs, be them platonic or otherwise. 

In all honesty, you’re kind of looking forward to it. So, by the time the first full day of initiation rolls around, you arrive at the training room with a fair amount of pep in your step. 

Eric is already there, starting to set out some rows of punching bags. “Don’t you look excited about all this? Don’t worry, the enthusiasm wears off quickly.”

You laugh and begin to help him. “Oh, I’m sure it will. Let me have my moment, though.”

Eric hems and haws, but he backs off for the time being. “Have you seen the new trainees yet?”

You drag out a row of targets from a storage room, then nod. “Yeah, I dropped by while they were jumping off of the roof. Most of them looked scared out of their wits, but a few seemed more confident than others.”

Eric looks pleased with this. “Gotta say, the first couple hours are some of my favorite parts of initiation. Seeing their faces drop when I tell them they have to fall over the edge never fails to make my day.”

You snort. “Never let it be said that you don’t have a heart. You’ve done this for what, a couple years now, and it never gets old?”

Eric chuckles fondly. “Seeing a new group of kids who are going to be nothing but a pain in my ass for the next couple of months, and getting a chance to scare the hell out of them? Lightens my mood like nothing else.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. Across the room, a door opens to reveal the final training leader, Four. He raises an eyebrow at the two of you. 

“Never thought I’d see such a pleasant atmosphere in here,” he says through a subdued grin, “But I’m not sure that I mind it.”

You move the last of your targets, then head to the door, slapping Four on the back as you pass him. “We’re only happy because you’re not here, trust me. I’ll be nothing but miserable from here on out.”

Before you go, you hear something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh from Eric, although he does his best to turn it into a cough. You’re going to have fun during this round of initiation, aren’t you?

You head to the trainee dorms, and bang your fist loudly on the door before heading inside and shouting for everyone to get up. You’re greeted with more than a couple angry stares, but who cares? The initiates can hate you as much as they want for disturbing their beauty rest, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to go any easier on them. 

After dragging the initiates out of their bunks at last with a fair share of insults and threats, you manage to get everyone together long enough to grab five minutes’ breakfast and head down to the training rooms. By then, Eric and Four have finished setting up, and it’s time to start the first day. 

Four gets everyone going with a classic run around the perimeter of the Dauntless complex, and when they come back, you’re ready to start with fighting practice for the first time. 

Eric and Four show the proper technique for punches and kicks and blocks, then you direct everyone to a punching bag so they can practice their form. You wend your way around the training room, adjusting posture here and directing there. Honestly, things aren’t going badly for your first day as a training leader. 

Or, you don’t think things are going badly until you walk towards the back row and hear a trio of boys talking in hushed voices. Specifically, they’re talking about you, and complaining about the fact that you were the one to wake them up so early in the morning. Apparently, they haven’t realized that you’re not the one who sets the morning schedule for training, but they’re perfectly fine with blaming you for it anyway. 

The tallest of the boys speaks in a voice so sharp it sounds like the cawing of a hawk. “I mean, it’s so annoying. She’s treating us like we’re kids.”

You are kids, you want to say, but you wait in the hopes of hearing something worse so you can actually cause problems. Luckily, you’re rewarded about half a second later when a second boy starts talking as well. 

“I know, right? I don’t even think there’s a real reason she’s here. Probably, Eric and Four got bored and wanted something pretty to look at while they work, so they dragged her in.”

You choose this as your moment to step out of the shadows. The boys’ faces drop the second they realize you’ve been listening in, which makes you smirk. 

“Want to say that one more time? I don’t think I heard you properly.”

When they say nothing, you fold your arms across your chest. “What, you don’t want to talk to the eye candy when she confronts you? I came out of my initiation ranked number one. If you want me to prove it, I’ll beat you into the ground right now.”

One of the boys opens his mouth to respond, but strangely enough, the person who talks first isn’t a trainee but Eric Coulter, who appears out of nowhere and has apparently been listening in as well. 

“Initiate, I believe you were asked a question. Next time, don’t talk about a training leader unless you can back it up. Otherwise, that’s cowardice, and that gets you kicked out of here faster than you can blink.”

The boy who was about to speak is now apologizing violently, and judging by the legitimate irritation in his eyes as he looks at the other boys, he might actually mean what he says. He hadn’t been complaining about you, actually, just listening to his friends. 

You leave, Eric at your side. For some reason, he’s still irritated. 

“I can’t stand trainees. Always walking in here like they know everything.” Eric harrumphs. 

You chuckle. “If you think that’s something, were you even paying attention in your own initiation? It’s annoying, obviously, but they only say it because they’re jealous. They’ll probably shut up forever after today.”

Eric frowns. “Doesn’t mean it’s right.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Obviously I know that. Besides, why are you having a problem with it now? I’ve never heard you complain about it before.”

Eric looks away. “It’s different this time.”

You arch a brow, waiting for an explanation, but he says nothing. At last, you shrug and walk away when Four calls you over. 

By the time the end of the day finally rolls around, you’re actually feeling pretty good about what happened. The trio of boys were practically falling over themselves to make up for what happened, so now you’ve got a squad of trainees basically at your beck and call. One of them actually seems like a legitimate guy, so you might already have a favorite. 

By contrast, Eric seems to be in even more of a foul mood than before. You, Four, and Eric are sitting in a corner of the training room, having dragged out chairs so you can stretch your legs against whatever equipment is within reach. Four’s grabbed a couple of drinks from a nearby office; he tosses you one before handing another to Eric and taking a seat a short ways away from the two of you. 

Eric opens his drink with a sour look. “Already not a great start. Those three will be trouble, I’m sure of it.”

You just laugh. “Only at the beginning. They’re actually good now, I think. If I keep them on a steady diet of threats, we should be fine.”

Eric takes a drink, irritable. “They always do that at the start. It’ll end fast, I promise. They’ll be ruining our lives until the end of time.”

You chuckle. “So dramatic, Coulter. I think they’re alright. One of them’s okay, actually, the one who didn’t want to go along with his friends. Also, he has a nice smile.”

Eric scoffs. “Oh, that’s a great indicator of success. This isn’t Amity, a smile gets you nowhere here.”

You smirk. “Just because you’ve never learned to smile doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it in anyone else. I think he’s just fine.”

Eric growls something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like ‘of course you do,’ until you shoot him a warning look and he shuts up. 

Even after that, though, you get the feeling that you can use this. After thinking on it a little longer, you decide to have a little fun with Eric’s newfound irritation. Why not?

So, if you happen to talk more than normal with those boys, or you help train with them on days when there’s an odd number of trainees due to medical evacs and they need an extra partner, what about it? Eric has no legitimate reason to be annoyed, although he’s stomping around like someone threatened his life. You’re just having a good time, nothing bad about it. 

He does take things into his own hands eventually. About two weeks into initiation, you’re taking down the training room for the day when Eric sticks around under the guise of helping. Four is long gone, something about having to report initial training results to Max, so you and Eric are alone. 

Eric keeps his silence at first, but you can tell that something is gnawing at him. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore, and calls out to you over the sound of guns and knives being carefully laid back inside their boxes. 

“So, do you have thoughts on the trainees? Who do you have picked for top initiate?”

It’s a common bet among training leaders and regular Dauntless alike to try and guess who’s going to come out on top. People take careful note of how the rankings rise and fall over each day, placing their odds on the person they think is most likely going to win it. Entire fortunes have been won or lost in last minute fighting rounds or fear landscapes. 

You pretend to think. “Well, I don’t know. Ian and Jackie have been rather good as of late, but you know I have to root for my favorite three.”

Eric’s expression darkens, as you kind of hoped it would. “Look, I don’t get why you like them so much. They’re just annoying.”

You turn back to him, grinning. “Well, I don’t get why you dislike them so much. They’ve been perfect students ever since that incident on the first day. I mean, what reason could you possibly have to hate them?”

Eric’s footsteps shuffle in and out of view as he takes a box back to the storage room. Once he returns, though, his irritation is just as strong as always. 

“It’s their motive. Can’t you see it? They’re not being good so they can get ahead, they’re doing it for another reason.”

You arch a brow. “And what reason could that possibly be?”

Eric tries to evade the question, but you lean against the stack of boxes he’s trying to move so he has no reason but to pay attention to you. At last, he responds, but he refuses to look you in the eyes as he does it. 

“It’s common for male initiates to get distracted by pretty training leaders, especially when they’re new. They’re just trying to flirt with you, and they’re stupid enough to think they’ve got a chance.”

You lean forward, unable to hide a smirk. “Are you calling me pretty, Coulter?”

His voice is gruff. “Did you hear a word I said? They’re trying to use you, and it’s infuriating to watch.”

You refuse to let the matter go. “Of course I heard you, that’s why I’m asking about it. I’m just curious as to why their flirting would bother you so much.” A sudden thought occurs to you. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

His eyes dart to you, then away again. “What could I possibly be jealous of? Your friendship?”

You walk closer, daring him to make a move. “My time. My focus. The fact that you’re nervous that their flirting might actually work.”

It’s true, isn’t it? Everything you just said is true. Eric is worried, which is why he’s looking at you with that much fire. In fact, he doesn’t deny it at all, merely stalks close enough that he can kiss you just long enough for you to notice before leaving again. 

He calls something over his shoulder as he goes. “How about you tell me if I’ve got anything to be jealous about?”

You just grin. Well, you weren’t expecting that, but you can’t pretend that it wasn’t good. Perhaps things have a way of working out after all. 

divergent tag list: @dindjarinneedsahug, @poisonmenegan, @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace

[peachy-panic]

To Steady Your Hand

Do No Harm, still early in the Sebastian Contract. 

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, past surgery, lingering medical issues, nerve damage, maybe the closest I’ve come to some genuine moments of fluff (sprinkled with some pain)

Sebastian is going out on a limb. He can recognize that. But even after several weeks in the house, Jaime gives very little outward indication of what he genuinely enjoys. What he likes. In no particular order, he seems to derive joy from exactly three things: running outside, cooking with Sebastian, and cleaning. The last one makes Sebastian nervous, because it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to infer that he might be feigning some of that enthusiasm to fall into the role he thinks he’s here to fill. It does, however, seem to bring Jaime a sense of peace sometimes, so he tries not to interfere.

Still, it’s not enough. His goal was never to give Jaime a place to survive in stasis until the next bad thing comes along. He wants him to be happy here. He wants to make him feel like he has the space to be a person, and that means knowing what he likes. So when Sebastian finally catches a glimpse, he latches on with both hands.

They are in the checkout line at the drugstore when it happens.

It had been a precarious trip, both of them a little on edge after their first attempt at a store-based outing went to utter shit. Thankfully nothing of note happened, other than Jaime hovering a little closer than normal, his eyes scanning their surroundings every few seconds as if they were being hunted for sport. By the time they’re ready to pay, Sebastian is so eager to get them both in the safety of his car, he almost misses it: they way Jaime’s eyes catch on the end cap closest to the register and stay there.

Jaime, who has been flighty and anxious since stepping foot through the door, is suddenly engaged and… curious?

Sebastian does a double take, then follows his eye line. He doesn’t know what he expected, but a flutter of endeared surprise catches in his chest as he looks at the display of nail polish.  

After a brief, internal tug-of-war, he decides to sit on the information for now. Buying it now might draw attention to the fact that Sebastian caught him staring, and he doesn’t want to embarrass him or worse. So he pockets his change from the bored-looking cashier, grabs his bag, and they head home.

A few days later, on his way home from work, Sebastian swings by the store to pick up more lunch meat, fresh strawberries, and a bottle of Essie sky-blue nail polish.

He places it on the countertop as he’s unloading the bag. Jaime, who is perched in a barstool across from him, blinks down at it. He is quiet for a long time.

Sebastian does his best attempt at casual. “The color caught my eye.” He shrugs. “Have you ever painted your nails before?”

Color blossoms in Jaime’s cheeks, and Sebastian feels the first pang of doubt. Maybe this wasn’t the right move. Maybe it’s too soon after the pharmacy and he thinks Sebastian is calling him out. But Jaime doesn’t look away from the small bottle as he shakes his head, so Sebastian barrels forward.

“I used to do it sometimes. In college, mostly,” he rambles. “I wanted to before then, too. I tried it once, in high school, but my dad—” Oop. No. Nope. Go back. Abort mission. “Well. Anyway, I haven’t done it in years, and I saw this and thought… Maybe we could try? Together? If you want. Only if you want to.”

To his distress, Jaime frowns. “I…” he starts, then stops, looking down at his hands all of a sudden. He places one over the other, his fingers delicately hiding what Sebastian knows to be an incision scar. “I can’t promise I’ll be very good at it. My hand. Sometimes it’s hard, with… It’s not always very steady. I have trouble, sometimes.”

A rising dread creeps up on Sebastian, one he cannot will away. He swallows. “Jaime.” His voice comes out a whisper. “When did that start?”

He knows. He knows the answer, and he’s terrified of it, and he needs to hear him say it out loud, all at once.

Jaime ducks his head, drawing his shoulders up half and inch, and Sebastian knows he needs to tread carefully. Needs to pull himself back before he upsets him even more. But he needs to know.

“It doesn’t get in the way, mostly,” Jaime says in lieu of an answer. “I hardly notice it anymore.”

Almost definitely a lie.

Sebastian notices his own hands are shaking now, so he presses them flat against the countertop. He just needs to rip the bandaid off.

“Jaime. Was it after the surgery?”

The surgery.

A piss-poor fucking euphemism for the institutionalized, medically-sanctioned torture that it was.

The surgery that Sebastian himself performed on a patient who was strapped down and screaming to the point of unconsciousness.

The surgery he performs over and over in his nightmares.

Jaime gives him all the confirmation he needs when he says, “It’s not your fault.”

A surprised laugh sputters out of Sebastian, but it sounds more like a sob. Feels like it, too. Because of course Jaime would say that. Of course his first reaction is to show Sebastian undeserved grace. Of course his first instinct is to take care of Sebastian’s feelings first.

“Can you…” He swallows, trying to be professional. “Can you tell me what it feels like? Is it painful? Numb?”

“It almost never hurts,” he says quickly, like he’s dying to reassure him further. “It’s…” He runs his fingertip over the inside of his opposite index finger. “I can’t really feel this part anymore, but really, it only affects me when I’m working with small stuff. I just don’t know how precise my work would be with painting nails.”

Sebastian is still caught in his own private tunnel of horror. The way Jaime is speaking about it so casually only twists his insides tighter. He is living with permanent nerve damage from a scalpel that Sebastian wielded. He had volunteered—insisted—to be the one to perform the surgery under some misguided notion that he would somehow be sparing him further pain and dehumanization, but his inexperience or his nerves or Jaime’s rightful panic or… or something had caused him to slip and sever a nerve, and he didn’t even know.

How did he ever expect Jaime to trust him? Or even like him?

He doesn’t know how to make this right. He doesn’t know if it’s possible to even come close.

“Jaime, I—”

“I’d like to try,” Jaime says quietly, looking up at him through earnest eyes. “Painting our nails. If you still want me to. If you don’t mind that it's a little shaky.”

Sebastian blinks away the burn in his eyes. These aren’t his tears to cry, anyway. And if Jaime doesn’t want to talk about this now, as he very clearly does not, the last thing he should do is force it.

He smiles at him, and it’s only a little bit forced.

“I don’t mind at all.”

****

Jaime really does want to do a good job.

He is a little more than suspicious about where this idea sprouted from, but at least Sebastian is kind enough not to admit that he found Jaime looking at the store.

He doesn’t really know why it caught his eye in the first place. It’s not like he’s ever been overly into nails before. The only association he has is a distant memory, almost completely faded with time, of him and his mother at the kitchen table. It was summer, he’s pretty sure. He can remember the natural light coming in from the bay window and the faint scent of his mother’s favorite peppermint tea mixed with the sharp, clean smell of nail polish. He would watch her paint each hand, and she would sometimes offer to do his, but he could only even sit still long enough for one or two.

He blinks away the half-memory before it can take him, resettling himself in Sebastian’s living room. They’ve each taken one side of the coffee table, legs folded under them on the soft carpet. The little blue bottle and a box of tissues sits between them.

“So,” Sebastian says, drumming his fingertips on the wood. “Who wants to go first?”

This catches him off guard. Jaime studies him for a moment, making sure he’s come to the right conclusion before speaking it out loud. “You… want to paint mine, too?”

“Oh.” Sebastian’s eyebrows raise a fraction, as if he hadn’t realized it wasn’t obvious to both of them. “Only if you want to! I was thinking we could paint each other’s, but if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine, too. We don’t have to even do this at all. I can return this. Or just throw it away. I can dump it down the toilet and we can pretend this never happened.”

Jaime has lived with Sebastian long enough to start to recognize his nervous humor, and he’s fairly certain this is it. It’s strange, the feeling that he might be able to laugh at something his Keeper says, but he has to press his smile into the side of his hand to keep it contained.

“What?” Sebastian laughs, seeming genuinely relieved by his amusement. He picks up the bottle, waving it between them. “You think I won’t go pour this down the drain right now? Because I will.”

Jaime nods, humoring him. “I believe you,” he says. “I… Yes. You can paint mine, if you want to.”

Sebastian’s smile falters, just a little. “You’re sure? You really don’t have to do it just for me.”

Jaime folds his fingers over his palm, studying the pink-pale color under his nails. Then he nods. “I want to try.”

Jaime offers to go first. He figures if he can study Sebastian’s technique, he might be able to emulate it when it’s his turn and do a better job. He watches as he shakes the bottle, a small clicking sound rattling around the bottle. Sebastian starts to reach for him but stops before he comes close to touching Jaime’s hand.

He looks up at him, smiling apologetically. “Is it alright if I touch you? Just here,” he says, tapping the table near Jaime’s fingers. “Just to steady your hand?”

When Jaime takes a moment to respond—not out of any real hesitation, but perhaps caught off guard by the request for permission—Sebastian pulls his fingers back an inch.

“You can say no. We’ll make it work either way.”

Jaime clears his throat, suddenly thick with saliva. “I think it’s okay.” It’s Sebastian who hesitates this time, so Jaime tries again, more confidently. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?”

Jaime nods.

“Okay.” Slowly, slow enough to broadcast his movements, Sebastian slips two fingers under Jaime’s, pulling his hand toward his side of the table. He checks in with a glance at least twice before he gets to work.

And this is… Jaime doesn’t know what it is. Sebastian’s skin is warm and soft under his, his touch so gentle and undemanding that he doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s not the first time Sebastian has touched him. A slew of memories from the clinic—most of which he would rather not revisit—come to mind. He had always been kind, both in spirit and in touch, but something about the tenderness he is showing Jaime now knocks him off balance.

He watches, a bit hypnotically, as his long fingers drag the brush over each nail, leaving him spotted in blue. Small flecks smudge onto his cuticles and the skin around his nails, but it still looks good. The color was a good choice, he thinks.

“Still okay?” Sebastian asks when he finishes the first hand.

Jaime nods and surrenders his other hand easily. Sebastian’s eyes only linger on his scar for a second or two before he sets his focus on the job at hand.

“I was thinking,” Sebastian says after a stretch of quiet, “maybe we can set you up with a physical therapist. Someone who… well, who works with…”

“Companions,” Jaime offers.

He winces. “Yes. Under the table, though. Someone who would treat you kindly. That would be non-negotiable.” Jaime looks up at him and Sebastian looks up from his work long enough to scan his expression. “Would that be something you’re interested in?”

“For my hand,” Jaime surmises. Sebastian nods. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

“Well, the matter of my responsibility to you as a human, a doctor, and the person whose name is on your contract is a whole other debate.” He flashes a smile that looks more like a grimace. “But all that aside, it wouldn’t be out of obligation. It would be because I genuinely want to help you. And this might be a real way I could do that.”

A few seconds pass. There is a strange sensation in Jaime’s chest, like stretching a muscle he hasn’t used in a long time. His first instinct is a collection of pre-conditioned responses that were hammered into him in training—polite agreement, smooth avoidance, gratitude. None of them feel right at this moment, and the indecision chokes him up.

Sebastian saves him by speaking again. He drops his freshly painted pinky finger and meets his eyes. “You know, Jaime,” he says, “I think maybe I haven’t done a good enough job of making that clear to you.” In anyone else’s voice, in any other inflection, the words might have set him on edge. The words don’t scare him now.

“Making what clear?”

“That I really want to help you.”

“You have,” Jaime is quick to assure him.

“No, but—” Sebastian pauses, breathes. “I want to do more than the bare minimum. You deserve more than the basic necessities it takes to survive. I know this is… I mean, I can’t even really imagine what it’s like for you to try and talk about this, so we don’t have to linger. But what happened to you? What keeps happening to you? You don’t deserve to live like this, Jaime. There is nothing about you that makes you any less of a person.”

Jaime knows, somewhere buried deep beneath layers of toxic conditioning and learned behaviors, that there is truth in what Sebastian is saying. He believed that once. But Jaime knows now that things aren’t so simple; that justice and righteousness are only as fair as the systems that uphold them. And in the eyes of this governing body, this law, this society, he is less. And ultimately, one man’s objection to that isn’t enough to change anything.

But maybe Jaime can let it be enough for this moment. Maybe he can let it be enough for him, just for a little while.

“You know someone?” Jaime asks tentatively. “A physical therapist?”

“I could find someone,” Sebastian promises. “There are people out there. Networks of them who feel the same way I do. I know people who—” He stops suddenly, the tips of his ears going a little pink. “Well. Anyway, yes I could find someone. You would have a say in it, too. I wouldn’t force you to see anyone you weren’t completely comfortable with.”

Jaime’s answering silence is heavy with ingratitude, he knows it is, but his head is spinning. This privilege that would have, should have, once been a right doesn’t feel like it belongs to him or that it ever could. Despite all that Sebastian has done to prove otherwise, the smallest part of him still bellows out in warning: Lie, lie, lie, trap, trap, trap. But it isn’t either of those things. Jaime knows it isn’t, deep down.

“You don’t need to answer me now,” Sebastian assures him softly before he can respond, and Jaime feels a little bit relieved and a little bit like a failure. “In fact, we can let this drop completely. This—” he waves the tiny paintbrush between them “—is meant to be fun. But… You know, just something to think about. Yeah?”

Once again, Jaime substitutes a nod where his words fail him, and they ease back into the task at hand.

When it comes time to paint Sebastian’s nails, Jaime does an okay job. Neither of them mention the slight shakiness in his grip or the way his precision sometimes veers off course. When he goes out of line, Sebastian just hands him a tissue, he wipes the polish from his skin, and they move on.

He mirrors the position that Sebastian took with him, sliding two fingers under his. As he works, he can’t help but study the hands in front of him. There is a faint pinkish-white to the flesh around his nails, and slivers of peeled skin beside his cuticles. Jaime thinks about the times he’s seen him biting his nails, usually when he is nervous. He always seems to be a little bit nervous around him.

He also notices a stillness in him that can’t be anything but intentional. The way every movement is slow and careful, and the way he keeps his contact overly gentle, convincing Jaime, reminding him, over and over, that his hands are not to be feared.

When they each have two coats of sky-blue at the tips of their fingers, they stay on the floor but lean back against the couch, side by side.

“Can I take a picture?”

Jaime blinks at him. “Of… me?” He doesn’t remember the last time anyone asked him that. He’s had photos taken in the last couple of years, of course, but always in much different contexts, and never with his permission.

Sebastian looks a little sheepish, pulling out his phone. “Of our hands. Would that be okay?”

“Oh,” he breathes. “Sure.”

They hold their hands out in front of them, close enough to fit into frame but not enough to touch, and Sebastian snaps the photo. Jaime doesn’t ask to look at it, but Sebastian shows him anyway.

A week later, when Jaime spots a four-by-four print pinned to the refrigerator with a smiley-face magnet, he finds himself smiling right back.

**

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[two-reflections]

Hello, I'm PS. I sometimes paint minis and write fanfic.

I primarily rep the Salamanders, but I also like the Red Corsairs, the Iron Warriors, the Thousand Sons, Vashtorr the Arkifane, my original Dark Mechanicum sect, and several Astartes/Legionary characters from other Chapters/Legions.

This is (unfortunately) a sideblog, so apologies if it's hard to tell whether we've interacted. If it helps, my main is a very old astronomy-related blog!

Asks are always open! I welcome feedback on my painting and writing. I'm trying my best to improve at both. 😅

Ao3

Minis

Meta Posts

Salamanders 6th Company

Thousand Sons Killteam

Asks and Replies

Now, come under the cut and I'll tell you a little about myself and all about my favourite guys. [WIP, please forgive the mess.]

About me:

I live in the UK, but I wasn't born or raised here.

I was an archaeologist, but I'm a copy editor now. Cheers, Brexit. 🙄

My major hobby is LARP. I crew and play quite a lot of small and mid-size games.

My first experience with Warhammer 40k was a Dark Heresy TTRPG Campaign campaign where I played a "pilgrim" (scout equivalent) from a rogue Space Marine Chapter who was part of an Inquisitor's retinue. Still one of the best TTRPGs I've ever played.

Fell in love with the Salamanders due to a plot point in that game. Later read the Tome of Fire books, which only deepened my love.

I wanted to start painting then, but after an uncomfortable experience at what was then my local GW store, I didn't feel like it would be a good idea.

My spouse and I painted minis for a few RPGs and Legacy board games together over the years. We sucked, but it was fun.

Last year, I started watching Warhammer videos while painting Frosthaven minis. Finding Ebay Miniature Rescues was what finally got through to me.

Since then, I've been painting and reading when I can. I've played Killteam a few times with my spouse, loved it every time.

I'm neurodivergent and just absolutely horrendous at communication. I have three modes: enthusiasm, anxiety spiral, and complete hermit. All of these can make me difficult to interpret. I've spent years giving myself hell for it and I'm trying not to do that any more, but please understand that it only takes one brief conversation for me to consider us friends. If I forget to reply, I still think you're amazing and I will genuinely be delighted if you nudge me or randomly get in touch months or years later.

Canon Faves:

ALL THE SALAMANDERS - literally all of them. I'm super hung up on Nick Kyme's Rebirth though, so my favourites are Ur'zan Drakgaard (whom I HC as being a dreadnought in current 40k), Adrax Agatone, and the poor little meow meow x feral massive hiss hiss duo of Exor and Zartath (yes, he counts!!). Also, Chaplain Elysius is always 10/10. Sa'kan from Pariah Nexus is also wonderful and I hope we see him again soon.

All the cool humans around the Salamanders - RIP Makato. Issak and Agatone should kiss once. Shoutout to Tsu'gan's brander, he didn't deserve what happened to him. Colonel Redgage is babygirl and I'll always wonder if he survived.

Non-Salamander OCs:

Kemal Afshar and Setka Radjedef of the Thousand Sons. Technically my spouse's OCs, but they're kind of shared at this point. Despite being on different sides of the Ahriman-Magnus divide, these ancient Terran boys meet often to play sorcerous board games together. You can read more about them here! Also, these lads have minis!

Warsmith Kirakos Neman of the Iron Warriors and Fleet Captain Roscius Sedulius of the Red Corsairs enter into a trade agreement together with personally devastating consequences. You can read more about them (and other characters from their warbands) here!

Skitarius Escher has been requisitioned from Forgeworld Urum by the Inquisition, serving in a team headed by Interrogator Arion Astraeus under the auspices of Inquisitor Griselda Novaria of the Ordo Hereticus. You can read more about them (and the rest of the team) here!

I also have several techmarines-in-training, though there are no available stories for them yet. So far, I have Irran Alto (Dragonspears), Adathan (Blood Angels), and Ganzorig (White Scar).

OC squad: The 6th Company's 3rd Tactical.

(Apologies for the Heroforge pics below, I hope to actually put together my squad's minis this year and then this'll have proper pictures. Or I'll commission some artwork.)

The 6th's 3rd [name TBA] is a squad of Salamanders currently stationed in the rotating garrison at Clymene. Currently eight men + a Sergeant, though they often deploy with the addition of Lexicanum An'terea, an elderly Astartes who was caught up in the Psychic Awakening at the turn of the millennium.

Brother Lattis (R) describing a creature to Sergeant Te'rien. (L).

Led by Sergeant Benedan Te'rien (~160), a fixture of the 6th. In the forge, Te'rien specialises in fine metalwork. Te'rien has tried to run his squad like a family where he is the paterfamilias, but he's still emotionally compromised after the death of someone he had an intense friendship with in the past. Even though younger Astartes are often seen as more emotional and less detached, Te'rien is an example of how untrue this is. His deep love for the 6th Company stands in contrast with his stubborn refusal to leave Clymene to rejoin the rest of the 6th in Aethonian. Only his current Captain and second-best friend Nehr Ur’Venn knows that his self-imposed exile isn't meant to keep him away from the company, but is based on his need to preserve a status quo that actually died many years ago.

An'terea (L) and Philo (R) reminiscing.

Pe'tar Philo and Carix An'terea go back like 250 years and are absolutely devoted to each other. It's not that they exclude others on purpose, they're just unrelatably old and are the only ones left from an extremely tight knit squad that died many years before. An'terea isn't technically part of the same squad as Philo any more, but he takes advantage of his new Librarian status (thanks, Psychic Awakening) to attach himself to whatever squad Philo is part of. There are several younger Astartes he cares about like Kea'hi and Val'ten, and both Philo and An'terea have grown closer to Sabinus in recent years.

Philo is a brash, avuncular man who cares deeply about the squad. He was a Sergeant in the 5th many years ago and hated being in charge. Since then, he has rejected promotion. He just wants to fight on and spend the calm parts of his life reminiscing with An'terea. Only bothered crossing the Rubicon because An'terea asked him to.

Cor'en (L) scanning Bai'keti (R) after an accident with a malfunctioning power sword.

I don't plan to discuss this further in any of my Salamander stories beyond All-seeing Dawn, but pilot and emergency medic Cor'en (~300, claims 75) is an infiltrator. Not from Alpha Legion, but from a homebrew rogue chapter called the Reavers in Metal. He was meant to infiltrate the Deathwatch, but got stuck with the Salamanders by mistake. He genuinely respects Te'rien. Watching the flawed little Sergeant do his best reminds Cor'en of humanity's tenacity. He's not a big fan of the rest of the squad, though. He misses his old squad. He hopes to leave the Salamanders soon. He just this needs to get his hands on one thing, and then he can “die” on the next battlefield and go home. He's the only Firstborn in the squad at first, though more will arrive as young Primaris marines are promoted and older Firstborn marines transfer to the reserve companies.

Lattis (L) and Keleth (R) having a drink.

Lattis (60s), Keleth(80s), and Kea'hi (~45) are the tight core of the squad. The Themian Lattis thinks he's the ringleader of this group because Te'rien was his Forgefather when he was a child, but it's actually Keleth, a cuddly Hesiodian with many forgechildren of his own. Kea'hi is a bit younger, he is a very normal Salamander. Kea'hi worries that his position might be insecure since he's the youngest in the core and Lattis gives another soldier called Atsen Bai'keti a hard time for being “the baby”, but Kea'hi only thinks that because he doesn't understand what's actually going on between those two. The truth is that Lattis hates people he sees as dishonest, so he saw red when Bai'keti showed up and started swaggering around. Unfortunately, Lattis hasn't noticed that Bai'keti has grown up a lot over the years, so he keeps tormenting him.

Keleth (L) with one of his forgechildren.

Sabinus (R) comforting Bai'keti (L).

Sabinus (~65) used to be part of the core group until Bai'keti showed up. His defense of Bai'keti from Lattis's bullying split him off a little from that group, but only Lattis actually lost respect for him. Everyone else still likes him, and Sabinus, Philo and An'terea have become more friendly since then. Sabinus has a heavy, sullen face, but he's actually calm, perceptive and knows the backgrounds of all his squad mates except Cor’en. He has a big heart and a forgiving nature. He would make a good Sergeant, but he's utterly uninterested in command and doesn't know the rest of the 6th Company well on account of being stuck in Clymene for many decades. He may still be promoted someday. Teased Val'ten a little at first because he found him a bit soft and twee.

Bai'keti (R) discussing his dodgy power sword with Sabinus. (L)

Atsen Bai'keti (~32) was never meant to be in the 6th's 3rd. He was once a special scout, not intended for the companies at all but for Mars. However, he suffered a medical mishap and ended up taking significantly longer than average to ascend, meaning that a different scout who began ascension after him left for Mars in his stead. Unfortunately, all the stress, memory issues, and the fall from star scout to disappointment meant that he was a complete mess when he joined the squad. At first, he acted childishly superior and conceited out of insecurity. He has mellowed over the years, especially now that his body has stabilised. Nevertheless, Lattis still gives him hell. When Sabinus stood up in Bai'keti's defense, this unfortunately created tension in the squad and isolated Bai'keti further. With only two friends and a horrible power sword he is desperately failing to make work, Bai'keti doesn't feel like he's part of the squad. Things will improve tremendously for him once he leaves for Mars and finds that he's older and more experienced than the average Techmarine-in-training. He will probably join the Deathwatch after that and return in his 80's with an actual reason to swagger around.

Val'ten (R) gets a talking-to from Sergeant Te'rien (L).

Dejan Val'ten (~25) is the newest member of the 6th. He was a PDF orphan from Heliosa before he was apprenticed to a Brother there. He's the opposite of Bai'keti, having had a relatively straightforward ascension. Unlike his Brother Salamanders, he isn't particularly gifted in the forge, but what he lacks in technical skills he makes up for with tenacity, diplomacy and a strategic mind. He's overly aware of his youth and inexperience, so he tries hard to fit in. He makes friends quickly with Bai'keti, which makes Kea'hi avoid him by proxy. Lattis and Keleth, however, treat him relatively well. On the flip side, Sabinus makes fun of him sometimes. Val'ten idolizes Sergeant Te'rien at first, but comes to see his human side. They will have been good friends for many years by the time Te'rien dies and Val'ten replaces him as Sergeant.

Dal'ris Moloi (~27) is not a Salamander. He was an aspirant who failed to ascend, and is now Val'ten's brander-priest. He requested to be assigned to Val'ten because Val'ten helped his family while he was a scout. The two become very close, working on a secret project together. Val'ten discovers that he enjoys making Dal'ris happy, Dal'ris thinks Val'ten is hot and is flattered that his Lord Astartes pays so much attention to him. They're falling in love.

Drek'tyr (~300) is a very old firstborn who moves down from a higher company when he realizes everyone around him is Primaris now. He replaces Bai'keti. He has a stupid saurian hat and I love him a lot. A little gremlin of a man. He's literally only here because my spouse gave me a very silly mini of a Salamander with a dinosaur head.

[rabidmind101]

2022 review

I think self discovery was a huge theme for me this year. fuck, in the end I am even more confused about who I am then back in January. but it’s okay with me because I have time for that. I realized why I am the way I am. I realized a lot about myself relationship wise. still working on the friend thing.

some things I accomplished this year:

• stayed strong through challenges in my relationships

• started being more cringe (not giving a fuck)

• had a hoe phase

• starved for like three weeks (yes it’s fucked up ik)

• graduated esthi school

• went to a club by myself and socially survived

• taught myself how to clean

• even after I failed and was devastated, I NEVER GAVE UP ON MY DREAM!!

in January I shaved off all my eyebrows, which was somewhat a symbol of rebellion, and somewhat an aesthetic choice. one really tragic thing that happened that month is that I witnessed domestic abuse between my boyfriend at the time and his grandfather. sent me into a huge panic attack and rage fit. I thought it was just gonna be the end of everything. he ended up getting his phone back later in the month and we finally had the freedom to talk like we used to.

most of February was pretty chill, because work was very slow. what really wasn’t chill was the shooting at the mall. super traumatic experience which I embarrassed myself in. but I couldn’t help it, I was so overwhelmed by the whole situation. I freaked the fuck out and screamed at my coworker for holding me because I hate being touched. I know she was just trying to be there for me but I couldn’t fucking stand it. the end of February was a catalyst event for my self discovery. I watched a video from OfHerbsAndAltars on his experience with atypical autism that led me down a rabbit hole that helped me learn so much about myself.

March was spent thinking quite a bit about my future because esthi school was coming next month. I was also hopelessly addicted to Trader Joe’s Takis and was just dipping my toes in the water of rollercoaster enthusiasm. when Carowinds opened up in March I was there as soon as I could. I was also thinking about the cruise I was gonna go on soon. about mid March I left B&BW. I headed over to Miami to get a vacation in before 6 months of school. I boarded Virgin Lady and had such a fabulous time that helped me discover lots about myself, surprisingly. I really just let go of embarrassment and fear and let myself have fun.

April was definitely one of my most challenging months of the year. when I came home from the cruise it just felt like the energy shifted. I found out that I was basically cheated on. then I had to suffer a prom date with said cheater. who was a fucking loser the whole time, I wish I would have fucking left him in the dirt on his ass when I had the chance. there were a lot of sleepless night from here until July unfortunately. my anxiety was so bad that I couldn’t turn my brain off just to rest. and it was so awkward just having to see him knowing what he did. there were so many times that month where I just wanted to leave but I wasn’t ready. then I got into esthi school.

May was super confusing. I met my best friend at school and started to lead the same path I did in my last relationship. I developed a huge crush on her and I felt awful that I could do that while having a boyfriend. she was so beautiful and different to me. I loved everything about her- except the crush she had on this guy she worked with. I lived in my own imagination with a plethora of sapphic fantasies. I couldn’t stop thinking about her and just wanted to spend every second with her. but, she was my friend, and I was in a relationship. it just wouldn’t work. on the flip side, for my birthday I was taken to Busch Gardens Williamsburg which really sealed in my love for rollercoasters and my commitment to the enthusiasm. that was seriously a wonderful trip, I wish I could revisit those moments.

[nickgerlich]

It’s Better Outside

It’s October, and holiday sales promotions are now in full swing. My Inbox has already started showing the stress of the seasonal push. As we have discussed before, though, we have transitioned from a Black Friday focus to several months of hard-hitting sales.

But one company has decided to put the spotlight on Black Friday once more. It’s just in a completely different way.

Back in 2015, when Black Friday was still a pretty big deal, outdoor sports retailer REI (Recreational Equipment, Incorporated) decided to go against the flow by shuttering on Black Friday so that its employees could have an extended Thanksgiving holiday. Starting this year, though, they are not just keeping their 178 stores closed, but also shutting down corporate offices, distribution warehouses, and call centers.

Take that, marketing! Here’s a leading retailer turning its nose at you.

Not one to completely shun the selling spirit, though, they’ll be back at work on Saturday, so it’s not exactly a four-day weekend. Still, the spirit of their company governance—which is technically a co-op—is felt and duly noted. They are so confident in their ability to miss a day of selling, one that was once among the biggest retail days of the year, to let its employees—all 16,000 of them—relax. Or, as their tag line says, “Opt Outside.”

It is refreshing to see a company drawing the line. It is easy to fall sway to the urgency of capitalizing on all 168 hours of the week. It’s the FOMO for retailers.

You might already be thinking of Hobby Lobby and Chick-Fil-A, which are both closed every Sunday. While these privately-held companies do so for religious reasons, they are clearly foregoing sales for the broader good of family and religious participation. Conceptually, it is not much different from REI.

We may also wish to thank COVID for causing retailers to rethink everything. Whereas many large chains were open 24/7, they had to scale back by eight hours or more per day. Post-COVID, with labor costs increases, and laborers hard to find, these retailers have found that they can survive just fine on the clock diet. Besides, maybe we should all try to plan our shopping a little better, right?

As for REI, their tag line is consistent with their product lines. I consider them superior to Cabela’s, Bass Pro, Scheels, Academy, and Dick’s by a long shot, because they have such high-quality items. Whereas the other big box stores have a lot of depth and breadth for the weekend warrior, REI is for the hard core participant.

Plus, as a co-op member (it’s free!), you get a 10% annual dividend on your purchases. Take that, all you other wannabes! Plus, their employees are active participants in the sports they represent on the sales floor. In other words, you can speak to someone who actually knows the products they are repping. That is priceless to me.

I am as much in favor of maximizing revenues and profits as the next capitalist, but the older I get, the more I realize that unbridled enthusiasm for those income statement items is not always in everyone’s best interests, especially your employees. And maybe for all of us.

Hats off to REI for taking a bold move. I’m pretty sure their competitors will all be burning the midnight oil Thanksgiving night, trying to get ready for an onslaught of customers. Meanwhile, REI employees will be hiking, biking, kayaking, and otherwise having a restful break before the remainder of the holiday season ensues.

Me? You’ll find me down in Palo Duro Canyon, more than likely hiking out to the Lighthouse again. I bet I will have one or both daughters, and maybe a SIL, with me. Because we all need a break from the madness, and REI’s model is a breath of fresh air.

Dr “Take That Outdoors!“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

[taragrackley-blog]

Amazon Best Selling Author Elizabeth Ferris Releases Positively Georgia Accompanying Coloring Books

Elizabeth Ferris, the bestselling author of the positive and empowering children’s book series 'Positively Georgia' has released a collection of coloring books. While making the announcement, the author said that the coloring books are meant to inspire, motivate and provide children with uplifting messages.

With the release of the current book, there are four coloring books in the series, each with a holiday theme. “Fans of the Positively Georgia can flex their creative muscles, coloring the uber positive and always optimistic Airedale,” said Elizabeth adding that the coloring books provide lovers of the book the opportunity to re-imagine their favorite pup in new and colorful ways.

Positively Georgia is an inspirational children’s book collection that follows the cuddly cheerful Airedale puppy Georgia. She chooses to see the brighter side to every situation in life while helping others to maximize their potential and accomplish their dreams. “This book series has no age limit; it is perfect for both parents and children. Adults who have read the book have drawn great lessons from the book. Those who have shared with me, tell me how the book has changed their perspective on life. They say they have come to realize the importance of helping others reach their potential, something they have since then been trying to impart to their children. These are positive stories that make me get the inspiration, get the strength to continue doing what I have been doing since my early days,” said the author while sharing the feedback from her readers.

This book series offers reassuring and inspiring lessons for children and adults. The beautifully illustrated pages in the series and now the coloring books teach that surroundings can be fun and amazing when accompanied by enthusiasm and a can-do attitude. Georgia discovers she has unique talents that can make her a big success. It is a crucial idea for children to know each child is distinct and valuable. The Book Series and now the accompanying Coloring books can also be inspiring to parents, grandparents, and caretakers.

The new coloring books in the collection include: “Happy Birthday to You,” “Happy Valentine’s Day,” “Christmas Coloring Positively Georgia: May Peace be with you Always,” “Positively Georgia Easter Coloring “and accompany the Best Selling Book Series “Positively Georgia - Be Brave, Impress Yourself, Be Your Breed,” “Positively Georgia:  Chin Up Pup: Canine Confidence”,  “Positively Georgia’s Guide to Surviving Grief,” “Positively Georgia the Motivational Tale of a Unique Airedale” as well as a Positively Georgia Notebook and Journal. The Series also has a book in Spanish and Hungarian.

Each of the Coloring Books are 8.5 x 11 inches with pages of fun to allow the reader’s creative colors shine.

The books are currently available on Amazon. To learn more about this release, visit Ferris Books.

About the author

Elizabeth Ferris is a writer who brings endearing stories, inspiration, and positive values to children and adults. Her love for books and writing started early in her life. As a child, Elizabeth combined the creation of books with business by selling her brother’s comic books from a stand in their family front yard. Neighbors found this amusing, and they recount it up to now. When she had her children, she created a captivating, educating, and an entertaining magazine called “All 4 Kids." She also published “Innovate,” a magazine that came to be read and appreciated all over Northern British Columbia, Canada. Elizabeth says that she draws inspiration from difficult phases of her life. Her parents immigrated to Canada from Hungary, creating a marvelous family with more than 60 years of love. Today Elizabeth divides her time between writing books and serving as an Executive Assistant for a Health Authority in Western Canada.

Media contact info

https://ferrisbooks.com/

positivelygeorgia@gmail.com

[itsevanffs]

Hihi!! I've been hyperfixating on tommary lately and I absolutely loved (In the dark!)! I wanted to see if u have any tommary/harrymort fics that u recommend.. preferably ones that feature a possessive Tom ^^ ty in advance

I guess this would be the right time to publicly declare my bookmarks as open? Everything on there is a hard rec, and I vigorously quality-check those... for my liking and my liking only. (Sorry, not sorry. They're there for me, after all.)

That being said, hmm. I've got a few you might like.

Below the cut: more (additionally to my bookmarks) Tomarrymort (Tomarry or Harrymort) recommendations with possessive/obsessive Tom in alphabetical order; NOT order of how much I enjoy them. I'd argue I enjoy them all equally, just in different ways.

Ps: thank you! I'm incredibly flattered you liked my work :D

and don't let the police know anything by littlecupkate https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920947

Ted Dirlod is dangerous, Harry Potter knows this for a fact, but the man was still his only hope at escaping a doomed fate. It is never wise to blackmail a crime lord. It is even more unwise(?) when said crime lord is obsessed with you. An expanded version of "praying to whatever's in heaven, please send me a felon"

Genuinely lovely? Ticks all my boxes, at least, and minimal angst, which is always a plus. That being said, you should probably read the work mentioned in the summary as well for context. But hey. Two cakes by one person ;) Can never go wrong, can it?

As Certain Dark Things Are to be Loved by Strange_Soulmates https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015619

Tom was Harry's best friend growing up and his first love. At eight, Harry gave Tom his first kiss before moving away. As a freshman in college, the name of the RA on the door across the hall is terribly familiar.

Also absolutely deliciously indulgent. Tom is a possessive terror and Harry loves him for it. Need I say more?

Harry Potter and the Search for Ancient Magic (series) by Snickerdoodlepop https://archiveofourown.org/series/1133141

Once Voldemort realizes that Harry Potter is his horcrux, his plans change drastically. So does Draco Malfoy's assignment for the school year. Harry's sixth year starts going very differently. Snape is on a mission. Harry needs to learn pureblood politics. Draco Malfoy is trying to convince Harry to forgive him. Voldemort finds himself visiting Harry Potter in his dreams. Everyone is realizing that no one is quite what they thought. And through it all, there's a mystery. What is Ancient Magic? Can Harry use it to save himself or will it pull him toward the dark side?

Honestly, genuinely, hands down the best fucking tomarrymort series I've ever read. Hard, hard rec from here. The first work is completed and the second is in progress, so it's a nice pile of words to chew through!

can't commit to anything but a crime by caelesti https://archiveofourown.org/works/27286483

Excitement is the word he does not dare utter, even in the privacy of his own mind. It’s wrong, he knows. These women are people, in their own right; people with fears and aspirations, with friends and families and dreams, and to have anything cut those lives short is nothing but tragic. To have anyone cut those lives short is nothing but condemnable. He doesn’t have James Potter’s laugh lines, but he does have his father’s innate flair for danger. He doesn’t have Lily Potter’s enthusiasm, but he does have her insatiable curiosity. (In every world, Harry will excel at finding the biggest spot of trouble available and sticking his nose in it.)

Hot serial killer serial killer hot. That's it, those are the thoughts. Please read.

Dripping Fingers by May_May_0_0 https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440826

When Harry finds Tom Riddle's diary he does not write 'Hello.' He does not write anything at all. He draws. Tom Riddle falls in love with the artwork. _________________ Sketch by sketch, drawing by drawing, the ink Harry pours into the diary manifests as creations in Tom's monochrome world.

Okay so if I'm the reincarnation of Shakespeare, May_May_0_0 is fucking... Ted Hughes. Which doesn't say much to your average viewer but that man wrote my favourite poem ever (the one I based my war fic off) and I hold him in very high regard. This story? It is poetry in its rawest form. Pure, condensed beauty. If you decide to read only one of the fics in this list, please choose this one.

Either must die at the hand of the other by Metalomagnetic https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356095

Voldemort survives the Battle of Hogwarts because Harry Potter had not been the one to kill him, as the prophecy demands.

When is Metalomagnetic not a master of words? When will I cease becoming breathless at every paragraph, at every cleverly twisted word that comes back and reveals itself so beautifully later?

Fine Line by galaxiesundone https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949952

Magic always leaves traces. The lingering darkness of Sectumsempra, combined with Harry’s nature as a horcrux, awakens the soul piece contained within Ravenclaw’s diadem. At twenty years old, Tom Riddle walks a fine line between man and monster, the devil and the light-bringer in one. His influence forces Harry to face an ancient enemy unlike anything he has faced before: temptation.

Long story short: Tom Riddle is Hot and Good At Being Hot and Harry truly doesn't stand a chance and I am here for it. Lord help me I love this fic to pieces.

Good Intentions by Strange_Soulmates https://archiveofourown.org/works/7035334

Five year old Harry Potter meets and befriends a seventeen year old Tom Riddle while hanging out at his dad’s station. James Potter decides to take Tom under his wing, using Tom’s connection with Harry to try and keep the teen grounded, even as he begins to investigate the Death Eaters, a dangerous organized crime group and their mysterious leader only known as Lord Voldemort.

The sheer potential of this fic. The horrible, terrible dread of future events that have yet to be revealed. I will cry.

Honey, Smoke, Shiver by machiavelli https://archiveofourown.org/works/16068062

Harry - Omega, only son of Lord Potter - is nothing more than a useful playing card in a political game of power and money, one that is bought by the famed Tom Riddle: powerful, dangerous, pureblood Alpha. Unsurprisingly, Harry loves being underestimated.

Machiavelli is always a rec from me. Sorry lads but that's the way it is. Never a moment where I won't recommend their stuff.

Sickly-Sweet Obsession by maquira https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259103

Quiet, studious Tom Riddle spends his first year thirsting after an older student—Gryffindor’s Quidditch Captain, Harry Potter. His crush is common knowledge, and even Harry finds it cute… at first. Possessiveness spawns monstrosities. Tom does all within his power to mess with Harry’s dating life. And one seemingly harmless crush spirals into something darker, begetting deadly consequences.

Again; the potential. Delicious. This will bloom into something beautifully twisted, I'm sure of it.

Stars, Hide Your Fires by Audair https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745546

Riddle’s undivided attention snapped to him with the swiftness of shattering glass. His turbulent magic receded from where it had besieged the shop. "You,” he breathed. Coiling in leisurely motions, the eager tendrils of his magic reached for Harry, swathing about his limbs and neck and chest with a liquid, flowing fascination. "I’ve been looking for you,” Riddle continued, tilting his head to the side and sweeping his gaze over Harry. It was an appraisal that felt simultaneously like the raking of iron nails and the tender drapery of silk. It was so familiar, and yet… so foreign. In the winding streets of Knockturn Alley, an intricate dance of mutual obsession unravels between twenty-three-year-old Tom Riddle and a time-travelling Harry Potter.

This work has recently been undergoing a rewrite, and I can tell you with certainty it's only gotten better for it. It's beautiful; the setting, the atmosphere, the vibes... Perfection. Captures Knockturn Alley's mood impeccably and does not disappoint a single moment.

the pleasure, the privilege by asterisms https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227528

It begins with Vernon Dursley's body, dead across the table. In which Voldemort is dosed with amortentia, and nothing is better for it.

Completed, terrifying... and gorgeous.

The Shrike (to your sharp and glorious thorn) by PaperWorlds https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380079

Shrike: A songbird with a sharply hooked bill, known for their habit of catching insects and small vertebrates and impaling their bodies on thorns, the spikes on barbed-wire fences, or any available sharp point. A young Harry Potter survives an attack by notorious serial killer Voldemort. Over a decade later, they meet again.

Lads I'm so desperate for an update from this fic that I might cry if I think about it for too long. I keep saying it and I'll say it again; this is one of those fics with amazing potential that are sure to never disappoint no matter what path they take. An incredibly hard rec.

To Raise a Servant by bluegrass https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780816

Tom had found the boy amidst pouring rain. He figured he'd always wanted a pet snake.

Surprisingly not quite as dark as the summary makes it seem? I certainly enjoyed it, though, and that's why it's on this list.

What He Grows To Be by Severus_divides_into_H https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042240

Tom Riddle is a frightening coil of darkness, cruelty, and greatness, and changing him is Harry’s only hope for saving people he loves. Going back in time, he takes Tom from the orphanage, but his optimism shatters with every year they spend together. Tom still longs for darkness. Tom stifles him in his possessiveness. Tom is fixated on him to the point of destroying the world just to keep him. But Harry loves him. And the future changes.

Beautiful. And absolutely terrifying. I've started crying mid-scene at least three times for this fic, and it honestly seems unfathomable if you haven't read it if you're on my profile, since I think this is one of the fics that have shaped my style and ambitions. It is what I aspire to be.

[wowbright]

Fic: Sweet/Tart

Tan Hands and Tan Lines Snarky’s Word Challenge 2021: undulating

Words: ~1000

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: Blaine arrives at church on Easter and is jealous of Chandler’s outfit.

I’m belatedly going through the prompts for The Tan Hands and Tan Lines Summer Event 2021 to flesh out my Mormon!Klaine universe. This vignette takes place after Easter Hunt.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost.

Notes: Is this even smoot? My challenge tag for the Tan Hands and Tan Lines prompts is now “thatl” because “tan hands and tan lines” appears to be blocked for some readers on the iOS app. Fun times!  If you have any questions or typo corrections, feel free to use my ask box!

--------

They took the long route to church and did an impromptu hymn sing on their bicycles to help Elder Hummel burn off a little of his Peeps-induced sugar high. But not all of it. He was still peppy and talkative as they locked up their bikes outside the building, his smile almost as wide as his face. That, in turn, made Blaine smile so hard that some previously unknown muscles behind his ears started to ache.

Clearly, Blaine needed to smile like this more often to get those muscles in shape. He trusted that his companionship with Elder Hummel would continue to give him opportunities to exercise them.

“My favorite elders!” Chandler greeted them when they entered the coat closet. He was sitting on a crate in the corner, looking up from the open sheet music in his lap, and dressed head to toe in Easter colors: royal purple shoes, a powder blue suit, a butter-yellow button-down shirt, and bowtie and matching pocket handkerchief covered with tiny pastel flowers that picked up on the other colors in his outfit but was also threaded with a delicious shade of pink that reminded Blaine of SweeTARTS.

It was the kind of look that only certain people could pull off, and Blaine had to hesitantly admit to himself that Chandler had succeeded. In fact, Blaine was right on the edge of coveting the outfit, especially that charming bow tie. He honestly didn't know how he was going to survive the rest of his mission wearing neckties every day.

“Here, let me get your coats!” Chandler hopped up from the crate and offered his assistance to Blaine first, which was a surprise. But maybe that was just so he could linger longer on Elder Hummel.

“You know,” said Blaine, “you don't have to sit in the coat closet.”

“Well, I wasn't sure about protocol when it came to reading in the sanctuary,” Chandler said.

“Oh, that’s fine. And there are the Sunday school rooms, too.”

“Yeah, but I've never been in any of them before. I'd feel like I was breaking in.”

Blaine had somehow forgotten that Chandler hadn't actually been to their church before. And yet he was singing in their choir. How awkward.

“And how is Easter going so far for you both?” Chandler asked, turning to take Elder Hummel’s coat.

“Fantastic!” effused Kurt. “The Easter Bunny—” he nodded his head unsubtly toward Blaine “—visited while I was sleeping and brought dyed eggs that were done so beautifully I wish I could keep them forever, and he hid candy all over the apartment. It was the best candy too. Amazing, American candy.”

“What’s wrong with German candy?”

“Nothing. But this stuff—” Elder Hummel took a deep breath before launching into a fast-paced exposition on the wonders of Peeps, his voice cresting and falling in undulating waves of enthusiasm. “Okay. They're called Peeps, and they're basically this brightly colored marshmallow fluff that’s shaped like little rabbits or baby chickens, and I honestly can't tell you if they taste good on an objective level, but I used to get them in my basket every year when I was a little kid, and when you're a little kid, all you care about is sugar, and every time I eat one, it brings back all those same feelings, and they’re. Just. So. Good! Maybe the Easter Bunny will save one for you and you can try it the next time we see you … if I don't find and eat it first.” Hmmm, so maybe the sugar high hadn't completely worn off quite yet.

Chandler laughed and hung Elder Hummel’s coat next to Blaine’s. He had taken no longer removing it than he had with Blaine, and he hadn’t lingered on Elder Hummel’s shoulders or anything untoward like that.

How odd. Was the crush dissipating? No, that couldn't be possible. Elder Hummel was much too fascinating to burn out on after only a couple of weeks. The thought was downright offensive.

It was more likely that Chandler felt the sacred spirit imbuing the church facilities and had decided to put a damper on his usual over-the-top flirting.

Wait.

Did this mean Chandler had a suave, gentlemanly side?

And why did that thought make Blaine feel so much more uneasy than Chandler’s previously incessant flirting?

Stop judging Chandler and his outfit and his motives, Blaine silently scolded himself. Admittedly, it was a little difficult to do with the guy standing right in front of him.

“I should go warm up before everybody gets here.” Blaine turned heel into the sanctuary before Elder Hummel could tell him to wait. He just needed to sit down for a couple minutes and run through scales and think Christian thoughts.

Thinking Christian thoughts became easier as other choir members trickled in and Chandler became only one of many competing for Elder Hummel’s attention. It became easier yet when they went through one last run. The choir sounded amazing. Not just Elder Hummel and the sister missionaries or Chandler with his formal training. But all of them. The harmonies were clear and crisp and sent waves of emotion through Blaine’s heart, washing away any residue from the uncomfortable thoughts he’d entertained earlier and replacing them with the joyful peace he’d felt sharing Easter breakfast with Elder Hummel. Each voice built on the next, melding together into something greater than the whole as they brought the stagnant notes of the printed page alive. Blaine was reminded of the concert that took place in that dark tomb on the outskirts of Jerusalem two-thousand years before, when atoms and Spirit and breath conspired together to resurrect Christ from the dead.

Blaine’s hands moved over the piano effortlessly as he listened to the song, his whole being filled with love for each voice and each person gifted with that voice.

Including Chandler.

Today was Easter. Blaine’s Savior was alive. And everything was going to be just fine.

[jaskiersvalley]

I LOVE JASKIER HAVING A SUPPORTIVE FAMILY AND LETTENHOVE BEING A SANCTUARY TO WITCHERS IM AKSJWQKWNOAKANWKQ

I always adore seeing you crop up in my notes, and your enthusiasm in your asks makes we want to treasure them. But they deserve to be let loose into the wilds of this website and, like always, here’s a little thank you fic with some more Lettenhove being a sanctuary and Jaskier’s family being supportive of Witchers. If you’ve ever heard Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree, you know what’s going to happen.

Yellow Ribbon

Witchers weren't meant to take sides. They were meant to be neutral, without political agenda or loyalties to any other than their life's purpose to rid the Continent of monsters. This particular fact was drilled into Wolf Witchers to the point that even the most rebellious of them evaded human conflicts as much as possible. Aiden knew all that but he wasn't raised a Wolf. Cats knew they shouldn't blatantly take sides but, given their tendency to take on less Witcher-y contracts, they very much blurred the lines. Then came the Nilfgaardian war and Aiden knew he couldn't sit back and watch as the world he knew tore itself apart. But he also knew Lambert wouldn't understand. His Wolf, so loyal, yet so entrenched in the rules he was raised to hate, he would never be able to understand why Aiden left to join. Why he felt the need to fight the humans' battle. Power ebbed and flowed over the course of time, this was just another turn of the tide. Not to Aiden though. He knew he would likely be killed but at least he'd die fighting for what he believed in. Leaving Lambert was nigh on impossible. Aiden spent so long trying to figure out how to tell him he was leaving, likely to never come back. He couldn't do it. If he was going to die anyway, it wouldn't make much of a difference as to when Lambert thought him dead. So Aiden arranged his own assassination, left enough evidence that all would think him dead and he fled to the frontlines, heart heavy but knowing he took the least painful course of action possible.

The war lasted years. Throughout it all, Aiden tried to keep an ear out for new of his Wolf. He heard of the White Wolf's rise, how Kaer Morhen finally fell and the Wolves now called Lettenhove their home. Aiden could only hope that Lambert was happier there, more comfortable. On some nights thoughts of his beloved Wolf, comfortable and happy, were the only thing that kept Aiden sane.

As all things tended to do, even the war came to an end. Aiden had new scars to show for it but he was alive and on the winning side for a change. It was not something he ever anticipated and he had no idea what to do now. In his heart of hearts he knew what he wanted: Lambert. But the chances of him being welcomed back with open arms were slim. Aiden had to try though, had to know whether there was still a sliver of Lambert's heart that maybe missed him. However, Aiden was a coward in the matters of the heart, he didn't think he could survive the rejection, the anger. So he did the next best thing. He wrote a letter.

Lambert,

I don't know if I can call you mine anymore. When I left, I didn't think I'd survive the war I was compelled to join. But, years down the line, I'm still here, the war is won. Despite this, I still feel like I'm in a battle, fighting to know whether your heart still beats for me. I'll understand if you want nothing to do with me, you'll never see me again if you so wish. Yet I hope you can forgive me and set my heart free even though you were never them one to force it into this fight. I'll be joining the home caravan headed North. It will pass through Lettenhove where I believe you now call home. At the edge of the settlement is an old oak tree. If, when the caravan passes through there, it has a yellow ribbon tied around it, I'll know to leave the caravan and search you out. However, if the tree remains bare, I will continue with the caravan and this is the last you'll hear from me.

As little as it may be worth, I send this with all my hopes and heart at your mercy.

Aiden

The letter would reach Lettenhove a good week before the caravan, Aiden was confident. As they travelled, the caravan got smaller, people leaving to head towards their own home. Seeing all the teary, heartfelt reunions hurt in a way. While Aiden was pleased for them, he was also horribly jealous. Wishing he could dream of such a welcome turned and happiness for his fellow veterans into something bitter. Aiden could only hope he was heading home too rather than setting out on a nomadic life that would be filled with regrets.

As they approached Lettenhove, Aiden could barely look. He kept his head down, determined to only give the old oak tree a furtive glance as they passed. To watch the bare tree in the distance, grow closer but be devoid of a yellow ribbon was too much. He didn't expect the caravan to start murmuring, gasps and giggles going up.

"What do you think it all means?" Someone asked ahead of him.

"Maybe some local festival. Or one hell of a welcome home."

Hope drew Aiden's eyes up earlier than he wanted and he let out a choked whimper. There wasn't a single yellow ribbon around the old oak tree. It was absolutely covered. Every branch, twig and bud was wrapped in a myriad of yellow ribbons. Not just that, all the fences, posts, even dog houses were adorned in yellow ribbons, creating a bright path to follow. It took all of Aiden's control not to run, letting the ribbons guide him. Though, on second thought he was right not to run, his sight was too blurry with tears all of a sudden.

As the caravan moved through Lettenhove, people were standing outside their homes cheering and waving anything yellow. It all culminated with a small group of people at the path to the Pankratz mansion. Half of them were familiar, Geralt, Eskel, Vesemir were all there, yellow ribbons woven into their hair or into a buttonhole. Out front though stood Jaskier in a bright yellow doublet, strutting forward like a proud peacock.

"Welcome home, Aiden," he called and the people in the caravan all turned to look at the Witcher in question. To think that a Witcher of all things would have such a welcome was absurd. But there they were, a Witcher being welcomed home like family. "I will make introductions to my family later-" Jaskier was saying, "-they helped source all the ribbons and are putting on a feast. But I believe there's someone you want to see more."

The group parts and there was Lambert, a crown of dandelions perched on top of his head, a yellow ribbon clutched tight in his hand, creasing the material beyond rescue.

"Lamb." Aiden's voice was breathy, hesitant. Despite all the yellow, he still wasn't certain of his welcome. At least not until Lambert closed the distance between them with two long strides and reached up to cup his cheeks in two hands.

"You bastard."

Their foreheads pressed together, Lambert's thumbs stroked over Aiden's cheeks, feeling the ridges of new scars and the ribbon tickled his chin.

"I'm sorry," Aiden croaked. "I had to go."

"I know." Lambert's eyes were brimming with tears. "I mourned you. I missed you. Don't do this to me again."

Promises dripped from Aiden's lips. He hated how Lambert brokenly murmured "if you'd asked, I've have come with you". That had never been an option, Aiden didn't want to drag Lambert into a war he had no interest in. But it was all in the past, they were choices they couldn't make again, no matter how much they wished they could. What they did have though was a new future together. And, if Aiden had heard right, it was going to be starting off with a feast.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Part 4 of the newest train fic! part one | next

Geraskier | T | five times Geralt tries to tell Jaskier he loves him and one time he succeeds.

For some time after that, things return to normal and Jaskier is surprisingly quiet about his scar. It haunts Geralt's thoughts. He thinks about it during the days, especially when they're camped out and at the mercy of anything that might show up to hurt them. Geralt keeps his eyes and ears open, always alert. And even when he sleeps, he dreams about it sometimes, a nocturnal reminder that this is his fault, that if Jaskier had stayed put in Posada all those years ago, he would never have gotten hurt, he wouldn't have that terrible scar now.

And Jaskier has assured him it's nothing, reminded him that Geralt also has scars and they're a mark of survival, but Geralt finds it hard to believe. Not when Jaskier still winces when he bends at the wrong angle or when he has to apply ointment in the evenings before bed. Geralt doesn't think of it as a mark of survival because even though Jaskier did survive, he never should have been in danger in the first place. Without Geralt in his life, he could have been somewhere warm and cozy, home somewhere or in someone's bed, but instead he was in the wrong place at the wrong time because he insists on following Geralt around. Or, rather, because Geralt isn't strong enough to tell him to leave.

And for a little while, things are calm. Geralt keeps his thoughts to himself and Jaskier continues on as optiisically as he always has. But then they come to Vizima. There's a wyvern getting too close to the city walls and they'd put out a contact for a Witcher. Geralt was happy to find somewhere he could find work and leave Jaskier at an inn where he would be warm and fed and safe.

But now that they're here, Jaskier is going on and on about wanting to perform at some feast or other held for the king's son. Geralt had shrugged it off at first because wanting to do something doesn't warrant an invitation, but Jaskier is insistent that he'll play. While Geralt goes to the inn to get settled, Jaskier goes off to talk to the king—or whoever will listen.

Geralt is reluctant to let him go, but the city is completely closed at night since the start of the attacks and guards are posted at every possible entry. Jaskier is safe here, Geralt can relax a little.

The contract is a simple one; it turns out to be a disoriented youngling that Geralt dispatches easily before hurrying back to town. He takes the head to the captain of the guard and collects his pay before returning to the inn. Jaskier is downstairs waiting for him, apparently celebrating his upcoming performance and Geralt sighs.

"You're invited, of course," Jaskier babbles as they make their way up to their room. "The king could not possibly deny my best friend—and the man who saved his kingdom from a ravenous beast!"

"It was a confused wyvern, Jaskier."

"Eh, same thing. Anyway, you will be accompanying me and we'll have to find you something to wear and—"

"I'm coming with you," Geralt says, "but I'll wear what I like."

"Gods, Geralt, can't you ever have a little enthusiasm about anything?"

"Yes, but I hardly think dressing up for a bunch of nobles is something worth being enthusiastic about."

Jaskier just rolls his eyes as Geralt pushes the door to their room open and darts in ahead of him, sitting on the bed at the far side of the room.

"Well, I'll be getting dressed up and I think you'll look quite silly showing up like that."

Geralt looks down at himself, still splattered with blood and lifts an eyebrow at him. "Well," Jaskier shrugs, "not exactly like that, but you know what I mean." He turns away and bends to pick up his lute from where it's leaning against the wall and he lets out the faintest little whine.

A human wouldn't be able to hear it, but Geralt is attuned to Jaskier at the best of times. He's striding across the room and hovering in a matter of seconds. Jaskier just sighs at him as he straightens up and places the lute case on the bed.

"I'm fine," he says, "just twisted funny is all." Geralt doesn't believe him.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asks and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Yes," he says firmly. " Geralt, you wouldn't even let me play for days. I am fine, I want to do this. Just… stop worrying so much." He offers up a warm smile that melts away the remainder of Geralt's protests and he grumbles to himself as he crosses back to his own side of the room, already pulling off his armour.

Geralt doesn't own anything nice to wear to a feast and he's not about to go and buy something for it, but he will clean up. He couldn't give a shit about the king or his son, but Jaskier does and he'll do it for him.

He calls for a bath and cleans the muck off himself and out of his hair, declining Jaskier's assistance. He's already going to be straining himself playing tonight, Geralt doesn't need to make it worse. So he gets clean and picks out his nicest clothes once he's dry; a spare pair of trousers that haven't been worn since the last time they were washed and a white linen shirt. He looks presentable and Jaskier doesn't complain about it, so he considers that a win.

Jaskier finishes tuning his lute and warming up and then, smiling delightedly at Geralt as he leads him away from the inn and toward the castle. Geralt watches him closely for any sign of pain, but either Jaskier is doing an excellent job of hiding it, or the wound is getting better.

Jaskier lights up when he performs, always has, but something is different about tonight. It's probably because it's been so long since he's had a captive audience but Jaskier glows under the attention of his audience. Geralt has never been one for poetry, but watching Jaskier, he can understand the need to write down, to keep a memory of beauty when you see it. There's no mistaking it now. He let himself consider it once and the gates have been opened and refuse to shut again no matter how hard he tries.

He loves him. Loves the way he smiles when he sings, the way his laugh will sometimes disturb the rhythm of the song, but he just keeps going. Geralt loves all of it and he almost lost it, almost lost Jaskier.

He looks at the people around them, how they fawn over him and he understands, he does. But they see a smiling troubadour, an entertainer. They don't see the way, as the night wears on, that Jaskier favours one side or the way he slows and limits his movements. Geralt does and something about it makes his blood boil. They don't care about Jaskier, they care about his music, about what he can do for them, and Geralt itches to get him out of there, to somewhere he can be properly cared for.

Jaskier takes a break after a couple more songs and Geralt pulls him into the corridor.

"What's wrong?" Jaskier asks, clearly recognizing the anger in Geralt's face.

"It's hurting again, isn't it?"

"It's fine," Jaskier says, but he lowers his eyes and Geralt curses.

"It's not and you're making it worse performing for these people. They don't care that you're hurt, Jaskier, they just want to listen to you."

"And I want them to," Jaskier shrugs but Geralt sees how even the slight movement causes pain. "Anyway, why do you care what they think about me? You've never cared before. You let me perform after I nearly drowned that one time in—"

Because I love you, you fucking idiot. Because I want you to be warm and safe and comfortable.

"Because I—" the words catch in his throat and he frowns. "Because you certainly don't and someone needs to look after you," he scoffs. Jaskier just smiles fondly, if not a little teasingly, up at him.

"Oh, Geralt, you do care." Geralt wants to tell him that he always has, but Jaskier doesn't give him a chance, ducking away to return to his performance with only a quick, got to go, see you tonight. Geralt measures his breath and shuts his eyes, but just as he's about to turn and head back to the inn, Jaskier appears back through the door.

"Thank you, Geralt. I'll try not to overdo it."

[kjack89]

Belle Épitaphe

Because this post has lived rent-free in my head for the past six years :’)

Happy Barricade Day, y’all!

ExR, canon compliant(ish) soulmate AU.

As was not uncommon, Enjolras’s parents hosted a party for him when he turned sixteen. Not quite a debut into society, it was instead an opportunity to gather and to wait for the words that would appear on his skin, just as they did on all upon reaching one’s sixteenth birthday.

The words would indicate his soulmark: the last words that his soulmate would ever speak to him.

It was an old tradition, the gathering for the words, dating back as long as any could imagine. But where once an entire village might gather to pray for good words, for words that revealed a name, or clue, of his soulmate’s identity, now it was more a formality to see if his parents need wait for a specific person to marry him off to, or if easier arrangements could be made. Now, instead of praying for a name, his parents – and more than a few young ladies from surrounding houses – hoped for vague words that could be uttered by anyone.

Enjolras hated every minute of it, dressing in uncomfortable, fancy clothing and pretending to make polite smalltalk with all of his parents’ friends. But most of all, he hated the very idea that some words that appeared on his skin might bind him to someone without his – or their – consent.

No matter how unlikely their meeting one day might be.

So he alone did not celebrate when he felt the words sear against his wrist; he alone did not hold his breath as he twisted his arm around to see the words that stood out starkly against his pale skin.

“Do you permit it?” his father read aloud for the assembled crowd, and his mother let out a small, delighted gasp.

“Such romantic words,” she told Enjolras, holding onto his other arm with both hands. “Think of what kind, loving wife will utter those words at the end of your long life.”

There was nothing Enjolras would rather imagine less.

And as he glared down at the words that had appeared on his arm, he vowed silently that he would never allow any to get so close to him as to say those words in any kind of final parting.

----------

It was, bluntly speaking, an easy vow to make and a far easier one to keep than Enjolras had at first anticipated, in no small part because he escaped from his parents before they could force him into anything resembling a courtship. Once he was in Paris, once he was surrounded by like-minded youths, he felt no need to give literally any thought whatsoever to soulmates, to soulmarks, or to the last words fate had destined someone to speak to him.

It had long since fallen out of fashion to endeavor to search for one’s soulmate, so it was not something of which most young men spoke, save in – gently or otherwise – mocking the lovelorn among them. How many times had Courfeyrac sighed and made an excuse for his errant roommate, telling them, “You really must forgive Marius; he is looking for his soulmate, after all”? 

It was something to roll one’s eyes at, if the subject even came up at all.

And around Enjolras, whose sole concern could be best summed by those three words liberté, égalité, and fraternité, it very rarely came up.

He may well have gone to his grave without ever giving it another thought, were it not for a casual utterance by someone he knew not at all.

When the barricades arose, Enjolras was filled with conviction, even more so than what usually filled him, conviction and righteousness enough to displace what little patience he had for things not associated with the Cause for which he had pledged his life, and very likely his death.

Which was perhaps why his temper soured so quickly upon hearing the latest of Grantaire’s many drunken soliloquies. Usually he could block them out, or ignore them as he tended to more important things, but standing on the crest of the barricade, facing down what was to come, he could not find it in himself to ignore it, or Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” he shouted, “go get rid of the fumes of your wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm, not for drunkenness. Don’t disgrace the barricade!”

Had he known what effect his words would have on the man, he might’ve tried shouting at him sooner. Immediately, Grantaire sobered, something Enjolras couldn’t quite read softening his expression. “Let me sleep here,” Grantaire said, almost gently, and Enjolras shook his head, already turning away.

“Go and sleep somewhere else.”

But Grantaire did not turn away, and something in his voice kept Enjolras rooted to the spot where he stood. “Let me sleep here—until I die.”

Anger welled in Enjolras’s chest as he stared balefully at Grantaire. When so many would doubtlessly lose their lives in service of freedom...what right did Grantaire have to use death as a bargaining chip, there of all places?

“Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”

He knew the words were harsh even as he was speaking them, a cold pronouncement of Grantaire’s character. But if Grantaire seemed affected by them, his expression did not show it. Only his tone seemed affected as he told Enjolras, his voice low, “You will see.”

He mumbled something more, something incoherent, but Enjolras was saved from having to decipher what else the man might possibly have said to him, but Bahorel shouting, “Here’s the street in its low-necked dress! How well it looks!”

And then Enjolras’s returned to the barricade and directing the efforts of the newest recruits who had arrived just as the rain stopped. They were a motley assortment of troops, but still Enjolras called each comrade as he gave out instructions.

As he paused near two men arranging a table on its side against the barricade, he could not help but overhear a snippet of their conversation. “I am confident we will survive this,” one said with a grunt as he shouldered the table into place. “After all, my wife did not utter the words marked on me before I left this eve.”

“Strange,” his companion said. “Your wife said the words marked on me when I left her this eve.”

The first man guffawed and shoved his companion with the camaraderie many of their number shared, their jokes about bedding each other’s wife continuing as they headed in the opposite direction, and Enjolras just shook his head before returning to the task at hand.

That should have been the end of it, an offhand joke shared between brothers at arms, but instead, the thought of the last words he might speak or hear stuck with Enjolras, even as the barricade was completed, even as they lost Prouvaire, even as they discovered the spy among them.

He endeavored to put it out of mind, and succeeded in ignoring it until they finally all settled in for the night. Then and only then did the thought begin to twist, low in his stomach. Especially when he thought of what he had said to Grantaire.

To say that Grantaire vexed him was a vast understatement; Grantaire vexed, irritated, confounded, and infuriated him. And yet for all his drunken ramblings and professions of belief in nothing, for his interruptions and distractions, for the way he had offered once to black Enjolras’s boots and for his failure to complete the one task Enjolras had ever deigned to assign him, Enjolras had never once been able to bring himself to send him away.

Not until that night.

And now, as he tried to get what little sleep he could in the shadow of the barricade as they waited for what battle was to come, he felt something like guilt seep through him.

He had not meant it, what he had said to Grantaire, and he knew better than most that the chance of them both surviving the barricade was not high. As much as he had never wished to care about the last words he said to any, the thought that those were the last words Grantaire might ever hear from him was unbearable.

After everything, he owed Grantaire a better farewell than that.

Mind made up, Enjolras stood to return to the Corinthe. The motion woke Combeferre, who had settled nearby. “Enjolras?” Combeferre asked quietly. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras assured him. “There is simply something that I must do.”

He could not quite make out Combeferre’s expression in the darkness, but he knew him well enough to guess what look he might wear. “The best thing for any of our number right now is sleep,” Combeferre said. “And to let those already asleep continue so undisturbed.”

“And if the last words I said to you were in anger, would you sleep undisturbed?”

There was a challenge in Enjolras’s voice, but Combeferre did not rise to it. “Had I drunk that much wine, I imagine so,” he returned instead. “There is but one thing Grantaire would wish to hear from you, and as you cannot offer that, it is best to let him sleep.”

“Perhaps,” Enjolras said. “But still I must try.”

If Combeferre made any further argument, Enjolras did not linger to hear it, instead slipping into the Corinthe and making his way to where Grantaire still lay with his head against the wooden table, fast asleep. Despite what Enjolras had said to him, his expression looked almost serene in the dim light, and Enjolras hesitated for a moment before shaking his shoulder. “Grantaire,” he said, his whisper sounding overly-loud as it pierced the silence. “Grantaire, wake up.”

Grantaire’s eyes blinked open, and he stared, unfocused, at Enjolras for a moment before his vision cleared enough to recognize the man half-kneeling beside him.

Then, to Enjolras’s surprise, his eyes widened in horror. “No!” he half-shouted, scrambling backwards from Enjolras and almost falling out of his seat. “No, no, please—”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras started, concerned, but Grantaire shook his head wildly.

“Do not speak to me, I beg of you,” he pleaded, and Enjolras frowned.

“I must,” he said firmly, and Grantaire let out what sounded almost like a whimper, covering his face with his hands. “Grantaire, please, you must let me say this. The words I last spoke to you – I would not have my last words to you be in anger.”

Grantaire lowered his hands, looking at once very sad and very tired. “But you must,” he said, sounding more sober than Enjolras had ever heard him. “Those words were the best gift you have ever given me.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you—” he started, breaking off when Grantaire turned suddenly, and yanked his shirt up to show Enjolras his back. “Grantaire, what—”

Again he broke off, but this time not in confusion. He broke off in recognition, seeing the words he had spoken reflected back at him from where they were marked on Grantaire’s skin. Almost without meaning to, he raised his hand to trace with trembling fingers the words he had shouted earlier. “Grantaire,” he whispered, though he knew not what to say after that.

Grantaire flinched, just slightly, at the sound of his name, and Enjolras pulled his hand away as if he had been scalded. “So,” Grantaire said, lowering his shirt after the silence that stretched between them had turned uncomfortable. “Now you see.”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “I do,” he said, “but I also do not. Those are my words, but they are not the last that I will have spoken to you.”

“Apparently not,” Grantaire said. “Though how I wish that they were.”

“What do you—” For the third time in as many minutes, Enjolras broke off as realization hit him. “Because if they had been, I would be your soulmate.”

Grantaire couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. “Long have I imagined what it would be like to hear those words,” he murmured, so quietly that Enjolras could barely hear him. “What might my soulmate be like, to have such harsh words be the last spoken to me? But then I met you, and I knew, if there was any from whom I could hear those words fall off his lips and have them be sweeter than any confession of love…”

He trailed off, and Enjolras bowed his head, his chest feeling tight. He could not pretend that he had been fully unaware of the way Grantaire looked at him, or spoke to him, but to have it confirmed like this was more than he thought he could bear. Especially now, with those words between them and so little time left. “So when I said them earlier…”

“I knew that if I were to die, it would be worth it to know that you were my soulmate.”

Grantaire delivered the words evenly, even as Enjolras looked away. “I am sorry,” he said finally. “For what I said, and for all I have said after if I have ruined what peace you found.”

“May I ask one thing of you?”

Enjolras glanced over at him. “If it is again to black my boots…”

Grantaire barked a laugh. “No,” he said. “I wish to know what words are marked on your skin.”

Enjolras hand flew almost immediately to the words on the inside of his arm, and he rubbed them subconsciously. “I am not certain what good it would do now,” he hedged. 

“Perhaps none. But that does not change the fact that I wish to know.”

Enjolras hesitated before bowing his head in acquiescence and rolling his shirtsleeve up until the words were revealed, as dark and imposing as they had been when first they had appeared so many years before. He thrust his arm toward Grantaire, who bent his head to read the words silently to himself. Then he straightened and met Enjolras’s eyes. “I have seen the problem.”

Enjolras frowned, rolling his shirtsleeve down again. “What problem?”

Grantaire nodded toward his arm. “I’ve once asked you for permission to do anything.”

Enjolras laughed, a sharp, surprised sound. “I suppose not,” he agreed.

“And I doubt that even now I shall suddenly start.”

“Again, I suppose not.” Enjolras hesitated. “I have never given much thought to my soulmate, even to the idea in general. What good is a soulmate found only at death? My concern is with the rights of the living. Including the right to never find their soulmate if they do not wish.”

Grantaire’s eyes flew to his. “I would never dream—” he started, but Enjolras shook his head.

“I know,” he said softly. “And yet, there is a part of me that now hopes that I will not go to my death without hearing you say those words.”

He would never know what possessed him to say it – undoubtedly, the same instinct that had driven him to wake Grantaire in the first place, the same instinct that had stopped him from removing Grantaire from their meetings all these years, the same instinct that drew them together when they were the last two in the Musain late at night. It was that same instinct that made him painfully aware how close they were even then, and how little effort it would take to close that space and press his lips against Grantaire’s.

But he was saved from that instinct by Grantaire saying, quietly, “I am sorry.”

Enjolras blinked, confused by the apology. “What for?”

“That I will never speak those words.”

“Even if I were your soulmate, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to.” Grantaire gave Enjolras a small, sad smile, and the breath seemed to catch in Enjolras’s throat. “To utter the words that would sever us...if those are the last words that I am to speak to you, then I would rather be struck dumb than speak our last.”

This time, when Enjolras again felt the instinct to close the space between them, he did not fight it, leaning in to kiss Grantaire. Grantaire was frozen for a brief moment before melting against Enjolras, curling one hand in Enjolras’s shirt and pulling him even closer. Enjolras reached up to cup Grantaire’s cheek, kissing him desperately, the weight of the moment leaving him wishing he could stretch the kiss into infinity.

But all too soon, he knew he had to pull away, to end the moment, because he knew Grantaire would never have been able to bring himself to. “I love you,” Grantaire told him, his hand still balled in Enjolras’s shirt, and Enjolras covered his hand with his own, squeezing his hand gently.

“I know.”

“Will you do one more thing for me?” Enjolras did not answer, just looked at Grantaire expectantly, and Grantaire swallowed, hard, before asking, a little hoarsely, “Will you say them again to me?”

Enjolras knew instantly that he meant the words he had spoken earlier, the ones written on Grantaire’s skin. “Grantaire—” he started, the name sticking in his throat.

“Please.”

Enjolras released Grantaire’s hand. “I cannot,” he said softly. “They were needlessly cruel then, and unspeakably so now.”

Grantaire just lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps,” he said. “And yet, I am asking you to.”

Enjolras tilted his head, trying to read Grantaire’s expression. “Why?”

“Because hearing you speak those words again…I will go to my death with a smile. It is all I have ever wanted, to hear those words from you. And I beg of you the chance to hear them again.”

Again, Enjolras’s chest felt unbearably tight. “Grantaire—”

“I have been resigned to my fate for longer than you could ever know,” Grantaire told him, though there was no resignation in his expression. Just something as close to hope as Enjolras had ever seen there. “Will you not do me this last kindness?”

“Grantaire—”

Grantaire’s expression did not flicker. “One way or another, I die with this barricade. So I beg of you, let me die in peace knowing, for however brief, that you were mine.”

For the third time, Enjolras said his name, but this time, it was not to deny him. “Grantaire—” He could barely speak around the lump in his throat, but he knew he must. He owed Grantaire this much. “You are incapable of believing—” Grantaire’s eyelids fluttered closed and Enjolras could not help himself, reaching out to again touch Grantaire’s cheek, his fingers so pale against the flushed skin. “—of thinking, of willing, of living—” His voice broke, and Grantaire opened his eyes and reached up to lay his hand over Enjolras’s, turning his head to press a kiss, featherlight, against Enjolras’s palm. “—of dying.” 

They stayed like that for a long moment until Grantaire let go of Enjolras’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Now go. And if the Lord is kind, I will see when I wake.”

Enjolras bowed his head and swallowed, hard, before nodding, just once, and retreating from the Corinthe without speaking another word.

It was done.

And he had a battle to prepare for, one he hoped would make him forget how much, in that moment, he wished to hear Grantaire say the words marked on his own skin.

----------

It was fitting, in a twisted sort of way, that Enjolras found himself back there, not even twelve hours later, backed into a corner with the barrels of twelve guns aimed at him. 

They had offered to bandage his eyes, but Enjolras wished to stare down his death with what defiance he had remaining. He lifted his chin as the sergeant repeated his order, “Take aim!”

But then, another voice shouted from beyond them, a voice that Enjolras knew, a voice he had resigned himself to never hearing again: “Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”

There were no words that Enjolras could muster as Grantaire crossed the room to stand next to him, but he did not need any. 

His words to Grantaire would be his last. For whatever peace it might bring both of them.

“Finish up both at one blow,” Grantaire said to the sergeant before turning to Enjolras.

As their eyes met, Enjolras understood, finally. Romantic, his mother had called the words on his arm, because she had envisioned them said by a doting spouse at the end of a long life. But she could never have imagined how much more beautiful they would be when spoken by someone he had not realized until too late was the one person who could ever have been his soulmate, the one with whom he would die in service of the idea of freedom for all men.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire asked. The first, last and only time Grantaire had ever asked his permission. The only time he had ever needed to.

And Enjolras wordlessly pressed his hand with a smile.

[jetaime-jespere]

Under The Weather

Some pointless fluff that's been floating around my head for a few days. Also on ao3 🙂

It’s not the usual alarm clock that wakes her this time - the tauntingly peaceful melody that she now associates with being ousted from a dream every morning.

In fact, Emily is hardly awake. Her eyes are still sealed shut, she’s still nestled under the covers because the thought of moving is almost unbearable. Even in her sleep induced haze, the only thing she’s fully aware of is just how shitty she feels, like every part of her body has somehow teamed up against her in unison. What started last night as a subtle headache is now accompanied by a persistent rawness in the back of her throat. The same pain has crept in to settle behind her eyes, and now radiates around her head, like a pair of gnarled hands wrapped and clenched around her brain. But that isn’t the only thing - everything just hurts. Her limbs feel like lead, her throat is now on fire, lips cracked and chapped from the winter air. Her mouth is dry as dust as she grapples for the glass of water Aaron had left on her nightstand hours ago - something he’s done since they moved in together.

Cracking one eye open takes monumentally more effort than it should. The wind rattles against the windows, whistling through the bitterly cold February morning and Emily groans at the prospect of even moving from the safety of their warm bed. A glance at the clock tells her it’s 5:40. Aaron’s side is empty, the sheets cooled, but she can hear the steady pulse of the shower, see the steam curling out from under the door. The cloying pull of sleep is too consuming, the glass of water all but forgotten as Emily groans. The notion of having to get up in less than a half an hour is making her stomach roil in protest.

Instead, she burrows herself deeper into the blankets, wishing somehow this day would somehow restart itself. Her eyelids are too heavy to stay open, even though the looming reality of her alarm hovers over her, along with the daunting challenge of making it through the day. Emily remembers the stack of unfinished case reports left on her desk from yesterday, abandoned in the wake of remembering Ava’s ballet class just a few minutes too late to be early for once. That’s about the time the headache started, subtle enough to temporarily ignore as their daughter happily chattered away in the backseat, little legs kicking against the leather upholstered seat - a story about unicorns and fairies, one Emily could probably retell herself she’s heard it so many times. If only she knew then.

The next thing she’s aware of is Aaron bending down to kiss her awake, fresh from the shower and half dressed in an undershirt, his skin still damp as he murmurs good morning . The whiff of eucalyptus soap and his mouthwash only makes her dizzy as she all but pushes her husband away from her with an ill attempted protest against his affection. “Five more minutes,” she croaks. “S’tired.”

“Sweetheart?” Aaron questions even though he doesn’t have to. He’s no stranger to her indifference to early mornings, the way her arms wind around his neck to pull him close most days when he wakes her with the same kisses, the same sweet nothings in her ear. On the rare occasion when they have more time, he ends up back in bed with her, making the most of a few precious moments. Those mornings are his favorites - the ones where he gets to press her into the mattress, get her leg over his shoulder, seal his mouth against hers to muffle the moans he hasn’t grown tired of hearing even years after he first heard them. But this is different. He figures it out immediately, knuckles brushing against her flaming cheek, skin clammy under his touch.

“Hmmph?” Emily shrugs out from under his touch, the cool hand on her burning forehead a reminder of just how awful she feels. “Five more minutes and I’ll get up.”

Aaron laughs softly, already reaching for his phone on the dresser. “Not a chance.”

“I’ll be fine in a half hour.” It’s a futile attempt; Aaron knows her better than she knows herself by now. Emily doesn’t get sick often, maybe once every few years. But when she does, it hits hard and fast, rendering her inherently useless for a day or two, and they’re all a little thrown off kilter without her. Even though her eyes are closed she can practically see him making arrangements - school dropoff and pickup, soccer practice for Jack, ice skating lessons for Ava. It’s also a Wednesday, the one day a week he spends mostly in meetings as unit chief. It’s the day she picks up more slack around the house, handles the after school activities in addition to her own professional responsibilities. It’s a routine they’ve perfected through trial and error over time.

“You weren’t yourself last night,” he sinks down beside her, his weight dipping the mattress down as he pushes some hair from her face. “You barely touched your dinner. You fell asleep with the light on,” he adds pointedly, pressing his lips to his wife’s forehead for confirmation. “And you definitely have a fever.”

“Do not,” she argues. It’s becoming harder and harder to challenge him, a battle she knows she’ll ultimately lose. There’s no way he’ll let her out the door let alone into the BAU at this point. Despite the sweat that trickles down her back, her teeth chatter together.

Aaron wraps her into his arms, aware of how she melds against his chest as she seeks the warm comfort of his body. “Do too.” His tone is light, which only manages to frustrate her more. “And you’re staying home today. Don’t even try to argue with me.”

Emily attempts to pull away from his embrace. “I have a meeting too, you know. Jack has practice and Ava -”

“Has ice skating. I know, Sweetheart.” Aaron gently pushes her back down, tucking the blankets around her. “I know their schedule. And yours. We’ll manage.” But he’s already reaching for his phone, dialing a number he knows by heart.

“Who are you calling?” She asks weakly, succumbing to his insistence. The sky has lightened to a shade of dark blue instead of inky black, the first traces of the winter morning starting to peek through the curtains.

“I’m texting Garcia. If she can take Ava this afternoon, I can get Jack to soccer after my last meeting.”

Emily grumbles while he taps out a message as she runs through her day ahead. There are her own meetings, of course, a slew of chores around the house waiting when she gets home, all the little things that accumulate during the week without fail, over and over. Aaron can almost read her mind as he gets dressed, disappearing into the depths of their closet to pluck a suit from the rack on his side. “Things won’t implode without you, Em. We can survive one day.”

From her place in bed, Emily watches him dress, securing the sleeves of his dress shirt, the jacket stretching across his broad shoulders over the crisp fabric of his shirt. Some days, she can’t believe they’ve come this far. Seven years of marriage has brought its fair share of ups and downs, most recently an ill-timed miscarriage in the days before Christmas. She hadn’t been too far along - ten weeks - but December 23rd was spent at her doctor, Aaron’s hand wrapped around hers as the news was broken, their eyes glued to the ultrasound screen. They hadn’t been trying at all. It was a surprise neither of them expected, which only seemed to worsen the blow when it abruptly ended. Emily had been the picture of composed, smiling through her grief on Christmas Eve, distracted by Ava and Jack’s excitement, the endless mountain of gifts to smuggle from their closet under the tree, only to spend the early hours of Christmas morning crying in his arms until he rocked her to sleep. She closes her eyes, wills herself not to think of it. It’s still a little too soon.

When he’s fully dressed, traces of cologne lingering in the air, Aaron gathers a box of tissues and fills a glass of water, setting both down next to Emily. “I’ll bring you some toast before I leave. You need to eat something.”

“You need to wake -”

“I’m already -”

“Mommy?” The voice outside the door tells them at least one more Hotchner is already awake. Aaron drops a quick kiss on Emily’s head, frowning when he notes how warm she is. He makes a mental note to bring some ibuprofen with the toast and opens the door just a crack to find their daughter on the other side, fully dressed, not a hair out of place.

“Where’s Mommy?” He’s met with the round, concerned eyes that belong to Ava. Even at six, she could be Emily’s clone, with sleek dark locks and the same pale skin. Ava is precocious, sharp as a tack yet sensitive, hesitant to trust but loyal to a fault. Her arrival in the world had been dramatic, at one point downright terrifying for a few minutes, shoulder dystocia to blame. Aaron had turned ghostly pale as the doctors rattled off medical jargon he’d only ever seen dramatized on primetime television. Yet it was that same efficiency and urgency that ultimately brought their daughter safely into the world a short time later. The moment she was placed in his hands, Aaron was completely smitten, his world forever changed.

“Mommy isn’t feeling well, Ava.” Aaron explains with an abundance of patience, his tone soft and reassuring. In the days after Christmas, following the miscarriage, Ava had been confused when Aaron took Emily’s usual place at the new, massive dollhouse from Santa, doing his best to display the same enthusiasm his wife so effortlessly showed. He’d uttered the same words - Mommy isn't feeling well - when she protested, complaining about his doll handling skills and seeming inability to make their hair look half as good as Emily did. Even though his placations  held an entirely different meaning then, Ava questioned him relentlessly. Telling a version of the truth had been harder than he anticipated, for more reasons that one.

“Is Mommy okay?” Ava asks, persistent as ever.

“She’s fine, honey. Just the flu. Remember when you had it in Kindergarten? You got to stay home while Jack went to school. Mommy and I took turns staying home with you? You got to eat popsicles in bed and watch TV during the day?”

Ava nods, not fully convinced as she tries to poke her head further into their bedroom. “I guess.”

“That’s what Mommy has, honey. Grown-ups get sick too. So Daddy is going to drive you to school. Aunt Penelope is going to take you to ice skating lessons this afternoon.”

Ava squeals with delight at the mention of Garcia, clapping her tiny hands together, only to have the expression melt off her face seconds later. Then she frowns. “But Daddy,” she whispers slowly, her resemblance to Emily and similar mannerisms uncanny, as if profiling him even at the tender age of six. “You don’t know the Good Morning song.”

Aaron checks his watch and pinches the bridge of his nose as he peers into the hallway. Jack’s bedroom door is still firmly closed, indicating his son is most likely still sound asleep. Waking him is the next battle, one of his least favorite tasks as of late. “What song, Ava?” He sighs, not missing the fleeting touch of amusement that crosses Emily’s face from across the room, the softest of laughs. Even in her current state, pale and tired, clearly more than under the weather, Aaron thinks she’s stunning.

“Mommy and I always sing the Good Morning song on the way to school.” Ava folds her arms across her chest, tapping her foot against the floor. “If you don’t know the words -” Her dark eyes double in size, widening impossibly as she stubs her toe with disappointment. “How can you drive me to school?”

“Honey -”

“Mommy knows all the words.”

“Ava - “

“Daddy.” She challenges, sticking her lower lip out in a whiny pout. Aaron knows what’s ahead. Even though Ava has him completely wrapped around her tiny finger, their daughter absolutely adores her mother, never missing an opportunity to steal a few quiet moments together. He often finds Ava curled in Emily’s lap, listening to a story, or playing dress up with some of Emily’s old clothes. Aaron has caught a few misplaced tubes of lipstick hidden in her dress-up box, ones Emily thought she lost long ago. He’s seen the pictures she draws, the way Ava always draws Emily next to her in each one. It tugs on every single one of his heartstrings, every single time.

“Mommy will teach me,” he assures her, crouching down to her level, bringing her to lean on his knee. “Daddy will do his best to know all the words before I take you to school.” He ruffles Ava’s hair as she beams, seemingly appeased by his effort. “Can you be my special helper this morning and wake Jack for me?”

Her face brightens instantly, a mischievous grin spreading across her face at the thought of what she’s being asked to do - something that, most of the time, she’s actively told not to do. “Okay!”

Aaron grimaces slightly as Ava skips off down the hall. There’s a finite window of time until he’s left to deal with Jack’s morning moodiness, exacerbated by his sister’s surprise wakeup call. But it’s worth the few extra minutes he’ll get to spend with his wife. Emily is now fully awake, looking even more miserable than she had moments before.

“You’re on your own for the good morning song,” she rasps sarcastically. Her voice is hoarse, even as she tries to smile. “Couldn’t sing it for you if I tried.”

“I think I’m going to take her for donuts. Those strawberry frosted ones she loves?” He slips back in bed beside Emily, pulling her into his arms once again. “Distraction at its finest.”

“The ones I love,” Emily reminds him, swiping her thumb across his cheek. “Good luck.”

“Right. Hopefully she’ll forget all about it.” Then he remembers just who he’s talking about - a miniature version of the woman he somehow got lucky enough to call his wife, instantly realizing how wrong he is. He’s a goner; he won’t hear the end of this for days.

“I doubt it. But you can give it a try.” Emily snuggles into his chest, savoring their final few minutes of peace.

…

Winter sun streams through the windows, casting the bedroom in a mix of shadows and blinding light.

She isn’t sure how much time has passed - an hour could easily be three, maybe five. Sleep has consumed her, on and off all morning. Yet she’s uncomfortable, alternating between throwing the covers off and disappearing into them, unable to seek enough warmth as she reaches for one more blanket. Everything still hurts, and topped off by a congestion that settles deep in her lungs, rattles her chest with every cough. She almost feels worse now than she did earlier, if that’s even possible.

The house is quiet, so she hears the subtle rumbling of the garage opening, the soft creak of the door leading into the house. Emily smiles to herself - she’d recognize his footsteps anywhere as he makes his way through the living room. He’s undoubtedly picking up wayward shoes and toys along the way, most likely grumbling about the clutter. He’d never admit it (even if she knows it to be true) but it’s one of his favorite tasks. The mess is a reminder of what they’ve built over time, that sometimes things work out just as they were meant to. Even if it means their house will never be spotless.

She pries one eye open as he shoulders through the bedroom door, slipping his suit jacket off to drape over a chair. “You could have stayed at work.” Emily isn’t surprised at all. She knows him sell enough by now.

“I know.” And while Aaron is fully aware of that, there was never a chance he wasn’t going to come home to tend to her. He stayed at the BAU long enough to get things squared away, arranging plans for the kids, and delegating tasks as needed before making a hasty exit. And now, only a few hours later, he’s back. He checks her forehead, refreshes the glass of water on the nightstand and tosses some tissues into the trash. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Emily shifts to make room beside her. “Worse than before, if that’s possible.” She sighs a little when he wraps her into his embrace. Her head falls against his chest on its own accord. “Ava and Jack?”

“Garcia is taking Ava to ice skating. She’s taking her out for ice cream afterward.” He gets a hand in her hair, rocks her back and forth a little bit until she relaxes fully against him. Almost.

“What about dinner?” Emily mumbles, stifling a cough into her fist. It rattles within her chest, reverberating through her ribs. “She needs real dinner, Aaron.”

“I think she’ll live without vegetables for one night, Emily.”

She’s too tired to argue. “Jack?”

“Dave offered to take him to soccer,” Aaron says, patting her back through the last of the coughing fit and grappling for the water glass on the table. “It’s all taken care of.” His hands are soothing, gentle and strong against the sore, stiff muscles. “You sound terrible.”

Emily pointedly ignores him. “What about you?”

“I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day. Tomorrow too,” he adds with a wink, taking her hands in his own when she starts to object. “I’m making it my mission to get you better.” He shows her the package of popsicles he’d stopped for on the way home, tosses the bag away to the floor. “And I got some of these. Just for you.”

The soft laughter that comes from her is accompanied by yet another hacking cough. It’s the little things he does that are the most thoughtful - a pit stop to the grocery store in the middle of a work day is just one example. “Sounds like you have quite the job ahead of you.” But she’s eyeing the popsicles - it’s the first thing that’s sounded appealing all morning.

“You’re not an easy patient,” Aaron chides as he hands her a cherry flavored one, taking a lemon flavored for himself. “One of the worst I’ve ever dealt with, actually.” He flicks her nose lovingly.

“Is that so?” The cool chill of the frozen ice against her lips and throat is a temporary relief, a moment of reprieve. She doesn’t even notice when a little piece of it breaks off to leave a tiny red stain on the sheets. “You’re no picnic yourself, you know.”

It’s his turn to laugh, because she’s right. He’s just as stubborn, the art of rest and healing lost on them both. “I feel called out.”

“It’s because I’m right,” she quips. And she is.

Emily sleeps fitfully in his arms, only waking up once as the sun sets over the trees in the distance. When her eyes drift open, he has the television remote in one hand, the other anchoring her across his chest. “What time is it?” She mumbles, blinking furiously as her eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Close to five.” He kisses her, rocks her a little to wake her up. “You’ve been sleeping for hours.” Aaron sounds almost pleased that she finally got some solid rest. “I’m going to make you some soup. And don’t tell me I don’t have to.” He untangles himself from her, somehow without disturbing her comfort within their bed. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

His fingers brush across her cheek; she’s not as hot to the touch this time. Emily leans into his hand, curling her fingers around his wrist.

“Thank you for coming home.” She hardly sounds any better, certainly doesn’t feel it either. But having him there somehow makes it slightly more bearable, an unexpected silver lining to all of this. And the reverence in his eyes, the same one she sees every time he looks at her, confirms the fact that he’d do it without question. Another example of the unconditional love he’d promised years before when they exchanged vows in Dave’s backyard.

“There’s nowhere else I should be, Sweetheart.”

Four days later, Aaron wakes up with the same aching muscles and raw throat, barely able to keep his eyes open as a new week awaits them. Emily is only more than happy to return his favor.