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toutorii · 3 years

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Various Honoka HCS

Cause Im self indulgent 😌

⁃ So when Noka was a baby, neither her dad, Shirou or Daiki knew what the hell to do with her wings.

⁃ Her first word was "Daiai" which was exposed to be "Daiki"

⁃ Daiki would call Noka "baby bird" and mo one will tell me otherwise

⁃ He also called Shirou "buddy"

⁃ She would fly around and their dad would make Shirou chase her down. Cause by this point, Daiki had already “joined” AfO.

⁃ When Shirou and Noka were taken in by their uncle, he just slept and let her do whatever.

⁃ Their uncle, also known as Eraserhead, was a very kind guardian

⁃ He went to each of Shirou's ballet concerts, and did Noka's hair for picture day

⁃ If you looked through his search history it would be filled with "how to do a braid for beginners"

⁃ Aizawa bought Noka various art supplies and bought Shirou new shoes whenever they needed them

⁃ He also worried for his nephew, who went missing right before Noka and Shirou ended up in his custody

⁃ Didnt want Noka or Shirou to become heroes

⁃ Cause he didnt want to see the two children he practically raised to be hurt

⁃ But because of their ties to All for One, the government forced both of them to become heros to "prove" that they had severed their bonds with All for One

⁃ Shirou's dream was to become a professional dancer and Noka's was to become a professional artist

⁃ And Aizawa was not happy that the two lights in his life were torn from their dreams

⁃ And so Shirou got accepted into the hero program, in class 1-A

⁃ He chose the hero name Shifter

⁃ Cause he could shift into any organic form

⁃ When he got 3rd place at the sports festival, Noka ran around her uncle's apartment screaming with joy

⁃ Noka is literally his biggest fan

⁃ Noka's first friend was a small purple haired boy name Hitoshi Shinsou

⁃ So naturally, she called him Toshi

⁃ And she refused to call him anything else all throughout middle and high school

⁃ Shinsou and Noka have sleepovers all the time and you can't tell me otherwise

⁃ When people would tell Shinsou that his quirk was villainous, Noka would always speak up cause she knew Shinsou wouldnt contradict them

⁃ Noka is always like that

⁃ Speaking up for others and herself. And her smart mouth tends to get her in trouble

⁃ Shinsou would fuss over Noka's wings. Like if they were dirty or a few feathers were out of place, Shinsou would sit her down and fix her wings.

⁃ "Toshi, your inner mom is showing"

⁃ "Its not my fault you cant take proper care of your wings"

⁃ When she told Shinsou about her acceptance into U.A's med course, he couldn't have been prouder

⁃ Noka is actually the one who encouraged Shinsou to train with her uncle.

⁃ But before that lets talk about Noka's time at U.A. so far

⁃ She was first introduced to class 1-A during the first combat training

⁃ Healed everyone who got very minor injuries

⁃ At the USJ attack, Shigiraki deteriorated part of Noka's hip. But her extremely enhanced natural healing abilities stopped the deterioration

⁃ So she has this big ass scar on the back side of her left hip

⁃ She wanted to absolutely murder Shigiraki for letting the Nomu loose on her uncle

⁃ But she doesnt have any damaging fire power

⁃ So she just tried to heal her uncle's wounds the best she could

⁃ Nearly gets herself killed many times with her smart assery

⁃ And gives everyone around her a heart attack in the process

⁃ During the sports festival, she helped RG heal all the students

⁃ Reprimanded Deku for overusing OfA

⁃ Oh yeah, she learned about AfO and OfA from her time with All for One (A/N: please dont kill me im trying to not make her too op 😭😭)

⁃ Is kind of like to Deku like Recovery Girl is to All Might

⁃ So fast foward to the internships

⁃ She interns with another oc of mine, Snow

⁃ Who is a healer but with incredible attack powers

⁃ Coincidentally, Noka was patrolling Hosu when the nomus hit

⁃ She recieved Deku's distress signal and ran to the scene

⁃ She didnt attack the hero killer, but ran to help Native and made sure he didnt bleed out

⁃ The hero killer didnt bat a single eye at her, deeming her not a threat

⁃ In the end, she didnt harm Stain so her hero guardian? didnt have to take any blame for her actions

⁃ Noka however did get nearly ripped in half by a nomu, so she had to stay in the hospital with Todo and Deku

⁃ So— Summer training arc

⁃ She just looked at her class and said "fuck this" and flew over the whole forest

⁃ She actually beat the wild wild pussycats back to the camp

⁃ She got to know Kota, telling him how she never wanted to become a hero

⁃ Kota may or may not have developed a kiddie crush on her 😳

⁃ But anyways, when everyone else saw her all nice and refreshed, needless to say they were upset

⁃ Some more than others

⁃ *remembers Bakugou nearly blowing off Noka's face because she cheated*

⁃ Aizawa just smirking at his niece cause shes so much like her mother

⁃ "DAMMIT TAKAHASHI. YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE YOU CHEATER"

⁃ "They said to use our quirks. Its not my fault your quirk is too grounded"

⁃ "WHAT— YOU WANNA FIGHT—"

⁃ "No I wanna eat, goodbye—"

⁃ Focuses on her attack and the healing capabilities of her quirk

⁃ Let me set the scene

⁃ At the beginning of UA, our Noka could barely heal up a small cut

⁃ But now, she can close up major wound with little to no effort

⁃ P r o g r e s s people

⁃ N e ways

⁃ So when they do the haunted quirk thingy

⁃ Hairi and Noka are paired up, to their delight

⁃ But they aren't able to go into the forest before the attack happens

⁃ Apparently, the league came for Bakugou and Noka

⁃ Cause the "master" wanted his first nomu to return to him

⁃ But all Deku knew was "they are after Kacchan and the master's first Nomu"

⁃ Nobody knew who the first nomu was except for Noka

⁃ See, AfO took and gave Noka various quirks, eventually ending up with her current quirk(s)

⁃ He did this to Shirou and Daiki as well

⁃ But Shirou's body wasnt able to handle as many quirks, so AfO discarded him

⁃ Daiki was not aware that Noka was a target, Shigiraki knew he would object and purposely left him out of the loop

⁃ Eventually, Noka is cornered by Dabi

⁃ His fire power vastly out matches hers

⁃ But she puts up one hell of a fight

⁃ And Kurogiri took her before she woke up and fought back even more

⁃ So everyone was panicking when they couldnt find Noka

⁃ Aizawa was panicking them most

⁃ His precious niece was missing, no, taken by the league

⁃ The students had never seen their teacher so frazzled

⁃ The thing that broke Aizawa more was the look on Shirou's face when he told him that his baby sister was missing

⁃ His precious baby sister

⁃ His whole world

⁃ Shirou didnt go out of his room for days

⁃ He was there when they were to save Bakugou and Noka

⁃ All Might fought AfO, and won

⁃ But there was no sign of Noka

⁃ Shirou nearly tackled Bakugou, demanding, no, more like pleading for him to tell him where she was

⁃ Bakugou merely said "She's gone, and I dont know where she went"

⁃ The whole class was in a panic

⁃ Where was Noka? Was she hurt? Was she scared? Was she in danger?

⁃ And the question that hung on everyone's mind the most was

⁃ Is she alive?

⁃ The emptiness of Noka's desk was deafening

⁃ Their smart ass classmate was nowhere to be found

⁃ And they all felt guilty

⁃ But none more than Bakugou

⁃ For he was the last to see her alive so to speak

⁃ And her last words to him were "Forget about me ya big oaf, you hear me? I don't want you sulking, or I'll personally beat your ass."

⁃ Forget about her? How could he do that?

⁃ Noka was the only person who didn't put up with his bullshit

⁃ From day one she put him in his place

⁃ And honestly shes the closest thing to a sister he has

⁃ During the hero license exam, all of class 1-A decided that Noka would be really upset if they all sulked and failed their exams

⁃ But the fact that only Todoroki and Bakugou failed would make her fall into hysterics

⁃ When class 1-A met the big three, Mirio told them that Noka was strong and stubborn to a fault, so they shouldnt worry about things that arent in their control

⁃ To which they asked how he knew her

⁃ Apparently Shirou, Amajiki, and Mirio have all been friends since elementary school

⁃ So Amajiki and Mirio had been there a lot for many crucial parts of Noka's childhood

⁃ When the work studies started, Deku went on patrol with Mirio and Shirou, AKA Lemillion and Shifter

⁃ Shirou couldnt help but feel so much guilt crushing him when Eri jumped out of Deku's arms

⁃ Cause Eri reminded him of his little sister

⁃ Speaking of little sister

⁃ She refused to return to the league, so Shigiraki sold her to giran, who then took her to Overhaul

⁃ For the last 2 months, Noka had been experimented on by Kai Chisaki

⁃ In the mean time trying to protect Eri and building a loving friendship with the young girl

⁃ Ill talk about this another time

⁃ So skipping to when they save her

⁃ It was a total shock for them

⁃ To see this wingless, pale, frail, bandage wrapped girl

⁃ And even more so when she spoke

⁃ Not having that bite that their Noka had

⁃ But a softer, more broken voice replaced her normally boisterous and confident voice

⁃ In the big battle agains Chisaki, Noka got slammed against a wall

⁃ Which in normal circumstances would be fine, but with her body in such a week state it immediately cracked her ribs and spine

⁃ Ochako helped get her friend to the ambulance as quick as she could

⁃ Shirou saw a fluff of pale pink hair out of the corner of his eye

⁃ He immediately turned to run towards the medical stretcher, but was stopped

⁃ He kicked and screamed something along the lines of "THATS MY BABY SISTER. PLEASE LET ME SEE HER"

⁃ In the most broken voice you would ever hear

⁃ In the hospital, after Sir. Nighteye had passed, Deku, Kirishima, Amajiki, Shirou, Ochako, Tsu and Aizawa were all waiting anxiously for Noka's surgery

⁃ When all of a sudden the door explodes open and the nurses and doctors are shoved out by an invisible force of heat

⁃ Noka was using her ability to set herself aflame and be healed in the ashes

⁃ But no one knew wtf was going on cause she learned the trick at the Hassaiki hideout

⁃ So p a n i k

⁃ But after the doctors confirmed her stablility, they all went back to school

⁃ The whole class bursted into tears when they told them about Noka

⁃ Jirou, Kaminari, Momo and Mina all being the most emotionally impacted

⁃ Bakugou was almost crying witb relief but he disnt show jt

⁃ They weren't allowed to see Noka for a whole month

⁃ Only family were allowed

⁃ She was hard at work recovering and going through therapy and they didnt want to disturb her

⁃ But when they (Kirishima, Deku, Ochako, and Tsu) did visit, they were shocked

⁃ There was this soft spoken, trembling, woman, and this was after a month of intense therapy

⁃ They hadnt event started physcial therapy yet, they wanted to get her tk the point she could be around others without going into a panic mode

⁃ But what really shocked them was how her wings hadnt grown back.

⁃ They were then told that they would never grow back, since the bone in them were completely ripped out.

⁃ Thus she needs a wheelchair while she recovers

⁃ Daiki sometimes visits her during the night

⁃ He apologizes to her over and over again for not being there when she was taken

⁃ But also to apologize for abandoning her and Shirou

⁃ She just cupped his wet cheek and said

⁃ "Daiki, I know you had a damn good reason to do what you did. Also you're my big brother. I dont care if you work for All for One, youre still my brother. And you'll always have a home with us. Shouta Shirou and I will welcome you back with open arms."

⁃ Needless to say Daiki just bursted into more tears

⁃ Anyways—

⁃ By the time the school festival comes around, Noka still needs a wheelchair, and isnt the strongest mentally, but she has made tremendous progress.

⁃ After the 1-A concert, Eri sat on Noka's lap the whole time. Except during the beauty pageant, in which Deku held Eri, and Mirio held Noka (cause shes a smol baby)

⁃ Noka was in charge of tesching Eri the basics while she recovered, since the young girl felt most comfortable with her

⁃ When the dual training session came around, Noka still couldnt do much moving around without draining her energy quickly. So she stuck with enhancing her quirk while she built up her physical strength.

⁃ Meaning she healed any and all injuries after the matches were concluded

⁃ Monoma made the mistake of saying something about her not making any progress, and Bakugou was t h i s close to murdering him 😌

⁃ Ever since Noka got back from the hospital, Bakugou has been v e r y protective of his honourary sister—

⁃ But Kendou smacked the blonde before Bakugou could do anything

⁃ Shinsou would totally go like "Noka are you okay? Are you sure you should be out here? How are you feeling? Do you feel sick?"

⁃ Cause Shinsou is a mom

Anyways I have a bunch more hcs but i dont wanna completely bore you. But I was thinking of doing this for Daiki Shirou and Noka as children. Or maybe for Phoebe 😳😳😳　

Comment or send an ask if i should

#Honoka Takahashi #toris ocs

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strangephiti · 4 years

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Control

Written for University last year. Prompt: A wager (mild violence, some swearing)

Control

I am timeless. I did not begin in the Garden and I will not end with Ragnarök. I am everything and nothing. I am one of you; And I am so much more than you can ever conceive.

I watch you, all you dull, unimaginative people. You’re lives are so... pointless. I blink, and you are gone. So many of you sit there, wishing your lives away. You watch successful people and wonder: “why them, and not me?” Most of you have never even picked up a guitar, or sat down with a brush, or planned your wonder emporium. But still: “why them, not me?”

I listen to you. You think that it’s all luck. You struggle to scrape together the months rent and so you think: “why work so hard for nothing? The rich are only rich because they got lucky.” You mope about lost time, and sit around, wishing for a better tomorrow.

I have nothing but tomorrows.

I feel so very little for you all. And yet you fascinate me. I envy you. I envy your limited days. I envy the ticking clock that pushes your peers to achieve, to grow. Without the pressure of mortality I have no ambition, no desire. So I have had to get creative with my time.

...

Kyle Hawkins isn’t a bad person. He is polite, takes care of his parents as well as his senile, happy, Nana. He is the youngest of five children - but his eldest brother got the best of both parents: the looks, the smarts, the luck. As it filtered down through the siblings the gene pool began to dry out, leaving Kyle with nothing but the dregs. At least, so he believes. What hope could poor Kyle have in a world where “like only goes to like?”

He goes through the same drudgery day after day. Works at 8am, completes the same chores; eats the same sandwich at the same sandwich bar; the same shops on the way home – groceries for him and groceries for Mum and Dad. Then home for dinner, and streams of videos.

Weekends aren’t much better. On a Sunday he visits Nana. She makes him laugh with her confused ramblings, and breaks his heart when she forgets his name. He cheers himself up with a pint at the local, where he and the boys talk the same rubbish each week.

Even the successes of his friends don’t inspire Kyle.

“It’s alright for some,” he scoffs into his pint.

So narrow is his sight that he scarcely noticed me slip into his peripherals and from there on into his life. I’ve sat across from him for many years now, listening to him whine about his lot. He likes to talk to me because he thinks I am just as worthless as he is: No wife, no kids, no hope. We just sit and drink and talk. And I wait. I wait patiently for him to say those fateful words:

“What I wouldn’t give...”

I shrug at at him. “Nah mate. Opportunity could come dancing through that door with neon lights and a siren blazing, and you’d still be sat there on your fat arse, looking at your phone.”

“Ye ‘hink so? Listen… If Ah’d been given the chances some folk have...”

I don’t listen. Never do. It’s the same excuses again. And I’ve heard them before. Different voices, different faces, but the excuses are always the same. Then I say to him:

“Wanna bet?”

He scowls at me but says nothing. I take a coin from my pocket, a shiny silver American dollar. I tell him I got it on a family holiday when I was twelve, when dreams still lived, and that I told myself I would go back to this “land of opportunity” and make my fortune. I kept the coin to remind me. But I still hadn’t gone. It hadn’t helped me. Maybe it would help him, I said.

“You think it’s all about luck? And Fate? Why not let my little coin decide for you?”

I turn the coin between finger and thumb, making sure to let it catch the light above us, and trace it across his drunken, hazy eyes. As he watches I say:

“Chances are all around us, all the time. But you just sit there, fat, forty and failing.”

He grunts at me. He knows I’m right. So I go on.

“It’s easier to do the same thing everyday, every weekend, because you don’t have to try, don’t have to fail.”

His eyes start to glaze as he watches the coin. I twirl it, effortlessly, between my fingers, the light dancing across his face.

“But what if something else made those choices for you? Would you grab those opportunities?”

I know when I have him. The light from the coin fills his eyes. Letting this thing decide for him appeals to his lazy nature.

“We can start now,” I say. “Loser buys the next round. Heads I win, tails you lose,”

“Heads,” he slurs pointlessly. I try not to sigh at his idiocy. I toss the coin high, its streamlined edges whipping the air with a soft zing-zing-zing. The light flashes across his face with each rotation, and his eyes can’t seem to focus on anything else. I smack the coin down on the back of my hand.

“Tails,” I say. “You lose. Get us a packet of crisps when your up, mate.”

With a grumble he drains the last of his pint and shuffles off to the bar. I call after him, equally as pointlessly:

“That’s half the trouble with you, mate: You don’t pay attention!”

We begin immediately, before he has time to change his mind. I take him out the very next day.

“Chances aren’t given. They’re taken,” I tell him. “You have to pay attention. You have to make a choice. Either you or the coin.”

The coin takes all responsibility away from him. It is a thought that appeals all too much to Kyle.

We start small: a new sandwich at the shop? Heads. It’s tasty, that’s all. No regrets. No real interest. Scratch card? He wins £10. He chuckles a little. He’s not that impressed, but the seed has been planted. It’s Sunday. Visit Nana or not?

Tails. Not.

That doesn’t sit well with Kyle, so he goes anyway. He can’t not see Nana. She waits all week to see him. They sit for hours and, mostly, he listens. His heart is heavy when he leaves. She thought he was the man come to fix the television. She kept asking him when the Queen’s Speech would be on. It is not the best state of mind for Kyle to be in for a chance encounter with his ex.

Sara.

She looks so good. Kyle swears she sparkles. They talk awkwardly for a bit: Hubby is doing well; The kids are growing so fast; work has her snowed under. She smells like summer fruits. He remembers that scent from when she used to squeeze her body next to his in bed. She could have been his if luck had been kinder. But of course, it wasn’t. He wasn’t “ambitious” enough for her.

“You could make so much of yourself...” she told him.

He scoffed. Fat chance. So they took a break. He gave her space and time - in truth he wallowed on his couch, eating and drinking and moping. Then Mr Perfect rolled up in his perfect electric car, spouting about his perfect carbon footprint, and she was hooked. Off they went together to live the “organic” life, climbing hills, and furrowing their brows at the “serious issue of austerity” - while planning another holiday abroad. They even took to the front line soup kitchens. Kyle found that strangely sickening. The idea of ladling spoonsful of cheap soup to the less fortunate, a factitious smile on their faces, knowing they’re going back to their cosy three bedroom house, and their fridge bursting with food and shelves sagging with their weekly Waitrose groceries.

He hates that about them. He loves that about her.

My voice cuts though his thoughts: You could follow her.

There is a beat. I hold out the coin. Kyle hesitates.

“No.”

We go a for a few drinks to chase the day away. We forget the coin. I leave it dormant on the table. But somehow, it manages to slip into his pocket, as if by chance.

When he crawls out of bed the next morning, cursing his luck and blaming me for that fifth pint, he finds the silver dollar on his kitchen counter. He is still not sure how it got there. Such a silly little thing. Completely worthless here. But then, hadn’t it won him a tenner? And if he’d listened to it and not visited Nana, he wouldn’t have bumped into Sara – Beautiful, glowing Sara. It wouldn’t have brought the memories back. Or the pain.

Always a man to blame his circumstances, Kyle pondered. Anything he did as a result of this coin toss wouldn’t really be his fault. Would it? Blame free. It wouldn’t be his fault. It would be the coins fault – my fault.

He flips the coin. It hurtles and zings.

“Go to work today or not?”

He smacks it down – heads: no work today. He smiles and makes his way to the couch. With remote in hand his finger hovers over the buttons - but then he stops and thinks.

“Stay home? Or go out?”

Flip, zing, catch – tails. Better get dressed then.

Kyle has no idea where he is going. He tells himself how stupid this is. Opportunity isn’t going to suddenly leap out at him. But there is a voice in his head, now, that isn’t his, and it whispers:

What if?

He goes to the newsagents to peruse the photography magazines – another would-be hobby he had given up on. He reaches into his pocket for change. The coins feel dull, chalky and thunk against each other, indistinguishable one to the next. Then there was that silver dollar, pushing it’s way between his fingers. Its cold face presses into his palm and sends a shiver up his arm. It seems to whisper to him.

“Buy it?” or Steal it?

He trembles. Like a naughty child he gives the shopkeeper a few fervent glances over the magazine. Flip.

It’s surprisingly easy to walk out of the shop. His heart is thumping so loud he’s sure someone must be able to hear it. But no one hears. No one sees. He’s terrified. He’s thrilled. He wonders if he could pick up a camera that easily as well!

He parks himself on a bench, contemplating. The chills of excitement soon leave him as he flicks idly through his ill-gotten magazine, barely noticing the words. It’s only his stomach protesting that makes him get up, and his feet carry him to the sandwich shop.

Bad move and just his luck! His supervisor is here, picking up his own lunch. Usually he’d have someone else pick it up for him – usually Kyle. But Kyle hadn’t gone to work that day. Stupid mistake! He knows he should leave... but he doesn’t. The coin finds it’s way into his hand once more.

You’ve always wanted to tell him want you really think of him, it whispers.

Flip. Zing. Heads. He smiles.

The profanities that he lets fly seem unsuited to the gleeful grin on his face. Everyone in the shop has frozen, listening to this tirade. Time itself is holding it’s breath. Kyle, once begun, cannot stop. Electricity is buzzing throughout his body, powering his words. His supervisor is too stunned to respond, his face white. When twenty years of bitterness has been exhausted, Kyle wishes his former supervisor a nice day and leaves.

He can’t keep the smile from his face. He wonders what else could he do?

Zing! Zing!

Kissing the beautiful girl at the bus shelter was a big mistake. His throbbing cheek could attest to that.

“Not right. Not worth it.”

But I got I kiss out of it, the coin whispers in a voice that sounds like Kyles.

What was that saying? Regret the things you do and not the things you don’t. He took a chance. He got what wanted out of it. She got her revenge and moved on. What harm was there?

While he contemplated this, three young boys walk by. They were typical lads, hoods high and trousers low. Their height suggested age, but their gangly limbs betrayed them. Fourteen? Fifteen? If that.

Wham! An explosion of white, viscous liquid erupted against the glass, barely an inch from Kyles right ear. Milkshake spattered across his face and seeped grotesquely beneath his collar and through his shirt. The lads cackled.

“Fat Fucker!” One of them shouted.

Normally Kyle would hang his head and walk away. But today was anything but normal.

Flip. Zing! Bam!

Blood spurts. He knocks out two front teeth from the closest boy. Who knew he could hit so hard?

The boys reel. They hesitate, gesticulate. But in the end they simply grab their friend, his bloody face in his hands, and drag him off down the road, hurling foulness back across their shoulders and threats of “next time.”

Kyle’s smile grows broader.

“That’ll teach them.”

Will it?

“They’re just boys. Just kids doing stupid things.”

They’re just stupid boys. Someone needs to teach them a lesson.

Zing. Zing. Zing.

He follows.

There are a lot of bricks and broken bottles in the alley beside the liquor shop, where the boys have chosen to regroup. There is a loose fence post, long and heavy. Kyle unhooks it from the chain link. It fits perfectly in his hand.

The boys are making too much noise to hear him approach, the one cursing through fat lips, the others jabbing him with jibes of “you got clocked by an old git!”

Kyle tightens his grip.

The metal bar knocks the laughter out of the tallest boy, the next boy folds around the swinging fence post as it hurtles towards his gut, and the third boy receives a crushing headbutt. The boys are a little tougher than their skinny frames suggest and land a good few blows on Kyles flabby body. The pain feels exhilarating! Even when the boys are writhing on the ground he finds he can’t stop.

“That’s enough!” He hears himself scream.

Is it? Aren’t you enjoying it? Asks the coin.

“No.”

Yes, Kyles voice answers. They’ll think twice before they shit on me again!

He leaves the boys crying and bleeding.

I can do whatever I want. His heart beats in his ears.

“What do I want?”

Sara.

Sara is always pleased to see Kyle. She thinks it’s wonderful that they can still be friends. Kyle thinks he hears a glimmer of regret as she speaks of “still being close.” But her face isn’t glowing today. It pales as she answers the door. Her eyes trace the line of blood dripping from the corner of his swollen right eye, follows it to the fat lip, the scratches on his neck. When she reaches out to touch his arm, her face concerned, Kyle feels that spark once more. It pulses through him stronger than ever.

Zing. Zing.

He kisses her. She reels away. But she doesn’t react the way the girl at the bus stop did. She understands. She smiles. It is her pity smile, her soup kitchen smile, the one reserved for “poor unfortunate souls.”

“You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?” She sweetly coos.

She pities him. She has no idea! He is better now that he has ever been! She pities him? How dare she? Everything was her fault anyway! She was the one that left! She was the one who fell into the lap of luxury and left Kyle in the gutter!

You were mine first, his strange voice growls.

Zing. Zing. Zing.

You’re mine still!

The look of pity vanishes from her face as her back slams against the wall. She screams, but he muffles the scream with his own mouth. Her flailing arms are no match for his strong hands as he slaps her hard and pins her to the floor. The voice in his head is stronger than ever.

Regret the things you do.

As they struggle, the silver dollar rolls from Kyle’s pocket - as if by chance. Kyle doesn’t notice. But as it trundles away, the scrape of it’s edges on the wooden floor growing fainter and fainter, he suddenly begins to see her face.

She is glowing. A red glow. Her cheek is welted; her mascara smeared. She looks at him as if he is a stranger – a monster. He reels back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in his own feeble voice.

She runs. He runs.

There is no light left in the day and no life left in Kyle’s voice as he tells the officers everything. He confesses about the girl and the boys. He confesses about Sara, with a catch in his throat. He even confesses about the magazine, as if that mattered at all anymore.

The boys’ parents have already filed their report. They had stormed the station en masse and had not long been satiated and sent on their way before Kyle arrived.

Sara had not been seen.

“When she does come in, or calls,” he croaks, his throat dry from crying. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

They won’t.

He doesn’t really want them to.

He doesn’t want to be forgiven.

...

Kyle Hawkins wasn’t really a bad man. He was lazy and unambitious. He refused to accept responsibility for himself and was too stubborn make good choices. Now his choices are made for him. He sleeps and wakes at the same time every day; Eats the same food from the same plastic tray; Completes the same chores; Stares at the same walls and faces day after day after day.

Who will he be when parole comes around?

Flip. Zing!

Heads I win. Tails you lose.

#Horror supernatural short story

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miraculousturtle · 7 years

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to you, i thee wed (chapter nine)

They didn’t know they were marrying each other until the bride got to the altar. And then panic ensued. Married at First Sight AU.

(AO3//FF.net)

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

WC: 8.5K

thanks @booksfullofme for the edits :)

The morning air is crisp, an icy wind settling into her lungs as Marinette gazes into the Atlantic Ocean shining brightly from the warm sun. They have oddly been blessed by good weather despite the first snowstorm that trapped them here. Not that Marinette is complaining; Faroe Islands—Vagar, to be exact—has been wonderful and a breath of fresh air.

It’s almost like magic, she thinks. The quaint little villages, the supple snowfall, the way her heart easily and speedily beats with her husband. It’s almost like magic, she can maybe see the way that things are more than what they seem, almost as if some greater force in this universe planned everything to be more than happenstance.

She tucks that thought behind her ribs and opens her arms wide to catch sunshine that beams from the heavens above her. Warmth trickles through her borrowed clothes, sinking through the well-loved fabric and seeping into her bones. The snow from yesterday melted and has left a world of green where white once laid.

She’s only slightly winded after sprinting past Adrien to reach the top of the cliff, the ocean before her as if that is more than a reward. Little islands pebble her view, just as green as the grass that lays at her feet. To the right, a waterfall cascades into the sea, and to the left, a small village weathers daily ocean breezes.

She stands at the edge of the world, ocean waves washing over her, leaving an impression on her soul. In this moment, it is only her and the sea, cradled lovingly by the sun. Light and water blend together, stitching up her seams and her heart is full with the simplicity.

“Wow, it’s—breathtaking,” Marinette mumbles, words only half-forming on her lips.

Her fingers itch for her sketchbook: she can see the way the grasses could become a fringe, can see the way the ocean waves puff out a skirt, can see the way gold stitching swirls into blue. If she holds out her thumb and her forefinger and frames the world with her hands, maybe she can commit it all to memory; let magic be part of the memory instead of relying on a photograph.

Not that she has anything against photos, no. That would be silly, but sometimes memories that are hazy are better for documenting the world between reality and dreams, and Marinette feels like she’s been walking in a dream for days now.

“God, I am out of shape,” Adrien groans, interrupting her thoughts and snapping her back to reality. He was a few steps behind her when she had raced forward, unable to contain her excitement at reaching the top.

(She’s only slightly competitive. Only slightly. Just slightly.)

Marinette tears her gaze away from the endless inspirations before her and lets her eyes fall on her huffing husband, a smile dancing at her lips. “You don’t play basketball, fence, or whatever else you used to do?”

His eyes narrow slightly as he digs into his backpack, trying to paw at a water bottle seemingly lost among his things. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. Make fun of the rich kid who did every extracurricular under the sun.”

She unclips hers first from her strap and hands it to him. Their fingers touch, sparking electricity and lightning through her skin. “Not making fun,” she says a second later. “Just stating a fact. You were always so busy, but never dropping the ball? It was kinda cool.”

“Cool?” Adrien asks, his glare softening and stumbling into a gratuitous grin as he flips open the lid. A silent thank you is exchanged between them for the water as he drinks half of it in haste.

Which makes him choke, much to Marinette’s amusement. He narrows his eyes at her again and she schools her smile into a trembling and haphazard mess. She feels so mischievous with him that it strikes her funny sometimes, almost if he’s been a friend she’s actually had all along. Not that he hasn’t per say, but—

It’s hard to not remember Adrien when he was a child, Marinette thinks. That’s who she knew best, figuratively speaking. She really didn’t know him at all, but her memories of him then are always with her now. Always surfacing in the way he smiles or laughs, there at the edges when he talks about his family, breaking through when they talk about their friends.

But she also forgets that Adrien didn’t know she knew him. Didn’t know that she loved him. Were only friends because their friends were friends. Didn’t keep in touch after high school because theirs was a relationship that required being classmates to continue.

Instead, she tells him. “But yeah, to be so busy but still be so amazing.”

He pauses for a moment before grinning broadly and walking towards the drop-off. “Thanks, Marinette. That’s really nice of you to say.”

“I’m just saying the truth!” she laughs and skips to his side.

Shly, she takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “Really, I meant it. You’re a really hard worker.”

Adrien doesn’t say anything in return, his own fingers tightening around hers.

They bask in the sun for a few moments, Marinette grabbing her phone and making the two of them take selfies together. It’s natural the way the fit against each other, the way her back sinks into his chest and his arms come around her. Adrien presses his cheek to hers, his chin resting on her shoulder and she swears he can feel how big her smile is despite that he can see it on the screen. She’s happy.

(She labels the words #honeymoonbabes over the photo. Add a few hearts, a couple of smiley faces and—perfect. It’s sent to Alya in a heartbeat. )

The dirt crunches beside her and Marinette finds that Adrien has perched himself on the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling thousands of feet in the air without a care. She’s done the same countless times, sometimes feeling more at home above a city’s skyline than beneath it. He must feel the same with the ease he displays when he pats the spot next to him.

She counts the seconds as the waves lap against the rocks below them. One, two, a cymbal crash signifying the water smacking into land. One, two, the water climbs up as if it wants to be a man. One, two—

“So, let’s see today’s homework. Oh, um,” Adrien says, his brows pinched together as he reads the newest email from the doctors.

Marinette leans into his shoulder. “Yes?”

He leans back. “It says we should talk about failed relationships.”

She laughs, surprise bubbling at the thought. “Oh god. Wow. Okay, should I go first?”

“Please?”

She takes a deep breath, anchoring herself to the wind and the waves and the heat from the man beside her. There is nothing wrong with what she’s about to say. They’re married now. And he might not be in love with her, but they’re married now.

It’s the assignment , she tells herself. Kill two birds with one stone .

“Okay. So. I’ve had a few partners. Not many, but I think the most important one I had was the one that was the shortest. Kinda. In that we-were-dating way. We were unoffical for a lot longer, but we were only really together for a bit.”

“How come?”

Marinette sighs, bittersweetness swelling through her being.. “Well, first off, I’m happy to say I don’t have any ill feelings towards her....”

Adrien waits a half second longer than usual to reply. “...her?”

This is fine, Marinette , she tells herself. He’s allowed to be curious.

She fights the need to be defensive, to be aggressive, to maybe pretend she actually said him instead of her, blame it on the slip of the tongue. “Uh, yeah...sometimes, not usually. I usually like men, but this time...it was a her.”

“Cool. Go on?”

She lets out a breath that had tucked itself between her ribs, pressing up against her heart. “Thanks,” she breathes, then continues. “I went to Italy for a summer and I fell head over heels for her. This girl named Francesca. A beautiful Italian girl with sun-kissed skin and the most mysterious dark eyes. She was. Yeah, she was wow .

“We both were in the same program and we shared a room together. It was...I was instantly attracted to her and I clicked with her so much and I really fell for her. We had so much in common! I’ve never been with someone where we had so much in common. And her designs were breathtaking…”

Adrien grabs her hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles.“What happened?”

Marinette sighed. “Well, the summer ended, you know. We kept in touch for a while, but it was hard to be in a long distance relationship like that. She did come for Christmas once, but while my family was accepting...hers was not…” she trails off.

She remembers the snow in Paris as Francesa said goodbye, the way her lips felt upon hers, the sorrow they left behind when they parted. Hairline fragments of what could've been shattered by distance and unacceptance.

“In the end, she wasn’t happy and neither was I,” Marinette says says quietly. “And, well—she’s happy and I’m happy now. A part of me will always belong to her, but it’s okay. We never could be.”

She says the last part with her eyes fixed on the light reflecting off the water. Sunshine and Francesca go hand in hand. Bright, beautiful, vivacious beings that although Marinette loves both deeply, she also can’t particularly keep either contained. And that’s okay.

Adrien brings her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “You love people so intensely. I think it’s amazing how you’re not jaded by that relationship, but it sounds like you grew from it. Doesn’t sound like a failure at all.”

“Well, Francesca was an easy lover,” she chuckles. “Kind and understanding. My real last relationship actually wasn’t as great. I became a doormat and I hated every second of it. He was a real douche, but I don’t want to talk about him right now, if that’s okay.”

Adrien squeezes her fingers. “That’s totally okay,” he assures her. “You said your piece and now it’s mine, I guess.”

Marinette gives a small smile and nods. “Yes, let me guess, you were a heartbreaker, right?”

He wrinkles his nose and rakes his other hand through his hair. “I guess? I don’t know...I don’t really have much to say. They were nice, but that’s about it…”

“Just nice?” she teases.

“Yeah, just nice. Like I had a few girlfriends and they were nice. Our first dates were nice. Our, you know,” he blushes, “sex lives were, uh, nice. But that was it. Everything was just—we dated.

“And you know, I thought I would fall super head over heels for them, but I never did. I was happy, but not ecstatic or thrilled or—well, I never felt as excited as I do right now. With you.”

Marinette’s heart skips a beat. She grips the ground to not tumble over the cliff, her mind reeling. “You feel ecstatic?! With me?!”

He—how can he? Be so happy with her? It just doesn’t make sense. He’s had this whole life to live thus far, but with her—?

“Haha, yeah,” he says, blushing more, his gaze far from hers. “Like when I was young, I was able to crush really hard, but that’s just a crush. When I got older, dating didn’t excite me much, so I thought that maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe I only liked the idea of love, not actually being in love. I wasn’t sure, but when I saw the ad for the arranged marriage, I applied on a whim….” he admits softly. “Because I didn’t think they would want me, but they did and I realized that I really wanted it too! I forgot what it was like to want someone...”

“Oh,” she says, dumbfounded with lips parted.

Marinette is stuck staring at the smile buried in his cheek as he looks fondly over the ocean. The sun always finds him, making his hair gleam, and she wonders how she got so lucky. She—wow. Adrien looks at her then, his face prompted into a bemusing smile at her expression.

“Hmmm?”

“I just...you wanted me?” she asks, heat crawling up her neck.

Oh god, that sounds so dumb to say out loud, she thinks and wishes she could stuff the previous words back into her mouth.

(A part of her whispers that she won’t be good enough, that he’s going to realize the ugliness that hides under all her pretty fabric, that she’s just going to be nice in the way the others were nice .

Another part of her tells that little voice to fuck off.)

Adrien rubs the back of his neck, bashful and happy. “Of course I did. I— actually filmed a video diary for my future bride— you,” he emphasizes. “It’s really grossly sappy and I’ve been meaning to give it to you…so you could see how happy I was when I found out I had a match, but—after I learned that you were my wife I was so embarrassed. Because we knew each other, ha ha. It’s part of your wedding gift, actually...”

Marinette stops breathing before scampering to her feet. “Up, up, up!”

She pulls her husband up to stand with her, a good bit away from the edge, and she shuffles her feet, feeling herself swinging side to side.

“Yes?” Adrien asks, amused at her antics.

With no grace and complete wiggling, she blurts. “I—can I hug you? I really want to hug you.”

“Uh.”

“Like, I know we just started kissing and things and cuddle,” she starts, halfway to shouting awkwardly. “Like yesterday! But I just—really want to throw myself at you and have you catch me and oh my god, who says these things to their husband?!” she finishes, throwing her hands up in the air.

Adrien’s face goes blank, his grey scarf flapping in the wind before he breaks down in laughter, doubling over. “Oh my god, Marinette,” he wheezes. “You’re—you’re—”

Mortification crawls up her throat and Marinette covers her face with her hands, turning around so he can’t look at her. Embarrassment rolls off her in waves.

Adrien laughter settles down and a kind hand is at her shoulder, dragging her into his arms. “You never have to ask to hug or kiss me, Marinette,” he tells her, mirth and good things intertwined with his words. “I’m yours, anytime. And it’s okay! I feel like a dweeb too just about every second. I feel really exposed. This is...hard, and I get that.”

She buries her face at the base of his throat. “Yeah. Exposed is a great way to put it, you know. We’re already married and everything is moving fast.”

His touch feels warm through her jacket. “G-good fast?” he swallows.

“I think so,” she hums and sinks into his embrace. “They told me that this would happen. The doctors. That this wouldn’t be easy.”

He lays his head atop hers and takes a little breath. “Yeah. Me too. It’s different when it’s happening than when you think about it.”

Peace caresses over them and Marinette feels so warm. And protected, if she has to be honest. She’d didn’t think her husband would make her feel at such ease, but maybe that’s the benefit of marrying someone you know in a blind marriage. You can let your guard down around them a lot better and—

It’s been a long, long time since someone has made her feel as comfortable as this. She grins to herself a bit, different green eyes flashing in her mind followed by some god awful pun.

Cat-ch you later, my favorite Bugaboo.

“Gah, okay, you know what,” she declares as she pulls back from his embrace. “Let’s stop being sappy. I don’t think I can handle baring my soul anymore for today!”

Adrien rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “Okay, wife,” he says as he brushes his lips against her forehead. “What do you have in mind?”

Marinette smirks, looking devilish. “Well, I think I saw a pub or two in town. And there should be some music. I think that would be an awesome way to end our honeymoon.”

“You want to go out?”

“Nah,” she dismisses playfully. “I want to go drinking. Think you can keep up?”

Adrien waits a moment to respond before breaking out in a challenging grin. “Oh, I’ll drink you under the table!”

Marinette laughs and pushes him away. “Ha, I highly doubt that. I’m practically a tank!”

She dances away from him, her step springy with her excitement. The sun is higher in the sky now, trickling further towards noontime than morning.

“A tank?”

“Yeah, dude. I outdrink everyone. It’s like my special power.”

“Okay, Nino,” Adrien snorts before saying, “Look, I was a model. I think I know how to party.”

Marinette puts her hands up in a mock sign of surrender. “Not saying you don’t, but I’m just saying I know how to better. That’s all.”

Adrien laughs and grabs her hand, leading her back towards the path they took before. Their steps are in line as they descend away from the cliff. “Okay, you’re so on. Tonight, I shall show you who the real victor will be.”

All around them, the mountains are green and alive and Marinette feels just the same. She feels just as tall, just as powerful, just as everlasting.

“Sounds good, but let’s play a game.”

“What do you have in mind? I don’t know many drinking games for two...”

Marinette kisses the back of his hand. “The bigger the drink, the bigger the secret. I mean, since you’re totally able to handle it, you should be able to open up. Right, husband?”

“Doesn't that seem counterproductive? Who needs to take the shot? You or me?”

“If I want to learn something big about you, I need to take the drink. Same goes for you. Fair?”

“...did you just come up with this on the fly?”

Marinette laughs. “No! Alya and I play it, though now that we know everything about each other, we just drink our sad lives away.”

Adrien shakes his head. “Ah, a noble pastime,” he responds sagely. “Anyway, you’re on! I hope you’re prepared to bare your soul to me again. I gotta beat Alya now.”

“In your dreams, Adrien. You’re the one who is going to have to tell me everything.”

“Do you think you’re ready?” he jokes. “I mean. We have only been married for four days. We can just, you know, take things slow?”

“Adrien, let me tell you something,” she says. “If I didn’t jump feet first, I would never do anything. So. We’re gonna do this!”

He laughs. “Okay, Marinette. Whatever you want. I just want you to know that we have all the time in the world. I am excited to go out though. It will be a fun way to spend the last night. I’m a little sad that the plane got fixed so quickly.”

They take a swift left and find some other hikers on the path going the way they just came. Both couples exchange pleasantries, waves and big smiles and Marinette would be lying if she didn’t say that she liked the way everyone thought she and Adrien were a real couple. They don’t know them, but to strangers, they seem happy.

“Me too,” she agrees. “We’ll have to come back when the weather is warmer. And I know that we can take things slow, but I’m just—I don’t know, itching to do something crazy?”

“Like marry a stranger?” he teases.

“Mmmm. Pretty sure I’ve done that.”

“Ah, you’re right. You have,” he says. “God, I hope there’s no turbulence tomorrow.”

“Eh, we’re leaving in the evening, right? So we can just sleep through most of it. Plus, even if we’re hungover, we can have some of Ebbi’s mom’s breakfast.”

“Thank god for that, but I’m going to miss her cooking.”

“Well, we’ll just have to go to my parents’ the morning after we get back. My dad seriously loves breakfast.”

Adrien dramatically faces the heavens, mouthing praises. Marinette tries her best not to laugh, but fails miserably.

He’s kinda perfect, she thinks. She hasn’t laughed so easily with someone in a long time.

His face shifts and as he slows his pace, she matches his. They take their time, just like the clouds rolling in overhead.

“That reminds me,” he starts, “we’re supposed to go house hunting when we get back. Find a place that’s ours rather than staying at mine or yours. Do you have any preferences?”

Marinette remembers that email, the one that said that house hunting is to start immediately after they get back from the honeymoon. Truthfully, she just wants to rest, but apparently when you’re part of a six week study, there is no such thing.

“My shop isn’t too far from the university you work at, if I remember correctly,” she mentions. “So, we can try my neighborhood? I just—not to talk about finances right now,” she quickly adds, “but you do know that I can help pay for things. Even if you’re, like, super rich.”

“I know,” he says, his fingers drumming on the back of her hand. “We’ll figure it out when we get home. There’s no rush and even if you can, I don’t mind paying for everything.”

She presses her lips together, annoyance starting to surface. “Well, yes. I know, but I do. I just—”

Adrien must feel the same. “Marinette, I’m serious. I’ll take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

“And Adrien,” she says. “I’m serious. I’ll help and take care of you.”

“Mari—” he starts to say.

But she cuts him off, determined and keeping her growing irritation at bay. “Can we drop this? I really don’t want to talk about money.”

Adrien sighs and takes a deep breath. “No, I understand. This isn’t the time and place. We can talk more about it later.”

“Exactly,” she says, and the mood shifts back into something lighter. “Besides, I just want to enjoy what time we have left before we go home.”

Adrien hums in agreement as they wind around some trees, their fingers grazing over moss covered rocks. They don’t say much, the air between them better but not the same as when they found the ocean, the sun shining and bright.

“Oh my god,” Adrien says before breaking out in hysterical laughter.

Marinette shoots him a funny look, raising an eyebrow. “Um, are you okay?”

“I just remembered.”

“What?”

Gesturing to the air, Adrien manages to calm down enough, gasping in between breaths until he keeps his smile only slightly twitching. “When I was trying to tell Nino, I took him to come pick out wedding rings, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Marinette says, curious and confused.

“When we were there, he mentioned that if things didn’t go with my girl because I was obviously buying jewelry for a girl, I should date you .”

And it might be because her left hand is clasped in his, the glittering diamond refracting the rays streaming through the trees above them and—

This is real, isn’t it? We’re real, you and me.

A smile tugs at her mouth. “He did not.”

“He did! I was like, dude, I’m actually getting married and lo and behold,” he says, throwing an arm around her as they walk side by side, “here we are.”

Marinette wraps her own arm around his side, his hip digging into her waist. “Here we are.”

Their steps align like the sun at high noon as they descend the mountain back to civilization.

The moon is fat as Adrien and Marinette walk to the pub bundled up in thick coats, breath misting in the night air. Snowfall from a few days ago has turned to slush, the sidewalks black and illuminated by store lights instead. Laughter rings in the air, people rushing to and fro from pub to restaurant to pub again.

Ebbi is with them too, carrying a large guitar case slung over a shoulder. His bright red hair is pulled back, and he reminds Adrien of Jagged Stone. Easygoing, tall, and cool. No pet alligator though.

“I’m so glad you both decided to come out tonight,” Ebbi says. “My band is playing and I promise you that it’s going to be awesome.”

Marinette grins, her pink lipstick looking plum in the darkness. “I’m sure you’re going to be great! Do you sing too?”

Ebbi awkwardly tugs on his scarf. “Kinda. I’m getting better at it. My cousin is a lot better and her voice is kill-er.”

“Which one is she again? Was she at the big breakfast?”

Ebbis snorts. “She’s always at the big breakfast. Ah, but Alice was the one manning the stove. If she never lives her dream of being a rock star, she wants to open a really fancy restaurant on the island. Serve celebrities and whatnot.”

Adrien pipes up and a part of him wonders why he must always talk about food. “That’s really dope. I hope she gets both though. A rock star chef would be super awesome. She’d serenade me while serving some soup.”

Marinette laughs. “Wow, say that five times fast.”

“Well, I think she’d sere—”

“Adrien! I was kidding!”

“Sure you were, that’s why you dared me to say it.”

“Wow, Kim much?” Marinette huffs. “I didn’t dare you!”

He doesn’t say anything, but her nose crinkles when she’s miffed. It’s kinda really adorable. Okay, super really adorable. Her hair is pinned away from her face and her cheeks are rosy from both the cold and her blush. Also, if he has to be honest—and he’s usually always honest—her eyeliner makes her eyes look more dangerous, and, well—

—Adrien might have a thing for dangerous women who could definitely punch someone’s lights out when needed.

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously—”

“Okay, lovebirds,” Ebbi says, breaking their banter with an easy smile. “Enough fighting. We’re here. I hope you brought some strong stomachs. Prepare to drink, motherfuckers.”

“You gonna drink with us too, Ebbi?” Marinette asks.

He shakes his head. “Most likely not. I can’t drink when I perform or I’ll throw up, but I will come check on you guys later!”

“Sounds good, man,” Adrien says, giving his friend a strong handshake.

Ebbi heads inside as Adrien and Marinette stand outside the small venue. It looks like any other bar he’s seen. Brown walls and dark windows. Voices from inside pour outside and music plays a little loudly.

Adrien grabs Marinette’s hand and opens the door. “Are you ready to lose, my dear?”

She smirks. “In your dreams, sweetheart .”

Sweat, booze, and good vibes instantly hit them in the face. It’s mildly crowded and the atmosphere is lively, everyone happy as they chat and grab drinks from the bar. On the stage the band sets up, Ebbi greeting his fellow bandmates with an enthusiastic cheer. They pause for a moment to say hello before going back to setting up.

Marinette pulls Adrien to the bar. “What’ll be your poison?”

Adrien smirks. “Ladies first. I’ll have what you’ll have. I’ll even pay this round.”

She rolls her eyes, stifling a laugh. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Moneybags. Okay, let’s see. Let’s start easy,” she says. Turning to the bartender, she points at an expensive bottle of vodka. “Two shots!”

(She says it in minced Faroese learned from a haphazard lesson taught on the walk down from the inn.)

Adrien opens up his phone and loosely translates the words to put it on a tab when the man delivers the drinks. Both he and Marinette grab their glasses. “So, how big is a shot versus a sip before we start? For secrets, that is,” he asks.

She taps her chin in thought. “I think a sip is something simple like favorite colors, a shot is like a medium secret, and to drink the whole glass or whoever buys the next round gets a big secret. Sound fair?”

Adrien laughs. “I hope you brought your wallet, Mrs. Moneybags, because if not, then I get lots of big secrets.”

Marinette points at her purse at her side, smirking. “Don’t worry, I got cash, so it’ll be even-stevens.”

“Alright, alright. Drink your drink, wife, and tell me a medium-sized secret.”

Marinette smiles and downs her drink, visibly shaking as the icy drink goes through her. “Ah, okay,” she starts. “Let’s see, for a medium-sized secret. I was actually rejected from my fashion school when I first applied.”

Adrien blinks, a bit stunned. Had he heard right? “What?”

“Yep, totally rejected. Little letter in a little envelope and everything. It was awful. I just—couldn’t accept that I was rejected, so…I might have...you know, gone back and demanded that they evaluate my application. I’m, what do they say, headstrong and stubborn? So yeah, that’s what I did.”

“Oh my god, Marinette, what did they do?”

She looks so satisfied when he asks, smug and pleased as she leans against the bar. Adrien is right, he thinks he likes dangerous women, and there is nothing more dangerous than Marinette—a woman who at first glance appears cute and calm, but if you peel back a few of her layers, she is ruthless and cunning. It’s…intoxicating, and he’s not talking about the vodka.

“So,” she starts, her finger tracing the rim of her shotglass, acting coy. “The director actually came out and stood really important-like and told me if I was able to create a brand new dress using a potato sack and a garbage bag that was actually stylish and wear it to the office the next day, he’d admit me. So I did. Much to his surprise.

“We found out a few days later that they wanted to accept me,” she adds sheepishly, her coy demeanor slipping away and becoming awkward, “but my high school didn’t put the correct graduation date so they thought I didn’t have my basic education. Which was really embarrassing? But commendable, he told me.”

Adrien wheezes with laughter. “Oh my god, so you really marched up to the school wearing a sack and a trash bag. That’s so wonderful.”

“It was summer and really hot so yeah, not so much, but,” she singsongs. “Your turn!”

“Ah, yes. My turn. Hmm, okay. Um, well, did you know that when I moved to America I did acting for a little bit and starred in an indie film?” he tells her with a cringe.

“Um, what?” Marinette asks, somewhat giggling.

Adrien pulls out his phone and googles it for her. The movie is titled The One In Your Arms and the cover is Adrien and this pretty redhead laying in the grass. Underneath it, Marinette can clearly see that it has 3/10 stars.

Marinette steals the phone and clicks the description.

Meet Tristan, lonely French boy far from home. Meet Annie, the quirky country girl trying to see the world. They meet at a crossroads when one is trying to settle somewhere while the other is trying to run away. Of course, love tends to get in the way.

Marinette lets out a peal of laughter. “Oh my god, Adrien. This looks glorious. Can we please watch it? How long is it?”

He sighs with defeat, but smiles. “It’s a little over an hour. And we can watch it. It’s awful, but it’s a good movie to watch when drinking.”

“Excellent! Okay, we need more drinks. Let’s get some actual drinks.”

Marinette fishes out some cash from her wallet and hands it to the bartender. Adrien orders a whiskey sour while Marinette gets a margarita. Two tangy drinks for some tangy people, Adrien thinks, but doesn’t say. That would be extremely weird.

“Okay, now that we both have ordered drinks, big secrets are up for grabs!” she exclaims as they settle into a secluded booth on the other side of the bar.

Adrien smiles, holding his glass up to clink hers. “Easy there tiger, let me sip some, okay?”

They exchange small secrets for a while. His favorite color is green, hers is pink. They both enjoy cracking the shell of a creme brule. She’s never had enchiladas before, and Adrien has never tried crawfish. Adrien learned Chinese because at first he thought that was the language people in anime spoke when he was little. It all started with a tutor who only had Dragonball dubbed in Chinese, didn’t even realize that Japan was an actual place until he was about nine. Marinette didn’t learn to tie her shoes until she was ten.

Adrien finishes his drink first. “Ah! Tell me something big!” he demands with an easy smile.

Marinette sighs and downs her drink right after. “Okay, so we both know that I had a big crush on you, right?”

Adrien nods, his face flush and smile wide. “Yes, this has been brought up many times now, much to my amusement.”

She narrows her eyes at him and kicks his shoe, making him yelp in surprise. “Anyway,” she says loudly. “I may have been a crazy girl with a crush. Only slightly. Intensely?” she says, wincing. “And I tried asking you to the movies and may have left you a voicemail calling you hot stuff…”

Adrien pauses for a moment, thinking back, tapping his chin. “I..I don’t remember this?”

Marinette takes a deep breath and stares at the ice in her glass, her straw swirling the cubes. “Exactly. Because, well, I might have stolen your phone and deleted the voicemail?”

In the background, the band introduces themselves and starts to play, people in the crowd cheering. Adrien says nothing and neither does Marinette.

He swallows and quietly asks. “What?”

Marinette awkwardly looks up at him, fiddling with a lock of her hair that slipped from behind her ear. “I stole your phone to delete a voicemail because I accidentally called you hot stuff when trying to ask you to the movies.”

“Hot stuff?”

“Yes,” she confirms, eyes looking away.

“As you thought I was hot? Stuff?”

“...Yes.”

“And you deleted the voicemail?”

Marinette doesn’t say anything this time, her eyes far away, her cheeks darkening from the light of the room as he stares at her profile. She looks beautiful, he thinks, the shiney silver of her necklace turning technicolor. The black leather of her jacket sloping her over her shoulder, the magenta color of her top, the way her hair is slicked behind her ears. She looks like an editorial piece. But she’s still Marinette, nervous and sweet in the way her body shakes in the way her knees are bouncing, chewing on the inside of her cheek, her blush crawling up her neck.

This moment is perfect and Adrien decides that he’s happy.

He laughs deeply from his belly and clutches his sides, in part at finally reacting to Marinette and in part finally relishing in his own feelings. “Oh my god, Marinette, you should have left the voicemail! That would have been the best! I wouldn’t have known what to do and would have been so confused. Oh my god!”

He can see it now, fourteen year old him panicking and asking Plagg what to do, but the little god would have gave awful advice. Most likely would have told him to just stick to cheese than girls. He could see himself asking Ladybug, blushing and stumbling and utterly a mess. It would have been fun he thinks.

He briefly wonders if he would have said yes.

Marinette’s tension slips from her shoulders. “You’re not mad?”

Adrien wipes his eyes, feeling warm and light. Contentment washes over him as he leans back in his plush seat. “Why would I be mad? This happened years ago! I honestly think this is hysterical.”

“Oh, good to know,” she says with a small smile.

He reaches across the table and takes her hand, his thumb rubbing her knuckles. “Just one thing.”

“Yes?” Marinette asks, leaning closer.

If Adrien was a smidge braver, he’d kiss her right now. He wants too, but they’re in a room filled with people and the things between him and Marinette are overwhelming. Wonderful, but overwhelming and he’s constantly on edge. In the best of ways though.

“You have to call me hot stuff for now on when you ask me out on dates,” he smirks. “Like it’s now a requirement.”

She throws rolls her eyes and chuckles. “Haha, sure. I’ll be sure to ask you every other Friday, okay?”

“As long as I get to ask you out on those Fridays you’re not asking me out.”

Marinette places her other hand on top of his, her fingertips cool to his skin. “Let me check my calendar, but I think there’s an opening for you.”

Adrien sends her an appreciative smile and kisses her fingers. “I’ll take any day you’ll give me.”

Marinette grins and the still moment between them hits Adrien that it’s his turn to tell her something big .

He takes a deep breath and composes himself before moving to sit beside of her. Marinette only shoots him a questioning look, but scoots over, twisting her body to face him. Their knees knock as he reaches for her hands again. “Okay, so my turn for a big secret. Let’s see. It’s going to be less fun, but I promise you it’s quite drama filled and important for you to know. And I’m gonna chicken out if I don’t tell you now.”

“Oh...okay?” she says, her brow quirking. “Whatever it is, I’m all ears.”

“So, you know how I didn’t have a mom? Kinda?”

She pets the back of his hand. “Yeah. I thought she passed away,” she says softly.

“Well, yeah. We thought so too,” he groans, trying to keep his voice even. “Like ‘went missing and never came home because she was dead’ kind of thing, you know. Like in a soap opera.”

“That does...like a soap opera plot line,” she concedes.

Adrien closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get gather the words he wants to say. His heart is beating his chest and he’s torn because he can still remember the way his mother’s hand would comb his hair, the way she would tuck him into bed at night. She was his best friend for so long until she was gone.

He lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah well, here’s the goddamn plot twist.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he sighs. Twirling his finger he says, “Ding dong, my beloved mama is not actually dead and is alive and well and shows up to my dad’s funeral.”

Marinette blinks at him a moment, before her lips curl into an unpleasant frown.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yep,” he says bitterly with a tight smile. “Reveals her living self at my dad’s funeral,” he sneers. “Mourning him and looking like she hasn’t aged a damn day and I’m here crying, thinking I lost both my parents…” he trails, trying to reel in his burning feelings. “One to an “accident” and the other one because he was so heartbroken that he couldn't live without her.”

Marinette’s smiles solemnly for a moment before throwing her arms around him and kissing his cheek. “I’m so, so, so, sorry.”

Her breath tickles the crook of his neck and he feels better as he wraps his arms around her and holds her close too. She’s a good anchor point and keeps the bad thoughts from that day away.

He settles his cheek atop her head. “Of course you’re sorry. You’re a good person,” he says. He then sighs and plays with the edges of her hair. “I’m sorry for telling you this. I told you this wasn’t a fun secret, but I really need to tell you this since you’re my wife.”

He kisses her cheek too before pulling away slightly, and bluntly says. “Anyway, long story short is that my mom is alive and is not of sound mind? She will show up from time to time despite the fact that I have a restraining order against her. She claims she’s from a different timeline and she, my father, and I are supposed to be a happy family. Also , she swears that I should still be thirteen.”

“Wow, Adrien. What the actual fuck,” she awkwardly laughs.

He doesn’t blame her. It’s either laugh and cry and it’s easier to laugh how bizarre his mom is and the whole not being dead thing then cry about it.

(And he hates being angry about it. He hates it the most of all.)

“Yeah, but she’s pretty harmless, just not well. And I know that I should be more sympathetic towards her, but I can’t. She can’t even tell me where she was for all those years,” he says flatly. “I do give her money though, I just can’t be around her. And she will most likely pop up when we get home and—”

Marinette places a hand on Adrien’s face, stilling him. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me. This is. Wow. A lot to take in, but thank you. I’m sorry your life is a soap opera. You know, missing moms who actually are alive and blind arranged marriages to people you actually know. Quite a tough life for a rich ex-model turned physics professor who happens to be the king of a fashion empire.”

Adrien smiles, and this time it’s real. “Well, the blind marriage part isn’t so bad. Nor is being a professor. That’s fun too.”

“Okay, professor, do you have some dancing shoes?” Marinette wonderfully says for a change of topic.

He chuckles and is ever thankful that she’s his wife.

“Ah, m’lady,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “I possess the best dancing shoes.”

Marinette glances down at his feet, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, kind sir. I see your sneakers are quite the glass slippers this footwear season.”

“Pshh. As if these are sneakers. Laces do not sneakers make; these are casual dress shoes,” he defends. “See, it even has a little flare with three black stripes on the side against some nice grey suede. C’mon Marinette, you’re a designer.”

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Men’s fashion is okay. I will admit my shoe designs for men are more basic and extremely casual. Shoes are just their own animal.”

“Nah, I agree,” he nods. “But I’d love to see your designs! And you’re more than welcome to look at my father’s designs if you wanted, you know? He has thousands of them that we keep stored away.”

Marinette gapes at him, speechless. “Seriously? You’d let me see your father’s designs?”

Adrien smiles, wondering how she couldn’t have known that already. “Of course. You’re my wife, Marinette. And you’re also my friend.”

Marinette doesn’t say anything but leans forward, brushing her lips against Adrien’s in a soft and simple kiss. He feels like he’s been zapped. “You’re amazing, you know?” she whispers before kissing him once more. Before he can reply, she grabs his hand and pushes him out of the seat. “Dance with me!”

Marinette guides him to the dance floor, weaving in and out of people, and he feels like he’s stepped into a blessed dream. One where he’s safe and happy and warm and—

Adrien’s heart fills as the lights flash off Marinette’s skin. She looks like an ethereal spirit, grinning in the darkness as she loops her arms around his neck. He places his hands on the small of her back, his thumbs brushing her hip bones. She’s beautiful and for the millionth time, takes his breath away.

He leans down and kisses her, captures her mouth with his and Marinette closes the space between them. She tastes like good things and a bright future. Things are so natural and effortless with her, the way her mouth is warm against his and he feels so light. Like she’s always been by his side. He—

—well, he doesn’t know that for sure, but he feels like he could. Give him a week and he’s positive that Marinette will own every space in his heart.

From the stage, they hear Ebbi start to sing, enticing the crowd to dance and holler with them. The atmosphere is intoxicating, the beat syncing with their hearts as they drag their hands up and down the other’s body. Her fingers wind into his hair, her nails grazing the base of his skull and his knees feel weak. He holds her closer, pressing her to him as if he can’t breathe anymore. She holds him just as close, her breath filling his lungs.

He nips at her bottom lip and wickedly grins in the kiss when she moans at the way his hands hold the back of her neck. The world is perfect, the way he feels fire burning under his skin, joy blossoming in his chest, and desire rushing to his head.

Marinette pulls away breathless. “Wow.”

He kisses the tip of her nose.”Wow, indeed.”

She wrinkles his nose and looks fondly at him. Marinette brushes her lips against his for a moment for skipping out of his hold, laughing madly as she disappears into the crowd. Adrien blinks before laughing to himself, running his hands in his already mussed hair, never wanting this dream to end. She’s back minutes later holding some Jell-O shots and a wondrous, dangerous grin.

Adrien balks, laughter at the edge of his voice. “Those are sneaky things and you know it.”

“Maybe I’m a sneaky thing,” she says with a wink.

His heart jumps at that, twisting with pleasure, breathlessly.

“Oh, I know that at least.”

They share more medium-sized secrets. Marinette didn’t have any friends until Alya. Adrien almost ran away from home when his mother disappeared, but he couldn’t leave his father alone. Marinette was almost engaged in her last relationship but said no because she found out the guy was cheating. Adrien started up a charity in his father’s name for children to go to art school.

Ebbi jumps down the from the stage a while later, happy and smiling and puts an arm around each of them. “Okay, I can drink now,” he wolfishly grins.

And drink they do. Long forgotten is the game, no more secrets, just smiles and laughs as they all drink, sing bad karaoke, and drink shot after shot.

It’s a blur, a wonderful and crazy blur as everyone dances and the booze tastes like Marinette’s kisses.Or Marinette’s kisses taste like booze. He’s not quite sure, but it doesn’t matter at the moment as they walk back to their hotel in the chilly, still night, stopping at every other lamppost or wall to kiss each other. On the mouth, on their necks, taste the other and keep warm in the below-freezing temperatures.

It’s like a hazy dream, not real, but too real to be fake. It’s wonderful as they try to tiptoe upstairs to their room, trying not wake everyone by their laughter. In the back of his mind, he knows that Plagg will be annoyed that he stumbled in at two in the morning, but hopefully the little god will understand that there is a beautiful woman who is demanding his attention at this hour and he’s married to her.

Marinette sheds her coat and he does the same, and he kisses her hard on the mouth and pushes her to lay on the bed. She follows his lead and giggles, her hands in his hair and bringing his mouth to hers. Her tongue traces his lips and he’s helpless at her touch.

She bites at his lower lip, kissing him fiercely before breaking them apart. Sighing happily, she rolls them to lay on their sides.“Hi,” she slurs, her eyes wide and bright.

Her mascara has smudged a little, her lipstick gone from her mouth, but Adrien has never seen someone more alluring.

Adrien feels lightheaded—happily drunk—as he giggles too. “Hi.”

“Did ya drink more than me?” she asks.

Adrien tries to count, he really does, but he just blurts. “15. I had 15.”

It seems like the right answer. How is he supposed to count anyway when there’s such a stunning woman in front of him? And she’s his wife? Counting is impossible. Just impossible.

“Aw man, you did drink more than me,” Marinette yawns before kisses his nose. “Okay, I have a big secret for you.”

He settles in on his side of the mattress, his hand resting in the dip of her waist. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmmm. Biggest best secret ever.”

“Tell ‘e,” he slurs, because of both sleep and drink. Sh

She giggles again and gets up from the bed, swaying a little bit. “Okay,” she says to herself and tries to make a serious expression. “Just kidding! No big secret for you right now!”

Adrien pouts, drunk and sleepily. “What, really? We—I played your game.”

Marinette sits down on the bed, the light illuminating her like an angel. His angel. She gins and boops his nose. “And I won. Or you won,” she mumbles to herself. She looks back at him and smirks though, holding her chin in her hand. “But like I’d ever say spots on—” she scoffs.

Marinette’s eyes become enormous then, her words seeming to have sobered her up as she brings her hands to her face in horror.

“No, no, no! I take it back!”

Her hands fly to her ears, trying to take off her earrings when—

In the distance, he only slightly hears a little scream before the room is bathed in pink before—

Ladybug stands before him, alert and beautiful and in his room and her face is twisted in terror. Her costume hugs her womanly curves, her chest and thighs covered in all black in addition to her trademark red and black spots—she looks lethal with sharp blue eyes and her yo-yo modified to look more deadly at her hip.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she says and he’s not sure if he’s ever heard his lady actually swear before, but—

“Ladybug?” he stupidly asks.

She winces, nervously chewing her lip. “You’re dreaming!” she blurts.

Adrien tries to sit up on the bed, shaking his head. “I, uh, I’m pretty sure I’m not dreaming.”

His brain is really foggy right now, the light the superhero look fuzzy. He wonders where Marinette is though he wants to ask if, well, if Ladybug is—

“...Marinette?”

Ladybug inhales a deep breath before steeling herself with a grim expression. She swallows hard, her fingers trembling at her sides for a moment, before she tightens her hands into fists.

“I’m sorry, Adrien,” she whispers.

He doesn’t get to ask her why she’s sorry or why Marinette isn't here or why Marinette doesn’t just say that she's Ladybug. Can’t when her right hand swinging towards the side of his head and—

(Nothing, you see, because it’s just as Ladybug said. He’s dreaming.)

(He has to be.)

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous: tales of ladybug and chat noir #ladynoir #adrienette #marriage au #THIS CHAPTER IS DONE #THANK GOD #I AM SO HAPPY #also my mom is doing well #if you were wondering :)#drabble

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libraryofvenus · 3 years

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Four Quartets: Little Gidding - T.S. Eliot

Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, In windless cold that is the heart's heat, Reflecting in a watery mirror A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon. And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom Of snow, a bloom more sudden Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading, Not in the scheme of generation. Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?

If you came this way, Taking the route you would be likely to take From the place you would be likely to come from, If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. It would be the same at the end of the journey, If you came at night like a broken king, If you came by day not knowing what you came for, It would be the same, when you leave the rough road And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for Is only a shell, a husk of meaning From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled If at all. Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city— But this is the nearest, in place and time, Now and in England.

If you came this way, Taking any route, starting from anywhere, At any time or at any season, It would always be the same: you would have to put off Sense and notion. You are not here to verify, Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity Or carry report. You are here to kneel Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more Than an order of words, the conscious occupation Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. Here, the intersection of the timeless moment Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

Ash on an old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house— The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable. So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?' Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other— And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember.' And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold friction of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and soul begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of motives late revealed, and the awareness Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.

III

There are three conditions which often look alike Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow: Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference Which resembles the others as death resembles life, Being between two lives—unflowering, between The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory: For liberation—not less of love but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country Begins as attachment to our own field of action And comes to find that action of little importance Though never indifferent. History may be servitude, History may be freedom. See, now they vanish, The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.

Sin is Behovely, but All shall be well, and All manner of thing shall be well. If I think, again, of this place, And of people, not wholly commendable, Of no immediate kin or kindness, But of some peculiar genius, All touched by a common genius, United in the strife which divided them; If I think of a king at nightfall, Of three men, and more, on the scaffold And a few who died forgotten In other places, here and abroad, And of one who died blind and quiet Why should we celebrate These dead men more than the dying? It is not to ring the bell backward Nor is it an incantation To summon the spectre of a Rose. We cannot revive old factions We cannot restore old policies Or follow an antique drum. These men, and those who opposed them And those whom they opposed Accept the constitution of silence And are folded in a single party. Whatever we inherit from the fortunate We have taken from the defeated What they had to leave us—a symbol: A symbol perfected in death. And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well By the purification of the motive In the ground of our beseeching.

The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre— To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.

(For help understanding this poem, try this article: https://voegelinview.com/a-pattern-of-timeless-moments-pt-1/)

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