#does that mean having to use the dreaded honey trees? yes.

[mokeonn]

Okay so, Kricketot is in the first route in Platinum and I am strongly considering a Bug Type single type playthrough and doing the normal type one for Soul Silver eventually

#there's SUCH good normal types in dpp like Blissey #but I can get Kricketot this early?? makes me consider what I said in the last tags #if not normal type I would do bug because I hate myself and love bugs #i didn't do a normal type name for the character so im gonna go all in witj bugs #does that mean having to use the dreaded honey trees? yes. #my new starter is gonna go dedelede-e-WOOOOOOOP #plus Soul Silver has Furret so like #my bugs will look so grand in contests :)

[weighty-ghosts]

‘Perpetual Force’ (wolfstar)

Perpetual Force, by weightyghosts

‘Sirius finds the hidden meaning of a hidden moon, and Remus finds the light to his darkness.’

Rating: teen

Word count: 2000

Pairing: Remus x Sirius

Published: April 1, 2021

Warnings: swearing, nightmares

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/30393084 

      The sound of a terrified gasp and muffled sob abruptly awoke Sirius in the middle of the night. He leapt out of bed, the stone floor freezing on his bare feet, as James and Peter popped their sleepy heads out of their drapes.

“What’s going on?” Peter rubbed his eyes, his voice gruff.

“Is some- someone dead or injured?” James asked around a large yawn.

Sirius ignored them as he rushed across the dark room to the bed opposite his. He drew aside the curtain, only enough for him to lean his upper body in, and saw Remus sitting up with his back against the headboard, one hand clutching at his sweaty hair, trying to calm his rapid breathing.

“Rem?” Sirius asked softly, “Are you alright?” He reached out to place a comforting hand on Remus’ shoulder, but Remus jerked away and scrambled to the other side of the bed.

“It’s nothing,” he choked out as he stood up and dashed away, “I’m fine. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

Sirius straightened and walked around the bed, as Remus firmly shut the bathroom door behind him. He hovered in the middle of the room, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before glancing back at Peter, who gave Sirius a shrug before disappearing behind his curtains.

“Go on,” James encouraged, then made a shooing motion with his hand when Sirius didn’t reply.

“What?” Sirius grumbled.

“We both know you’re going in there after him.”

“He’s upset, Prongs.”

“Yes, and I’m sure deep down he wants you to comfort him-”

“You mean someone. He wants someone to comfort him.”

“No, I very much mean you,” James insisted with a smirk that Sirius didn’t trust. “Just go, Pads. See- see you in the morning,” he yawned again and disappeared.

Sirius bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to figure out why James’ words left him feeling like he was missing something right in front of him, but he thought of Remus and decided to sort that out later.

He crept over to the bathroom and opened the door slowly. Cool air hit him and he turned to the window that had been thrown open. Remus was sitting on the sill, hugging his legs, moonlight the only thing illuminating his body. It was enough for Sirius to see that he was shivering.  

Remus sighed at the sound of Sirius shutting the door behind him, and pushed aside the fringe sticking to his damp forehead. “I’m fine, Sirius. You don’t need to check on me.”

“Oh, good,” Sirius retorted as he came closer, “I was actually hoping you’d check on me. See, I had a nasty nightmare and now I’m all shaky and sweaty and panicky and not accepting comfort from anyone.”

He sat across from the werewolf on the sill they had magically enlarged so that two people could sit comfortably, and three squished together, for smoking purposes.

Remus narrowed his eyes at him, then looked away. “Trust me, it’s nothing. Just a stupid dream.”

“Doesn’t seem stupid, Moony.”

Sirius almost missed Remus’ minute flinch at the nickname. “Another one about the wolf?” He guessed.

“No,” he murmured, “I mean, yes, sort of. But this was new.”

“Tell me,” Sirius replied softly, aching with the desire to take away Remus’ pain.

Remus studied his face for a moment, likely assessing how awake Sirius was and how far he would keep pushing Remus until he inevitably gave in. He huffed in defeat, then took a deep, wavering breath, and rested his chin on his knees as he spoke.

“We were in the forest,” he started in a low voice. “I could feel the moon rising and knew I was only a few minutes away from turning. You three were there- as Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail, I mean, and something felt...off. Padfoot was pacing, and whining a bit. You looked up at the sky, and when I did too, I realized... I couldn’t see the moon.”

Sirius frowned, but said nothing, as he watched Remus’ eyes flick over to the near-full moon stamped in the sky outside.

“I felt this sense of dread; I knew that this was bad-”

“How did you know?” Sirius interrupted.

“It’s a dream, Sirius. I don’t know how, but I just knew; if I didn’t find the moon, something bad would happen.”

“Alright, sorry, keep going.”

“We were pretty deep in the forest where the trees are thicker, so I started running in the direction of the castle, hoping to see the sky unobstructed as the trees thinned. All I could hear was this ringing in my ears and my heart beating faster and faster. My body was aching and starting to shake, you know how it does just before.” Remus glanced up, and Sirius hummed in acknowledgment.

“I made it to a large clearing,” Remus continued, “And I looked up at where I knew the moon should be...but the sky was empty. You’d think I’d be fucking happy, but I panicked. I ran around in circles, tried to climb trees, tried to find the bloody moon. And I couldn’t. I eventually collapsed; the wolf couldn’t get free and it was punishing me. It was the worst pain...”

“Fuck, Rem...”

“I couldn’t find the moon, Pads.” Remus put a hand over his face as he laughed without humour, the sound catching in his throat.

Sirius slid forward and put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he promised, “You’re okay, it wasn’t real. You won’t have to go through that kind of pain, alright?”

Remus shook his head back and forth, then sniffed loudly as he met Sirius’ eyes.

“I don’t think it was the pain that freaked me out so much.”

“What, then?” Sirius asked, sliding his hand down to hold onto Remus’ wrist when he hesitated. He tilted his head to tell Remus to keep going.

“I just don’t understand why I reacted like that… Why wasn’t I fucking ecstatic not to see the moon? All I want is for the moon to go away.”

“That’s just unreasonable, Remus, the tides would be all out of whack,” Sirius joked.

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitched up into a smile, but it didn’t last.

“I don’t get it, Pads,” he said dejectedly.

Sirius shrugged. “I think it makes sense.”  

Remus stared at him like he’d just said he prefers coffee over tea, or something else equally abhorrent.

“You know,” Sirius reflected, “The day before I went on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, I actually told my parents I didn’t want to go.”

“Why? Because they said you had to?”

“Maybe a little,” he chuckled. Remus knew him well enough to know that he would have refused his favourite ice cream just because his parents told him to eat it. “But no, I think it was more...fear. I was afraid.”

Remus tilted his head in a thoroughly adorable way. “Why would you be afraid of coming to Hogwarts? Didn’t you want a break from your parents?”

“I did,” he confirmed, “I wanted to get away from them. But it’s the most common fear in the world, isn’t it? Being afraid of the unknown? I was scared at home too, but at least I knew what to expect. I knew how my parents would react to anything I said or did. Coming here... I had no idea. What if I didn’t get sorted into Slytherin? Or worse, what if I did... What if my roommates hated me-”

“Not possible.”

“Yes it was! I know you didn’t like me at first.”

“You were a bit of a prick,” Remus conceded.

“I was a proper arse,” Sirius smirked unapologetically, drawing a small laugh from Remus. “It’s the unknown, Moony,” he continued more seriously, “As much as you hate what you go through every month, it’s been the one constant in your life for as long as you can remember. You know what to expect from it. There’s a lot changing in the world around us, and we only have a few months left of school; I think we’re all feeling the weight of it. It’s okay to be worried. But we’ll get through it, yeah?”

Remus didn’t reply, simply gazed at Sirius for a long while, before nodding thoughtfully. He turned his head to look out at the night sky, and Sirius was able to watch the moonlight on his beautiful face; the shadows under his eyes, his long lashes, the slope of his nose, the corners of his mouth still turned down in sadness.

Remus had long since stopped being angry at the moon, stopped glaring at it whenever it deigned to blemish the sky. He looked at it now in a somber resignation; how someone would observe the grave of a loved one long since passed.

Sirius realized he was still holding onto Remus, and quickly found it difficult to remember what he wanted to say.

When he did, he whispered, “Moony?”  

“Hm?”

“If you ever can’t find the moon, you can come find me.”

“What?” Remus turned to look at him. “Sirius-”

“No, listen,” he cut in, suddenly desperate to make Remus understand, “I know I’ve broken your trust before, but it will never happen again. I’ll always be there for you.”

Sirius slid his fingers from Remus’ wrist to his hand, holding it tight, as Remus’ eyes flicked across his face. “I’ll always be there,” Sirius urged, “The moon is the perpetual force in your life pulling you into the dark? Then I’ll be the perpetual force pulling you into the light.”

Remus just stared back at him, his eyes wide and glittering, his mouth open. Sirius waited for him to say something, but he didn’t.

Instead, he tugged Sirius’ hand, pulling him close as Remus leaned forward. Sirius’ mind froze like he’d been stupefied, but he managed to realize what was happening a second before it did, and he felt Remus’ lips press against his, gently, yet firmly.

Remus pulled back slightly, waiting for Sirius’ reaction.

“Did- did you just kiss me?” Sirius asked stupidly.

“Erm, yes?”

“Did you... mean to do that?”

“Yes?”

Remus bit his lip, and Sirius’ eyes were drawn to the mouth that had just been on his. There was a bead of saliva on Remus’ top lip. His hand felt warm and tingly from where they touched, though, really, it was nothing compared to the raging fire building inside him.

“Did you...want to do it again?”

“Yes,” Remus exhaled, his face lighting up with a grin that Sirius immediately surged forward to capture. Remus’ lips tasted like tea and honey and peppermint, and Sirius could tell he was quickly becoming addicted to it.

“Thank you,” Remus whispered after a divine moment.

“For kissing you?”

“For following me in here and comforting me.”

“I thought you were comforting me?”

“Ah is that what I’m doing?” Remus smirked. His face softened and he ran his thumb along Sirius’ palm. “You were wrong though, you know.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sirius dismissed. “About what?”

“You said the moon has been the only constant in my life for as long as I can remember. But that’s not true.”

He looked deep into Sirius’ eyes, and Sirius felt his heart stutter at the adoration in them. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, Pads. My love for you has been a constant in my life too.”

“Oh,” Sirius breathed. The words felt like sunlight washing over him, and he took a second to let the warmth seep into his bones. “Moony…” He brought a hand up to cup Remus’ cheek and tilted his face as their lips fit together, hoping to convey every feeling that was lost on his tongue into his touches.

“Me too, Moons,” he professed in between kisses, “As long as I can remember.”

The rest of the night was spent in each other's arms, as were the next nights for a long, long while.

*

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fluff #wolfstar first kiss #ficbyweightyghosts #marauders #marauders era #hurt/comfort #nightmares #nightmare comfort #fan fiction #Sirius x Remus #remus x sirius #moony #padfoot

[angelmavmurdock]

Our Little Secret: Part Eight - A.R.

LAST OF THE SERIES

Word count: Summary: 5 years later...

-

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF MURDER AND SEXUAL ASSAULT (basically everything Arvin and the preacher did in the movie is touched on).

-

5 years later

"Well, y/n, your application is outstanding. We'd love for you to work here." The headteacher spoke to me from across his desk.

"Really? Wow! Thank you so much!" I beamed.

"The new school term starts in August and the kids really need a well-taught, professional, young teacher who can help them grow as children. I think you're perfect for the job."

"Thank you so much, that means a lot. I can't wait to start."

Teaching. Teaching year 1. It was my dream to work with kids and now finally after 4 years of college I could do it.

I've been living in Cincinnati since I left high school 5 years ago. I needed to get out of that town as soon as I could. Everywhere I went it would remind me of Lenora...and Arvin.

I kept in touch with Emma, though. We still chatted at least a few times a month on the phone and she told me every time how much she missed Lenora and how much she missed Arvin. Though it was easier with Lenora because she knew what had happened to her - well, not fully - but she knew that she was gone. With Arvin, she didn't know why he was gone, what he was doing or had done and if he was still even alive. I didn't tell her about what Arvin told me on our last night. I promised him I wouldn't.

But every time I called her it was like I was being set back on my journey of grief and getting over him. I was with a lovely guy called William and we've been together since my last year of college. He didn't know about Lenora or Arvin or the Russell's.

But he did come with me to my father's funeral a few months ago.

Daddy had gotten worse and worse since being in New Coal Creek. We thought he was going to get better once we got him into hospital but it didn't make a difference. And when I moved to Cincinnati, I hardly ever saw him and Ma and I's row got in between Daddy and I's relationship.

So I went to his funeral feeling like the worst daughter on the planet. And I felt as if I was losing everyone I had ever truly loved.

Will was lovely and he worked in the same position Daddy used to work at. We had a house together and we lived there comfortably. It's much like how I grew up living. A big house with no one to fill it with. We didn't even have a dog or a cat because of his allergies. We were engaged to be married and he had bought me a very expensive and big diamond ring which was nice but I had no interest in.

Of course, I accepted. But as soon as he asked me the million dollar question, the first person that popped into my head was Arvin. And then Lenora. And then Daddy.

Wedding planning was very stressful when you don't have many friends or family around to help.

And after my meeting with the headteacher I was heading into town to find my wedding dress.

I was dreading it.

Ma was coming down to help and we'd meet at the place.

I thanked the headteacher and walked out excitedly, ready to start my teaching career. I got in my car and I drove into town. The closer I got, the worse I felt. I didn't want to get a wedding dress and I didn't want to get it with Ma either.

I parked outside of the dress shop and reluctantly got out. The shop was extravagant and elegant. I dreaded going inside. But my feet took me in as my brain lusted for home.

"y/n!" Ma exclaimed, shuffling up to me, already carrying dresses in her arms.

"Ma, hi." She nearly winded me as she embraced me.

I lightly put my hands around her but she tore away quickly.

"This place is just wonderful! I've already found a few you'd look great in!"

"Ma, I'd love if I was the one who would get to pick out my own weddin' dress." I raised a brow.

She sighed, "Fine. Yes, of course. Go into the changin' rooms and I'll follow."

I rolled my eyes and walked to one of the rooms where a consultant with a pearly white smile greeted me.

"Miss y/l/n, lovely to meet you. I'm Angela and I'll be helpin' you today! Are these the dresses you'd like to try?" She chirped, referring to the dresses in my mothers arms.

I sighed, "Yes."

"Great! Come on in."

-

I stood on the podium in front of the wall-length mirror with the fourth wedding dress on. It was a column dress that fell straight down with only a slight cinch at the waist. It had long sleeves and a high neck and lace covered the bodice. It was not my style.

"You look beautiful!" Ma complimented.

"I don't like it, Ma." I shook my head, twisting and turning to look at it.

"It's your fourth dress and you haven't liked any of them."

"They're just...not my style." I sighed.

Ma rolled her eyes and stood next to me, "It's not about your style. It's about looking gorgeous on your wedding day."

I furrowed my brows, "It's my wedding dress and it's my wedding. I want to love my dress."

"Well you are not the one paying for it." She brushed over my hips.

I felt rage bubble inside of me.

"Fine. We'll take this one then." I stated with a scoff and returned to the changing room in a huff.

-

"Okay, your fitting will be next month and that's when you'll get your dress home, alright?"

"Thank you." I smiled weakly at the consultant.

"You're welcome. Have a nice day!"

We waved goodbye and began walking out the shop. I placed my white gloves on and adjusted the white hat ornamented with a flower on my curled hair. I smoothed out my white and pale blue polka-dotted dress and adjusted the sky blue belt around my waist. Ma opened the door for me and I thanked her before leaving and hearing the click of my heels on the ground.

"y/n, I won't keep you long, but...you're a woman now. You're 23, you're getting married, you live away from home, you're getting a job. You're a woman. But just because you are older, does not mean I stop being your mother. I will always be your mother whether you like it or not and you have to treat me as such." Ma said, folding her arms over her red, floral tea dress.

I took a deep breath and looked at her.

"You took away my freedom when I was a teenager and because of that, I lost time with - not only Lenora - but Arvin, too. I don't know where he is now. No one does."

Just as I was about to talk about our last night I remembered she still didn't know I snuck out.

"I lost my best friend and the love of my life in the space of weeks and you kept me locked away until there was no one left. I'll never forgive you for that." I said, my head held high.

Ma took a few seconds to process the information and then nodded.

"I'm sorry you feel that way. I had no idea. I love you, y/n. I will always love you, alright?" She held my shoulders.

I swallowed and nodded, not looking at her.

"Congratulations on your new job, honey. I'll see you soon." She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek then turned and walked away.

I took a few deep breaths as I watched her, guilt and anger washing away gradually. Part of me didn't want to go home. I wanted to escape for a while. I didn't want to have to go back and sit alone in a huge house I didn't like and I didn't want to wait up for a phone call from Will. I wanted to be by myself. I needed to. I looked around and at my car before deciding I'd go into town for a while.

I left the car and stuffed the keys further into my handbag. I clicked down the pavement until I reached the main road of shops, leading to a lake and a park where families would walk and eat ice-cream.

It was summer, so the sun was out in full, the trees swaying in the warm breeze and the sound of a few buskers playing accompanied by the noise of town people roaming around filled the warm air.

I smiled and said good mornin' to people as I walked by, waving at a few kids and cooing at some babies. I'd never really spent much time in town. I was always working or at the house with Will. It felt good to be out and alone. I wandered around, looking in some shop windows and wishing for the dresses but deciding against it.

It wasn't until I passed a shop and briefly glanced in it that I actually stopped to look closely. I took a double take and stood in front of the window, looking up at the displayed mannequin. It was a white blouse paired with a white tennis skirt and blue ribbon tied around the neck. A fond grin grew on my face. It reminded me of high school. Though I never wore mine on my neck, I still wanted it. I never wore ribbons in my hair anymore.

I couldn't help myself but go in. I entered the seemingly quiet shop and found the nearest shop consultant.

"Hi! I love that ribbon you have on show, is it for sale?" I asked with a smile.

The woman looked almost confused, "It's a ribbon...it's for decoration?"

"Oh...well, I'd still love to buy it. Name a price." I smiled again.

She looked at me dumbfounded for a moment but then shook it off and walked to the mannequin. She untied the silk and walked back over with it, placing it into my hands.

"It's free." She smiled.

"Thank you so much. I love it." I grinned.

"Have a nice day, now."

"I will." I beamed, walking out the store.

I felt giddy with nostalgia and excitement as I pulled my hair back under my hat and tied it with the ribbon, giving it a delicate bow. I checked it in my compact mirror and smiled with joy. I felt closer to myself.

I continued walking down the road and then to the lake. I stood and leaned against the railing, watching the elegant swans float by, their white feathers contrasting beautifully against the dark blue of the water. I watched them for a while, probably for about 10 minutes before I felt a light tug on my dress.

I got a fright and looked down where a young girl was standing next to me. I immediately smiled with relief and stood back.

"Hello," I waved.

"You're very beautiful, ma'am." She complimented in a strong southern accent.

"Why thank you, Mrs." I grinned.

"Would you like some bread to feed the swans?" She offered, holding up a chunk of bread.

"I would love some. Thank you." I graciously accepted the bread, holding it in my gloved hands.

The girls' mother called her back. She looked up at me and waved.

"Bye!" She said, before running off to her mum.

I smiled and laughed a little before turning back to the swans. I broke a piece of bread off and threw it in the water. I threw some more pieces in and watched as they all swam to the food, fighting over who got what.

Once I was out of bread, I sighed, leaning against the railing by my forearms. I took in my surroundings. I looked to my left where children were playing with each other as parents stood or sat on benches, resting. A few elderly couples walked by, hand in hand, arm in arm, chatting about everything and nothing.

A girl on a pink bike caught my eye. She was gorgeous and sat atop the seat with joy and pride as she rode by. My eyes followed her as she rode behind me and kept going.

But my eyes shifted focus when she rode by someone.

Someone who looked eerily familiar.

He had brown, woven, checkered trousers on and a white dress shirt with sleeves that were rolled up to his elbows. Brown suspenders hung over his shoulders and a white vest peeked out from the unbuttoned shirt.

But the dark eyes with the brown, slicked back hair and the cigarette in his mouth gave him away.

He was already looking at me, however. Like he had been for hours. I turned slightly, feeling my heart beat rise as he threw his cigarette on the ground.

It can't be him. It's just a lookalike. It's because I've been thinking about him today. It's not him. He's not here.

He walked closer to me but stopped about 2 metres away, hands in pockets with his chest rising and falling as rapidly as mine.

I could feel my chest heave against my dress as I stared at him, trying to decipher if that was truly him or if I was just dreaming.

"y/n?" He finally said, unsure of whether I was who he thought I was.

"A-Arvin?" I whispered.

A smile began to grow on his face and I knew it was him. It was him. Arvin.

I dropped my handbag and ran towards him, throwing my arms around his neck a our bodies collided, nearly setting us back.

His arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me up, making my legs pop up. He still smelled the same and he still felt the same. He felt like home.

"I can't believe you're here." I whispered, feeling a tear fall down my face.

He placed me back on my feet and I looked at him, cupping his face with my hands. He held them, stroking my thumbs with a smile.

"Why are you here?" He asked softly.

"I-I live here. I have since...since high school." I gulped.

He raised his brows, "I've been here for four years, y/n."

My mouth dropped open, "What?!"

He grinned, his hands squeezing mine, "We've both been livin' here for four years but not ran into each other."

I stuttered, "Wh-what? How is that- oh my gosh." I laughed, bringing my hands away from his face.

"I can't believe you're here, Arvin." I gulped, my chin quivering slightly.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again." I bit my lip, trying to stop myself from crying in public.

"Hey, shh." He brought me into him, cradling my head against his chest.

"We're here. I'm here." He said softly.

-

We decided to walk around the park to catch up which seemed both amazing but alien at the same time. We were still us but we had changed so much.

"Still wearin' ribbons I see." He grinned.

I laughed, "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. I always loved them." He smiled.

I blushed and looked to the ground.

"So, why Cincinnati?" Arvin asked.

I sighed, "I couldn't live there anymore after school." I gulped.

"It was just too hard. And I got accepted into college here so I decided to move."

"You'll be finished school now, right?" Arvin queried.

"Yeah. I just finished and I actually just got a job today, so." I smiled.

"That's amazin'. I'm happy for you." He grinned.

"Thank you..."

We walked in silence for a little longer than I would have hoped. But he broke it again.

"Why're you in town today, then? Considering I spend every day here and I've never seen you leads me to believe you don't come here often." He chuckled.

I nodded, "Yeah, I never get the chance too. But I was uh...I was actually in town for a dress fitting." I coughed, looking down at the floor.

"Goin' somewhere nice?" He asked.

I scoffed a laugh and looked up at him, "My wedding."

He stared at me in surprise, eyes wide and mouth open, soaking in the information.

"Y-you're engaged?" He croaked.

I nodded, removing my left glove to show the sturdy ring that sat on my finger.

"W-wow. I mean...he must be rich if you got a ring like that." He swallowed, looking down at his shoes.

"I mean...yeah, I guess." I shrugged awkwardly, putting the glove back on.

"How long have you been-"

"Uh, since last year. We met in college. He was doin' finance and Daddy actually put in a good word for him and he got his old job."

"He got your daddy's old job?" Arvin repeated.

"Yeah...yeah once uh...once he passed, they needed someone to fill his shoes so." I gulped.

Arvin stopped, "Your Dad passed? When?"

I chewed the inside of my lip, "Earlier this year."

"y/n, I am so, so sorry." He placed a hand on my arm.

"No, don't be silly. It's fine. He just never got well after he took a turn in Coal Creek." I said, beginning to walk again.

"I remember how sick he was..."

My chest fluttered. It was as if our past was an alternate universe. Like we never really lived it. It was just a different version of ourselves that did. Because now, we were here and it didn't feel the same. Not completely.

"So...should I ask how you ended up here?" I asked cautiously.

He tilted his head from side to side as if trying to figure an answer out himself.

"I don't think you'd like the details." He stated, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette.

"Did you..." I stopped, looking around us before lowering my voice.

"Did you do what you implied you would?" I asked, looking into his seemingly innocent eyes.

He inhaled some smoke and then exhaled, turning away for my sake.

"I did what I implied." He stated simply.

My stomach turned. I kept chewing my lip with nervousness, looking into his eyes. He didn't seem like a killer. He wasn't a bad person. I knew him. I knew who he was. And a murderer was not in his description.

I wanted to know about it. About him. I needed to know. So, impulsively - a word I hadn't used since our last night in Coal Creek - I invited him back with me.

"Would you come home with me? I live 15 minutes out of town and I'd really like to talk but I don't think a public park is appropriate." I said in a hushed tone.

He thought about it before nodding, "Sure."

-

The drive to my house was a little awkward. The radio played at a low hum while we sat in near silence, only the sound of the wind and other cars passing by filling the air.

"Used to be me drivin' you everywhere." Arvin commented with a chuckle.

I smiled, "Oh, how the tables have turned."

He laughed and so did I, then we resumed our mutual silence.

When we got to Will and I's estate, I drove through the gates of the house to the driveway where at the top, a large house sat - much like the one in Coal Creek.

"Our drivin' might've changed but this certainly hasn't." Arvin sighed, almost as if he was disappointed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked with a raised brow.

He shrugged, "Feels all too familiar, that's all." He said before getting out the car.

I screwed my face up at his comment but decided to let it slide. I got out of the car and locked it before following Arvin who seemed as if he knew the place, up the steps of the porch.

"Is your fiancé home?" He asked the ground, hands in pockets.

I shook my head, "He's out of town for a weekend with work."

I stuck the key into the lock of the wide, white front door and opened it. I walked inside then held it open for Arvin.

He walked in and looked around, taking in his new surroundings.

The hallway was wide and white, only paintings filling the wall space and a large staircase to the left winded up to the next floor.

"Wow...I mean, you've done well for yourself." Arvin scoffed a laugh.

"Thank you." I smiled weakly, taking my hat from my head.

He looked up at the high ceilings, appreciating the chandelier that hung above the doorway.

"Come on through. Do you want tea? Coffee?" I offered, walking down the hallway and into the open kitchen/living room area while taking my gloves off.

He walked in behind me, looking around the new room he was in before following me into the kitchen.

"How about a scotch?" He asked with a smirk.

I smiled, "That'd be appropriate, I think."

I got the crystal decanter and two glasses from the tray that sat atop the kitchen table. I poured us two glasses and then handed Arvin one. I brought the decanter with us as we migrated to the couch.

I slipped my heels off before sitting down, my dress puffing and fanning out over my lap. Arvin sat opposite me, his ankle resting on his knee comfortably.

"So..." I started.

"So." He repeated.

"I think I might have more questions about you than you do about me." I smiled weakly.

He nodded, "Probably right."

I took a deep breath before asking any questions.

"Who got Lenora pregnant?" I asked.

I thought that would be a good starting point. It was what started everything.

"Reverend Teagardin. The new preacher that came to town." Arvin answered.

My eyes widened, "What?!"

"He took Lenora - and other girls - into the woods," Arvin began to explain.

He stared at the crystal in his hands and the liquid floating inside of it. He didn't once look up at me.

"He'd make them pray before they got started and he'd take advantage of them."

"Didn't he have-"

"A wife? Yeah. But he was abusin' her at home, too." He gulped.

"Oh my god. That's horrible." I sighed, my stomach feeling uneasy.

He finally looked up at me and I could feel his curiosity burn into me.

"Do you...do you still talk to Grandma?" He asked, his voice slightly shaky.

I smiled and nodded, "Yeah. I talked to her last week."

A slight smile grew on his face with relief, "How is she?"

"She's okay. She always talks about you and Lenora. Mostly you now, though. I mean, I never told her a thing about our last night and she still doesn't know about Lenora's pregnancy. She knows just as much as when you left."

He licked his teeth and nodded, "Thanks for keepin' in touch."

"Of course. I said I would, didn't I?" I grinned.

He nodded with a smile.

"So how about you? Livin' here in this big house with a big-shot fiance. Must be nice." He quirked his brow, taking a sip of his drink.

He was trying to pry something out of me, I could feel it.

"It's good. He takes care of me and we're happy." I stated.

"It's not boring?"

"No." I lied.

He tilted his head, "I can tell when you're lyin', y/n."

I scoffed, "You haven't seen me in five years and you think you can just come back here and tell me you know me so well? Don't start with that bullshit, Arvin."

He furrowed his brows, "Are you mad at me? What did I do?"

I rolled my eyes, "You don't know me, Arvin. So don't act like you do."

I sat my glass down and swiftly stood up from the couch. He did the same.

"I might not have seen you in years but I think I know you better than anyone on this planet. Am I right?" He asked, watching as I paced up and down in front of him.

I scoffed and shook my head.

"You're tellin' me that this guy- this guy - knows you better than I do?" Arvin lifted a picture of Will and I up to demonstrate.

"Yes. He does."

"Bullshit." He spat.

"You don't get to say shit like that Arvin. You know why?" I challenged, standing close to him with my hands on my hips.

"Why?" He retorted.

"Because you left! You left to murder someone! You'd have rather been a killer livin' with guilt for the rest of your life than to be with me." I shouted.

I didn't notice how close we were until he laughed and I could feel his familiar breath on my face.

"I had to do it. That preacher was no good. And neither was that cops sister and her dirt-bag husband." He snapped.

I blinked at him in confusion.

"Wh-what do you mean the cops sister and her husband?" I asked in a soft tone.

He looked away from me and gulped.

I gasped and held my hands over my mouth, "Did- did you-"

He grabbed and held my hands, "They were gonna kill me, y/n. They would take hitchhikers and murder them to take pictures with their dead bodies. I wasn't about to be the next one."

I widened my eyes, "They did what?!"

"And then I got caught out by the cop...his sister was the wife. He followed me to Knockemstiff and tried to shoot me with a shot gun. I had to, y/n. He was gonna kill me I-"

I could see the tears and the panic in his eyes. I just reached my hands up and wrapped them around his shoulders, bringing him into my arms. His face went into my neck and I could feel tears drip onto my skin. I threaded my fingers through his hair.

"I'm a bad person, y/n. I killed four people..." He sniffed.

"Arvin, look at me." I tugged him from my neck and cupped his cheeks.

"You are not a bad person. You were just caught up in some twisted shit and you had no other way. You are a good person, Arvin." I said sincerely, feeling tears spring into my own eyes.

"I lost you because of it, though I just- I can't-" He cried.

"I know." I sniffled, feeling a tear drip down my face.

I looked at him; teary, eyes swollen and red, complexion pale. I didn't know what else to do.

"You're a good person, Arvin." I said again, leaning up on my tip-toes to kiss his cheek.

He hummed at my touch and I kissed his other cheek, "You did nothin' wrong."

I went back to his right cheek and kissed it again like I needed to feel his skin on my lips once more.

Just as I went to kiss his other cheek, he leaned forward and caught my lips with his instead.

I gasped, pulling away from his body and looking at him, touching my fingers over my lips.

"I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. You're an engaged woman and I-"

I launched forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and crashing my lips to his. It took a second to make sure it was real. But as his hands slid effortlessly onto my waist, I knew.

"You're the love of my life, Arvin. You always have been and always will be." I whispered, pulling away briefly.

He stared into my eyes but didn't say a word. But I knew what he was thinking. He kissed me again, our lips moved over each other's with fervour and passion, the excitement and thrill of tasting each other again for the first time in years. In too long. He felt and tasted the same but more mature and wiser.

He pushed me back by my waist until my back hit the wall. I let out a moan of surprise and pleasure. He smirked against my lips before devouring me again. His tongue slipped easily into my mouth and I hummed, fully tasting him. My fingers ran through and tugged at his hair, and his hands ran up and down my sides and my back.

His touch felt nostalgic but euphoric and in the heat of the moment, everything was perfect.

"Your lips taste amazing," He said breathlessly between sloppy kisses.

"So do yours." I replied.

He wrapped his hands around my back and skilfully unzipped my dress. It fell to the floor in a pool around my ankles. I brought my hands to his shoulders as our kiss got heavier, teasing his suspenders before sliding them off his arms. I began unbuttoning his shirt in a hurried fashion as his lips started trailing down my jaw to my neck. I was finally able to push the fabric from his shoulders and then pulling his vest over his head.

And as his hands came down to my thighs to lift me up and around his torso, and as he carried me up and into my bedroom; I knew that he was it. He was the person I was destined to be with. He was the love of my life.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

5 years later

(Play ‘That Old Feeling’ by Doris Day now)

I placed the needle carefully onto the record and turned it up.

I walked through the house and got to the porch where I looked out and saw Arvin and Jack playing catch. I stood with a grin as my husband and 4 year old played enthusiastically - the old baseball still intact and very much in use.

I crouched down and placed the 2 year old who rested on my hip, onto the ground. She wobbled slightly but quickly got up and running. She made her way to the stairs which I quickly intervened and grabbed her hand to help her down onto the soil.

"Go get Daddy, Charlotte. Go!" I laughed, pointing to Arvin.

She squealed happily and ran towards her Dad, arms flailing clumsily as she sprinted. Arvin stopped the game of catch briefly as he saw his daughter coming towards him.

"Hey princess!" He grinned, crouching to his knees and grabbing his daughter.

He lifted her up and sat her on his knee, handing her the ball.

"Throw the ball to Jack, Charlotte!" Arvin prompted, pointing to the blonde haired boy who stood confidently.

She babbled a few words and then threw the ball onto the ground. At least she attempted. I whooped and clapped as I walked over.

"Good job, baby!" I praised in a baby voice.

Arvin stood up, letting Charlotte run around with her brother for a while, the dog joining them, enthusiastically bounding around them.

"Hey, handsome." I grinned as I reached Arvin.

"Hey, beautiful." He smiled.

He wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed me, tongue briefly slipping into my mouth. I hummed in surprise and pulled away.

"Careful, Arvin or you'll be makin' another one of those tonight." I giggled.

We stood side by side, an arm wrapped around each other's back as we watched Jack attempt to play catch with his sister.

"Why don't we make another one, then?" Arvin suggested.

I looked at him with raised brows, "If you want to push one out of your ass, then by all means let's do it."

He chuckled, "I'm serious, y/n."

I turned to face him and he wrapped his arms around my waist while I played with the bottom of his hair.

"Another baby girl or boy? With a dog?" I laughed.

"Yeah...I mean it's crazy but it's our crazy." He smirked.

"Hmm, depends how nice you treat me tonight." I bit my lip.

He held back a shit-eating grin, "Oh...you're so gettin' knocked up tonight."

I gasped, smacking his chest with a laugh.

"I love you." He smiled.

"I love you, too."

"Forever?" He quipped.

"And ever." I smiled.

And we meant it.

-

A/N: oh my god. that's the mini-series done! i loved writing for Arvin it was fun with the southern dialogue and the 60s time period! i hope you all enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing. If you'd like to request any one shots, head over to my instagram @tomholland1510 to request!

ALSO!! bonus points to anyone who understands the easter eggs in the kids' names! do they seem familiar? ;)

-

{Tags: @notandordinaryprincess96 @imagine-yourself-happy​}

#arvin russel #arvin russel x y/n #arvin russel fluff #arvin russel smut #arvin russel angst #arvin russel x reader #arvin russel mini series #mini series #tom holland #tom holland series #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland angst #tom holland fic #arvin russel fic #one shot #imagine #tom holland imagine #arvin russel imagine

[headcans-oneshots-and-stuff]

Favorite Human

Fandom: Teen Wolf Pairing: McCall!Pack x reader (platonic) Word count: 2.8k Summary: It’s Malia who first smells it - the bitter scent that had started to Infiltrate yours - and she, Lyida and Kira decide to find out what was wrong with you...  Warning: Nothing too much really, but it’s slightly Angsty I guess. Also the feels Requested by the amazing, patient and great anon: Hi~,Teen Wolf person again. Can i request a pack image where the reader is hiding something for the pack and the pack are all sort of catching on to it like chemosignals and behaviour. Eventually they kinda piece the bits together and figure it out. they all try to comfort you and help you get better. Something just along those lines.(They could be hiding selfharm stuff, family stuff or they like someone in the group or yeah, you can pick what your comfort writing for) Thank you have a nice day~

The California sun was beating down on Beacon Hills and its inhabitants, a feeling of peace and calm that was - by now - almost foreign in the city laid in the air and prompted the resident teenagers and young adults to enjoy a day away from school, stress and (for a very special group) life threatening situations. This particular group - the McCall pack, as they were known in the supernatural community of the city - decided to spend their free time on a very nice, but fairly unknown clearing in the beacon hill woods and for once being surrounded by these trees didn’t give them the vibe that one of them could probably die at any given moment. It was a rather nice change. “Uno,” Liam smiled as he slapped a +4 card onto the floor, making Mason groan and throw his head back. It was the third time in a row that Liam was winning and while it seemed to leave you completely cold it annoyed Mason to no end, but he couldn’t stop playing either until either you or him finally beat the wolf. While the three of you were sitting in your game circle, Malia, Lydia and Kira were lounging on a picnic blanket enjoying the sun and having their conversation. The only one who was sitting on the grass like a lost puppy was Stiles, phone in hand but seemingly not having the attention span to focus on it for more than five consecutive seconds. Originally he and Scott had been sitting there together talking about Lacrosse or girls or whatever the two of them talked about when they weren’t planning to save the city, but Scott had - after lots of pleading and begging on his betas part - disappeared into the direction of the city to buy some ice cream for everyone. “Y/N?” Liam shocked your shoulder and you had to shake your head to come back into reality and out of your thoughts. “Yes?” you looked at him with wide doe-eyes full of confusion. “It’s your turn.” “Oh, right, sorry, just lost in thoughts,” you smiled apologetically and shrugged before turning to your cards to think about your next move, not noticing how Liam and Mason exchanged a look. They had started to notice the change in your behaviour only recently. Your usual very cheery, always-seeing-the-best-in-everyone-and-everything self started to be stuck in your thoughts more often and your smile seemed just a little bit off lately. “Here you go,” you looked up again and put a +2 in front of Liam earning a quiet ‘Yessss’ from Mason at the prospect of finally beating his best friend, only to be sorely disappointed when a smirk immediately filled Liam’s face as he victoriously added his own - last - +2 card onto the pile, effectively winning the game and starting a rather useless discussion about whether the fact that the makers of Uno stated that putting a +2 on another +2 and making it a +4 wasn’t allowed counted anything. While Mason and Liam kept on blickering you pulled yourself up from the grass-floor and wandered over to the girls who welcomed you with kind smiles and made space for you on the blanket. As you sank down you were immediately pulled into Malias lap who hugged you into her and pressed her nose into your neck and y/h/l hair to smell you - a habit of hers that you had at first found more than disturbing but by now had gotten used to. In fact, the more time you spent with your not-quite-human friends and acquaintances, the more you noticed that they all had their own little versions of that, even though with Malia it was the most extreme since she was still the one running mostly on her basic instincts. At least that’s how Stiles explained it to you. He said that since you were logically seen the most vulnerable and ‘weak’ member of the pack their natural instincts where to protect and shield you from all dangers and make sure you are alright and - after your initial reaction of punching the hell out of Stiles’ shoulder in order to show him just how not-weak you were - you started registering it more and more. It was mostly very little things with Scott, Liam, Derek and in some situations (even though rarely) Peter like little hugs and giving you their clothes to scent you, pushing themselves in front of you in the face of even the most harmless of situations or the way they just sometimes randomly turned up at your house (this was mostly Scott, Liam and Malia though) to check if you’re okay even if they could just call. With Malia it was all that, but times ten in intensitivity. And the smelling. Malia herself wasn’t quite sure why, but she simply loved your natural scent. It always managed to calm her down. So you got used to her randomly smelling at you even if it did weird you out from time to time. Usually she would pull back after a few seconds, give you a happy smile and get back to what she was doing before like nothing happened, but this time when she drew back she looked at you displeased and confused. “Is something the matter?” you asked just as confused and now the other girls, who had gotten used to Malias antics and taken on the habit of just completely ignoring it in order not to get growled at, got curious as well and turned their attention towards you. “Something’s off,” Malia grumbled and scrunched her nose like she’s smelt something rotten. “Oi!” you scoffed and moved back a little, feign being offended, “Are you telling me I stink?” “No,” Malia sighed and rolled her eyes, “It’s not that, it’s just...your scent is- I don’t know how to put it really. Bitter? I think?” “What does that mean?” Lydia asked, her interest now seemingly spiked. “‘M not sure,” Malia shrugged and moved forward to take another good sniff at your hair, only for you to move your head back out of her reach and put your hands on her shoulders to keep her a distance away from you. “I think that’s quite enough,” you chuckled, but it sounded mechanical almost, “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t really think me smelling bitter means anything.” Noticing the way you held yourself defensive, something that you almost never did, all three of the girls wanted to investigate further, but you quickly moved off of Malia’s lap and stood up. “Oh look, there’s our ice cream,” you smiled as if nothing was happening and jogged over to your Alpha to help him. “This was weird, right? She’s acting weird, isn’t she?” Kira questioned and looked between the other two girls who nodded, “What’s that about?” “Not sure, but we gotta find out before the boys notice anything. Malia is bad enough already, but if the male wolfies find out we’ll have a real problem on our hands,” Lydia sighed and inspected you from afar. 

After then the three of them noticed it far more often, the way you held yourself changed and your smile seemed to lessen by the day. By the time you started to fold into yourself and Malia said that your smell was getting more bitter, to the extent that she could smell it above almost everything else surrounding you, they knew that it had gotten out of their hands. They had to involve the others as much as they dreaded their reactions. As they had predicted Scott, Liam and - surprisingly enough for a human - Stiles didn’t react kindly to it, immediately planning to confront you. But in a turn of events, their thirst for actions and the girls rational thinking evened each other out and they decided on an approach that was reluctant enough to not scare you away, while also - hopefully - pushing you to tell them what was wrong. They wanted to do it in an environment that you felt comfortable in so they decided to go to your place, but that meant that they couldn’t all come, since they didn’t want to overwhelm you either. So, after a long and exhausting discussion, they decided that Stiles would be the one who’d go in first to make sure everything was clear and then give the others a heads up to follow. The Pack was standing - as inconspicuous as it was possible for a group of five - on the other side of the street your house was in as Stiles was walking down your driveway, welcomed by a cute door plate that had obviously been made my a little child and he was pretty safe in his assumption that you had been the one who had made it when you were younger. After taking a breath of reassurance Stiles raised his hand and knocked on the door. You must have been near the door already, because not even ten second later the door was tipped open and you stared at him with tired eyes, in your alien Pajamas with messy hair. If Stiles had not known better he would have assumed you had tried to sleep. “Who is it Honey?” He heard the voice of your mother scream, but the usual sweet voice he was used to hearing from her was strained and mixed with annoyance. “Uhm...It’s Stiles! My friend from school, he was here last month to study for my english exam, you remember?” “Oh, yes,” your mother walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway, “Hello Stiles.” Stiles returned the greeting, but his thoughts were more occupied by the state of your mother. Her hair looked unwashed and even more messy than yours, obviously not because of sleep, but rather because she hadn’t brushed it in a while, there were red stains under her eyes, the skin around it dry and strained, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that she must have cried - a lot - and her blouse was wrinkled, which he knew from their previous meetings and what you had told him about her would usually be a no-go for her. “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” she smiled, but it was tight-lipped and obviously forced, but before she disappeared into the kitchen again she looked at you, “Y/N, make it fast please.” You just nodded and turned back to Stiles. “Hey,” he said again, a little bit uncertain now, the situation having thrown him off of the plan he had made in his head on the way from the pack to the door. “Hi,” you said and he had to admit that you were definitely your mothers daughter by the way your forced smile perfectly resembled hers. “I wanted to talk to you, uhm, we - I mean me and the pack by that, well it started with Lydia, Malia and Kira, but anyways - we noticed that you’ve been...how do I put this correctly- well, I guess you’ve been off more lately and so we’ve been worried, because usually you smile a lot and you always make unfunny jokes and all that and now you don’t so-” Stiles rambled and just let everything flow out at once, probably would have continued to do so if you hadn’t held up your hand to stop him. “Not-Not here, okay? I’ll answer your questions, but not here. Let’s take this outside, please,” you shut Stiles up and took his arm to lead him out of your house and onto your porch where you sat down on the stairs leading onto your front law. For a while there was silence as Stiles found himself unsure of what to do next, but he could basically feel the piercing stares of his friends on him. After a few seconds of contemplating he sat down beside you, while still keeping a little bit of distance - just to make sure he wasn’t too overwhelming. “So…” “Yeah, so…” “Why...have you been so off?” Stiles asked but honestly couldn’t help but cringe a bit at how completely un-smooth he sounded. “I- It’s-” you tried multiple approaches, but stopped yourself every time, only to sink your face into your hands and sigh, “I’m sorry.” You raised your face again and looked at Stiles and he could see the sadness, this slight sense of despair. “Hey, it’s okay, don’t rush yourself,” Stiles tried to comfort you, “If you can’t tell me that’s okay, we’re just all very worried about you. We want to make sure that you’re okay.” “No, it’s fine, I- I think I actually wanted to tell you all for a while, but- I don’t really know, it’s just been hard for me… My parent’s have been going through some rough patches for the last few months and now my dad - he,” you stopped again and hugged your arms around you, Stiles couldn’t help but notice the glistening of tears in your eyes, “-He moved out two weeks ago. I mean, sure there were signs, it wasn’t working well by all means, but moving out? That was pretty shocking for my mom and me.” By now the tears had started rolling down your face and Stiles couldn’t hold back anymore. He moved closer to you and laid his arm around your shoulder to pull you into him. It seemed that the pack couldn’t hold back anymore either, because only a few seconds either Lydia was kneeling in front of you holding your hands, the rest also finding positions around you - hoping to give you as much comfort as possible. You gave them a wet chuckle, even though your tears didn’t stop flowing. “I could’ve guessed that you’re not far. I’m sorry for being a mess.” “No, Don’t ever be sorry for feeling. We love you and that means that we’ll be there for you through the bad times just as we are in the good times,” Scott assured you and lovingly petted your head even though he knew that you always complained about how it made you feel like a little child or a puppy. “Thank you guys for being here - it’s just a lot right now. My mom is expecting me to be on her side, while my dad keeps expecting me to decide about where I’m going to live now. He wants me to move with him to New York into the city he grew up in, but I don't want to leave Beacon Hills. I have my whole life here, my school, you guys, my mom, literally everything, but I also don’t want to lose him- It’s just, I feel so torn and it seems like every choice I could take would be the wrong one,” you were full on sobbing at that point, but it was clear enough for your friends to understand you. “Hey, It’s okay,” Lydia tried to calm you down, “I know that this seems like an impossible choice, but I can assure you we will find a way. We’ve defeated some of the greatest evils that the world has seen and we were successful. We’ll be just as successful with this, okay?” You started nodding and for the first time in a while you were actually feeling just a little bit like yourself again, a sliver of home filling your heart at all your friends who were by your side and supporting you. “Lydia’s right,” Scott agreed. “There’s one thing I gotta ask though,” Liam started and before anyone else with a little more sense of sensibility could stop him asked: “Why didn’t you tell us before? I mean we’re you’re best friends ri-” At that moment Mason basically threw himself at him and put his hand in front of his mouth to shut him up. “You don’t have to answer that,” Kira assured you, but you just shook your head. “No, it’s fine, I get why he asked. I- I guess I just thought - it’s like Lydia said, we fight evil on a weekly base, we have to worry about so much more serious things than my stupid family drama.” “Now listen to me,” Lydia spoke up in her I-will-take-no-talkbacks-voice and looked at your sternly, “This is not stupid and it is by no means less imporant than anything else we do, okay? Maybe it’s not life-threatening or supernatural, but it is still hurting you and as friends we can’t let anything hurt our favorite human, can we now?” And in that moment everything was okay again - if only for just a few seconds - with your friends by your side and Stiles yelp of protest, because he insisted that he was at least Scott’s favorite human, - earning himself a look from Scott that told him that what Lydia said also applied to him - even made you laugh your normal laugh again. And so, when Malia finally got close enough to you with all your friends surrounding you to smell your scent, she found that your normal, sweet scent was finally returning again, and even though there was still a bitter undertone to it she now was sure that it would soon be back to her favorite scent again.

#Teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #McCall pack #mccallpack #mccall pack x reader #lydia martin #lydia martin x reader #liam dunbar #liam dunbar x reader #scott mccall #scott mccall x reader #stiles x reader #stiles stilinksi x reader #siles #stiles stilinski #mason #mason x reader #malia hale #malia #malia x reader #kira #kira x reader #fluff #angst

[daised-daisy]

My Star

Ship: Logince (Logan x Roman)

Summary: Logan’s dream of becoming an astronaut is going to come true in just two weeks. Roman wants to be excited for him, but it’s hard.

Word Count: 1,564

Warnings: human au, brief blood, concussion, most likely incorrect medical stuff

~

Ever since Logan Milgram was a young boy, his greatest wish was to be an astronaut. Every night he’d look at the night sky in wonder and curiosity, wanting more than anything to know what it would be like to be among the stars. He thought maybe he could catch one in a Tupperware holder and bring it home for his mother. You can imagine his disappointment when he found out stars only looked that small because of how very far away they were. Still, his yearning to go to space stayed strong. Logan studied hard in school, graduating as one of his year’s valedictorians. He went to college to get a degree in mathematics, and there he met the star he could keep for himself, his boyfriend, Roman Charming. Now, he was so close to his goal. He was almost there. He was a perfect height of six feet and one inch. He had over one thousand hours of jet pilot experience. He had 20/20 vision. He was scheduled to blast off on an eleven-month-long mission in just two weeks, and Logan was spending every free moment with his boyfriend, treasuring each second before they had to be apart.

Hand in hand, Logan and Roman walked along a trail through the forest in the late evening, the light of the full moon shining through the trees lighting their way. Roman was clinging to Logan’s arm, his head resting against it. Roman suddenly paused, forcing Logan to do the same. He followed Roman’s gaze to the starry sky above them. They had walked into a small clearing from the trees and could clearly see all the twinkling lights above them.

“That’s gonna be you up there soon,” Roman said, glancing up a Logan.

“Yeah,” Logan said, his voice quiet. As he continued to stare up at the sky, he heard a small whimper from beside him. He looked over and realized Roman had started crying. He frowned and pulled his arm from Roman’s grip, quickly wrapping both his arms around him instead. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, baby. You’ll be okay.” He brought one hand up to his cheek and wiped away his tears with his thumb.

“Will you?” Roman asked, his voice wavering as he looked back up at Logan. Logan stayed silent for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah,” he said. “I will. I promise.” He hugged Roman tighter. “And I’ll miss you every second that I’m away.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Roman said, pulling away. He smiled. “But… but I’ll also be happy knowing you’re living your dream.”

“Actually, about that—"

“Come on, let’s keep walking,” Roman said before Logan could finish. He turned and watched Roman walk away, a fond smile on his face and a hand in his pocket. He shook his head and started after him. There was plenty of more time to do what he’d planned, so he moved on. As he was catching up to Roman, he glanced up at the sky again, gasping when he saw a large chunk of rock falling from the cliff they were walking near.  

“Roman, watch out!” he shouted, dashing forward, passing Roman, and pulling him out of the way. Luckily, neither got hit by the rock, but as Logan was moving back, his head knocked against the cliff wall and he suddenly fell unconscious.

“Logan?!” Roman exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside his boyfriend and pulling his head into his lap. He gasped when he realized his hand was now covered in blood.

“I heard a loud crash. Is everything alright over here?” another hiker asked, running towards them. Roman shook his head, starting to cry.

“My boyfriend! He hit his head and he’s bleeding and now he’s unconscious!” Roman said, his eyes not leaving Logan. He heard a tearing sound, then saw two strong, hairy arms wrap a piece of cloth around Logan’s head. Roman looked up and realized the cloth had come from the stranger’s sleeve.

“Come on, let’s get him to the hospital. Call an ambulance to meet us at the entrance to the trail,” the hiker instructed, scooping Logan up like he was just a light strand of ribbon. Roman blinked a couple of times before processing what the hiker had said and getting out his phone.

~ ~ ~

“Thank you so much for helping us,” Roman said as he stood in the emergency room with the hiker that had helped him, waiting for news from the doctor.

“Not a problem,” the stranger said. “My name’s Patton, by the way.”

“Well, thank you, Patton. I’m Roman,” Roman said.

“Mr. Charming?” Roman spun around to see the doctor approaching him. “Your boyfriend should be waking up soon. You may go in to be there when he does.”

“Is he okay?” Roman asked.

“He has a concussion but should make a steady recovery. Unfortunately, there was some damage to the connection between his brain and his eyes, so he may wake up with blurry vision,” the doctor explained. Roman’s heart sunk.

“Blurry vision?” he repeated. “Will it be permanent? How bad will it be? Can it be fixed with laser eye surgery?” he asked rapidly.

“If he has it, it will be permanent. We cannot tell the severity until he wakes up,” the doctor told him. “Now, would you like to go to his room?” Roman nodded slowly, a feeling of dread bubbling up inside of him. He followed the doctor to Logan’s room and sat down in the chair next to his bed. He sniffled and hugged his and Logan’s coats. He stared worriedly at his lover until his eyes grew droopy and he began to doze off.

~ ~ ~

“Roman? Is that you?”

Roman’s head jerked up when he heard Logan’s voice. He lunged forward and took Logan’s hand into his, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m right here, baby,” he said. “Can you see me? Please tell me you can see me.” Logan squinted at him.

“Yes, but… you’re a little blurry. Behind you is very blurry,” Logan told him. Roman let out a sob. “What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I ruined your dream!” Roman said. “You’ll never be happy and it’s all my fault!”

“What do you mean? Roman, is this..?” Logan trailed off. Roman sobbed again and nodded.

“It’s permanent!” he said. “I’m so sorry, Logan! I ruined everything for you! I should’ve been paying attention, but I was too caught up in thinking about…” He stopped.

“Thinking about what?”

“Thinking about how much I wanted you to stay,” Roman admitted. “It was my own stupid selfishness!”

“Roman, please don’t cry,” Logan said.

“How can I not? You can’t be an astronaut anymore. You can’t live your dream,” Roman said, wiping his eyes.

“Roman, going to space may have been part of my ambitions, but you, Sunshine, you are my only dream,” Logan told him. “That’s why there was something I wanted to do tonight before I left earth. Now I guess I have a lot more time, but… I don’t think I can wait any longer. Where’s my coat?”

Roman had it in his lap underneath his. He sniffled and handed it to Logan. Logan smiled and searched through the pockets, eventually finding and pulling out a small black box.

“Roman Charming, from the moment I met you, you became my source of light in my darkest moments. You inspire and encourage me every day to keep pushing forward. I have no idea where I’d be without you but I sure as hell wouldn’t have managed to get this far. I want the rest of my life to be as wonderful as the past five years of knowing you have been. So, with that being said…” Logan opened the black box to reveal a golden, star-shaped ring. “Roman, my star, will you marry me?”

Roman slapped his hand over his mouth, his eyes filling up with a new wave of tears, these ones different than the previous.

“Yes!” he finally manages to squeak out. Logan slipped the ring onto his finger and pulled Roman onto the hospital bed, kissing him lovingly.

“I don’t have to say goodbye to you,” Logan laughed cheerfully after they pulled apart. “Oh my god, Roman, you have no idea—I had no idea how badly I wanted an excuse not to go.”

“R-really?” Roman asked. Logan nodded, then winced, his head hurting.

“Yes, really,” he said, kissing him again. “I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you. Not for that long.” He pressed another kiss to his lips. “If we weren’t in a hospital bed, I’d be doing so much more to you right now.” Roman giggled.

“Logan! Calm down, you’ve got a concussion,” Roman scolded playfully.

“Alright, alright,” Logan said, lying back. “I love you, Sunshine.”

“I love you too.”

Bonus:

Roman stood when he heard the front door opening. He rushed over to it, excited to see how Logan would look in his first pair of glasses. He grinned as soon as their eyes met. He looked positively adorable!

“Oh, Logan, honey, you look so handsome!” he said, clasping his hands together in front of his chest. Logan just stared at him. “Well, how do you like them?” He continued to stare. “Logan?”

“I almost forgot how beautiful you are,” Logan whispered. He stepped forward, grabbing Roman’s face in his hands and kissing him.

#logince #roman sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides #human au #daisy writing

[jafndaegur]

☕️ cafe date ☕️

Nothing says Fall as much as meeting the person you love at a cafe for good discussion and cozy ambiance! You are meeting Jumin at a local cafe: what do you both order and what do you talk about??

Leaaaaa! It's been so long, I'm so sorry😭 I save every one of your prompts, I absolutely adore them. I just...haven't been in a good place for writing lately. This one made me sooooo happy tho cause I play autumn cafe jazz o f t e n >w< this one got away from me""""""

My thumb rubs along the rim of my coffee mug, my foot tapping anxiously against the ground. I've talked to Jumin quite often over the period of my stay in Seoul, but this is my first time meeting him in person. I fix the pleats on my jumper and check my watch for the ump-teenth time. Thirty minutes early.

Right. May have jumped the gun on this one.

But my exchange program for school finishes in just a week, and this is my last chance to visit with him. He started off as a friend that I found on a marketing forum, someone who offered sound advice when it came to crowdsourcing and advertising—at the time he'd said his secretary normally handled such online affairs, but he'd stepped in for her for the week. After several days of chatter, slowly changing from work to less-work, we'd exchanged numbers.

Part of me wonders if he would be disappointed when we met. It didn't take long for me to realize that the Jumin I spoke to was more than likely C&R's own darling heir, Jumin Han. I mean, how many Jumins had secretaries?

It is just a hunch, but one I dread seeing the outcome to.

A waitress comes by my table, and I stumble past asking for a refill. She takes my mug and I presume she'll bring it back. Hopefully. Aghhh of course she will, that's why she asked. I bury my face in my hands and try not to release the sigh building. The anxiety is just too much. Maybe I should leave...

I happen to look outside for just a moment. My heart warms.

It's partly cloudy, a light mist grazing through the atmosphere. Colorful leaves dance through the air and sweep across the floor. The trees in this district are lovely, a vibrant array of crimson medallions wavering from the trees.

It'd be nice to share this view.

Sucking in my breath, I force myself to hold it together. I want to meet him.

My phone chimes.

Jumin (Han???): Let me know when you arrive.

I laugh anxiously.

Me: I'm already at a table! Must've had the time wrong, ahaha"""

It doesn't take long for the reply to come back quickly with a cheerful ping.

Jumin (Han???): I see. It is my assumption that your phone ringtone is on?

Me: Yes?

A light tap on my table scares me.

"Jaf?"

And there he is. His eyes are brilliant but his face is placid save for the gentle glint in his glance. I look from the gloved hand on my table up to the raven-haired man in a suit. He waves his phone, our text conversation on the screen.

"Jumin." I don't have to even ask.

He gives a light smile, and I decide then and there that my heart needs a limited exposure to him. I don't think I'd be able to handle it otherwise.

"P-please! Sit!" I manage to strangle out, patting the empty spot in front of me.

He chuckles then, it is a warm tenor to which he follows with an equally warm phrase of English. "Is this easier for you? You mentioned early on you're a transfer student from America."

I wave at him. "No no! I promise my Korean isn't normally this atrocious. Just...nervous."

He gives me an appraising glance, and his face grows just a bit colder. "I did not realize my presence may give you such unease."

"It's nothing like that!" I jump in quickly. "I'm just...horrible at meeting people. I'm awkward, and talk too quickly, and I have a funny accent—even in English—and just say too much all at once..."

Only then does the guarded glance slip away to something more bemused. His brow relaxes. "Apologies. I'm used to a more..."

"Special treatment?" I blurt out, before wincing.

He laughs this time. "Something along those lines."

The waitress stops by again, giving me a crazed look before giving me an even more bewildered lookover. I fidget in my seat before she moves on.

"I don't know how to start." I tell Jumin once I've settled a bit.

He takes his coffee cup and nods. "Then perhaps I could help. This cafe is particularly known for their hot coffees with little to no mixed or frozen beverages. It felt appropriate with the autumn weather."

"I noticed!" I get excited quickly. "I ordered a café au lait, with just the smallest bit of honey. It's very good."

"A good pick. I myself chose just a plain latte."

"Their coffee is so rich and robust! That sounds like an amazing choice."

"You enjoy strong coffee then after all." He seemed to sigh in relief. "I thought I had recalled from an earlier conversation but was prepared for the possibility I'd misunderstood."

"I love coffee, it's warm and comforting. And depending on the roast, there's so many different flavors." I giggle, finally feeling confident enough to meet his gaze. "Plus, being a writing major, I need all the help for all-nighters. My deadlines are no joke!"

Jumin rests his cheek against his palm. "A writing major? Now I understand your sources of research on the marketing forum. You are looking to advertise yourself and your work—correct?"

"Mm, it's a lot to do if you don't have an agent from the start. You gotta make yourself appealing to an audience," I lean back in my chair. "I joined the marketing forum based off a referral. I heard that it's a good place where businesses join together to share information. But that does leave me curious. Why would the director of C&R or even his secretary be on such a site? Surely not for advice?"

"Well-spoke advice is well-spoken advice, no matter where it comes from." He takes a sip of his drink. "However it is the interns for our company that use the site. My secretary oversees their research and helps guide them. She was on leave, hence my involvement."

"You'd step in?"

"I've been told that aiding her at work more would help raise office space morale."

I laugh. "Well that's very practical of you!"

"It's the practical solutions that often render the most fruitful of results."

I find that for some reason, my face warms up. "And was it? Fruitful, I mean."

"I believe so." Jumin smiles.

#mystic messenger #jumin han #mysme jumin han #mysme #jumin han x self insert oc???? idk what to call this ive never done it before #jaf answers #tumbles friends #this one was so fun to write i loved it!

[ginazmemeoir]

Mmkay so this is just a fic idea that was swirling in my head, based off the tale of Kacha and Devayani. hope you like it :D

tagging some : @gopikanyari @momo-all-the-way @carmen-riddle @taareginn @reddish-green-personality

@holding-infinity-and-a-book @aadyeah @weird-u @the-fault-in-our-inquilab @dragonfairy1231 @allegoriesinmediasres @mango-pickle

The afternoon sun poured through the trees. A breeze flowed through the forest, picking up pace and then lazing back, like a cat trying to chase bees. Kacha, Sharmishtha, Prabha and I had gathered near a brook. It was our favourite spot in Vrishaparva. There were no prying eyes, and devas did not interfere in asura territory so we were safe from them as well. Everything seemed a bit too bright and colourful whenever Kacha was around. He chalked it up to the fact that his mother was a yaksha, so he had a connection with the forests. I sighed as I admired him – his flowing shoulder length locks, his wide nose and high cheekbones, his smile, the way he talked with the cows, his biceps as he whirled around his lathi. “Quit ogling him and just go up to him already or you’re gonna end up alone in a pit” said Sharmishtha, elbowing me. “I don’t even know what you see in him. I hear the other asuras call him a ‘deva bastard’ and a ‘twink’.” “That’s because they’re jealous of him. No asura could match the way he looks, or the way he behaves” I reply, cutting off Prabha’s useless critiques.

The wind picks up pace once again, and Sharmishtha gets up chasing her dupatta. A blue lotus flutters and drops near my feet, and I pick it up. It shimmers as if dusted with moonshine, and its scent made the fullest of roses in bloom in spring smell like stale bread. Prabha put it along with the other flowers in my gajra, and said “Even Lakshmi wouldn’t look half as beautiful as you when she sees you like this” she laughs merrily. I push at her playfully, and that is when Kacha arrives there. He was mostly silent, listening, observing, so it made me feel as if the lotus was a drug when he said, “Devayani, can I have that lotus?”

I hastily pluck it from my hair and give it to him. Sharmishtha returned by then, leaves in her hair, and her torn dupatta in her hand. “It was stuck in a branch and I had to climb 6 feet to retrieve it.” Kacha was oblivious to her rant, and he kept looking at the flower, as if studying a complex problem. “Do you like it Devayani?” he asks. I stare at him, slack jawed, dumbfounded to reply for a minute. “Yes she does. Now Kacha why don’t you get her those flowers?” “After all aren’t you the one who brings flowers for her priceless gajras?” say Prabha and Sharmishtha in order, teasing Kacha. A blush creeps up his cheeks, as he replies, “Lady Devyani is my guru’s daughter, it is my duty to serve her.” What I wouldn’t give to hear those words, but spoken with love instead of reverence. “They grow near the river’s source, in a lake nearby. That is the only place you can find these blue lotuses.” Sharmishtha says. Determination fills Kacha’s eyes. Sometimes I do wonder if he lies about his half yaksha parentage, for there is certainly something… different about his eyes. “I will return by dusk with your cattle Lady Devyani.” He assures me, and leaves for the lotuses, getting his lathi for the trek up ahead. I don’t believe his promise at all. Twice he’s promised me before, and twice before have the other jealous asuras murdered him, and twice before has father resurrected him through the mrita-sanjeevani on my plea. I look behind him, hopeful for the love budding in his heart, and dreading for his safety.

Dusk creeps its way into the ashram. I stand at the gate, looking anxiously for any sign of Kacha, when the asuras, led by Atibala, arrive at the gates. They were clearly coming after making merry, and I could smell the scent of honey wine on them. “Guru Shukracharya, please come accept our obeisance” says an asura, slurring his words and giggling half way through. Father arrives, in his flowing white dhoti and beard, annoyed at the disturbance in his prayers to Shambhu. “Who is it at this late – oh Atibala! Come, it is always great to see an old student!” says father, as he invited Atibala and his companions. Maybe he wouldn’t greet them the same way if he knew they were the ones who had murdered his favourite disciple in cold blood twice. Or maybe he did know, but chose to ignore it. Atibala brings a pitcher and a goblet towards father and offers him wine. Father took the goblet and greedily inhaled the scent, swirling the vessel. An enthusiastic wine connoisseur, father downed the goblet in one gulp, remarking afterwards that it tasted different. Atibala attributed it to fanciful terms like the right serving temperature, touched father’s feet and left. Father soon after retired to his chambers, leaving me alone.

The sky is now dotted by stars, illuminated by the first rays of moonlight, and I start panicking. There is still no sign of Kacha. I rush towards father’s chambers and wake him up. “Father, Kacha hasn’t returned yet. Please do something!” I cry. Father immediately gets up, all hints of the sluggishness from the wine gone. He instructs me to light a lamp, and to wait outside. After what feels like eternity, but would have been a blink of an eye for him, he calls me in. His expression is gaunt, and his hands are trembling. “What happened father?” I ask, warily. “Kacha is no more.” he says, as if tired. “What?” I reply, shocked. “I SAID HE IS DEAD. HE WAS CUT DOWN BY ATIBALA AND HIS PARTY, AND THEN THE SON OF A BITCH BURNT HIM.” “Father, you are the only person in this universe who can revive the dead. Twice you have revived him at my behest, I vow father this is the last time I ask of you, please bring Kacha back.” I plead again, trying to calm father’s rage. He goes into a meditative trance again, but returns back quickly, this time even more shocked than last time. “Kacha is in me.” I am too stunned to even comprehend what he means. “Atibala mixed his ashes in my wine.” Father says, disgusted and horrified at himself, his students, and fate’s cruel turn.

Dread floods me. I cannot choose the man I love, about whose love I’m not even sure, over my father. Father, as if sensing my thoughts, says in a resigned tone, “Devyani, I can only resurrect Kacha on one condition. I will have to teach him the mrita-sanjeevani, which Kacha will then use to resurrect me back once he comes out of my body.” Father sounds like a defeated man. Obviously, such a heinous act by ones students was bound to leave a teacher like this. I kneel beside father’s bed, holding his hand, calming and healing him through my powers, as he starts chanting the mantra. Slowly, a faint light starts emitting from him. Kacha then emerges, making a sickening sound as he tore through father’s abdomen. Immediately he kneels down beside father, laying his hand on his chest, and utters the mantra. Father’s stomach seals up, and his breath returns to him as he opens his eyes. He still has that odd look of resignation on his face, and looks at me with – pity?

Today has been a lesson to me, a lesson that matters of the heart while shouldn’t be rushed, should certainly not be stayed, lest the heart’s wish never take wings. I can’t even bear the thought of losing Kacha again, not without telling him how I felt about him. “Kacha,” I start, as I move towards him “, I am in love with you. I love you like the dawn loves the sun, like the river loves the sea, like the clouds love-“ “Stop Devyani.” Kacha says, interrupting me midway. I fear what’s going to happen. Is he offended? Or does he not love me? “Devyani, I must return back.” Kacha says. “Where?” I ask him. Kacha had showed up on our door once, and each time I asked about his origin or parentage, he shied away. “Back to Amravati.” he replies. The deva capital? I look at father, who has instead chosen to look at the floor. I look back at Kacha.

I now realize the heartbreak that poets so fondly mention, as if stating the weather. How idiotic they are. Heartbreak wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even painful. It was draining. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. The man I had fallen for saw me as nothing more than a tool. All those times I caught him looking at me, or when he caught I, was a performance. His demeanour? What about his silent laugh? Was the way he blushed earlier today also a performance, part of an elaborate use to manipulate me? A thousand questions flood me, but only one sentence makes it out of my mouth – “You lied to me. You-you used me?” Tears blur my vision as I take a step back. “You are just a deva spy, and you used me.” Kacha stays silent, his shoulders hunched and head bent. “And you knew – you knew and you kept this a secret from me!” I whirl at father. He looks at me with tear stained eyes. “Devayani I-“ “Don’t you dare even take my name out of your filthy impure tongue!” I shout as I turn back to Kacha. He flinches at my tone, and I see the glistening tears on his face as well.

“You knew how I felt about you. You knew I loved you, and you knew I would get father to resurrect you each time you died. Had you told me your truth, I would’ve kept my distance, I would’ve stayed out of your way, I would’ve respected you for fighting for your faction, and yet. Yet you chose to manipulate me and my love, you conniving betraying lying cheating deva bastard!” Kacha looks taken aback at my words. I can feel my features contorting from my rage and pain. I can feel the hurt I’m causing, the way my tongue bleeds Kacha’s heart like he bled mine. I muster all my powers, and then I utter words that would cause Kacha the most suffering – “Kacha. You have seen my love so far, but now you will see the power of my hatred and my wrath. Kacha, I curse you to never be able to use the mrit-sanjeevani. I curse you to forget the knowledge to use the same mantra for which you have died and returned to the world thrice. Let the devas know that their spy failed.”

Kacha’s expression turns to stone. He bows to my father and touches his feet, and my father, the chivalrous, honourable man he is, blessed the man who almost killed him and broke his only child’s heart with a curt “May you emerge victorious in all future missions.”. Kacha then flies out of my house, and a blue lotus, with petals that shone like moonshine and fragrance that made the fullest of roses blooming in spring smell like stale bread, falls at my feet.

#kacha #devayani #devyani #kacha and devayani #kacha and devyani #hindu mythology #mythology #story time #vasu

[thebadchoicemachine]

Yall want some MYCT Magnus Archive Headcanons I may or may not draw? (Pt 1?)

I will try to include individual trigger warnings at the beginning of each explanation as much as I can think of. They may seem a little overboard but better safe than sorry. Remember, TMA is a horror podcast. 

(ALSO, EVERYTHING HERE IS /RP. EVEN WHEN I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT A ROLEPLAY VIDEO PLEASE KNOW I’M MAKING UP A CHARACTER BASED OFF THEIR CHANNEL AND AM NOT ACTUALLY ACCUSING THEM OF BEING A SERVANT TO A MALEVOLENT FEAR ENTITY.)

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Philza 

1. An End Avatar (TW, Numb/Apathetic Mindset)

He’s a reaper. An immortal. You only live once but life’s become, not meaningless, more like desaturated. He doesn’t care in a cheery “oh well” way. He’s pretty chill about it. He’s extremely chill about it. He is disturbingly chill about it. At first it seems great, he’s just a nice chill guy! No evil schemes or vicious plots. Just spending time with him seems to calm your nerves. And then you spend more time and you begin to understand why, things aren’t as important as you make them seem. You catastrophize a lot. Then a catastrophe happens and you’re not... upset. Why... why would you be? It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. It won’t in a hundred years and it doesn’t now. would end the same anyways. And then he starts to be less and less relatable. Why is he so happy? Why does he bother to go meet people and smile and eat or laugh or frown. You can’t belive you ever complained that he was so mild about everything, any amount is more than is worth. Why bother? Why... bother...

2. A Vast Avatar (TW, Heights?)

He just fucking tosses people into the sky instead of being upset with them. Do anything he doesn’t like? SWOOSH. It’s to the point it’s not even a malicious thing, it’s just routine. He gets up, goes to the store, picks up some groceries, sends a person who cut in line to a void of dusk with swirling black clouds where you fall so long you can’t tell if you’re flying up or down or left or right, maybe gets some mints, goes home, puts groceries away, does the dishes, etc. 

(the rest of the cast below the cut)

Tubbo

1. A Corruption Avatar (TW, Body Horror Surrounding Lungs, Swarming Insects, Implied Murder.) 

He has bees in his lungs and he loves them very much. If he ever gets something stuck in his throat or has water go down the wrong pipe he will FEAK OUT. He often has to cough up honey (and sometimes bees). It’s... a process. He just sits over a bucket or jar and hacks his little heart out. He sometimes saves the honey and offers it to people. Amazingly, his friends never take him up on the offer. Unsuspecting people who don’t know the.. supernatural origin of the honey find they have some... unpleasant side effects. (Bees. The side effect is bees. Specifically ones trying to fly down their throat.) Oh well, being a part of a hive isn’t for everyone. The really unfortunate ones make good fertilizer for his flowers, though! His lungs are literally a hive. If you tried to listen to his heartbeat you’d hear buzzing. He will sometimes hold flowers over his open mouth to let the bees get some easy pollon. He doesn’t usually actively seek out “prey” but when he is trying to feed on that good old fear he’ll act super sweet, too sweet, and then open his mouth and let the bees fly out. It’s very creepy but to him it’s just funny. (Also, all of the bees have names and he has a funeral for every single one that get’s killed.)

Quackity

1. A Spiral Avatar

I- I mean have you seen a single one of his videos?

2. A Stranger Avatar (TW, Unreality Depersonalization )

He mocks people as their own reflection, hopping from pond to mirror to camera to scream at them (sometimes literally) that they do not know who they are. It starts off subtle (Wasn’t your hair a bit longer? Weren’t your eyes a shade lighter? Did you always have that birthmark?”) but grows and changes until it gets to the point you stand in front of a mirror and every time you blink you look completely different. You feel your face, you look at your hands, but it’s no help. They change too fast. Your pictures change too, every single post on all your social media looks like different people posted it- wait... did you always have this platform? You don’t remember ever using it before. You have so many posts... none of them match up. You throw your phone away, noticing you never had the case on it. You turn to real photos for help but they are none. Of course not. You feel like just giving up as you shuffle through photo after photo, you don’t know what you really look like, so what? But then something catches your eye. A photo of you in the 5th grade concert. You don’t remember going to that school. You’ve never played an instrument, have you? Something screams yes and no at the same time. You throw the box down and grab your phone. You need to call someone. You pace throughout a house you recognize less and less searching for clues, reminders, as the phone rings. Your best friend answers. You throw the phone down again. You don’t have a best friend. You’ve never really been one for friends. No, that’s not true, you had a few really good ones but you’ve grown apart. No, that’s not true, you only have one real friend, your boyfriend. No, you don’t have a boyfriend, just a close friend. No, you have many friends just none that are close enough for this bullshit. You stop. No. No you don’t like swearing, do you? Do you? Who are you? Who are you? Your reflection laughs. It’s eating popcorn and making you do a stupid dance. What a bitch.

3. A Flesh Avatar (TW, Body Horror Surrounding Faces and Skin)

You’re a piece of meat, he’s a piece of meat, everyone’s meat. Like Chicken Nuggets.He’ll steal your face right off it’s skull and dance with one in each hand. He’ll put words in your mouth like you’re a puppet with bones. He’ll make you say the dumbest shit because it’s funny. Even when it’s obviously not YOU talking. 

Technoblade 

1.  A Hunt Avatar (TW, Stalking/Genocide) 

Many people have suggested a slaughter avatar but I don’t see it. Yeah, he kills (blood for the blood god and all that) but I don’t see it. The Slaughter is about the moment. The unplanned snap. The sudden outbursts. I don’t see that in techno. You know what I DO see that also involves quite a bit of bloodlust? The chase. The planning, the target, the unstoppable dread and panic that overtakes his victims once they realize who is after them. The power. Calculated genocide of victim after victim. The HUNT. My two pain points of evidence: His potato war videos, that time he took over the world, and his stalking speech to Quackity. Go watch an animatic of Technoblade chasing down Quackity and tell me he is not a Hunt Avatar. 

Wilbur

1. A Desolation Avatar (TW, Abuse/Torture)

Everything he touches burns and hurts. Sometimes it’s on purpose, sometimes on accident, but either way he’s caught up in enjoying the drama. I’m gonna be honest, my main inspiration was the Villainbur aesthetic but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. Look at nearly any of his 100 player videos; designed to create maximum pain for hs enjoyment. Even the Dream SMP where he was mostly a good guy and more tragic than anything else fits. Maybe that Villain Arc was his first dabble as an avatar of destruction and pain. Even making his own father kill him could have been along the lines of “how can I milk as much despair out of this as possible.”

TommyInnit

1. A Slaughter Avatar (TW, Straight Up Murder)

Now HERE is a character right up that slaughter’s alley. No thoughts, not plans, just unbridled passion and rage and violence. He just stabs people whenever he feels like it (which is often) sometimes just with sticks. Like a rabid raccoon just jumps straight at people’s faces out of nowhere, always starting shit and stoking fires to make people angry at each other. 

2. A Buried Avatar (TW, small tight spaces)

Tunnels and caves and sticks and spots. He’ll burry you under a mountain, he’ll lock you in a tree. Dirt man. His usual MO is trapping people under an avalanche of stones and rocks and rubble. Basically just lava casting your bones. Everything he makes is ugly but not just in a ”that’s literally a pile of rocks in the middle of the road” way in a bit of an indescribable “looking at that makes me feel like I’m breathing in straight gravel.” 

Bonus: Ranboo as a Dark Avatar/Victim. He is not a willing avatar like Jude or Helen, he’s more along the lines of Oliver and Jon.

#dream smp au #dsmp tma au

[honeybeesiness]

all of your writing has a very warm feeling to it, it's like actual honey for my soul, i love it! if i could, could i ask you for some century egg x reader headcanons, please? i hope you have a wonderful day!

i know this one took awhile but!! we don't talk about that!! i’ve been in a writing flunk for awhile; it happens a lot to me but i try my best to be consistent ;;‎. i just don’t want to let any of y’all down. ‎‎

and thank you very much! y’all are so nice, i– ‎‎‎

when i saw the word "despair" in century’s bio, i was like, "👁️👄👁️ junko enoshima" ‎

Dating Century Egg is like....

‎

....The transition from Winter to Spring. Due to his years of unwanted captivity, Century Egg has grown lonely. The corpse of his previous master wasn’t the most ideal company, so he would definitely cling to you. However, there is a bit of hesitance to it. The last person he deeply cared about trapped him in confinement for hundreds of years, so he would be worried that you might do the same when you die. Due to this fear, he is always reluctant to do much of anything with you. Even getting him to hold your hand can be a slow process, so please be patient with him. It might not seem like it, but he’s trying really hard to not be as skeptical as he is. This also means that Century Egg would be a better fit with someone who is kind and gentle rather than someone who is sharp-tongued and hotheaded. While he is not the type to break down and cry easily, he doesn’t want to be rushed and would prefer to take his time in getting both comfortable and used to you. That desire can also imply a sense of "never being ready"-ness, and what I mean by that is that Century Egg might inadvertently be continuously pushing off and delaying the end result by saying that he’s just not comfortable or "ready" yet. Like I mentioned before, it’s not just a slow process, but it can be tiring as well, especially since you never truly know when he’s fully adjusted to the world and you yet. While he might have forever, you certainly don’t, so you don’t want to waste the precious time you have waiting for something that might never arrive. But just know that Century Egg never means to push you away or postpone any sign of significant advancement. He’s just afraid, that’s all. ‎

....A breath of fresh air. Century Egg has an interesting perspective of the modern world, and that is because he’s viewing the time period through ancient eyes. Even though so much has changed between then and now, Century Egg is able to spot and point out areas that he remembers from his time accompanying Xuan Wu. He always has something interesting to tell you about each individual spot and will happily indulge you if you’re willing to listen. Century Egg also likes to buy you things and give you gifts! Since he’s not very used to customs of the modern era, he has a tendency to mimic what others are doing because that is most likely accurate in this time period. If he sees other couples giving gifts to one another, then he’ll do it too, but observing people’s behavior doesn’t necessarily give him all the information he needs. This means that he’ll buy you a lot more stuff than what is considered the normal amount, and those goodies will vary heavily since he’ll buy you anything that he thinks you might like regardless of whether you actually like it or not. It just shows how often he thinks of you, though! What Century Egg also does is pay attention to you when you’re out and about. If your gaze lingers longer on a cute shirt or the newest edition to your favorite book series, then he’ll catch on immediately and commit the item to memory so he can buy it for you when he’s able to. With that being said, Century Egg usually goes overboard with presents on your birthday or on Christmas (If you celebrate it, that is.). ‎

....Becoming human once again. Century Egg has a tendency to be robotic when it comes to his actions. He'll listen to every word you say without a single hint of doubt and he'll follow through with every instruction you give him. While this quality has its benefits (i.e. deliveries, housework, airship shipments), it can be frustrating. A part of being an individual means thinking and behaving for yourself rather than obediently following along to what you're told without any second thoughts, and Century Egg seems incapable of doing so— At least at the moment (And even though I mentioned above that Century Egg would have a lot of hesitance when doing things with you, that only applies to being intimate with you.). But like I mentioned above, his compliance can have his benefits. Even though he’ll do it without hesitation, Century Egg actually enjoys going out on deliveries for you and making sure that your restaurant is in ship-shape. To him, managing these sorts of things helps shave off some of the workload for you, because the last things he wants is for you to overwork yourself. It isn’t a very good feeling to see you stressed out or exhausted, so he’ll what he can to make sure you don’t end up that way. He’s reliable and responsible, so you’d be in good hands if he were to ever take up the reigns. Breaks are important, and you should always make sure to not bite off more than you can chew. ‎

....Spring’s first flower. Century Egg enjoys beautiful weather, and is perfectly content with sitting underneath the shade of a tree to stare at the clouds. He would be happier if you were with him, and if you decide to tag along sometime, the two of you could have a picnic! He’d very much like that, but if you decline, then that’s okay! Maybe next time. Contrary to his rather gloomy disposition, Century Egg’s favorite season is spring. It’s cool (but not too cool) and all the blooming flowers are really pretty to look at. He’ll take you on walks through public gardens, insist on planting flowers in your front or backyard, and he’ll buy you lots of bouquets too! Might want to get a few more vases while he’s in this springtime mindset! The flowers aren’t the only things he likes about spring, however. Like I mentioned above, he likes the cool weather that comes with it, but he also likes the rainbow of colors that this season provides. Being confined and being forced to view a limited palette of colors most of his life really makes him appreciate the beauty of the world a little more, and he would feel more inclined to not take life for granted. He’ll appreciate it while it lasts and, well, his lasts forever, so he has all the time in the world. This thought is also a gentle yet dreadful reminder that your time on earth is limited and that you won’t be able to spend forever with him no matter how much you want to. It’s unfortunate, yes, and inevitable as well, but instead of moping over it, Century Egg is intent on making your life as enjoyable and as exciting as possible. You don’t need to worry about a thing, because Century Egg’s got it handled. Your life is valuable, and so Century Egg will do as much as he can to protect it.

#x reader #food fantasy headcanons #food fantasy imagine #food fantasy x reader #food fantasy #food fantasy century egg #century egg #century egg x reader #fluff #food fantasy fluff #despair man 6000 #lonely bby #relationship imagines #imagines #headcanons #relationship headcanons #emo mans

[nevermindrussia]

Russian bear: a mascot with a lot of names

Not so long ago I've made a post about matryoshka. Now I guess it's time to speak of another specific Russian token.

The idea of this post came to me yesterday, when I walked down the street in Moscow and noticed some restaurant sign. It read: MISHKA VODKA BALALAIKA (just like that, in roman letters). I guess every English-speaking guest of it would get what vodka and balalaika are. But what is mishka? Or who is it?

If you Google it in Cyrillic — «мишка» — you will get as a translation "bear". Also this word with capital M is a form of Russian male name «Миша» [misha], which, in its turn, is a diminutive from «Михаил» [mikhail]. Does it mean that Russian name «Михаил» means "a bear"?

Both yes and no.

In fact, Михаил is just a Slavic form of "Michael". To understand how it had come about naming a bear so — let's see what is "bear" in Russian.

You might be surprised, but «медведь» [medved'] is not the original Russian word for bear. In old Russian a bear was called «бер» [ber] — just look, it sounds almost similar to "bear". This word now is not used at all, but we may see it in «берлога» [berloga] ("a bear's lair") — from «бер» and the common root «лог-/лож-/леж-», as in verbs «лежать», «положить» ("to lay"). So берлога is literally "a place where a bear lies".

But why was it necessary to find another word for bear, if we already had one? The point is in Russian folk belief, which says: some scary things shouldn't be called aloud by name, otherwise you may summon it. And a bear in old Russia was an extremely scary thing. A fierce, dangerous predator from which it is almost impossible to escape in the forest: for example, escaping from a pack of wolves, you may climb a tree, but it doesn't help you if you're chased by a bear — it just climbs after you.

So Russian people preferred not to call a bear it's real name. Instead of it, they've given it a «медведь» nickname — from «мёд» [myod]("honey") and «ведать» [vedat'] (an obsolete form of «знать» [znat'], "to know"): lit. "someone who knows where honey is" (for bears actually love honey and can find a wild bee hive by smell). Nowadays we see that people's trembling at a bear — "the ruler of the forest" — was strong enough to completely push out of language it's real name.

Then it all went even further. People started to call a bear a male human name «Миша», «Мишка», perhaps due to consonance with «медведь»; also respectfully it was given a full name «Михайло Потапыч» [Mikhailo Potapych]; also you may meet «Топтыгин» [toptygin] (a surname, from «топтать» or «топать» — "to stomp"). Also a synonym for «медведь» is «косолапый» [kosolapyi] ("a clubfoot one").

Time passed by, and it became not necessary for most people to go hunting and harvesting in the woods for living. So people's dread of meeting a wild bear started to fade out. Instead of it, for average person there was much more chance to see a tame bear with a troupe of скоморохи [skomorokhi] (wandering performers, actors and musicians). Such bears could do funny tricks, even dance to music, and didn't seem dangerous even to children.

So century by century, generation by generation, a bear from a deadly beast became a cute character of children's fairytales and rhymes. Such as a modern one:

Мишка косолапый По лесу идёт, Шишки собирает, Песенки поёт...

("A clumsy little bear walks through the woods, he collects pinecones and sings his little songs...")

Also since the middle if XVIII century in the Russian village named Bogorodskoe craftsmen have been creating wooden toys, the most popular of them was a figure of a bear and a man, able to hammer on anvil when moved.

And since the beginning of XX century teddy bears have been popular in Russia (as well as in USA and Europe).

Btw, the very first teddy bear (exactly that one, who was named after the president Theodore Roosevelt) was created in USA by family company of a Russian emigrant Morris Michtom, whose real name by coincidence was Михаил.

Nowadays we can see a good-humoured, peaceful and delicate bear character in a famous cartoon series «Маша и медведь», that is quite popular not in Russia only, but around the world.

So a Russian bear actually has many looks and names, everybody can choose one to one's own taste. As for me, I have a bear wearing ушанка and playing балалайка as my blog pic, because I make fun of all the cliches about Russia and the Russians :-) More fun — less hate!

That's all for today, thank you for your attention! Follow me and learn more curious facts of Russian language and culture.

#langblr #russia #russian language #russian langblr #bear #mascot #beast #teddy bear #russian culture #russian history

[mintaka14]

with credit to @lineith for this stunning artwork https://lineith.tumblr.com/post/641420491909988352/smooching-the-best-friend-as-one-does-a-sketch which is what I was visualising for Marinette’s pink wrap (and how cute are those two!!)

And with thanks to the LBSC crowd.

Coryphée

A Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction

By Mintaka14

Chapter Two – Pas de Caractére

 Marinette edged the door of the studio open on Monday morning for the company class, trying not to drop the bags and parcel she was juggling. She let out a startled squeak when a whirlwind of escaping curls and intense purpose enveloped her in an exuberant hug.

“Alya,” she protested. “Can you at least wait until I’ve put everything down?”

“Way to go, girl! You got the part!” Alya gave her a squeeze, and Marinette bobbled everything in her hands. One of the bags slid free and hit the floor. She handed the parcel to a dark-haired girl near the door before she could drop that too, and Mireille ripped it open with a cry of gratitude as a pair of ballet slippers spilled out.

“Marinette, you’re a lifesaver! It always comes apart when I try to sew anything”

“Well, they should hold now. I reinforced the ribbons, and your slippers will wear out before the binding does.”

“Never mind that. You got the Florine solo and Bluebird pas de deux with Adrien!” Alya continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, following Marinette to the low benches at the side of the huge studio. “And you’re- ooh, is that a new one you made?” she asked, noticing Marinette’s soft pink wrap and the blossoms embroidered down the sleeves. “That’s pretty.”

Behind her, an unwelcome voice chimed in, “It’s such a cute colour.” Marinette turned to face Lila Rossi, and the Italian girl reached out to touch Marinette’s sleeve before she could react. “And those little flowers are just too adorable. You can hardly tell that it’s handmade from a distance. I would have loved something like that when I was ten, and it’s a shame I’m too old for it now, or I would have asked you to make me one too,” Lila said in honeyed tones, flicking her auburn hair back over her shoulder.

“Adrien!” Alya swept on, ignoring the tension. Marinette wasn’t even sure she’d noticed it. “You’re partnering with Adrien.”

“Yes, congratulations,” Lila said, the sugar in her smile cut with acid. “I do hope it’s not going to be awkward for you, working with Adrien like that. Still, maybe he’s forgotten all about it by now.”

The room was filling up with chatter and the thwack of someone beating their pointe shoes into shape.

“It must be so hard, being partnered with the guy you have a crush on who turned you down like that,” Lila sympathised, and Marinette gritted her teeth.

“I’m over it.”

“Of course you are.” Lila patted her hand. “It’s just, there’s no shame in it if you feel like it’s too much. I know we’d all understand if you decided to step aside this season.”

Marinette took a deep, calming breath, and said, “Thank you, Lila, but I’ll be fine.”

“Of course she’ll be fine,” Alya struck in. “She’ll be better than fine. This is your chance to get Adrien to notice you,” she told Marinette in an excited stage whisper.

Marinette sighed, and slipped free to take a place at the barre. Above them, the enormous ring of lights threw shadows across the massive steel ribs of the dome that curved overhead, and the mirrors reflected dancers stretching, and stripping off thick socks and warm leggings, and pinning wayward hair back into place.

“He turned me down, remember?”

“But that was three years ago. You’ve barely dated anyone since then, and I know for a fact that none of those guys lasted beyond the third date. So if you’re not still hung up on Adrien, then what is it?”

And Marinette froze. The only thing she could think of worse than Alya thinking that she was still pining after Adrien was Alya finding out about Luka and how she felt about him. The schemes. The plots. The helping.

“I knew it!” Alya said triumphantly as Marinette remained silent. “You’re still into Adrien. So now’s your chance, girl! He’s had plenty of time to work out what he’s missing out on, and all that time rehearsing together, the rush of performing together, his hands all over you…” the other girl wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously, and Marinette groaned.

“Alya, I don’t-“

“Mlle Dupain-Cheng, Mlle Cesaire,” their instructor’s voice snapped from the door of the studio. “When you are quite finished gossiping, we are waiting on you to begin.”

“Yes, Madame,” Marinette whispered, and Alya suppressed a giggle, taking her place at the barre behind Marinette.

Fortunately, with Madame’s eyes on them and class to focus on, Alya wasn’t able to say anything more. Marinette had been friends with Alya since they’d both joined the Opera Ballet School, and Alya had been there through her searing crush on Adrien, helping her to come up with ways to get his attention. The possibility of a season and her first serious role fraught with romantic plans and schemes and plots filled Marinette with a sinking sense of dread.

As class finished, there was a general scramble for water bottles, and the occasional groan of someone peeling satin and nylon off the blisters on their feet. The floor was littered with dancers sprawled in ungainly positions of collapse as they took advantage of the brief break.

“Principals, solos,” the ballet mistress said in a commanding voice that carried over the bustle of a roomful of dancers all grabbing a quick snack and chattering like a tree full of birds. “Fifteen minutes, and then I need you in the studios downstairs. Ladies and gentlemen of the corps, I expect you back here promptly at twelve to begin choreography. We have a lot of work to do.”

Marinette got slowly to her feet, and Alya caught Marinette’s hand as she passed, giving her an unsubtle wink and a tilt of the head towards where Adrien was talking to Puss in Boots and one of the princes. He lifted his head just then, and met her eyes for a discomfited moment before he looked away quickly. Marinette just sighed and scooped up her bag, heading for the door.

As the soloists made their way into the smaller studio downstairs, Madame Viret turned a stern look on them.

“We have a lot of hard work ahead of us. Make sure you check your rehearsal schedule every morning, because it will change with little notice and I will not accept that as an excuse to not be here when we need you. Aurora, Prince Florimund, you’ll be next door today with the director,” she said, turning to the principals. “If you’re one of the soloists for the christening scene, join Master Novgorodsky. Everyone else, if you’re involved in the wedding in Act Three I want you here. Now, we begin.”

Madame gestured sharply to the fairies to take their place in the centre of the floor as she began to outline the choreography of the pas de quatre to them. Adrien made his way around the edge of the studio until he was standing next to Marinette. There was something a little hesitant about the smile he gave her.

“Hey, Marinette,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s been a while since we … talked.”

It had been three years of awkwardly avoiding each other in an environment where you really had to go to some effort to not talk to someone.

“It’s been a while,” Marinette agreed quietly. Adrien shuffled his feet.

“I wanted to… I hope… it’s not going to be a problem, dancing with me… I mean…”

Marinette turned to face him. “It’s fine, Adrien. It was a long time ago, and all forgotten now, if you can forgive me for putting you on the spot like that.” She gave an involuntary giggle. “And look! I can actually string two sentences together now. I think that’s a sign that I’ve moved on.”

Adrien chuckled, and the tension drained out of him. “Yeah, I didn’t have any clue that you even liked me until you asked me out.” He stiffened again, as if realising that he might have put his foot in it, but Marinette just gave him a tiny smile.

“I’m looking forward to partnering with you,” she said, and then Madame turned to glare at them so they subsided into silence until she called for the Bluebird and Princess Florine.

Marinette didn’t have time for any of her doubts, or for worrying about Adrien, over the next half an hour as Madame Viret walked them through an outline of the choreography that she wanted from them.

It was exhausting, but it went easier than Marinette had expected. When Madame directed her into a passé, she found Adrien exactly where she needed him to be for the pirouette en dehors that followed, anchoring her turn, and Marinette felt some of the last remaining tension fade away. Maybe this partnership could work. He certainly seemed to be good at reading what she was going to do, and his technique was solid, she knew. They could be professional.

“Let me see the bluebird lift,” Madame commanded, and Marinette waited just long enough to make sure that Adrien was ready before she threw herself fearlessly into the lift and felt him sweep her up. Her hips landed across his shoulder, exactly where they were meant to be, and her back arched as her arms fluttered upwards with elegant precision.

She was vaguely aware of Madame’s rare and sharp “Good!” and the satisfaction of a difficult move achieved, then she felt the minute shift of Adrien’s posture, and she rolled gracefully with the movement as his hands guided her down and set her on the floor again.

“Lovely, Marinette,” Madame conceded. “An excellent beginning. Adrien, make sure you rotate and lock your arm more.”

She moved on, and Marinette gave her new partner a brilliant smile. This could really work.

Adrien was staring back at her with wide green eyes and a slightly dazed look on his face, and then he beamed back with that perfect smile that had started her crush in the first place.

“Wow, Marinette,” he said. “I knew you were good, but that was amazing! I’ve never had a partner who mastered a lift like that first time before. We make a great team.”

~~~~~

“So, how did the first day go? Didn’t get dropped on your head?” Luka asked as the stage doors closed behind Marinette. He’d been leaning against the wall next to his violin case, a hoodie tied around his waist and his black painted nails drumming against his torn denim jeans in time to some tune in his head, but he looked up as she came towards him and smiled, and Marinette’s heart gave a familiar stutter. Luka scooped up his violin and they fell into step together, heading towards the metro.

Marinette shook her head, and grinned up at him. “Adrien was actually a pretty good partner. It was exhausting, but so far so good. On the other hand, I think Lila’s been trying to spread rumours that I must have slept with someone to get this part.”

“What?”

She laughed. “It’d be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Have you met any of the people involved in the casting decisions?”

She looked up, and Luka was frowning a little, lost in some thought that didn’t seem to appeal to him. As soon as he noticed her watching him he gave a wry half-smile.

“She sounds like a real piece of work,” he said, and Marinette gave a snort of laughter.

“Is she any good?” Luka asked. “I’ve never seen her perform.”

“Ye-s,” she admitted slowly. “She wouldn’t be in the Opera Ballet Company if she wasn’t, but– “ Marinette scrunched up her nose, trying to work out how to put it into words. “There are things you need if you’re going to make it in ballet, especially if you want to become an étoile one day. You need the body for it, you need to have the heart to work at it and give your all to it, and you need to be tough enough to push on, no matter how many Lilas try to stop you.”

There was a soft snort of laughter from beside her.

“And Lila has all those things,” Marinette went on. “But something I read once said that a dancer’s mind is the thing that make the difference, and that’s why Lila’s never going to quite make it. She doesn’t have nice thoughts. There’s a hardness in her dancing that’s going to get in her way and stop her from reaching the top, no matter how much she schemes,” she summed up with an incisive sniff.

Luka was giving her that warm smile that she loved so much.

“Then you must have the most beautiful thoughts in the world,” he told her. “I always love watching you dance. There’s an absolute grace in you that can’t help but inspire the music in me. You make me think of warm blue skies and perfect mornings, and I can see that in everything you do, not just your dancing. I can see that creativity and passion and grace that you bring to everything you care about.”

Marinette suddenly felt as if he’d stolen the air from her lungs.

“Luka!” she protested faintly, and his smile grew wider.

She was almost relieved that they’d reached the bakery as the fire in her cheeks threatened to overwhelm her. At the door of the bakery, Marinette asked, “Are you coming in for dinner?” but Luka shook his head.

“I need to get home, but I’ll swing by to pick you up in the morning if you want the company. What time do you have to be at the Garnier?”

“I’ve got class at ten, but I thought you didn’t have to be there til after lunch?”

Luka just gave a shrug and leaned down to drop a friendly kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll be here at quarter past nine,” he told her, and lifted his hand in a wave as he strode away.

The next morning, Marinette was still up on her balcony with the remains of her breakfast on the little table behind her when she heard a musical whistle drift up from the street below. She broke off the stretch that she had started, and leaned out between the pots of geraniums along the balcony railing as Luka waved up at her. He slung his violin case over his shoulder and gave her a warm smile.

“Ready to escape from your tower, Princess Florine?”

“Should I try and fly down?” she called back to him, and his smile grew wider.

“I’ll catch you if you want to try.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’ll be down in a minute.” She hurried down through her bedroom, snatching up her bag and the lunch that her mother had left for her on the way. The cafeteria food was alright in a pinch, but it couldn’t beat her mother’s cooking.

Luka was waiting for her on the street, and they fell into step on the way to the station. For once, the commute to the Palais Garnier felt too short, and Marinette let out a faint sigh as the building loomed into view. They’d just reached the stage doors, and Luka was holding one open for her when a voice hailed her from the other side of the courtyard.

“Marinette!” Adrien called, loping towards them eagerly. He was every girl’s dream, with his charming smile and dancer’s lean body, and there was a time when Marinette would have been reduced to a babbling mess by his attention. Luka shot the blond boy an enigmatic look, but didn’t say anything.

“I was hoping to catch up with you.” He finally seemed to notice Luka. “Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s all good,” Luka said imperturbably, waiting until Adrien had joined them inside before he let the door swing closed. “It’s Adrien, isn’t it? Marinette’s talked about you. She said you were partnering her this season.”

Adrien’s smile was warm. “Yeah, I’m very lucky,” he said sincerely. “She’s an incredible dancer.”

Luka’s smile was a little harder to read. “She is. She also plays a mean game of Ultimate Mecha Strike.”

Adrien blinked at him in confusion. They reached the staircase leading up to the studios, and Luka stopped, tilting his head towards the corridor that ran underneath it.

“I’m heading this way. Nice to meet you, Adrien.” His gaze settled on Marinette for a moment. “See you later, Marinette.”

Before Marinette could protest, he’d already turned and was striding away, his head bent and lost in some thought or strain of music.

Adrien was watching Luka with a tiny frown that looked odd on his normally sunny features.

“Was that your boyfriend?”

There had never been much chance of that. Once upon a time, when she was barely fourteen and he was a romantic, sensitive sixteen year old, he’d sort-of confessed to her … you’re as clear as a music note, as sincere as a melody, you’re the song in my head… She’d been overwhelmed, and she’d panicked, but once she’d been ready to face Luka again he’d never said anything since to suggest that it had been anything more than a fleeting moment of poetry. He’d dated other people over the years, and she’d had her brief relationships, and he’d never changed the way he treated her. Marinette suspected that Luka had completely forgotten he’d ever said those beautiful things to her, although that was when he’d started calling her melody.

“No,” Marinette said, suppressing a small sigh. “Luka and I have been friends since we were little, Luka’s sister too. I was at school with Juleka before I got into the Opera Ballet School. Luka’s at the Conservatory, and he plays with the Company orchestra from time to time.”

Adrien’s eyebrow lifted at that. “Impressive. Maybe that’s where I know him from.”

They climbed another floor in silence, but Marinette was aware of Adrien shooting glances at her. He seemd to be almost jittering with a nervous energy now that was making her nervous in turn.

“A friend of mine is having a party on Saturday. You should come,” he said abruptly, and Marinette stumbled on the steps, catching herself on the stair rail. What was going on here? He gave her that charming, hopeful smile of his. “It’d be fun, and it’d be nice to get to spend a bit of time together away from the studio. Get to know each other, seeing we’re going to be working together.”

“I… have plans…” she said uncertainly.

“It’s at Le Grand Paris,” he coaxed, and that smile grew brighter. “Just come for a little while. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

They were at the door of the studio, and suddenly it seemed like everyone was looking at her.

“Saturday,” he repeated, as she tried to find her voice under the weight of all those stares. She made a strangled noise, her shoulders curling in embarrassment. She could see Lila glaring daggers at her, and Alya’s cheshire grin.

“I can’t,” she sputtered at his back as he walked away.

She wasn’t wasting a precious Saturday night on a party full of strangers at the Grand Paris hotel, no matter how bright Adrien’s smile was, and Saturday found her curled up on Juleka’s bed while Juleka frowned and carefully painted pink spots onto Marinette’s nails and Luka ran through a quick set of scales on his violin in the background. Marinette watched as Luka shook out his hand and resettled the chin rest.

“Soooo… Adrien, huh?” Juleka drawled.

“Hmm?” Marinette said absently.

“Adrien,” Juleka repeated, shooting a look at her brother. Luka must have told her about meeting Adrien at the Garnier, and Juleka didn’t sound thrilled about it, but then she’d endured enough gushing paeans all those years ago in praise of Adrien’s smile, his hair, his kindness, his smile, his perfect arabesque, his smile… Marinette buried her face in her hands and groaned.

“Careful!” Juleka yanked her still wet hand down. “I don’t want to have to do that all over again.”

“That was years ago,” Marinette whined. “And he turned me down.”

“Are you going to try and change his mind, now that you’re partners?” Juleka pushed.

“No!” Marinette flashed a quick glance at Luka as he frowned and adjusted one of the tuning pegs, and she glared at Juleka, holding her friend’s gaze in a silent message. “And you know why.”

Juleka rolled her eyes, but mercifully didn’t say anything further.

Marinette didn’t think that Luka had been paying attention to them, but later when Juleka left the room to answer Rose’s call he paused in the middle of the adagio he’d been playing and said quietly, “You know she’d come round if you got together with Adrien, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing to come around to,” Marinette grumbled. Luka was watching her with those too knowing blue eyes, and she wondered what he was seeing in her face. When she shifted uncomfortably, he dropped his gaze to the violin in his hands.

But he didn’t say anything further about Adrien when he walked her home much later, and he was there at the bakery door on Monday morning when she left for the Garnier, with a smile for her and a proffered earbud as they walked.

Class was gruelling that day, and Marinette didn’t have much time or energy left to worry about what Luka had seen. As soon as class finished, she stretched her aching muscles out on the wooden floor with a groan, and closed her eyes. Out in the hallway, Marinette could hear the noise of approaching voices and laughter, but she didn’t open her eyes until a familiar deep voice said just above her, “Hey there, Princess Florine. They’re working you hard, I see.”

Her eyes flew open to look up into Luka’s amused gaze and warm smile, and she sat up in a hurry, scrambling to her feet. His hands steadied her as she threw her arms around him.

“Luka! What are you doing here?”

“There’s a welcome.” He wasn’t the only musician who had found their way into the studio, and a few of the ballet dancers who were dating members of the company orchestra were busy with very public displays of affection.

“I might think you’re not happy to see me,” Luka teased.

Marinette pulled back to stick her tongue out at him, and found Alya at her elbow, eyeing Luka with interest.

“I didn’t know you knew one of the musicians. Marinette, why didn’t you tell me about your gorgeous friend here?”

Marinette closed her eyes, willing herself anywhere but there. When she opened them again, Alya was watching her with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile. And that was exactly the reason that Marinette had never really talked about her friendships outside the company. On the other side of the studio, Lila’s attention was fixed on them in a way that made Marinette uneasy. Alya held out a hand to Luka.

“I’m Alya, and you’re cute. Tell me everything.”

When Marinette dared to sneak a glance at Luka, he was looking rather startled and amused.

“There’s not a lot to tell,” he said slowly. “But I’m guessing you’re Alya.”

“Interesting. Marinette’s told you about me, but I haven’t heard a thing about you.” Alya’s expression turned speculative. “Now, why would that be?”

“Because I wanted to save him from getting grilled by you,” Marinette muttered.

“Because I know all Marinette’s secrets,” Luka said, and Marinette gasped.

“Traitor! You wouldn’t!”

His amusement became a grin as he looked down at her. “For half a dozen raspberry macarons, my lips are sealed.”

“Fine,” Marinette pouted. “You do know that Maman would have given you as many as you wanted, don’t you?”

“Sure, but blackmail macarons taste so much better.”

Alya’s gaze shifted rapidly between them, taking it all in. “So I take it you’ve known each other a while?” she inquired brightly.

“It’s been a while,” Luka admitted. He deflected the questions Alya kept firing at him with calm good nature. Her interrogation was drawing attention from some of the company, and Marinette felt her stomach sink as Lila sauntered towards them. The Italian girl hooked a hand through Marinette’s arm and her eyes ran over Luka, taking in the teal blue hair, the piercings, and the ink.

“That’s a lot of tattoos,” she said with a barely suppressed sneer at odds with her honeyed tone, and Luka’s eyebrow rose, but he stayed silent. She dismissed him to focus on Marinette. “I didn’t know you were into the bad boy type, Marinette.”

Marinette prised herself free of Lila’s grip. “What’s that supposed to mean, Lila? Are you saying that Luka’s a troublemaker because he happens to have some body art?”

“And I’ve been trying so hard to be good,” Luka sighed.

“Honey, you’re better than good,” Alya teased, eyeing him up and down. “I don’t know about Marinette, but I love a guy with tatts.”

“Oh, no! Of course, I didn’t mean anything of the sort!” Lila gasped, grabbing at Marinette’s arm again. “I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you.”

“I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo. Does it hurt?” Alya asked Luka. Her attention was on Luka’s arms. “Why an anchor? It seems a bit out of character for a musician.”

Luka glanced down at the tattoo on his left forearm of an anchor surrounded by tulips and roses. “Well, Ma’s a pirate, so it seemed appropriate,” he said composedly, but Alya had already moved on.

“Nice snake,” Alya said, poking at the teal snake coiling down around his right bicep from under the sleeve of his tshirt to his forearm. It seemed to have a glint of amused sagacity in its eye rather than menace, and her own eyes lit up with a leer that made Marinette nervous. “Is it proportional?”

“Alya,” Marinette groaned in dismay, but Luka seemed entertained rather than put out by Alya’s blatant suggestiveness, and Alya’s attention shifted to the tattoo just under the snake’s nose, where it seemed to be reaching out to touch a tiny ladybug sitting on a branch of cherry blossoms that was almost hidden by the wide leather cuff that Luka wore around his right wrist.

“The ladybug’s a bit of an odd one out,” Alya commented.

He’d got that ink at the same time that Marinette had had her birthday tattoo done.

“That one’s just for a bit of luck,” he said casually, and Lila’s eyes narrowed at the quick smile he gave Marinette.

“You two make such a cute couple,” she said, hugging Marinette’s arm tighter. “Why didn’t you tell us you were seeing someone in the orchestra?”

Luka said nothing, but his gaze slid sideways to Marinette as she said stiffly, “Because we’re not a couple.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. I do hope I haven’t put my foot in it.” Lila pulled her hand away from Marinette’s arm in a show of hurried embarrassment, her eyes wide with distress. “You seem very close, but I’m sure he’s just a friend, if you say so.”

Luka’s eyebrows climbed at that, but Marinette didn’t grasp the significance of the vindictive little smile that Lila shot at her as she walked away until Adrien came up beside her, his brow creased as he glanced around the group and settled on Luka.

“How’s it going, Marinette?” he asked softly, and gave Luka a stiff nod. “Luka. What brings you here? Not that it’s not good to meet you again,” he trailed off awkwardly. It was not uncommon for the orchestra to socialise with the ballet, and Marinette didn’t understand why Adrien seemed to be discomfited by Luka’s appearance in the studio.

“Just checking in on my favourite dancer,” Luka said with an unreadable smile.

Alya found a new target, swivelling to fix Adrien with a stare. “You know Luka?”

“We’ve met,” Adrien said tersely. His glance fell on Lila on the other side of the studio, then it shifted from Luka to Marinette and back again, and Marinette frowned.

“Now, this is interesting,” Alya said.

“Alya,” Marinette growled, and her friend threw up her hands.

“Fine, fine, I won’t ask.”

“Director’s coming,” someone called near the door, and the musicians started to scatter. “Couffaine, you coming?”

Luka quirked a smile at Marinette.

“Looks like they’re kicking the riffraff out. See you after rehearsal?” he asked her, and Marinette nodded. He tipped his head to Alya and Adrien. “Alya, it’s been a pleasure. Adrien.”

“For a musician, he’s got some nice muscles on him,” Alya said approvingly, and Marinette cringed at Luka’s choke of laughter as he headed out of the studio. She was limply grateful that Luka was out of earshot and that Adrien had moved away before Alya added, “Girl, is that the reason you’ve been so chill around Adrien lately?”

“What? No!” Marinette stuttered, and the words I wish cut through her like a knife. She took a deep breath, and tried to smile at Alya. “We’re just friends.”

Alya’s eyebrows lifted.

“Seriously, I’m more like a younger sister to Luka,” Marinette insisted.

“If you say so,” her friend said sceptically.

When Madame Viret called her and Adrien away for their pas de deux rehearsal it didn’t go nearly as smoothly as things had gone on the first day. Adrien seemed distracted, and several times he missed Marinette’s cues until Madame called a halt.

“Adrien,” the ballet mistress snapped, “your head needs to be here with us, or one of you is going to end up injured.”

The blond muttered an apology, but he was still frowning as Marinette took his hand and rested her other hand on his shoulder for the attitude promenade.

“Is everything alright?” she whispered to him.

“You didn’t come to the party on Saturday.”

“I’d told you I wouldn’t be there,” Marinette muttered back as she executed a balance. “I had plans.”

“What about this Saturday?” Adrien asked a little too loudly, and subsided as Madame turned an icy glare on them. As soon as Madame waved a hand for a break, he dropped down beside Marinette as she collapsed and reached for her water bottle.

“Maybe we could get coffee sometime. Or dinner. I’d love to take you out to dinner, if you’re free.”

Marinette took a deep drink, playing for time, and choked a little.

“This Saturday? Or Sunday? I know a great little place not far from here that I just know you’d love.”

“Adrien, that’s sweet,” she said uneasily, “but I don’t think I can.”

His head tilted towards her as if he was trying to translate what she was saying.

“I mean, it’s probably not a good idea to date someone else from the company, is it?” she tried again. “It always just seems to cause trouble.”

“But it doesn’t have to,” Adrien said hopefully. “Just give us a try. Saturday.”

“Adrien, I can’t!”

“Is there someone else?” he asked her. “Is it that musician friend of yours, the one with the blue hair?”

Oh, how she wished she could say yes. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing ocean deep eyes that could see right through her and a slow, sweet smile, and opened them again to hopeful green eyes and a sun-bright grin.

“No,” she said reluctantly, and repeated yet again, “we’re just friends.”

Adrien’s smile grew wider in relief. “Look, just think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just… give it a chance.”

He got to his feet as Madame called for them, and held out his hand to her. Marinette took it, and put aside overthinking her complicated emotional state to let her training and the movement take over. It was a relief to let it all go for a little while.

She was half-braced for Adrien to ask her again the next morning when she arrived at the Garnier, but there was no sign of the blond dancer. She had finished pilates and had started warm up stretches for class before Adrien finally arrived, breathing a little hard as if he’d been rushing to get there. Alya was telling her something about something she’d overheard that morning.

“Cutting it close, Agreste!” someone called out, and Adrien gave a sheepish grin.

“I got held up this morning because I came in with my father. He wanted to deliver the costume designs in person.”

Marinette’s head whipped around, cutting off what Alya had been saying to her.

“The designs are here?” she asked abruptly.

“My father’s meeting with Madame Marchand right now to hand them over,” he confirmed.

Master Novgorodsky rapped on the piano for their attention, and by sheer force of will Marinette focused on the choreography. It could not have been said that she was at her best that morning, and several times, Master Novgorodsky called her wandering thoughts back to the placement of her feet and arms. The minute that class broke, she took off for the corridors that led up to the wardrobe ateliers.

Through the long windows of the millinery department rows and rows of blank heads stared down from the shelves, and sat on the work benches surrounded by tools and tufts of hair. Next to it, the decoration atelier twinkled and sparkled like Aladdin’s cave with tubs and jars of sequins and glass jewels, and streaks of paint everywhere. Another mannequin head supported the beginnings of a glittering headpiece, and a huge rat’s head wearing a crown from a past production of The Nutcracker stared down from the top of a cabinet.

A few craftspeople glanced up from their work as Marinette hurried past their ateliers and smiled at her, and Marinette waved, but didn’t stop to chat. Costume storage was just beyond, and at the door Marinette drew a deep breath as she always did, letting it out slowly. The racks of costumes and rolls of fabric, and the tutus carefully layered in snowy drifts, never failed to calm her. The head seamstress frowning over a gown spread out on the benchtop looked up to smile at Marinette as she came in.

“Marinette! What brings you up here?” the woman asked.

“I heard that the Sleeping Beauty designs from Gabriel had arrived,” Marinette said hopefully, and the seamstress laughed.

“I should have known you’d be showing up the moment you got wind of that. No one’s supposed to see them before first fittings.” But she was already heading into the back recesses of the costume storage, and Marinette followed.

She took the book that the head seamstress handed her with great reverence, and settled herself into a chair. It wasn’t long before she’d lost herself completely in the exquisite designs and the notes that Gabriel Agreste had included for them. The seamstress laughed, and left her to it.

When her feet eventually started to prickle with pins and needles, she realised with a start that she’d been sitting there, poring over the design book for far too long and that afternoon rehearsals would be starting soon. Hastily she closed the book and handed it back to the head seamstress, babbling her thanks as she hurried out the door. She made it into the studio just ahead of Madame Viret, and Adrien gave her a curious look.

“Where were you? You disappeared before I could ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he whispered.

“Oh, Adrien, your father’s work is incredible,” Marinette enthused, and Adrien’s eyebrow rose.

“So that’s where you’ve been? Up in wardrobe? I thought we weren’t allowed up there without an invitation from the costume director.”

Marinette grimaced guiltily. “They don’t mind, and I really wanted to have a look.”

“Oh, you’re so into costumes and sewing, aren’t you Marinette, with all your little projects,” Lila interrupted, and gave a tinkling little laugh. “It’s so lucky your partner is the son of Gabriel Agreste. You might get to meet him, and all his contacts in the industry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Lila?” Marinette asked angrily, and right on cue, there went the hand flutter and the wide eyes.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I never meant to imply that you were only interested in Adrien because his father is Gabriel Agreste.”

“You’re a fan of my father’s?” Adrien asked with a puckered brow, and Marinette saw Lila’s flash of triumph.

“I admire his work,” she admitted evenly. Adrien’s face lit up in a beaming smile.

“Then you should come to the Gabriel gala on Saturday,” he invited her.               Marinette was distracted from what he was saying by the look of livid fury that swept over Lila’s face.

“It’d be a lot more fun than going on my own,” he was saying, “and I’d love you to meet my father. I’ve told him a lot about my brilliant pas de deux partner.” He noticed her reluctant expression, and said, “Just as friends. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

“I’ll… think about it. Just as friends.”

She and Luka were halfway home that night, and Luka was smiling softly at her raptures about the costume designs, before she worked up the courage to mention Adrien’s invitation.

“Adrien asked me to the Gabriel fashion gala next week,” Marinette told the footpath in front of her, and there was a long silence from Luka beside her.

Then he said nonchalantly, “Are you going to go? Adrien seems like a nice guy, and you’d probably have fun.”

It shouldn’t have hurt that he was so casual about the idea of her going out with another guy.

“You really think I should say yes?” she asked him in a small voice.

“It might be fun, seeing all Gabriel’s latest designs and getting to hang out around the fashion houses. And there was a time when you would have flipped for a chance to spend time with Adrien,” he teased gently.

Why did it feel like she was paying for that now?

“Maybe,” she said, feeling her spirits sinking even lower.

When Adrien asked her again the next day, she said yes, and had to admit afterwards that she’d enjoyed herself. The new season’s couture was dazzling, and Adrien was good company, getting her laughing over his awful puns and startlingly accurate impersonations of some of the celebrities there. And if Gabriel Agreste had been seven kinds of cold and austere when Adrien had introduced her to his father, he had defrosted enough to offer a trifling compliment on the dress she’d made herself. Marinette had found it hard to martial a coherent sentence in response, and Adrien had teased her about it afterwards.

She was still a little startled, though, in company class the next morning when Adrien presented her with a rose and a flourish. What had happened to ‘just friends’?

“Adrien…” She took the rose reluctantly, very aware of the curious eyes on them, and Lila’s dagger-sharp attention.

“I just wanted to say thank you for the best time I’ve ever had at a fashion gala, milady,” Adrien said. His smile brightened like the sun. “You made the whole evening worthwhile.”

“So you two are a couple now?” Lila asked, and Marinette could hear the ominous note in her voice. Adrien obviously didn’t. He threw his arm around Marinette.

“Not yet, but I’m wearing her down,” he said, and Lila’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“How sweet.”

Marinette slipped out from under Adrien’s arm, backing away.

“I have to- I have, a thing. I’ll see you later.” She whirled around and almost ran from the studio, the rose still in her hand. Once she’d reached the outer courtyard she let out a muffled scream that drew a few startled glances.

“Very clever,” Lila’s voice said behind her, and Marinette whipped around. “You may think you’ve won, but Adrien is so out of your league it isn’t funny, and he’s going to realise that before long.”

“I’m not interested in Adrien!” Marinette cried, frustrated, and Lila gave her a pitying stare.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re not fooling anyone. We all know just how desperate you were to get Adrien all those years ago. Throwing yourself at him didn’t work, so you’re trying playing hard to get now, and it might have got you an invitation to the gala but it’s just sad. And I’m going to make sure that Adrien sees just how sad and desperate you are.”

Lila made a move towards her, and Marinette jerked back out of reach before Lila could touch her arm. Somehow, the rose that Adrien had given her ended up on the ground, and Lila crushed it under her foot with one quick step.

“Oopsie,” the Italian girl said with false regret and bright eyes, and Marinette watched her turn and strut away.

Marinette still cringed at some of the things that she’d done to try and get Adrien’s attention when she was seventeen and deep in the throes of her infatuation. Egged on by Alya she’d even committed a few minor felonies, and now she was paying the price for it. Everyone seemed to be taking it for granted that she was in love with Adrien Agreste, and the more she protested against it, the less convincing she sounded.

“For all the stupid things I did when I had that crush,” she told the sky, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay?”

#Lukanette #ml ballet au #Lukanette endgame #they're idiots your honor

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Linked Universe: Regrets

“Although I accepted life as the hero, I could not convey the lessons of that life to those who came after... At last, I have eased my regrets.”

Twilight had never forgotten those words. He had carried them with pride. Used them when his hands faltered. Remembered the strength that had been taught to him. Swords without courage meant nothing. With the lessons of the Hero's Shade, Twilight struck down Hyrule's greatest enemy for good.

(He thought. But there would be another after him, long after, but one nonetheless, and he would suffer greatly from the shadow of Hyrule's first enemy.)

Nowadays, it's a white lie that haunts his nights.

“Link... I... See you later.”

He's learned when things aren't meant to be. And he loves his fellow heroes. Wouldn't trade them for peaceful days wandering his Hyrule. He loves them. Like brothers. Like another father. But he knows it can't last. Whenever there is a meeting, a parting is sure to follow. And theirs... through time and space... there will be no reunion after they've completed this quest.

He should shield his heart better, but they slip past too easily for that. One day, they'll go their separate way. He can't change that. Still, any time he looks at the old man, his heart squeeze and he just wants to help. To save him. He can't.

Is it like that for anyone else? Does Hyrule hide something like this from Legend behind all his sweet smiles and his eagerness to learn? Does he also think of a nameless grave by a tree? Maybe a grand mausoleum, because it's Legend, and he's earned at least this much, to hear him speak of his many trials?

He smirks to himself at the idea, but it slips soon enough.

Four? No one's quite sure where he fits in the timeline, but the best guess is 'early'. Wind? No, he's said the legends exist, but the hero never showed. Warriors thinks it's the timelines diverging when Time returned to his youth to prevent Ganon's rise. He's another odd one out. Knowing a bit of everything and everyone's legacy. Does Warriors know how it'll end for me?Wild certainly doesn't.

The truth is Twilight knows that Time will never be fully content despite Malon, despite a future as a father, and he hates the fact that he cannot save his mentor. Cannot prevent that regret from taking root in him. He's only ever known that he hated leaving his Hyrule defenseless, with no one to learn from the hardships he was shoved into as a child.

Twilight hates it so much. Sometimes, Zant's pendant pulsed with the dark emotions that want to choke him up. He almost wonders if there isn't something right in the ranting of the old usurpers. The Goddesses were so many things, but kind?

It's hard to remember their blessings when the people you love most see their fate as cursed. When Hyrule is doomed without that pain.

“Green rupee for your thoughts?” Warriors ask, watching the sun set over the horizon.

“I know I'm country folk, but we ain't that cheap, Captain,” Twilight drawls.

Warriors shrugs, then pulls his sword out to run a whetstone over its edge. “Well, I'm broke. My queen and I hadn't thought it'd stretch out over this long.”

The thought sobers Twilight, who is decidedly not looking dusk painting the sky like a bonfire. “Miss her?” he says, quieter than usual.

Warriors' glance is a bit sharper than warranted, but he makes no comment about it. “Certainly,” he replies easily. “She was one of the few... mhmm, wait, did I never tell you about my situation back in my era?”

He sees the non-sequitur and accepts it with a sigh of relief. Sitting down by the same tree, he settles just close enough for them to touch shoulders. “No, but I sense this is a long story.”

“It's the perfect length, thank you,” Warriors haughtily counters. “So, it all begins roughly ten years ago-”

Twilight snorts, and pushes his brother roughly. Warriors is agile enough he slips back into place without dropping the sword or the stone, radiating smug triumph.

In the end, he joins Warriors on first watch just to distract himself from his thoughts.

***

Lon Lon Ranch is one of his favorite place to visit. Stepping inside feels like being served a slice of Ordon on a platter. It's a piece of home, without the awkwardness that comes from the odd looks here and there. Unspoken questions about every little way he's changed.

Twilight shakes his head. What's he doing? Somewhat forcefully, he pulls back the sleeves of his tunic and spits in his hands. He's got some work to do, and it's not Legend (who is egging Warriors more than he's shoveling) or Wind (who is having the time of his life learning how to ride with Time's Epona) that'll finish the chores for him.

“Here, sweetheart.” Malon holds out a waterskin to him and a towel. “Don't forget to rest and drink every once in a while. With this sun, it's not healthy to neglect it.”

He accepts gratefully, swallowing a mouthful of cool water first. “I will, Ma'am.”

“Oh, hush with that. It's Malon for family,” she corrects him easily, and he ducks his head, pleased. “And I'll be watching you, sweetheart. The Goddesses know my Link's not one to recognize his limits.”

Time straightens and leans against the handle of his spade. “Now, now, honey, you know I'm a reasonable man.”

“Did I tell you about the time my clever husband decided to renovate the ba-!”

Malon lets out a fake shriek when Time grabs her with his dirt-covered hands. Pretends to fight back. She's not fooling him or her husband. They've both witnessed her handling the cattle. It's not from Time's side of the family that Twilight inherited the strength.

(They're the type of couple that teases each other constantly. He wonders what it would have been like if Midna...)

There's something a little different about Malon today. Something under her skin. Like she was holding on to a secret with both hands and it's threatening to explode the whole time. He wouldn't call her nervous. Excited, though? Yes.

He finds out at dinner.

They've just finished another two course meal courtesy of Malon and Wild when she pulls her husband aside during dessert. It gets a glance or two, but the conversation keeps going on the topic of stupidest things they've ever done. Since it's Wild's turn though, Twilight can still focus on the married couple by the sink.

(It's a sad day when he can name more for Wild than Wild remembers. They've got diverging definitions of what constitutes a 'stupid' thing. He will forever argue against the monster masks, especially the lynel one.)

“I was waiting for a chance to tell you in person. I saw a wisewoman last week.”

“What for...?” Time asks, and he sounds a little anxious for once, hands hovering closer to his wife.

Coy, Malon bites her lips and glances at Twilight. Time has to turn to see where, exactly, she's looking, and his breath hitches when he realizes. His mouth twitch as he grabs both her hands, focused on her with such intensity she giggles.

“You mean...?”

She breaks into a grin, nods and whispers-yells: “Yes! We're going to be parents, Link.”

The kiss he lands on her lips is indecent enough to attract whistles from some of the others, who seem to be clueing in to the excitement in the room. When those two come apart, a pleasant blush colors their cheeks, and he tells her, over and over that he loves her. When he's had his fill, he whirls around to face them and their cheering.

“Boys!” Time calls out, exuberant, absolutely unguarded. “Boys! I'm going to be a father!”

The roof, improbably, resists the eruption of screams. Time's pure joy is contagious and it's the best news they've got since starting this quest. Congratulations rain on the happy couple.

“Someone's going to have competition, huh?” Legend nudges Twilight's ribs, wagging eyebrows.

Normally, Twilight would be flattered that his bond with Time is that obvious. Normally, he'd grab Legend and give him a noogie for his insolence. Make him cry 'uncle'. The classic big brother behavior he's used to. But he barely hears the words as it is, his mind bogged down by a sudden realization.

He stalls.

He's a second delayed in joining in the congratulations, behind Sky and Hyrule who are a little less physical in their affections. They've formed a circle around their leader and his wife, offering their best wishes, joking, patting Time on the back, kissing Malon's cheeks.

And then it's his turn.

Twilight remembers to breath. Offers his hand first.

“Oh, come here, you!” she swats away his hand and forces him into a hug that's warm, soft.

“You'll make a wonderful mother, Malon.”

Her expression shifts slightly, more of a knowing smirk, and he can see her laughter in her eyes. 'Oh, now you tell me.'

It's impossible for him not to smile back.

And below that elation, the flare of hope in his guts, is a heart stopping dread.

***

The next few battles are some of the worst Twilight had to struggle through. The enemies' number swell. Their ambushes turn elaborate with unheard of combinations of monsters that never coexisted naturally. The puppeteer behind them has tightened the strings, and Twilight has trouble keeping his head above water when every second he looks away, he fears his mentor (father) will die.

It's sheer experience and a heaping dose of help from his companions that ensure he's not dead. And even then...

“There, good as new,” Hyrule proclaims, slapping Twilight's bicep for good measure. “Now how about you don't pull a Wild and drop your weapon next time? We're counting on you to teach him caution, not the opposite.”

“Heard you, 'Rule!” Wild protests from where he's helping Four hobble back to them.

“Great, because we all saw that thing with the peahat.”

“It was the only way!”

And here goes the bickering, Twilight huffs. Wild and Hyrule get along like a house on fire, which means that it's warm and toasty for a while until everything collapse into ashes for a bit. Then they rebuild it better and stronger than before with perfect coordination. It's impressive, honestly, how they both push in the same direction without a second thought.

At least this doesn't look like he'll need to turn into a wolf to fetch them in a forest on the other side of a mountain like last time (he's still bitter about it, a mountain?).

“Pup,” Time's voice jolts him back into awareness. His mentor's standing right behind him. “Come with me for a minute?”

For a second, he hesitates. He likes to imagine a thousand explanations for it, but he already knows the one. Sky shot him the odd look during the fight. Saw him sloppier than usual. And Time keeps an even closer look on all of them.

The clearing is just far enough to be away from prying eyes, though not far enough they can't hear the others if they pay attention. Both sides could hear and rush at the first sign of trouble. It's a good place for a talk.

“Twilight,” Time begins, voice brimming with concern, “what's wrong?”

“It's...”

Silence lingers between them, with all the things Twilight can't say.

“Does it have anything to do about Malon's pregnancy?” Time asks, and Twilight cringes. “Ah. I figured as much. Are you bothered?”

Twilight fights the flashback to one of those evenings Rusl took him aside for a fatherly talk. He feels about as small as he did back then too. “No, of course not! It's... before, when I met Malon and saw you two didn't have kids, I realized you were safe. Every one of us is risking his life on this quest, but I could hold onto the idea that you'd live through, that it was impossible that you didn't because I'm here.”

“Were you not worried for my safety before this, Pup?” Time teases, a full on smirk on his face.

Twilight's face burns. “I, no, that's not it at all! It's just... Goddesses, I'm being silly.”

The hand that rests on his shoulder feels solid. Grounding. Like Time means to give him back some of that certainty through sheer force of will.

Twilight's relieved that it works on him.

“Pup, I promise I have no intention of dying and leaving Malon to raise our little hellion all on her own. I wouldn't do that to her.”

“Oh, right, the poor gal,” Twilight hears himself reply.

Time blinks. Then hooks his arm around Twilight's neck, an unholy glint in his good eye. “A youngster like you's too ignorant to mock your elders like this. But I suppose I should teach you.”

***

Time's few additions to the prank war ongoing inside their camps gives Twilight chills.

But he joins in the laughs with the rest of them.

And he almost forgets.

***

They have a lead on the object of their quest.

A location they must investigate. No guarantee, but reports seem promising.

It's hard not to get swept right in by his brothers' enthusiasms. He's found more family through this quest than he had ever hoped to get, but it's also been a mess of ambushes, lost directions and insufferable assholes (some of which, he loves because they're his pack, his siblings, his dad).

“I'll cut the fucker's balls right off!” Wind cheers, which gets nods from Legend and Wild, and winces from Sky and Warriors.

Twilight is more in the 'rip their throat out' camp, but he's also got a unique perspective on how to get personal with killing off your enemies.

(If their quest is to end, he will stand between any number of enemies so that his family returns home safe.)

***

The Temple of Souls.

A place of power, of memories. Deeds commemorated here. Statues of the various chosen heroes during their adventures. Honored and immortalized in stone.

Twilight hesitates before the one statue of a beast, and the imp riding its back. It's a testament to how much the other heroes helped him heal that he mostly feels nostalgia looking at his past. The pain, muted by Wild's enthusiasm or Four's more solemn amusement.

They search through the history of the Hero's Spirit together, with Warriors leading them. Their captain's light-hearted jester attitude's been replaced by his battlefield look. A strategist and a soldier, at the head of a battalion of legends. And yet, there's a tightness to his expression. Twilight gets why and he makes sure to stay close. The sorceress had been reformed, so this world's Zelda said. But the fear's longer lasting.

Time lingers near the statue of the Hero of Time. So do the others, with Warriors deciding to keep watch, since they clearly couldn't deal with the idea of Time having once been a child.

A little kid. Probably not even as tall as Colin or Talo. Twilight tries to imagine letting these two go on a quest to save Hyrule and his mind buckles in protest at the knowledge of what kind of monstrosities can crawl up from the darkest corners of Hyrule. Imagines them in the Arbiter's Ground, and he feels acute pain in his left hand, where he is gripping his sword's hilt so hard his knuckles turn white.

Hylia stole Time's childhood, but Twilight won't let her take his future.

***

They found the enemy.

It found them in return. Hyrule is the first to realize, and it's their wanderer's words that ring in their heads during the worst battle of their lives.

'Impaled by a shadow in my likeness. Everything I gave, he returned right back.'

Dark Link. The other side of the coin. The shadow of the Hero's Spirit, grown with each incarnation.

It is not an opponent for any one hero to take on anymore. Dark Link is the sum of every dark turns their minds have ever taken, every moment of fear, despair, anger. Every dirty trick. Every method of handling a sword. It reflects all nine of them, in turn and at once.

And it means that each one of them know a piece of Dark Link as intimately as the back of their hands.

The battle does not end quickly.

While most encounters with monsters last minutes at most and encounters with bosses sometimes stretch twice or thrice that, this battle goes on for what feels like lifetimes. There's not a thing Twilight knows that he doesn't see at some point in Dark Link's arsenal. He's forced to see his journey thrown back at him, and he only went on a single one.

(He loses both his shield and his sword midway through. Has to join in the sniping until that's destroyed. Breaks two more of Wild's weapons. Fought with fangs and claws till he desperately needed healing.)

They came prepared. Armed with every weapon they have. Overstocked with potions and blessings and fairies.

They're still all exhausted, wounded and little more than dead on their feet when Wild lands the apparent fatal blow with a shock arrow. Electricity dances on the shade, its face a mask of silent agony, and it stumbles, shape unsteady, and sinks back into nothing.

“Is it... is it over?” Wind asks, his shirt shredded and an ugly burn on his collarbone.

“Steady!” Warriors calls out. “It might be trying to trick us.”

They watch every corner of the room with the hard earned hatred of a difficult opponent. They're all on their last leg and they can't keep going much longer. The air's so thick with tension Twilight tastes it. His instinct's screaming at him. He knows, in his heart, that this is it.

(It might be why he looked.)

(None of the others have spent as much time as him watching shadows, longing for the way they might waver and twist and become a beloved companion.)

Time's shadow shouldn't be this inky black.

Time's grip on his sword is also looser than his shadow's.

Twilight breaks into a sprint.

For a long time, Twilight had no choice. No matter what, his old mentor couldn't die before he had children.

Somehow, he'd been naïve enough to find comfort in that. Since then, he's dreamed of Time holding his baby, happier than he had ever dared express before. The memories of years that aged his heart faster than his body no longer a burden in his quiet little corner of the world.

There still isn't a choice. Time must go back to his wife and child. Twilight won't accept any other outcome. He'll turn silly images conjured from his resting mind into rock solid visions of the future.

Time's shadow stands up.

Hyrule shouts a warning.

And the blade swings.

“TWILIGHT!”

The taste of copper washes over his tongue. Drips from the corner of his mouth.

He looks down. A blade's shadow is impaling him straight through the chest. And Dark Link's face splits into a savage grin. Triumphant.

Heat bleeds out of his wound too fast. Somehow, he's certain this isn't poison, or at least, the traditional kind. It's climbing up his limbs, through his torso, and squeezes as if it were the coils of a snake. There's something wild, uncontrolled to it. Malicious. Its embrace tightens. Tries to leave him helpless, paralyzed.

It's fine. More so than any other hero, he's used to darkness. Made it a tool for himself in the ways the others haven't dared. And he's suddenly so thankful for it. That it's him. His country doesn't need him anymore, not like Sky who needs to build it from the ground, not like Legend who can never step outside his doors without getting roped into saving another country, not like Hyrule who guards the secret of his royal family, not like Warriors who is working so damn hard to earn back trust and honor amongst his own, not like Wild who wants to serve his Zelda and pay back his past mistake.

He doesn't even have grand projects for the future, like discovering a new land with pirates, find a lost brother, or simply build a home with his wife.

He's just... a farmer who picked up a sword and had help at the right time. Even if he dies, he knows his friends in the resistance could still protect Hyrule in his stead. The kids can look after themselves and each other now. Queen Zelda has always been stronger than him. And Illia... he'll finally let Epona go back to her. He can only hope that will be enough.

Because here and now, he is needed one last time.

Dark Link snarls and grins and begins to pull back his sword.

Twilight's hand catches his wrist. Grips.

Dark Link flinches. Red eyes flickers between his wrist and Twilight's serene smile. The other hand lashes like a whip, dagger's shade aimed right at his face, but that one instead pierces through Twilight's palm. Closing fingers lock Dark Link's arm into place. Neither can escape the other now. For the first time, hesitation flashes on the doppelganger's face. Tilts into fear as it starts to struggle. Each movement is rough, violent and murder on Twilight's battered body. The thing's strength should scare him.

  Except Twilight learned to wrestle gorons for fun. He wins every time.

The others rally. He catches them rushing forward in the corner of his eyes.

It tries to slip inside his shadows, but Twilight remembers that trick too. He pulls back, welcomes the darkness and Dark Link's feet blur, fuse to the ground, to Twilight's own shadow. It's oddly fitting.

With a deadly chime, the biggoron sword sails over his shoulder and catches Dark Link's arm. It rams itself against Twilight, tries to stagger him, but his mentor's at his back now, and the battleworn heroes, his wronged family, repay their suffering with interest.

One skewering echoed eight times over. Every aspect of the Hero's Spirit stabbing at their inner darkness, fighting the demon that claimed their faults. It cannot escape this time. Its face shifts with every blow. From young to old to young again, a twin lost at birth. Bitter. Resentful. It's weak and faltering when at last, it becomes Twilight's.

With one last battle cry, Sky executes a point perfect great spin that slices straight through Dark Link's neck. Its head goes flying and dissolves before it hits the ground. The body remains longer. Some of it clings to Twilight, sinks into him. He might have worried about this eventually, but the black sword fades and his tunic become slick with blood.

Yeah... there's no coming back from that one.

Dark Mirrors had always been his greatest weakness. What set him on his journey, what broke him in the end, twice. He thinks... he thinks he managed to pick up the pieces well enough.

“Sorry, guys...” His attempt at a smile turn into a grimace of pain. “I don't think I can walk this off...”

“Hyrule! Heal him!”

Hyrule's corpse-like pallor is all the answer they need. The fight exhausted the last of his magic. He's still stumbling forward like he will put his own life into the spell if he needs it. Sky's the one to pull him back, looking sick.

Legend's bag is upturned over the floor, and three of them kneel amongst the items. Twilight notes with faint amusement that this time, their prickly veteran does not yell at them to be careful with his stuff. Rare items gathered through harrowing adventures just go flying on the sides, discarded as useless. He hopes none of them break. He'd hate that to be one of the last things Legend remember about him.

“Don't,” Twilight says, but it's too weak to get through his family's panic. “It's okay...”

Four, the one trying to help him stand, snaps at him. “Don't say that!”

“I-” His knees give out from under him. Four goes down with him.

“Twilight!”

The others snap their heads in their direction.

It takes one look at Time's face to realize what a fool he'd been. It's almost enough to make him regret it. But no, given another chance, he'd make the same decision over and over again.

“Please...” he tries to say, but it's lost in a gargle of copper and red.

The screaming worsens.

Will Time go to his grave with this on his mind? He can't. Twilight wants to beg him not to. Wants to explain. Free himself of the fear he's clung to for the months they traveled together. But his lungs refuse to cooperate, filling with blood. Every attempt to speak just pains him more and produces mere wheezes.

Not on my behalf, he thinks, a last jolt of strength going through him from frustration and fear and sorrow. He hates the knowledge he'll put his mentor to rest with false hope. That he'll move on, thinking that his training might save him from this fate.

(From Ganondorf, yes, always. Hyrule saved because of the old man. Always cursed not to be known for his heroism, wasn't he?)

High whistling notes edge the confines of his consciousness. Fast notes, frantic, played with the fervor of a dying man, and he almost chuckles thinking he has a much better understanding of this as darkness creeps on the corner of his eyes and heat leeches out of his wound.

He can't see Time anymore. Just vague outlines of all his brothers, the color of their cloaks and hair the best way he can distinguish them by now. Hands push down on his shoulders, lift him gently. Scarred hands. Strands of blonde hair tickle his face.

Wild.

“'M sorry...” he breathes out. Tears prick at his eyes, knowing how much this'll hurt his cub. His little brother who already bears the weight of so many deaths. “Not... f-f-au-lt. Swear,” he tries to sound stern, he really does.

He can't go to his grave otherwise. He'll stay alive just so Wild and Time and the others don't pick up the guilt.

Eh...

She did always call him an optimist.

He's probably in some dying dream, he sees hands the shades of her skin join Wild's, brush his hair away from his eyes. Liquid flames frame a face like hers. The mocking lilt of her voice is broken by a sob though. He's never heard that before.

He wishes he could stop the pain for all of them, but he's tired.

Maybe... maybe Hylia granted him that one last favor. Maybe it's just him and his stupid heart that won't heal right, that makes him see what's not there...

He doesn't have the strength to do more than believe anyway.

“Midna...”

Tender warmth brush over his lips, one last little balm before he goes. It's gentle. So unlike her, so like her too. Eh. He always imagined they'd be cold.

***

Wild sees Twilight's eyes close, and his world snaps in half.

His brother slips from his arms, but thankfully, the woman's grip on him is steady. Familiar. It makes Twilight look at peace, as if he was sleeping in his lover's lap. It's something he always wished for his big brother, from the moment he heard that joke about a princess and a mirror. To have someone who loved him worth the pain he'd gone through.

And he only gets it in death.

It can't end this way. It can't! Mipha! he grapples with the thought and it wins. “MIPHA! PLEASE!”

She'd healed him from the brink so many times. Twilight's even more of a hero than him, so it would only be fair, right? Just this once. Just this once. He can't lose someone else because of his incompetence!

But Mipha has long gone to rest, and no one disturbs their group of heroes from their loss.

Wild feels himself scrap at his old hood, pushes it down over his head. As if that would stop reality from sinking in. He can't look at Twilight's body. He can't. He just wants to wake up in the shrine, like nothing ever happened. Like he hasn't watched-

“It was you!” Warriors snarls at the woman, his tone as biting as a sword's kiss. “All this time! It was you that broke his heart! He said he lost you, but you just left, didn't you?! You could have gone back to him!”

The strange woman – Midna – finally turns away from Twil- from... she turns to Warriors. Tears trail down her cheeks despite the faintest hint of a smile. “I always hoped he would forget me, the sweet fool.”

It's spoken with the sort of affection in one of Twilight's hair ruffling, but the insult feels searing. Wind's on her the next second.

“Don't you dare call him that!” he howls in her face, the shout less intimidated by the snot and tears he can't hold in. “Don't you- Twilight's not- not...”

Somehow, Sky can move. He lifts Wind away from Midna. It breaks the teen's rage, and he curls into Sky's shoulders as if their chosen isn't crying himself.

“He was,” she says, and it strikes Wild that she is just like Twilight had said. Fierce. Powerful. And a bit cruel. Like a jewel barbed in thorns – even if she'd laugh at the description. “It could have been different, if he hadn't been who he was. But he would always make this choice. You know this.”

Memories come to Wild, unbidden, of days in his Hyrule, where the only one he could count on was himself and a wolf. Hordes chasing a beast whilst he picked them off one by one. Enormous monsters fell side by side with his friend. Cold nights buried in fur. Panicked barks getting closer to him as he struggled to stand in the middle of a battlefield.

Goddesses...

The music – when, who, had started, – breaks into a horrible screech that should never come out of an instrument. It's half scream. Half something shattering.

“Why isn't it working?!” Time croaks, hands trembling around his broken ocarina.

“That power was only ever borrowed,” Midna says as if every syllable costs her. “The price would be too high.”

Legend is the next one to move from sorrow to rage. “No! We'll do it again!” He kneels by his bags and he's tossing aside items by the dozens.  “We didn't come all this way for this!”

“You did,” Midna's voice falters. “And so did I. It was always meant to end like this.”

An horrible sinking feeling seizes Wild's heart. “You... knew?”

They freeze.

Midna looks down at Twilight's face and brushes a strand of hair away from his markings. “At the very end of our adventures, I was spared by the Goddess. Salvaged, maybe, from the ruins of forbidden power and the home of my dearest friend. Hylia spoke to me then. Told me.”

Wild sees her chest shudder before her voice breaks.

“Told me that Link and I would only be reunited on the day of his death. That I'd be the one to take his last breath. It was the only way Hyrule could be safe.”

“Fuck Hyrule!” Legend shouts, hoarse. “What is the point-? Every time! F-fuck this kingdom and fuck Hylia! What about us?! Why does she hate us so much?!”

Legend's arms fall to the sides, his grief spent. He stares at his feet and doesn't react when his successor hugs him tight. Warriors gets his other side.

Wild feels numb. He had done his best the first time around, to believe that Hylia wanted the best even when she let his Zelda suffer through her silence. He thought, maybe, her late answer had a purpose. But he can't figure it out. A kingdom she claimed to protect, destroyed before she helped.

His chest hurts. He can't breath right.

Ahead, the air tears with a jarring noise and a burst of black particles. He can't help the flare of hope they bring, the very same magic that Twilight used to become a wolf. But his brother's not moving. Midna's arm is raised toward the black portal.  

“No, no!” Time finally breaks out of his paralysis, reaching out for Twilight's body. “You can't take him!”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I don't have much time left. I must bring him back to his village. I owe him that much.”

None of them stop her from walking back into the shadows, their lost brother in her arms.

***

The greatest threat to their world has finally been defeated. Months of hardship, over. The purpose for which Hylia assembled them, fulfilled. It should have been heralded by a feast, a last evening together before the final goodbyes. The weight of their mission should have been lifted, but now it won't leave them.

They try.

They find the seediest tavern, in the darkest corner of town. They are not looking for a celebration. They want to drown the sorrow in something less painful than grief, be it a bar fight, a hangover or a round of the bard's singing.

All eight of them around a table, nine drinks before them. A toast.

Unshed tears.

Stories. All those times Twilight played big brother to them. Tried to be the reasonable one even when he was smirking under his wolf pelt. Those games of cards he won the pants off Warriors, literally. Those times he teased Legend with his incomprehensible slangs (they'd never know what that one about goat horns mean, would they?). Those nights they woke bundled up under a wolf. Those days he would spend at their bedside, caring for injuries he sniffed out better than most.

They call up more drinks, left the ninth alone, and pour their soul into making themselves almost believe he was still alive. That Midna had taken his sleeping body back where he'd finally get to be in love with her.  

For the time of a few laughs, it works. Then they look at the empty seat.

“He died.” Time drops his head into his hands, smaller than they'd ever seen him before. “Twilight died, and I wasn't even holding him! I was playing that goddess-curse ocarina! He told me! He told me he would die for me and I didn't listen!”

“He would have died for any of us,” Warriors says, weakly. “Just like we would have died for him.”

At the end of the night, when they stumble out, unsteady, Wild picks up the ninth drink and empties it outside.

***

The arrow's tip strikes one eye and detonates.

Cracks in the stone spread a little further. But the statue is still standing. It waited for him when he came back. Here. The only thing still standing in the ruins of the temple. Where his first journey began.

He can't hear her voice as he did before. He has no crest to offer, no proof of his valor to receive a blessing. Even now, the thought makes him want to hurl. To carve out the gifts he'd received from the monster that parades as a goddess right out of his chest.

“Why?!” Wild screams at the unfeeling block of stone.

The damage reaches the statue's middle, and a chunk tears off. A piece of her cloak. Dust follows. He shoots another bomb arrow. Almost grins to see a piece of her hair fly off.

“Why? Why WHYWHYWHY?!”

Fingers close on air. He's emptied his quiver.

Glowing bomb runes materialize in his hands, and he can barely wait out the cooldown time between each new explosion.

He switches to a club.

“Why him?!” He wails at the stone. “Why was it him?! Why not me?!”

The shout drains the last of his strength. With a sob, he falls to his knees.

“You did this to him! You killed my brother!” he spits every inch of venom that's making his chest heave, that burns his eyes and that opened this gaping hole inside him. “Why did you do that?! You're supposed to be good! Everyone told me you protect Hyrule! But you don't! You just send the same mortal do your job over and over again! And now he's... he's DEAD! What's the point of you?!”

“Link!”

Zelda's voice.

It rubs his skin raw that she sounds so happy. She should be disgusted to see such a worthless hero! She should have left him to die in that field!

She stops by the broken entrance to the Temple of Time, her gaze flickering to the statue, to his sorry state. The ecstatic looks vanishes and a far more fitting sadness replaces it.

“Link...?”

For a frightening moment, he thinks he's going to hate her. Hate Zelda for what she represents. He thinks he won't be able to look at her without knowing what she is. That there'll always be a voice in the back of his mind telling him she shares her soul with the unfeeling thing that lead his brother to his death.

“What happened?” she asks, gentle.

“T-Twilight... he's... ”

The club hits the ground.

Zelda closes her arms around him, and he clings to her like she's going to disappear.

***

“It's a boy!”

The wisewoman presents the small squirming body to Time.

Wisps of strawberry blonde hair crown his son's mostly naked head. Not dark enough to be...

He banishes the thought from his head. It's unfair. It's cruel. He can't compare them. His son. His son, he repeats to himself when the little bundle shifts against the inside of his elbow. Malon was right. That button nose is far cuter than his.

He's perfect.

His heart is threatening to jump right out of his chest. He doesn't think he can express all the love he has for this little hylian boy properly. He doesn't think it's possible to love anyone that much. For years, he'd feared a pauper's grave, a hole on the side of the road. A monster getting lucky at last and no one to mourn him. And now he was holding his firstborn child.

Malon had pushed past that fear and the walls he'd built around his heart. Twilight had shown him without a doubt he could have a family.

Twilight had...

It could have been different. But he would always make this choice.

Always choose to save Time at the last possible moment. For Malon. For their son.

Time dabs the corner of his eyes, and loses himself in the feeling of his son's skin against his own. He's so lucky to be able to hold him. To kiss the top of his head. To look at the beauty of his wife and child together. He doesn't know if he deserves it. Doesn't feel like he does anymore. But he can't throw it away. The price was so high. He wants every moment spent well. A full life to shower his child with love, for all the children he might have on the ranch.

I promised you.

Twilight is his successor, his son. A strong, kind young man that died too soon for Time's mistake. If he'd been stronger, if any of them had been a little stronger, perhaps...

He's never resented the lack of recognition over his deeds so ardently before. Never felt the bitterness take root this deep. Everything he was, everything he did, forgotten, lost. Accounts of his deeds, his prowesses, gone. Sword techniques. Tricks. Items. Twilight had been a farmer before Hylia had pushed his fate onto him. How could his own descendant have nothing of Time's knowledge and treasures passed down to him? If he had...  

On the Triforce, he swears. He will pass on everything he knows to his children and his grandchildren after them, make them promise to perpetuate that tradition, so that Twilight might live longer. He couldn't fail him again.

He swears.

He will do anything to help Twilight survive their last quest.

In this world or the next.

#Linked Universe #Linkeduniverse #LU Twilight #LU Time

[spiralingsoftly]

Proud

*This is my first time writing fanfiction in a long time. It's also my first BNHA and TodoDeku fanfiction period. Critiques welcome!*

Izuku Midoriya sat on the couch in the living room, his phone held against his ear as he stared absently out the window and listened as his mother went on about one topic after another. He loved his mother, truly he did. Ever since his father had left, his mother had been his biggest supporter even if she was overbearing at times – even now that he was in his thirties.

“Izuku? Honey? Did you hear what I just said?” his mother Inku asked, her worry ringing loud and clear through the phone.

“Hmm?” Izuku asked in reply, inwardly shaking himself out of the daze he’d fallen into as he listened to his mom’s voice and gazed out the window facing the couch upon which he was sitting.

The apartment was small, much smaller than one most people would consider appropriate for an up and coming hero like he was. But it was home and Izuku loved it. After he had graduated from UA, he’d worked at the Endeavor agency with Bakugo and Todoroki for a while until he had moved on to more freelance work. It wasn’t the glamourous hero life he’d envisioned when he had first began training with All Might, but it was fulfilling and Izuku honestly loved what he did every day.

“I’m sorry, mom. I spaced out again. Can you repeat that?” he said with a slight sigh, absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck even though his mother couldn’t see him through the phone.

“Oh Izuku. Are you sure that living in that apartment is still a good idea, honey? I know you love it there and have made it home, but I just worry….” Inku trailed off, not quite sure how to continue and not wanting to upset her son.

“Mom, I promise I’m fine. Things are slow with work right now and so my mind just wanders a bit more than before. But I’m okay.” Izuku replied, smiling softly despite how sad he truly felt inside. He hoped that the sadness didn’t seep through into his words, although he knew that it probably had.

Leaving the Endeavor agency to be a freelance hero had been the most difficult decision of his life, and almost every day he questioned himself as to if he had made the right choice or not. The work under Endeavor had been difficult and unrelenting. But it had shaped him into the hero that he was today. At the same time, it had also brought one of the best parts of his life crashing to the ground in the process.

“I know, honey. I just worry. I’ll let you go so that you can get something to eat – I know you haven’t been eating as well as you should be. Don’t even try and convince me otherwise, young man. I’m still your mother.” Inku said with a soft laugh before they bother said their goodbyes and ended the call.

Shaking his head and smiling softly, Izuku put his phone on the table beside the cough as his eyes turned back toward the sky outside. It was a crisp, cool fall day in mid-October. The leaves on the trees were turning brilliant colors and the air was turning colder by the day. This used to be his favorite time of year. Being able to walk down the street, wrapped up in his warmest coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck and his hands kept warm by a pair of hand knitted gloves. He could almost feel the warmth of the sun on his face as he walked thru the streets, hand in hand with his significant other.

Shoto.

That’s why his mind had wandered as he had been talking to his mother on the phone. The sky was the exact color of Shoto’s eye on his left side. While he loved looking into Shoto’s eyes, it was always his left eye that Izuku loved looking into most. Icy, beautiful blue.

They had publicly gotten together during the winter of their third year at UA. To their surprise, none of their other classmates had been too terribly surprised when they announced that they were now dating. It had been Bakugo who informed them that the whole class knew that they had secretly been dating since the previous spring. The brash blonde had gone on to say that they were both stupid to think that the rest of their classmates wouldn’t have put two and two together when the two of them kept having “study session” in one of their bedrooms. Apparently, they hadn’t hidden their relationship as well as they had hoped they had.

Working together at Endeavor’s agency had been great at first, even if it was also very awkward. Enji Todoroki had never been a kind or cuddly man. He had gotten ‘nicer’ over the years as he atoned for his wrongs against his children and wife – going so far as to bring Shoto’s mother home again to be with her children. But the elder Todoroki was still a cold man, bordering on somewhat cruelly emotionless at times. But, despite all that, being able to work as a hero in an official capacity with his boyfriend was something that Izuku had all but leapt at being able to do.

It had happened slowly overtime. An offhand comment here, a rude remark there. Enji wasn’t homophobic – Shoto’s older brother had a boyfriend as well and Enji was accepting of them and his children’s friends who had same sex significant others. However, there was always a tenseness when it came to his relationship with his youngest son. More than once, Izuku had brought the topic up with Shoto. Explaining to his boyfriend how uncomfortable the comments made him. Shoto, to his credit, had grown so much as a person since Izuku’s words at the sports festival their first year at UA had broken through his hesitancy to fully embrace the fire side of his quirk. However, little things like his father’s comments didn’t always register with him in the same way they did with the rest of the world.

After once particularly difficult rescue mission, he and Shoto had been sharing some quiet time together in one of the breakrooms at the agency when Enji had come in and made some rude comment before leaving again a few minutes later. That comment had been the straw that broke the camels back. After an emotion filled conversation, an argument really, he and Shoto had decided that they weren’t working as a couple. They still loved each other deeply but being a couple while working together at his father’s agency just wasn’t working anymore. Between tears, they decided that Izuku would stay at the apartment they shared together and Shoto would return home to live with his mother and siblings.

Blinking a few times, Izuku brought himself out of the memory he had just been reliving. Reaching a hand up to his face, he wasn’t surprised to learn that he was silently crying as his mind replayed the memories of the day that his world had completely changed. He had stopped by his mother’s house on his way home that day, and by the time he got home Shoto had already been there, collected his things, and left. The only way Izuku had known that the other man had been there at all was a note that had been left on their kitchen counter. It was written on a small square of pink paper. In Shoto’s unique script were the words “I’m so proud of you, Zuku. I love you – Sho”.

Izuku knew that he probably should have thrown the note away. Part of him still wished that he would, even though almost six months had passed since they parted. But he’d kept it. It helped ease the ache a little bit, even in some macabre way.

**************

Shoto Todoroki sighed heavily as he reached the floor where the apartment, he shared with his boyfriend Izuku was. He was tried and warring with himself internally as to if he should actually go inside or not. Slowly he approached the door, his fingertips lightly brushing against the cool metal of the door before he gently knocked and pushed the door open slightly. Izuku never locked the door during the day, even though Shoto had begged him repeatedly to do so.

Sticking his head in slightly, Shoto smiled as he spotted the green haired man curled up on the sofa sound asleep. Opening the door enough so that he could walk inside the apartment, Shoto toed his shoes off and gently sat his bag on the floor next to the door. Straightening back up, he took off his coat and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he walked softly toward the living room and over to the couch. Kneeling down in front of the sleeping man, Shoto gently ran the pad of his thumb across Izuku’s cheek.

“Zuku? Hey Zuku. Wake up, babe.” He said softly, retracting his hand from the others face as Izuku’s eyelashes began to flutter before opening to reveal beautiful green eyes.

“S-sho? Shoto? W-what’re you doing here?” Izuku asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I came home. If you’ll still have me, that is….” Shoto replied softly, looking into Izuku’s eyes with silent hope.

“But what about your dad’s agency?”

Shoto shrugged before answering. “I left. He begged me not to. Told me that the agency would be mine after he retired. But I told him I didn’t want it. I wanted to build my own agency, my own legacy. It’s my quirk, right? Not his?”

Izuku’s face lit up with the most stunning smile that Shoto had ever seen before the green haired man flung himself into the other’s lap.

“It’s your quirk, Sho. It’s always been yours. He might have been the one to give it to you – along with your mom’s quirk of course. But it’s yours.” Izuku replied before leaning in and kissing Shoto deeply.

Reaching forward, Shoto held the smaller man to him as he lost himself in the kiss. This was where he was meant to be. Sharing his life with the up and coming number two hero, Izuku Midoriya. Not trapped in some stuffy office in some agency being led by his father. When the kiss broke, their eyes remained closed as they both sat in silence, just soaking in the moment before either of them spoke.

“Does this mean I can come back? I can come home?” Shoto asked quietly, part of him dreading that the answer would be no.

Izuku’s eyes snapped open and he smiled before affectionately rubbing his nose against Shoto’s.

“Yes, Sho. You can come home. To our home.”

The bi-color haired man decided to forgo a verbal reply, instead opting to lean in again and capture the smaller man’s lips with his own again. They shared several additional sweet kisses before parting again. Sitting in silence again, Izuku once again remembered the note that Shoto had left the day that he left. Pressing another quick kiss to Shoto’s lips, Izuku silently got up and walked over to a cabinet that sat near the door into the kitchen. Opening one of the drawers, he took something out of it before closing the drawer again and returning to Shoto. Sitting back down on the other man’s lap, Izuku looked up at the other and smiled again.

“I kept it. I don’t know why, but I kept it.” He said, holding the paper up for Shoto to read.

Quickly reading it, Shoto blushed a soft pink as he looked down toward the floor. Huffing a quick laugh, Izuku reached out and lifted the bi-color haired man’s chin so he could look into his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you, Sho. Always have been, always will be.” He said before once again kissing the other man.

As they kissed, the paper was forgotten when Izuku wrapped his arms around his now returned boyfriend’s neck. As Shoto shifted them and rose from the floor in order to head to their bedroom, the last thing that Izuku saw before being kissed again was what was written on the note.

“I’m so proud of you, Zuku. I love you – Sho”

#BNHA fanfic #tododeku fanfic #tododeku #MHA #mha fanfiction #BNHA

[brideofcthulhu10]

Behold another Lost Boys holiday special! It was between this and Valentine’s day, but honestly I love writing Christmas specials, its such a cozy time despite the high suicide rates, but lets not get into that. A BIG SHOUT OUT TO @imlostinsantacarla FOR HELPING ME EDIT MY FINAL DRAFT!

Fun Fact! My husband, David (yes, that is actually his name) actually does have the bah humbug hat I mention in the head canons. He’s a heavy metal goth so when I found it at the store I had to get it for him. And you just know if our David found that, he wouldn’t be able to resist it!

Christmas with the Boys

Alright, so the whole touchy, feely and mushy feelings that surround even the topic of Christmas time is not something any of the boys will ever openly admit to enjoying. After all, they see themselves as these bad ass brutal killers who thrive off of death instead of holding hands and caroling with the goodie goodies of this coastal town. 

Yet, it's challenging for them not to get sucked into the glitz and glam of the holiday season. Everything is a big deal in Santa Carla. Dia De Los Muertos, Halloween, Thanksgiving- everything! But especially Christmas.

Christmas in Santa Carla dwarfs the frenzy craze of Halloween. The entirety of the boardwalk is decked out with red and green lights that are tightly wound around palm trees, red bulbous bows are wrapped tightly around street lamps, the reds and whites of velvety fabric swirl down the posts, creating the effect of candy canes. All the store windows are painted to appear frosted, or covered with painted snowmen whilst several rooftops are covered with white felt in which mimics the texture and sight of snow. Even the boats in the harbour are all extravagantly decorated in a sea of lights that parade around brightly at night in every color imaginable.

Between the dates of the 30th of November all the way to the 24th of December the city of Santa Carla hosts a plethora of wondrous events in it's annual Holiday Festival. Large green, white and red kiosks are erected, selling a wide range of baubles and treats, from delectable chocolate coated rice krispy Santa Clauses, elf candy apples caked in a plethora of dark chocolate and peppermint, to a variety of Holiday hats, masks and even hand made costumes by the many local artists. Even hand carved candles in wondrous scents of pine, mint, or spice.

Currently, David possesses a black fur Santa hat which he acquired on a night out that boasts the words "Bah Humbug" proudly sewn over the front. It's the only holiday attire he'll even humor. Last time Marko attempted to place reindeer antlers on his head, David had set them on fire roasting atop a pan of chestnuts. Now it's not to say that he's a grinch persay. Rather, the complex and intense emotions that come hand in hand with Christmas can leave him perpetually indifferent at best, disdainful at worst. The whole occasion leaves him displeased. After all, he was an orphan who had been almost eagerly abandoned by his hooker mother left to fend for himself from the beginning, and  of course never met his father. Even she could not identify which of her many clients may have been responsible. Most of his mortal life he had lived as a street rat, barely making ends meet by picking the pockets of tourists and Santa Carla citizens oblivious to the true dangers of the lower side of town. The rich and uppity classes who often snubbed their entitled noses his way would never suspect as he lurks between alleyways, leaving them cornered at knife point. It was scarce that he ever did see a kind face in the sea of those who had little interest for anyone that was not themselves. Back then it was rather uncommon for anyone to step outside their own little lives, which led to most interactions, outside of the other boys, having been met with great hostility, thus he had learned to be just as equally hostile in turn. Even the mere thought of anyone suddenly dawning a false kindness due to a certain time of year simply agitated David. It rattled him to the very core in a way very few other things did. Why bother with the lies? Couldn't people just face the very basic fact that they weren't nearly as charitable as they often deemed themselves to be? I mean, the young man had seen firsthand a family having previously snubbed a dirty homeless man with appalled disdain at the sight of his muddied clothes and dirt stained skin, only to then begin volunteering at a soup kitchen to purge whatever guilt they carried on their conscience once the holiday season began. The whole ordeal was pitiful! Nevertheless, - more so for Paul and Marko's sakes than his own -, he did humor these traditions amongst the holiday's festivities. Ruining a good time just wasn't his style. Unless they started fucking singing.

Most traditions David could tolerate, some he even enjoyed slightly; although he would never be caught dead admitting something as embarrassing as that! However, he just couldn't stand Christmas carols! They were the bain to his immortal existence. The repetitive nature of these overly cheery jingles left him covering his ears lest they nest in his brain leaving him humming the same damn melody for weeks. This was the case because the dynamic duo of dumbasses were well aware of his hatred for Rudolph the Red Nosed fuckin' roadkill! Stupid red nosed abomination. 

“OOOOOOH-,” Paul begins with cheerful mischief.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.” David seethes through tightly clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut in indignance. 

Paul hesitates. He looks at Marko. Marko looks at Paul. Wicked grins of agreement spread wide like wildfire across their faces as their master plan comes into play. Full throttle. What’s more fun than annoying the shit out of David? One on the left, the other on the opposite side of the cave on the right. This was nothing but Divine perfection if you asked the two troublesome vampires.

“OOOOOH DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW!” Paul belted out at full volume.

“IN A ONE HORSE OPEN SLEIGH!” Marko followed in suit, the widest eerie grin plastered on his face.

“OVER THE HILLS WE GOOOO” Paul howled enthusiastically. 

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU BOTH!” David's voice hit a whole new octave it had never in all his life so far. All the while Dwayne had opted to vacate the room lest he be caught in the middle of the escalating madness with Laddie in tow. He loved these guys, but not enough to dive head first into their fuckery.

Paul thrives during the Christmas holidays! How could he not? The food, the punk rock covers of Christmas songs, the absolute babes prancing around the town in Santa hats under mistletoe?! He loved it all! You can find him sneaking under mistletoe with many sweet honeys on a constant basis, regardless of whether or not he's acquainted with them. Most do roll their eyes or laugh it off, but every once in a blue moon the guy will get a little lovin' from a beach babe in the Yuletide mood. What else could he ask for? You can bet he’ll run into the woods December first, and quite literally RIP a pine tree out of the ground to bring home like a wee carrot being plucked from the ground. The bigger the better! He may even drag Dwayne or Marko along with him if it's too big for him to carry himself. And all the boozy drinks he can concoct up? This boy is in his element! Mulled wine, spiked eggnog, candy cane vodka, butterscotch bourbon hot chocolate?! Yes! David straight up refuses to try anything that Paul creates himself (remember the concoction he made in Max's kitchen? Those poor goldfish....) which is also another reason why he has Dwayne help him. Or rather, the other boys insist the most responsible of them monitors the blonde lest he poison them with some sickly brew. That, and the fact that Dwayne's the least likely out of all of them to blow up the damn kitchen!

Dwayne is indeed the designated cook during the holiday rush, albeit a field even he tends to struggle. Avoiding the kitchen catching aflame, perfecting his craft lest he blow up the stove, leaving only a pile of ash in its wake. As previously mentioned, ever since the dreadful chain of events that lead to the unfortunate destruction of Max's kitchen, this raven haired vampire has attempted his hand at learning to use a stove properly: Although he often finds himself forgetting ingredients either in the midst of cooking or after the final product is done and he's taken a big bite. 

“Shit! I forgot the milk and eggs!” Dwayne grumbled with a mouthful of dry crumbs, a true disgrace of a cookie.

Paul always gives him crap for it of course.

“Oooh I just thought you were going for a sandy, dusty dry cookie kinda thing.”

"Yeah man, these taste like ass!" Marko would cough out in midst of choking. 

"And what, like you dumbasses could do any better," Dwayne retorts with a huff. Only Star manages to have any manners when testing his failed baking endeavors.

"Well I mean, the taste isn't that bad. Just a little dry is all."

"At least Marko wouldn't be choking to death." David would mutter from the darkest corner of the room, a little late in the conversation.

In all honesty, Dwayne's biggest motivation when it came to improving his skills was obviously Laddie. The kid never got much of a Christmas whilst living with his mom, so now that he was with the boys, he wanted to ensure that Christmas's were something that Laddie would remember for all eternity. Though granted, it is quite the mess when he was helping in the kitchen. But when the mini vamp grins from ear to ear whilst coated in flour and rapidly stirring an overflowing bowl of chunky cookie dough--the sight is too freaking cute!

Since Laddie joined the boys, they participate in Secret Santa every single year, which definitely includes Paul bursting through the entrance of the hotel as Santa on Christmas day. We won't talk about the fact that each year he almost falls flat on his face and swears, ruining the surprise for the kid. 

"Santa where are your reindeer," he'd question, to which Santa Paul scoffs

"Pff, reindeer, I don't need any fucki- Ow," cut off by a firm and covert kick to the shin from Star, Paul quickly changes his response. "Oh! Ho ho, well, you see little boy, Santa can fly too! On his, uh, uhm… magic motorcycle! Yeah, that!"

But it's okay because Laddie already KNEW (he figured it out a year or two ago after Paul's beard fell off not once, but three times), he just doesn't have the heart to tell any of them because, well Paul really gets into it. And he knows the others are playing along for his sake. But to be fair, Laddie would have to be pretty dumb to believe it was Santa. I mean, the beard Paul's wearing is hanging half off his face by this point! But anyway, just like Paul's style, the entirety of the goody two shoes schpiel is thrown out the window, replaced with sleeves that have been ripped off, muddy boots, spiked bracelets and his Metallica shirt in full view beneath his flared red coat. He calls this BIKER CLAUS!

Laddie is not a squasher of traditions! But there was the one time that David had to intervene when Paul and Dwayne thought it would be great to use Laddie as the star at the top of the tree. David practically had a heart attack. Well, that's impossible but it still felt like he was having one!  

“Ho ho ho! Now, don’t be a bitch, little David or Santa will have to give you coal.” Paul stated mockingly to David, brows furrowed. 

“Well, Santa,” David scolds, a wry smile developing on his face when setting down the eight year old now off to shake his presents beneath their behemoth of a tree. “You best be careful. You never know what's in those milk and cookies, hm?”

Each year Marko buys bird toys for the pigeons in the hotel. Well, buy is probably the wrong word. More like he liberates the stores of their stock. And then for the next six months, David has to hear the agonizing jingle of bells. David almost roasted one pigeon in particular that kept flying over him to drop the ball with a bell in it on his head. That was Paul's entertainment for the next five hours, hell, he'd try to find it if the bird lost it and give it back. Marko defends the pigeon. Between running through stores buying up surprises for his friends, he's helping Paul throw out decorations for the cave. The dollar store has some surprisingly unexpected treasures, allowing him to deck the fucking halls to the max. Tinsel here, ornaments there,  tiny light up trees to hide around the caves, a butt ton of cinnamon pine cones which he ends up throwing back and forth with Paul.

And Paul often steals his gifts or goes dumpster diving for any hidden gems. He forgets to take the tags off of them the majority of the time, which is always an indicator whether or not its new. Any time Star asks where he got them from he refuses to answer. Just gets up and walks away. But for David's gift? Well this lucky bastard has found coal in the dumpster and chucks it to David when he's not looking and he sighs deeply in disappointment because this is the third year Paul has done this. 

 "Huh? What? Who did that? Wasn't me. Somebody's throwing stuff."

Other than that he'll find a fat bag of charcoal and just tape the name David on it. David is certainly not amused. Dwayne will actually try to figure out what the others want, and has the sense to save the money taken from their previous meals. After all, they're dead, they wouldn't have much use for it anyway. He's not about to waste his hypnosis on some poor cashier. That would be a waste of time in his eyes. 

When Christmas did arrive the tree was piled with mysterious boxes crudely mashed and taped together with bows and ribbons underneath it. It's obvious which ones are from Star since those gifts are wrapped in neatly pressed paper, wound tight beneath curled ribbons that remind the boys of her hair. Marko often goes on a food run rather than allow them all to be subjected to a potentially charred turkey, no offense to Dwayne of course. So, with a table covered from end to end with copious bowls of gravy, potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, a beast of a turkey in the center packed to the brim with cornbread stuffing, the boys cram into their chairs knocking back beers and spiked cider. Keeping to their own traditions, after fattening up, they gather around the tree and play card games, just as they had over eighty years ago on that frigid night. David still slays them in poker, and Marko is an utter dark horse when it comes to blackjack. Paul insists they try Go Fish. No one ever wants to play Go Fish. Closer towards the end of the night Dwayne will slip away to Jasper's shrine and bring him a fresh glass of rum as well as unwrapping what he got him that year. While Dwayne is there, the other boys will join him - omitting Star and Laddie left unaware of the Lost Boy they'd never met - in celebrating the last hour or so of the Holiday season with their fallen comrade.

Although Christmas time is often about uncomfortable mushy moments and emotions that create deep, unfamiliar times for David. The entire ordeal becomes that for everyone of the boys and Star. But God forbid anyone who even mentions it! I mean, it's kinda obvious though considering he's spending it with the people he always called family, knee deep in traditions that are sentimental to himself and the boys. There's a fluster of emotions running rampant during this particular Holiday Season, and although the blonde brooding vampire decides to squint at it with skepticism he savors these moments, knowing like Jasper, it could all be swept away with a single ray of light or the foolish hand of a hunter. So as they sit, drunk, full, and laughing beside Jasper's grave he can't help but smile at the sentimentality of it all. Christmas is a pain in the ass, but… it's a pain he'll gladly sit through for his brothers.

#lost boys imagine #lost boys 1987 #lost boys #the lost boys #lost boys paul #lost boys imagines #lost boys dwayne #lost boys david #lost boys marko #christmas #holiday imagine #tis the season #lost boys head canon #headcanon #lost boys vampires #vampire boys #vampires #vampire #fanfiction writing #lost boys fanfiction #fan theory #fanfiction #fanfic

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 20

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: Being a sticker for the rules is all well and good until someone uses said rules against you. Also, thanks to @lunaescribe​ for her help brainstorming for this chapter - she came up with a lot of what Sofía says in it! Art by @swanpit​ and @lunaescribe​!

***

“Well. It seems you are well and truly fucked.”

“That is not helpful.”

“I mean, I may be wrong. In case I’m not, I want you to know it was nice knowing you. Biblically and otherwi--”

“I beg you to spare me more nonsense,” Imelda groaned, still rubbing her temples. She had started almost as soon as Ernesto had opened his mouth to explain the situation, and had yet to stop. Either she was being dramatic, or there was a colossal headache on the way. “Last thing we need right now is for word to get out that we sheltered a deserter.”

Beside her, Héctor swallowed. “Well, if we say we didn’t know--”

“And you think Federales would care?” Imelda asked, her voice barely cracking a moment, giving a briefest glimpse to how scared she truly was at the prospect. Ernesto crossed his arm, the thing gnawing at the pit of his stomach - terror, and something that felt a lot like guilt - becoming almost painful.

The men lined up in plazas for the firing squad to execute. The hangings of those we did not shoot. The wailing children, the screaming women. Some were shot too, soldaderas, aiders like Imelda and Sofía. And even the holy cloth will not be enough to save them if they find out. 

“They won’t care,” he said, looking away. “I would know.”

A few moments of silence, and Ernesto barely dared to breathe; he wasn’t so naive not to know that spontaneously surrendering him before the gringo had a chance to speak would be their best chance at avoiding all that. If they gave any indication of planning to do that, then he’d have no choice but to make a run for it. If only he still had his horse--

“Well. It seems we must make sure the gringo never speaks, then.”

Imelda’s voice was firm, cold. Ernesto blinked, looking back at her. “What?”

“... Is it not what you have been trying to do? If he unmasks you, he will be calling down the wolves on every one of us. Whether he means to or not.”

“I…”

“Wait, wait!” Héctor spoke up, lifting his arms. His eyes were wide, his face ashen pale. “Let’s not-- there is no need to hurt him. He did tell Ernesto to leave, no? So say that we hide him, and we let the gringo think he did leave--”

Ernesto scoffed. “He’ll still denounce me, at this point. He only conceded me a head start before he does. It won’t help you when the Federales come asking questions.”

“Ah.” Héctor faltered a moment, then he shook his head. “No, it’s not right. We don’t need to harm him--”

Sofía raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think we’d be so lucky to have him just drop dead of a spontaneous heart attack within the next twenty-four hours.”

“No, look. He... doesn’t need to die. We only have to win him over.”

Ernesto opened his mouth. Héctor gave him an exasperated look. “Not that way.”

Ernesto closed his mouth. 

“What I mean, is-- he is a man of God. If we tell him what the Federales do to deserters… surely he’d know what is the charitable thing to do, saving someone’s life. That's the point of the Church - giving shelter to the helpless and... and he's helpless and needs shelter, right?”

“A helpless broad-shouldered ox?” Imelda muttered. 

“Broad shoulders won’t save me from hanging,” Ernesto snapped, pacing back and forth, dread growing in his chest. “This isn’t about my shoulders, anyway. This is-- this is--”

“This could work.”

“Huh?” 

Three pairs of eyes turned suddenly towards Sofía, who in turn gave them all the sweetest smile to ever grace a nun’s face. Well, as long as one ignored the glint in the eye that was more reminiscing of a fox approaching a wounded mouse. “Look at it this way - what is it the gringo loves more than anything?”

Ernesto opened his mouth. 

“Aside from that.”

Ernesto closed his mouth. 

“... God?” Héctor suggested tentatively. 

“Hah, as if. Imelda?”

“Being obeyed?” she said drily, and Sofía’s smile widened. 

“Close, but no. He loves being right. Being in the right. Or rather, believing he is. The holier than thou teacher, doing everything by the Book.”

Ernesto quickly glanced around, and was somewhat relieved to see the expressions on Imelda and Héctor’s faces were about as blank as his mind felt. In the end, he cleared his throat. “Can you speak in plain Spanish?”

The smile on Sofía’s face turned into a grin. “What I am saying is that one of us, whoever can act the best, needs to go to our dear leader Father John, and ask for him to confess them. And anything we say in confession…”

“He cannot say to others,” Imelda spoke, her expression brightening. “The seal of confession.”

“Exactly! Now, in the confession, we express our distress over something we learned by listening in to a prayer - where we heard Padre Ernesto say to God he was an escaped soldier terrified to die  - and oh no, Padre John, what do we do?” Sofía sighed, bringing a hand over his heart. “It's a crime, but what would Jesus Christ do, Father John? Surely he’d offer shelter?”

Ernesto blinked. “But he… already knows.”

This time, Héctor seemed to have caught on and grinned, showing off his brand new golden tooth. “But he cannot admit that, because it would make him look bad,” he said. “Either he admits to knowing of the crime for days before confession and keeping quiet, or he admits to being guilty of breaking the sacramental seal. Neither would make him look good. Neither would make him feel like he’s in the right. Plus, Jesus would frown upon sending a man to his death.”

Ah. Ernesto hadn’t thought about it that way at all. “And-- you think that would work?”

“It just might,” Imelda said. “Might be worth a try before other solutions are considered.”

More permanent solutions, her tone made it clear enough. Ernesto swallowed and nodded. 

“All right. Then, who…?”

“Héctor could do it,” Sofía said. “Though a woman’s tears might work better. Make him feel like the protective Padre. In that case, I could do it.”

That gained her a slightly dubious look from Imelda. “You can cry on command?”

Sofía burst sobbing, so suddenly it caused Ernesto to nearly jump. It was a little terrifying how quickly it happened, really: she was full-on wailing, face streaked with tears. Imelda raised both eyebrows, clearly impressed, while Héctor stood so quickly he caused the chair to fall back with a bang. 

“Hey are you all right-- please don’t, I’m sure Imelda didn’t mean to--”

Sofía’s crying stopped, as quickly as it had begun, and she gave a stunned Héctor a very, very wide grin. 

“Yes,” she said, voice sweet as honey. “I think it should be me.”

***

John’s walk back to the parish was slow, and full of dark thoughts. 

Part of him worried that he had been seen, because he was almost certain he’d heard at least a voice, but it was hard to muster the willpower to focus too much on it. What did it matter if someone saw him weep, saw him with the lit cigarette in his hand? His greatest weaknesses and vices were already laid bare before the Almighty. 

I will not remain for long. I cannot bear it. Once I have informed the Archdiocese of that man’s deception, I will ask to be reassigned.

Of course he knew there was a chance he may find himself defrocked, if he grew spiteful enough, desperate enough to drag him down with him, to tell. If he did, John would not attempt to lie. He would admit his sin, accept the punishment-- but God, oh God, he had worked so hard to the cloth he wore. Too hard to allow that sinner to… to ruin everything. 

I deserted and ran, he had said. If the Federal army finds me, I’ll hang.

God willing, that will happen before he can talk. 

It was a horrible thought, far beneath a servant of God - but it had still come unbidden to his mind, and shamed filled him the next moment. Look how low he’d sunk, how much he had sullied him. He truly was ruined. 

He would never be a true man of God. 

John’s eyes stung once more, but he refused to shed more tears that day. He stopped in the middle of the orchard he was going through to approach the church unseen, leaned against a tree, and drew in a few deep breaths. Nature walks used to bring him such peace, and now he was desperately grasping for scraps of it. He tried to focus on the rustling leaves, the wind, the birds, a dog whining…

… A child sobbing?

John recoiled, opening his eyes and turning to glance around. He couldn’t see anyone, but sobbing it was, and clearly a child’s. Was someone hurt? He frowned, and followed the noise. “Who’s there?”

A small gasp, a hiccuping sound, and there was the source of it - Miguel, sitting beneath a large tree and hugging the hairless stray dog who’d follow him anywhere, apparently unaware of the copious amounts of drool dripping on his shoulder as the beast let him hold onto it. What… had happened?

“Miguel?” John stepped closer, only to pause when he realized Miguel was looking at him the way a child only looks at you when expecting a scolding, some sort of punishment.

“It’s nothing,” Miguel said quickly, standing up and wiping his face with his sleeve. He was clearly in a rush to get away from him. It stung, truly, to see the boy mistrust him so. Only days ago, he’d liked him. He’d smiled at him. It had taken so little for that to change again.

I’m meant to be their shepherd, but they once again look at me like I’m the wolf.  

But they didn’t understand, he was trying to do things right by God - he was guarding their souls, he was trying to save his own, he… he…

“Miguel,” he called out, reaching out tentatively to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am here to help. Whatever is bothering you, you can tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“You may tell me as a confession, and it will be under sacramental seal. You can trust--”

“No,” Miguel snapped suddenly, jerking away from him. He looked up, scowling, but he failed to come across as angry. He only seemed so very sad. “I can’t. Any of you.”

Normally, John wouldn’t have let such behavior stand - he would have at least demanded to know the reason for such an outburst, lectured him on how to properly address his elders and most of all a man of God. The implication he may not take the sacramental seal seriously was nothing short of an insult, but he was so drained, with so much on his mind and such as weight on his soul. In the end, he simply nodded and folded his hands. 

“All right. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

A long, suspicious look - both from the boy and his dog. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. It simply feels as though we may both use some company,” John replied, and sat beneath the tree. Miguel stared at him, his expression softening a little, causing John to wonder if perhaps he’d failed to conceal signs of his earlier breakdown as well as he’d hoped.

Bit late to worry about it.

He averted his gaze, saying nothing, and heard Miguel sitting down by his side. The dog wandered around, nosing at leaves, probably looking for something edible. After a brief silence, it was Miguel to speak. “... Is something wrong? You’ve been-- weird.”

John swallowed, trying to ignore how his heart seemed to be beating in his throat. No, he had to stay calm. Surely, there was no way a mere child may know of his sin. “Have I?”

“Sí. I mean, you act--” a pause, probably looking for a polite way to put it. “Different.”

“Well--” John began, about to explain how he only had the salvation of their souls at heart, but Miguel spoke before he could.

“Kinda scary.”

Ah.

I’m meant to be their shepherd. They should not be afraid to seek me out.

“I… suppose I have not been in the best of moods.”

“Did something happen?”

“My faith is being tested. It is not for you to concern yourself about,” John replied, his voice soft. “You are a child.”

A scoff. “I’m not dumb.”

“Ah, that is not what I mean. You are one of the innocent. Yours is the Kingdom of God.”

“Ah.” Miguel paused, clearly unsure how to respond to that. In the end, he shrugged. “Well, I’m not going to be a kid for long. I’ll get older, they’ll kick me from the orphanage, and that’ll be it.”

Oh, John thought, so that was what was bothering him. The memory of the night he’d stumbled out of his home into the night, his clothing torn and blood seeping through the fabric, terror in his chest and despair in his mind, tried to make a comeback. He forced it away.

No such thing will happen to him. He is a good child. He is home here.

“But no one will be forcing you out of Santa Cecilia, no?” John asked, smiling. “Your friends will still be all here.”

A snort. “Some friends,” he muttered, hugging his knees. “I don’t need them. Someone told me he was gonna take me out of here, but he won’t either. Fine. I don’t need anyone.”

“Whatever gave you such thoughts?”

Miguel shrugged, looking away. John supposed it was a clear enough cue that he still had no intention to talk about it. He decided to remain quiet, and wait. It didn’t take too long for Miguel to speak again; he was, after all, a child in need of comfort. 

“He didn’t even come after me when I ran off.”

“This... person you’re angry at?”

“Yes. He would have come after me, before. But now he doesn’t care anymore.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t excessively difficult for John to figure out who Miguel may be referring to. He and Brother Hector were usually joined at the hip. “Well, perhaps he has concerns--”

“Oh, I know what concerns he has,” the boy muttered, his voice dripping sarcasm. John raised both eyebrows. He certainly did not approve of Brother Hector harboring… affection towards a woman while a novice, and he’d rather he made up his mind soon instead of keeping up that mockery, but none of it was something to burden a young mind with. 

So he drew in a deep breath, and tried to be as accommodating as he could. “If it is who I am thinking, he is… a young man himself. And possibly struggling with faith, and-- these are difficult times. I’m certain he cares about you deeply.”

Miguel seemed to hesitate a moment, then he glanced up at him. “... How would you know?”

Father John Johnson gave a small, pained smile. “I was the oldest of four siblings, and I loved my sisters and brother dearly. I had duties, as the oldest - I won’t bore you with the details - but from time to time, both Sarah and Michael complained I wasn’t paying any attention to them. Perhaps they were right to say so, and I do regret it to this day.” I’ll never see them again. Ruth won’t even remember me. “I cared about them, as much as I always had. But I was trying to be the best example I could be, and did not realize they felt left out.”

“Oh,” Miguel said. He seemed to mull on his words for a few moments before he sighed. “It’s not the same thing. He-- I told him something, and he promised me not to tell, but he told and now… someone else is mad at me. Why would he do that?”

John didn’t know what he precisely was referring to - probably something like having stolen an apple from the market stand, or eaten the last candy, what other secrets could a child have? - and he hummed. “You know, my sister Sarah once showed me she could jump from her window on the tree branch right before it, and climb down to the ground.”

A faint chuckle. “That sounds cool.”

“She made me promise not to tell our Father.” John smiled faintly. “I told him that evening.”

“Ugh.” Miguel rolled his eyes. “Why were you such a spoilsport?”

“I worried she may hurt herself. I had her best interest at heart, even if she didn’t see it that way. Not that day, but-- no. No, she really never forgave me for that.” He smiled, the memory bittersweet in his chest. “But I can promise you, my intentions were good. Sometimes we may be misguided, but… don’t you think that, perhaps, it was the same for Br-- your friend?”

“Well…” Miguel paused a moment, and seemed to be musing on that. He bit his lower lip, feet shuffling a little in the dirt, and finally sighed. “Yes. Maybe. I mean, I was also not supposed to say something, but I told because I thought it was-- the best thing to do.”

“There you go. I am sure he feels the same.”

He nodded and finally looked up at him, tears gone from his eyes. “... Why aren’t you always like this? You know, not a cab-- I mean, nice?”

Ah. “I… understand I may come across as harsh, but I only wish to keep your souls from harm.”

“Yes, but if you just scare everyone…” Miguel made a vague gesture with his hand. “You said people can mean well but be misguided. So, uh… maybe… you know?”

No. Not now. I was misguided before, when I was too soft. Now I’m doing the right thing. I am.

“... I will give the matter some thought,” John found himself saying instead. Miguel smiled, and he smiled back - knowing full well that, once he revealed the truth about the man they believed their beloved parish priest, the boy may never smile at him again.

***

Looking back later on Sofía would think that maybe, just maybe, she had exaggerated a little bit.

Perhaps it would have been best to approach him looking anxious, letting her voice crack a little as she began speaking, and then letting the waterworks start as she got to the meat of it. However, as much as she liked to mock Ernesto over his dramatic flair, sometimes she simply couldn’t resist… and the gringo’s face as he opened the door to the room he had elected as his office to see a nun bawling her eyes out was well worth it. Priceless. 

If not for the fact it was a literal matter of life or death, Sofía probably wouldn’t have stopped laughing until Día de los Muertos. Instead, she turned the snicker threatening to leave her in yet another sob and grasped Padre Juan’s cassock, faintly wondering if she could get away with blowing her nose in it. Maybe she would, he seemed stunned enough not to question it.

No, not the moment for that. Focus. 

“For the love of-- Sister, what in the-- what has happened-- are you hurt…?” the gringo stammered, and immediately moved aside to let her in, a hand on her upper back - a gesture he certainly wouldn’t have even contemplated under normal circumstances. “Here, here. Please, sit. Dry your tears - what is it, Sister?”

Ah, Sofía thought, men. Mexican, gringo, maricón or not, there really were few who wouldn’t immediately feel obliged to do their utmost to comfort a sobbing woman. She’d had some doubts over the gringo, considering how harsh he had been to Fernanda when she had come to his confessional months ago, but it was working now. Maybe being a bride of Christ helped her there, or maybe the hard work Ernesto had put into mellowing him hadn’t gone entirely wasted.

That, and he was finally getting the chance to act like the saviour he thought he was; of course he wouldn’t let it pass by. It wasn’t often people willingly turned to him for confession.

“Gracias, Padre,” she choked out, sitting down and taking the handkerchief he was handing her. She dabbed her eyes as delicately as she could, holding back from noisily blowing her nose and letting her shoulders shake. The gringo hurried to pour her a glass of water from a pitcher. 

“Here, drink. Tell me what’s troubling you,” he said, sitting before her. 

He looked pale - well, paler - himself, with dark shadows under his eyes. If he hadn’t been such a cabrón, Sofía might have felt bad for him. She drank half the glass in one gulp before she spoke. “I… I need confession, Padre. What I tell you cannot leave this room.”

The gringo’s forehead scrunched up some, and Sofía could very easily imagine the sins he was mentally accusing her of. He was probably right on several accounts, really, but he needed not know that. In the end, he breathed out and nodded, sitting before her, hands folded. 

“Of course. Anything you tell me will be under the seal of confession. God hears you, sister.”

Well, it was time. Sofía drew in a shaky breath and straightened her back just a little, mindful to keep her gaze low, fixed on the handkerchief in her hand. It looked expensive but old, with his initials exquisitely embroidered in a corner; she wondered, in the back of her mind, if it was a memento of his life from before being found out, before being disowned.

“Forgive me, Padre, for I have sinned,” she began, her voice trembling. “I have… I have listened in to something I never ought to have and… and I don’t know what to do.” Another sob. “I don’t want anyone to be harmed on my account.”

“No one will come to any harm,” Padre Juan said, his voice soft. “Tell me what has happened.”

“It… it’s about Padre Ernesto,” Sofía said, and she didn’t need to look up to know the gringo had stiffened: the glimpse at his folded hand suddenly clenching was enough of a clue.

She had expected that. What she did not expect were his next words, quiet, cold as ice. 

“... Has he harmed you, Sister?”

“What!” Sofía looked up, stunned at the notion he really believed Ernesto could do something so utterly stupid. Juan blinked, taken aback by her sudden exclamation, and she was quick to lower her gaze again, shaking her head. “No, good Lord, no, he-- he never!”

“Ah.” The gringo cleared his throat, rather embarrassed for jumping to the wrong conclusion for seemingly no reason. “Well, that is-- good. It’s good. Then what has happened?” he asked, sounding… just a touch hesitant. It wasn’t hard to guess he now expected her to confess she had fallen in love with the parish priest or something equally saccharine. It took all of Sofía’s willpower not to roll her eyes. Instead, she swallowed. 

“I was in the chapel, it was my turn to clean the pews, and… and I was running late, I was not meant to be there at that time-- I heard Padre Ernesto praying. He didn’t hear me coming in and… and I… listened.” She looked up, eyes huge and brimming with tears. His expression was stony now, but it was clearly not her his anger was directed at. “Oh, Padre, he wasn’t quiet - he was shaking, and weeping, and begging for forgiveness.”

Padre Juan stared at her, the stony expression turning into obvious astonishment. She may as well told him she had witnessed Ernesto flying over the parish.  “He-- what?”

She sobbed again, covering her face with her hands. “He said-- he said-- oh, Padre, he is not who he says he is. What I heard, I… I think he escaped from the Federal Army.” A pause, just enough for a shake breath, taking note of the fact that Padre Juan was… not speaking just yet. “He's terrified they might find him-- they will kill him, Padre!” Sofía tore her hands off her face with perfect dramatic flair, looking up at him in what she hoped was a look of utter despair. 

Padre Juan… stared at her, his expression blank. And then he stared. And stared some more. 

… A little unnerving, that. “Padre?”

“Ah,” he finally said, recoiling as though snapped back to reality. He then proceeded to make the poorest attempt at feigning surprise Sofía had ever seen, and she had seen Imelda trying to pretend she was unaware of Héctor’s obvious pining. “Yes, I… my apologies. You just said-- what you said--” he trailed off, a look of alarm on his face. “Did he admit to-- anything else?”

Sofía fought with all her might to keep herself from cocking an eyebrow at him. “No, only that,” she said, her voice a little more dry than it should have been to keep up the Distraught Damsel Act, but he seemed far too relieved to notice the slip. He cleared his throat. 

“Ah, yes. That is. That is indeed. Concerning,” the gringo muttered, his voice rather forced. He wasn’t even trying to go down the ‘you must have misheard’ route. God, he was such an awful liar. “If he indeed is a… an imposter, and a deserter, the appropriate authorities should--”

Sofía gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth in sheer horror. “No! Padre, you said this would be covered by the sacramental seal! The holy secret of confession!”

“I…” Padre Juan opened and closed his mouth for a few moments like a fish out of water, his pale skin suddenly flushing red. Last she’d seen a face like that, the man in question had been trying to pass a kidney stone. “Yes, I… of course… the secret of confession is sacred,” he repeated. Every single word seemed to be causing him pain. Much like kidney stones.

“I heard the things Federales do to deserters, it doesn’t bear to think about!”

“Regardless he-- er-- the Church is not to be mocked, he blasphemed and something ought to--”

“He must be so scared, Padre. Desperate men do desperate things.”

“Of course, but… but…” he stammered, too taken aback by the turn the situation had taken to be his usual sanctimonious self. Sofía had no intention to let him recollect his thoughts.

"I have seen men hang and left to feed the crows for trying to avoid service - we must help him, Padre, por favor, I cannot bear-- the Church cannot stand by and let a man be killed...” a fresh round of tears, hands over her face, but she kept her fingers spaced out just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He looked stunned, frustrated, angered and concerned at the same time. 

He knew exactly the position her confession had just left him and oh, he clearly did not like it, but neither would he willingly break something as sacred as the secret of confession. Just as expected. Sofía highly doubted Pope Innocent III was anywhere near innocent and therefore anywhere near Heaven at the moment, but right there and then she could have kissed him with plenty of tongue for enshrining the sacramental seal in canonical law.

In the end, his tense expression melted into a long sigh. He reached over to put a hand on her shoulder. "Cease your crying, Sister. I can tell this has disturbed you greatly, and that you...you care deeply for Fath-- for Ernest."

… Well. That sounded suspiciously like he’d just gotten the wrong idea about her pleas to protect the man she had supposedly believed to be their beloved parish priest up to that afternoon, but if it helped her, so be it. Sofía grasped his free hand with both of hers, looking up with a sniffle. “Please, help him,” she choked out. “He was so distraught.”

His expression hardened one moment in anger, pain, and God knew what else; he clenched his jaw a moment before, finally, his expression turned blank again. “Of course,” he said, his voice a little distant. “I suppose desperation explains such… intense deception.” 

And he did deceive you for a good while, Sofía thought. Longer than you’d like. You were in the best position to see all the things that didn’t add up. But you just didn’t expect a Mexican to be that good a priest in the first place, did you? You’d have clocked a gringo imposter much earlier.

“Sí, Padre,” she said instead. “And the way he prayed, oh, he repents. I am certain that if we have mercy, he will repay the Church for what he did.”

Another pause, a clench of his jaw. It was easy to see he didn’t quite buy Ernesto repenting, and yet he seemed to hesitate. “Are you certain he didn’t hear you coming?”

“Sí, Padre. He had no idea I was there.”

A long breath. “I see. We must… keep this a secret for time being, Sister Sophie.”

She ignored the butchering of her name, as always, and nodded fervently. “I will tell no one.”

“... Very well. I will confron-- talk to him, and… figure out the best way forward,” the gringo said, and let out a long breath. “Is there… anything else you wish to confess?”

“No, Padre,” she replied. He nodded, gaze a little unfocused, and gave her absolution, and his  blessing. Sofía thanked him time and time again, mentally patting herself on the back; she had a foot already out of the door when he spoke again, suddenly. 

“Sister. He has confessed you in these past months, I am sure, as he did many others. Does it not concern you, to know those absolutions were worth nothing?”

Ah. Sofía turned, her expression somber. The gringo was looking back at her, and he looked haunted. It was easy to guess what that was all about - it concerned him, and a great deal. Her next lie wasn’t for her own benefit, not really. It was for his own. “... Not terribly, Padre. I was sincerely regretful, confessed in good faith, and I am certain God knows as much.”

“I see,” John Johnson murmured, thumbing at the golden crucifix at his neck. “You say he prayed for forgiveness and truly repents. In that case, I’ll talk to him and… see for myself.”

Sofía nodded. “Thank you, Padre,” she said, her expression as grateful as she could make it.

The gringo just nodded back, looking away, and closed the door behind her without a word.

***

“And he actually-- believed all of that?”

Héctor hadn’t meant to sound that stunned - he’d seen first hand how good an act Sofía could put on - but it really sounded… a bit of a stretch. Mostly because he couldn’t imagine Ernesto sobbing out of guilt in the chapel of all things. 

Sofía shrugged, finishing her glass of wine. “At the very least, he didn’t reject the possibility. Getting him to entirely believe it is up to him now,” she said, and turned to look at Ernesto, who had been quiet throughout her account of the meeting. Almost eerily quiet, really. “And you better not mess up. Remember, you are extremely repentant and prayed for forgiveness, wish you could undo what you did in your desperation to save yourself and all that.”

Ernesto made a face. He was learning back on his chair, arms folded over his chest. “If I throw this sob story on his lap when he asks, he won’t buy it.”

“Then find a way to sell it. I did,” Sofía replied, rolling her eyes. “Where’s Imelda, by the way?”

“Covering up for your duties while you are ‘indisposed’,” Héctor replied. “She figured this would come across more believable if she told everyone that you told her you were not feeling well.”

“Ah, fair point. I was so terribly upset,” Sofía chuckled, and stood. “We’ll, I should retire and rest, then. If he asks, tell the gringo that I told you I was feeling terribly tired and did not come out since afternoon.” She paused a moment, and reached to put a hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. “Look. I think he is willing to hear you out. So please, don’t mess this up. I don’t hate him quite enough to want to move on to plan B and plan out his murder.”

Ernesto looked up at her, let out a long sigh, and nodded. “I won’t mess up,” he muttered, and looked away. “Thank you.”

Héctor turned to follow Sofía with his gaze as she left, then he bit his lower lip and looked back at Ernesto. His gaze was oddly distant, arms still tightly folded. “... You can do this, all right?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well…” a sigh, and Héctor decided to drop the matter. He finished his wine glass and stood. “I guess I’ll go looking for Miguel. He was really mad at me when I saw him, for letting you know that he told me about you. What did you even say to him?”

A grunt. “He caught me in a bad moment, is all.”

“Well, you owe the chamaco an apology.”

“Chingate.”

“That was not a request, Ernesto,” Héctor snapped. “Miguel kept the secret longer than most  kids his age would have. He’s eight, por Dios. You can’t blame him for caving in.”

“He wouldn’t have had to if he weren’t the only one with the brains to find me out right away!”

Héctor - who did not know, and would never know, how seriously Ernesto had considered silencing Miguel permanently that day - scoffed. “What, now you’re mad because I didn’t find you out? You shouldn’t be. If we had before we got to know you, I… I’m not sure what we would have done.” His voice grew a little weaker as he finished, because it was true and the thought had kept him awake a couple of nights. It caused Ernesto to fall silent, too, before he sighed.

“... Well. I guess I lucked out, the--”

“Father Ernest.” Father John’s voice caused the both to recoil and turn to see him standing in the doorway, hands tightly clasped together. His voice was firm, and rather chilly. “A word, if you please,” he spoke again before either could respond, and then he was walking off again, clearly expecting Ernesto to follow. And, with a long breath, he did, leaving Héctor to anxiously wait. 

After all, as he’d put it earlier, what choice did he have?

***

“Sit.”

It was an order, delivered in a rather cold tone, but at least this time around he wasn’t screaming or sobbing. Ernesto found it easier to deal with, however little he liked being ordered around. He did sit, and heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. 

Until not too long ago, having a locked door between them and the rest of the world meant Ernesto was about to enjoy what was to come. He suspected it wouldn’t be the case now, unless Juan had changed his mind rather dramatically, which he doubted. 

He was dashingly handsome, but not that dashingly handsome. 

“I gave you a chance to leave with your life.” Juan spoke up, and went to sit behind the desk. He looked at him, hands folded and eyes narrowed, remarkably in control. It made Ernesto nervous, but at the same time it was a relief. He had no wish to see him as shattered as he’d been. “You claim you’ll hang if the army gets to you, and yet you did not take that chance.”

“There is no place in Mexico that is safe,” Ernesto spoke, his voice just as firm. “I’m done for the moment you speak.”

A long silence as Juan kept staring at him, expression unreadable. “... Do you repent at all?”

Well, that was it. What Ernesto had told Sofía was true - there was no way he could immediately throw a sob story at him and expect to be believable, because Juan knew him far better than he knew her - so he had to be careful with his reaction. He paused a moment, and then turned away. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

“Even if it meant you’d soil me.” The hurt in Juan’s voice was plain, and it struck a chord Ernesto didn’t even know was there. He clenched his jaw a moment before he spoke again. 

“I hadn’t-- thought it would get so far,” he muttered. “All I knew was that I couldn’t let them find me. If you left Santa Cecilia, and mentioned me to anyone who’d know the name of the priest who was supposed--”

“That’s your justification, then. You were afraid of death.”

“What sane man isn’t?”

A long breath. “Answer my question. Do you repent, Ernest?”

“Not leaving the army, never,” Ernesto crossed his arms, forgetting he was supposed to act. But, up to that moment, he did mean every word. “I couldn’t spend one more night in the barracks, or march one more day under the sun, gun down one more civilian or risk my neck for Huerta, or--”

The firing squad. The hangings. The wailing. The battles and the bullets and the death, it all came back at night and we tried not to think, me and the others, and in the dark a body is a body and we only wanted to feel alive again. 

Ernesto’s voice died in his throat. The pause that followed was not planned, nor the breath he forced in and out of his lungs, or the words he managed to choke out afterwards. “I only ever wanted to be a musician.”

Another silent, long look. Juan’s expression showed nothing; if not for the dark shadows under his eyes, he’d have looked everything like the insufferable gringo who’s first walked in the parish to immediately criticize everything he did or said. “It has come to my attention that you’ve been praying in the chapel.”

Ernesto looked away. “And…?”

“Praying for forgiveness. Expressing remorse.”

“Nonsense,” Ernesto snapped, both because it was and because it was the only believable answer. “I don’t regret leaving the army, or taking advantage of some gullible parishioners. I--”

“You were seen and heard.”

Now.

Ernesto reared back as if slapped, letting his jaw go slack as though in shock. It was a reaction the gringo had been expecting, clearly, because he could see some of the hardness in his gaze fading. If he’d suspected Sofía’s confession had not been entirely truthful, that ought to have taken care of it. “What--” Ernesto stammered, his bravado gone. “Who…?”

“It is not for you to know.” Juan leaned forward, just a little, eyes searching Ernesto’s. “If not leaving the army, if not deceiving the Church and these people, what is it you regret?”

“I…” Words died in Ernesto’s throat, and it was not an act. Suddenly, holding Juan’s gaze was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Something was there that hadn’t been before, an odd sort of hope that could be snuffed out with mere words. Words Ernesto couldn’t utter either way, because his tongue felt heavy as lead in his mouth. He lowered his gaze, saying nothing. 

“... Ernest. I am owed an answer. I am no longer pure on your account, a sinner, unworthy of the cloth I wear. I chose this path in hope to redeem myself, to…” his voice faltered. “To perhaps be worthy of seeing my family again, and you took it from me. Everything I toiled and hoped for may be nothing but ashes now, and--”

“Lo siento,” Ernesto blurted out, and Juan fell silent. Gaze lowered, a weight on his chest-- “No choice! How did you have no choice but to defile me! You ruined me!” -- Ernesto did not look up to see his expression. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a long sigh, and the sound of a chair being pushed back on wooden boards, followed by steps. He dared look up to see John walking up to the window, giving him his back. 

Ernesto opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what he’d even say, but the gringo spoke first. “God has spoken to me,” he declared. Ernesto closed his mouth. 

Oh, por Dios. He’s lost it.

“If you were a test put before me, I have failed - but I see now that in His mercy, the Lord is giving me a second chance. I will be an instrument of His will, redeem myself not by being the one to throw the first stone - but by being the shepherd who brings the lost sheep back to the flock.” He turned, reaching up to thumb at the golden crucifix at his neck. “As my mentor did for me when I arrived at his parish as a runaway. I was lost, too, and I was found.”

“Huh,” Ernesto muttered. Not his cleverest ever retort, but-- what else was he meant to say? He wasn’t sure what turn he had expected that conversation to take, but that was not it. 

“Now. Of course, it is regrettable that the good people of Santa Cecilia are to be deceived any longer than they already have been, but given the situation, I am certain God will be forgiving. It goes without saying that I am to take on the most important duties,” Juan continued. “Sunday Mass, confessions, blessings and such. It is paramount that a real priest performs them.”

Ernesto suspected the parishioners would be less than thrilled by the change, but he knew he had no grounds to argue. “I-- of course. But what am I supposed to do--”

“... And of course, it is also paramount that you spread the true word of God for however long this has to keep up,” Juan cut him off, and dropped something on the table - an old, heavy-looking Bible. Where had he been keeping-- no, wait. He didn’t want to know. “You will study the scriptures, and better yourself through them. We shall be both redeemed.”

“It’s… in Latin,” Ernesto said, looking up. The gringo gave him the slightly manic smile that could only possibly be seen on the face of a missionary with… well. With a mission. 

“You’ll learn, Ernest,” he said, and Ernesto suddenly wished he had, after all, taken the chance to run off when he could.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

[smeraldos]

stuck in second gear

so no one told you love was going to be this way.

summary: the tables have been set, the guests have arrived, and congratulations are ready to be made.

all you have to do is show up...

wedding!au

pairings: taehyung/reader, namjoon/reader

genres: love, suspense, bittersweet symphony

words: 2.6K+

Once upon a dream, you’d thought your wedding would be a fairytale. Now you know why some stories have to end: what lies beyond "happily ever after" isn't always so pleasant. 

Which is why you're trying to prevent it. 

Sure, you don't have the best timing, but it's better late than never. Even if it means sneaking out your dressing room in a ton of satin.

"______? How are you doing?"

Startled, you step back from the window. "Great, just give me a few."

“A few what?" Phoebe quips from the other side of the door. "Hours? Years? You know we don’t have that time.”

“You don’t have it or you aren’t willing to give it?”

“Honey, I offered you help and you didn’t take it, so that’s on you. Now are you going to let me in or are you coming out?”

“I’ll come out.” You scramble to gather the train of your dress, but it’s too long. Spotting a pair of scissors leftover from ribbon cutting, you grab it and start cutting off the fabric. “In five minutes.”

“So what do I tell your fiancé?”

“Not to worry because it looks ugly on him and only I should see his ugly face.”

She laughs. "You got that, pretty prince?"

"I'm writing it in my vows," your fiancé says, and maybe you'd find it funny in a sitcom, but it's your life. You panic. The dresser you pushed against the door is not heavy enough to keep him out.

"You're welcome," Phoebe replies for you, oblivious to your dread. "Now shoo. I better not see you up here until ______ walks down the aisle."

He makes a kissy noise in return, right before you hear a loud beep.

Oh. 

“He’s a total kid, I don’t know how you put up with him," Phoebe says to you now. "Actually, don’t tell me. Just hurry up before he comes in and whisks you out himself. Five minutes!”

You don’t need to be told twice. As soon as her footsteps recede, you make quick work of the train and step onto the windowsill. A branch hangs before you, connecting to a tree that is your only way out. It’s risky. Not to mention you haven’t scaled a tree since you were a teenager, and clearly not in a dress of this size. Well. Either you go big or you go home.

You know which one isn’t an option anymore.

...

Taehyung met you in middle school, when he'd moved from the valley to the city. As much as he hated to gloss over people, he'd admit he wouldn't have become your friend if you hadn't been his lab partner first. Not that you weren't fun or interesting or cool - in fact, you were all three, but you ran in a different circle than he did. His was full of troublemakers. He was one of those kids who got bored easily if they weren't being challenged, so it was a good thing Jimin (the only other kid with a Korean name) and you came into his life when you did.

He'd also considered it a miracle you both stayed. Or so he hopes.

"Hey," Jimin, elevated to best man, steps up to him and pats his back. "Earth to Galactica, what's the status update?"

Taehyung tries to smile, but it's hard to do when his mouth is stuffed with strawberries. He's been sneaking them in to get his mind off of feeling nervous and the fact that you're supposed to show up soon, but why does he have this weird feeling that you won't? 

He hides it with a joke. "In 150 characters or less?"

"Preferably zero with that mosh pit," Jimin says, gesturing to his mouth. "Chew with your mouth shut. I'll wait."

Taehyung glares. Jimin can say what he wants now, but he's forgetting he used to chew gum like a cow on grass and who would let him get away with it? Taehyung, that's who.

And because he's such a good pal, he does as instructed. That's not to say he doesn't gargle some water, obnoxiously loud, to get back at him. At the end of the day, their friendship is built off of moments like this. 

It's why Jimin snorts right as Taehyung starts to speak.

"Sorry," he says. At least he has the decency to look like it. "You should have seen the look on those girls' faces. They were ready to give you the stink eye for gargling, but the minute they saw you, it was game over."

"The game has been over since ______."

"Right." Jimin gets back on topic. "So what did Phoebe say?" 

"______ will be on her way in five. I just don't know if she will at all."

"Did something happen?"

"No, she just won't accept any help. Don't you think that's weird? Apparently, the dress is a piece of work."

"And if anyone can pull it off, she can," Jimin assures. "You know she doesn't let anyone bug her in the middle of doing something she cares about. She's probably in there triple-checking all the details."

Taehyung has a feeling that isn't the case - they haven't addressed the elephant in the room. He mentions it first.

"You don't think she's getting cold feet, do you?"

A flicker of worry crosses Jimin's face, gone in an instant. He'd always been good at that: putting on a brave face. 

"Tae," he says, "you're it for ______, and you've both come this far already. I doubt she'd change her mind now. But in the smaller than my pinky chance she does, she won't do it without telling you."

Here's where Taehyung should agree (and laugh). But a couple weeks ago, you'd distanced yourself, and no matter what he tried, you wouldn't say what was wrong.

So he'd given you some space. To cheer you up, he left a Happy Meal outside your door, and instead of a toy, he'd placed little matryoshka dolls, inside of which lay a ticket to the Met. He knows you went - you'd sent him a pic of yourself next to Starry Night later that week. Yet you still haven't told him why you were stressed.

Taehyung takes a breath, thinks of a quick prayer. It’s as much for you as it is for the guests you both loved, for his best man who shouldn't be worrying on his behalf. 

"You're right," he says, faking an easy smile. "Thanks Chim. Remind me to give you that bottle from Napa later."

Jimin's eyes smile right back.

...

Incoming Call: Mr. Park

He swipes to red before you can see it. A text appears.

Did you find ______?

Jin did not sign up for this. He came for free food, a good time, and if he were honest, the chance to distract himself with someone else's happy ending. Small joys. If he stacked them up, maybe he'd have a nice building to look at. Maybe that nice building would block the dull view of the parking lot he woke up to each morning. 

Instead, he is chauffeur to a runaway bride eating animal fries in the backseat. You gulp down some Coke and release a loud burp. 

"What?" You ask when he gives you a look. "It's the baby."

The laughter dies in his throat when you abruptly stop, your cheeks growing red. So you hadn't meant to tell him that...which meant it wasn't a food baby. He places another hand on the steering wheel. Usually, he's the one giving people a ride, not the other way around.

"How far along are you?"

"Two weeks," you say. "Give or take."

"I see," he says. "So what's the deal between you guys, if you don't mind me asking?"

You give him the lowdown because he doesn't seem to care. And if he doesn't care, he won't judge. You watch his eyes through the rearview mirror, noting they look too honest to belong to someone who claimed to be a liar. Maybe that's the point.

Or maybe you've seen too many movies and they're getting to your head, Taehyung would say. To which you'd say it was his fault for dragging you to the discount theater too often. And he'd agree, admit he's a bad influence with his boyish smile, the sunlight crowning his head like a halo.

"Let me get this straight," Jin says. "You want to go through with this?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound very sure."

Have you always been this obvious or is your guilt starting to show? You settle for the closest truth. "It's a hard decision."

Jin doesn't push you, just keeps his eyes on the road. Before he drops you off at the airport, you ask him to stop by your apartment. You need a change of clothes. 

"Big day today?" A tenant asks, beaming at your dress.

You hope your smile doesn't look like a grimace. 

...

The fact that you don't live with Taehyung makes it easier to pack up. Kind of. He leaves behind belongings as naturally as Chopa sheds fur, and if he weren't so great at distracting you, maybe you would have noticed just how much of him you'd accumulated. His felt jacket is slung over the arm of your couch, his records are tucked in your shelves, the print he'd given you of Basquiat's Now's The Time is on the floor, leaning against a wall. Each of them comes with their own memories, some you'll one day forget. But now, looking at them all, you remember everything. You'll always hate yourself for that night you cheated on him, for ruining what could have been a happy life with the man you love.

As you empty out your drawer, you will yourself not to cry.

...

In the end, Taehyung finds you. When you open the door, he's standing in the hallway, looking like he wants to talk. You have no doubt he'll try to understand. He's quick to listen and slow to anger, an advocate of second chances you don't deserve. 

The instant he registers your suitcase, however, he stiffens. "I'll grab my things."

"Taehyung--" you try to say, but he brushes past without another word. Resigned, you follow him in, watching as he plucks some records off your shelves. An envelope falls to the floor, facedown. It's still sealed, so he must have meant for you to find it, only you never did. He picks that up, too. He sweeps his scarf off your coat rack, his bracelets off your counter, and the bag of Chopa's dog toys off the floor. The felt jacket he skips over.

"Isn't that yours?" You ask quietly, sinking into the couch. 

"No," he says. "It's yours."

You're pretty sure it's his...until you realize it isn't. He'd borrowed it a while ago, and you thought it looked much better on him than it did dwarfing you. He takes one last glance around the room and turns to go. 

"Wait," you say, "I--" 

He doesn't let you finish, stepping into his shoes and heading straight for the door. You don't know what to do. Impulsively, you run in front of him, blocking his way.

"______," Taehyung says, his voice so solemn it scares you, "weren't you going to leave?"

You plead with your eyes, unwilling to budge. "Please just let me explain."

He makes a sound that is somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Like this is easy? Leaving you?"

"You already did it," he says. "That was your decision to make, and this is mine. I'll take care of the guests. Don't keep your driver waiting."

You might as well have been slapped. Your conscience smarts from the sting of it.

"Forget him," you bite out. "I don't care about getting on a flight to who knows where since I didn't get a plane ticket. Did you know that? Because up until a few minutes ago, I wanted to marry you, Taehyung. I still do. But I'm pregnant and..." The rest of your words dissolve into tears.

Taehyung can’t believe this is happening. Or rather, he doesn't want to believe it. Then the pieces start falling into place - your hands trembling as you told him you cheated, the weeks before the wedding when you insisted on being alone, your ill-timed escape - and it's twice as painful. That baby you're carrying isn't his. 

He has every right to resent you, but how could he, when you're like this? 

Quietly, he lets go of his things and gathers you into his arms, holding your tear-stained face to his chest.

"I'm such a jerk." You suck in a sharp, shallow breath. "I was scared to tell you because I'd messed up our relationship once, and once is too much, you know?"

"I know."

"I don't deserve you."

"Of course you do." His voice is wet, and when you look up, he gently brushes away your tears. He's crying, too. "I love you."

...

A few years pass before you see Taehyung at the altar. Jimin reprises his role as best man and leaves with a pat on the shoulder.

Next to you, Jeongguk sniffles loudly. “What?” He says when you turn to him. “It’s touching.”

"Oh, stop. Nothing happened yet."

"Weddings just get to me, okay? I need to squeeze out every last teardrop so I don't interrupt the ceremony." Then he asks Annika if he can have a tissue. Annika, kind as always, does one better. She pulls him in like a mother hen and lets him cry on her shoulder. "Go ahead, honey. Let it all out," she murmurs, glaring at you as if it's your fault he was crying in the first place. 

"There, there." Yoongi, beside Annika, says halfheartedly. You shoot him a sharp look, but he just shrugs, mouthing: What did I do? 

You sigh. You guess you can't blame him for being smitten with Annika. She took you in after all, helping you to move on once you'd parted ways with Taehyung. Phoebe had introduced you to her, Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jeongguk, and you couldn't have wished for a better group of friends. Or a better set of aunts and uncles for Nina. Your daughter is standing right in front of the church doors now, a woven basket of confetti clutched in her hand. 

She looks so adorable you want to embarrass her. (At 5, she's adamant on being a big girl. And that meant you couldn't blow kisses at her or squish her cheeks without getting the cutest annoyed pout.) Unfortunately, someone stepping on your foot distracts you.

"Sorry." Namjoon gives you a sheepish grin. He'd just run back from the restroom. "I didn't miss anything, did I?"

You reach out to pull a lick of his slicked back hair over his brow. "Now you did," you say, cheeky, and he's about to smother you in a hug as payback when the pianist begins to play. Nina has too much fun scattering the confetti. 

In walks a line of bridesmaids and groomsmen, two by two. They separate to either end like the petals of a flower in bloom. 

Then comes the bride. Lily. You don't have to see her to know she's beautiful. You can tell by the way Taehyung's face lights up, the sun on his face making him golden. You're happy to see him happy, although you have to look somewhere above them when they kiss. 

The fact is, you still love him. In a different way, one that's familiar because you've been friends long before becoming anything romantic. But in rare moments, you catch yourself feeling blue.

Namjoon squeezes your hand. You didn't realize you were gripping his.

"Are you okay?" He whispers.

You look at him, Yoongi and Annika, Jeongguk. Phoebe, who's making the stranger to her right hide a laugh. (His name is Jay, she'd told you excitedly. But he moonwalks like Michael.)

"I'm okay," you whisper back, and Namjoon smiles. It isn't until you say it aloud that you realize it's true.

...

a/n: happy 7th birthday to bts, who give me hope that dreams aren’t a lost cause 💜

title taken from the infamous Rembrandts’ song, which you might recognize here.

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