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bcdrawsandwrites · 4 years

Photo

Fandom: Coco

Rating: K

Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Miguel, Héctor, Imelda, and smaller appearances from the rest of the family

Warnings: Depictions of PTSD

Description: It’s been a year since the fateful Dia de Muertos when Miguel traveled to the Land of the Dead. Miguel is helping his family get ready... and then sees a familiar sight: transparent, glowing skeletons walking around the streets.

It doesn’t make him as happy as you might expect.

Beta Readers: @jaywings, @pengychan

Notes: Takes place in the same ‘verse as most of my other Coco fics, including Neither Can You, BUT if you’re not familiar with those, don’t worry! You’ll simply learn stuff along with Miguel, since this fic is from his perspective.

---~~~---

Dia de Muertos was going to be different this year.

It wasn't just because a certain someone wouldn't be there—well, especially because she would be there, Miguel assured himself, swallowing down the tightness in his throat—but because... someone else would be there, too. On top of that—and really, because of that—this would be the first Dia de Muertos in many, many years that the Riveras would be celebrating with music.

Music, plus a certain ancestor... and... oh, yeah, about a dozen or so other family members that didn't normally visit.

Voices from the kitchen interrupted Miguel's thoughts:

"Okay Mamá, I think we've got enough food for everyone," his papá said with a laugh.

"Absolutely not!" Abuelita retorted. "Your esposa's family is going to leave here well-fed! Now help me with the mole negro."

"Ay," Papá said, and Miguel could hear the smile in his voice.

It made him smile, too, but only briefly. Feeling a familiar wave of worry wash over him, Miguel rushed out to the ofrenda room for the fifth time that night, just to assure himself that Papá Héctor's picture was still there, and that Dante hadn't knocked it off, or something. He'd admittedly freaked out earlier when his mamá had taken down the photo to clean a smudge off of it, and had made some lame excuse about worrying she would drop the frame and it would break, like he'd done with the same photo the year prior.

But, sure enough, the photo still sat proudly atop the ofrenda, with Papá Héctor's face lovingly taped back where it belonged, and the photo given a lovely custom frame. Though it was not placed at the very top of the ofrenda this year, Miguel made sure that something worthy of the Rivera name was: a custom-made boot in Mamá Imelda's favorite style, and a miniature guitar decoration made by Miguel himself, the two items carefully propped up, each leaning against the other. He hoped his ancestors would appreciate the touch—maybe he'd ask them about it in a letter later. He also hoped they would appreciate—

"Oh, oh! Look, there's the twins!"

"Manny and Benny!"

"They've gotten so big!"

"That one over there is Carmen, Berto's esposa."

Miguel scratched his head—the voices sounded familiar, but he couldn't place them immediately. He knew what that meant, though, and poked his head through the doorway. "Papá, they're here!"

"Go on and say hi to them, mijo. We'll be out soon!"

"Got it!" Miguel stepped out of the room, looking down at his shirt and briefly wondering if he should go ahead and change into his new charro suit. He supposed it could wait until after he met his—

He looked up, and was greeted with the sight of roughly half a dozen skeletons glowing in a transparent orange shade.

No.

Heart leaping into his throat, Miguel ducked back into the ofrenda room, his back against the wall, and panted as he frantically looked over his left hand. But no bone showed through, and his skin was as solid as ever. But... hadn't he just seen...?!

Shakily Miguel poked his head out the doorway once more. Yes, the skeletons were still there. Their backs were turned, but he immediately recognized the tall twin frames of Óscar and Felipe, and his Tía Victoria, and Tía Rosita, and Papá Julio, and... and...

A small part of Miguel wanted to run up to them immediately, to embrace his Mamá Coco who had been absent for nearly a year, to wrap his Papá Héctor in the biggest hug... but his entire body was trembling. It was like when he'd ride in the back of the pickup truck, but he wasn't shaking from riding around in a car—he was shaking on his own. Once again he checked his hands, his arms, feeling them to assure himself that there really was flesh and muscle there and not stark white bone. But... what if he really was invisible and just couldn't tell yet, like he had been at first, after he'd grabbed the guitar last year? What if the second he tried to touch someone, they would pass through him, and he would turn transparent?

What if he was still...?

Before he realized what he was doing, he found his feet carrying him of their own accord to the kitchen.

"¡Papá!" he cried before he even stepped into the room. To his relief, the response was immediate:

"Miguel?" His papá nearly bumped into him, stepping back when Miguel threw his arms around him (doubly relieved to find that he could even do so). Immediately concerned, his papá stooped slightly, placed a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "What's the matter?"

Immediately he felt pulled down by the weight of shame, and took a step back, holding his wrist. "Sorry, Papá. I-I was just..." What could he say? He couldn't possibly explain the curse—that would require explaining everything that had happened last year, and how could he do that? "I saw... people coming in, a-and I realized... I'm gonna have to play this song for all of them! Wh-what if they hate my music?"

Abuelita cut in: "If they do, they'll hear from me!" She held up her spoon like a weapon, though it wasn't quite as scary as her chancla.

Meanwhile, his papá chuckled, shaking his head. "Miguel, your music is the reason they're here in the first place!" he said, unable to contain his grin. "When your mamá’s family heard about everything, they couldn't wait to come over to see it for themselves."

"Exactamente," Abuelita said with a decisive nod. "You don't have anything to worry about, mijo."

Miguel resisted the urge to wipe at his eyes, opting for what he hoped was a convincing grin instead. "G-gracias," he managed to stammer.

But to his dismay, his papá frowned, moving his hand from his shoulder to his back. "You're trembling. Are you all right?"

Oh, he was still shaking, wasn't he? He really wished his body would cut it out, but he had no idea how to make it stop. "I-I'm just nervous about the performance." And, suddenly remembering his Papá Héctor's words, he took a step back. "I need to shake out the nerves!" he said, and shook himself in an exaggerated manner.

Laughing, his father clapped him on the back and straightened himself. "That's my boy! Go on, now, you should get into your outfit!"

"Sí, Papá," Miguel said, glad for the excuse to leave. Without waiting for anything else to happen, he hurried off to his room, quickly latching the door behind him. His new outfit was laid out neatly on his bed, and he lifted the jacket, wishing to admire it... but couldn't ignore how badly he was still shaking.

"¡Basta!" he hissed to himself, dropping the suit and wrapping his arms around his body. He wished Dante were here—his spirit guide usually helped soothe his nerves, but the dog had been absent since he'd given him and Pepita some tamales in exchange for delivering a letter. But... why would he even need Dante right now? Usually when he got like this, it was when he would wake up from a nightmare, or when he was missing Mamá Coco, or when something happened that reminded him of...

The memory of transparent skeletons immediately came to the forefront of his mind.

...oh.

Groaning, Miguel laid his head onto his bed, burying his face into his arms. Stuff like heights and getting dunked underwater had been freaking him out, yeah, and that sucked, but now the sight of his own dead family—the very ones he'd been missing so much this entire year—was making him like this?

What was wrong with him?

Sure, his parents had said that it was normal when stuff freaked you out after something bad happened, but this...

He was still shaking.

With a frustrated sigh, Miguel lifted himself up again and got to work changing into his new charro suit. If this was going to freak him out, then he'd just have to ignore them. That would definitely work.

Right?

---~~~---

This was not working.

His dead family was, of course, all over the place. When he looked one way, he would see the twins marveling over Tío Berto's new shoes. In another direction, Tía Victoria and Tía Rosita were talking about Abuelita's tamales and how many she'd made. When he turned again, he nearly ran smack into his Mamá Imelda, whom he tried desperately to avoid the gaze of. Every time he caught a glimpse of them, he had to fight the urge to check his hands for a hundred-and-thirteenth time, to make sure he really wasn't disappearing or turning into a skeleton. He kept a fistful of cempasúchil in his pocket, just in case, which he also had to constantly resist the urge to check.

Finally it was time for him and his cousins to perform their song, and Miguel had to throw his everything into his music. It was slightly easier to ignore the skeletons wandering around when he was focused more on singing loudly and clearly and getting the chords right as he played. Even so, he found himself wandering about the courtyard as he sang, meeting the loving gazes of his living family as he tried to ignore the presence of the dead.

Dante helped a little, galloping up to him and licking him in the face to show him that he'd come back. Even so, Miguel almost lost his composure entirely when he passed Abuelita, only to find his Mamá Coco, in skeleton form, wrapping her arm around her in a loving embrace. He managed to cover for himself by belting out the next line even louder than he had before, which worked just as well, since he was nearing the end of the song. The joy and excitement of his living family made it easier to ignore the presence of the glowing souls around him, but he couldn't help but be reminded, when his papá and tío lifted him up onto their shoulders, of when Héctor had done a similar action when they'd last performed together.

Finally the song was over, and Miguel found himself panting, clutching his Papá Héctor's guitar far more tightly than he'd meant to. It felt good to sing with all his might—and a song he'd written himself, too!—but he was eager to step away for a while.

But his family wasn't exactly making that easy—several of them were calling for an encore, while his mamá urged them to let him catch his breath first. Miguel looked around the crowd, hoping to find a space he could squeeze through, and quickly pushed himself toward a small gap where a couple relatives he was less familiar with were standing.

"Great job, Miguel!" one of them—a tía or an older prima, he wasn't sure—said as he passed, and he looked up to thank her.

But his gaze was instead immediately pulled to a glowing figure who had followed him out of the crowd, and for a moment, he was frozen.

He looks like he's about to cry, was all he could think as he looked up into his Papá Héctor's eyes.

And then he realized his mistake.

Héctor, who had indeed looked like he was about to dissolve into happy tears in that moment, suddenly stared into his eyes, a look of shock crossing his face.

Terror immediately gripped his stomach, and Miguel ran.

Fortunately, other than the confused tía, no one had noticed his sudden departure as he fled into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. In a moment of panicked stupidity, he found himself shoving the white guitar under his bed (part of the neck poking out) before following suit, knocking his hat off and hiding with his hands over his head like a little kid scared of a thunderstorm.

But he felt like he could hardly breathe. He gasped for air, his breaths short and sharp. He was shaking. And this was stupid.

It was so stupid for him to be scared of this. Why was he scared? He'd missed his Papá Héctor. He'd even written that song for him and Mamá Coco. So why was he scared of seeing him again?

But then why was he seeing him in the first place? It didn't make sense. It made no sense. It made no sense, unless he was cursed again, which was why he could see them last time, but he didn't want to be cursed again, that would mean he would have to go back to the Land of the Dead. What if he had to face Señor de la Cruz again? He didn't want to face him again, he didn't want to get thrown into the cenote again, he didn't want to be thrown off a cliff again, he didn't want to fall into water or get trapped and lost away from his family, he didn't want to go through that again, he didn't want to be cursed—

A sharp whine from the other side of the door cut through his panic.

"¿Mijo? We're not mad at you. Please, are you in there?"

He realized the voice must have been talking for a while now. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, but he kept silent anyway, clasping his hands over his mouth to muffle his panicked breathing.

It was a moment before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, mi amor. Maybe Dante led us to the wrong room."

Dante whined again, scratching at the door with his claws.

"Are you sure he saw you?"

"...Sí."

The sheer amount of sadness in that single word caught Miguel off-guard. He hadn't even considered how his suddenly running off like that would look to Héctor.

"This is my fault," Héctor continued. "I should have told him—"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Héctor."

There was a long silence from the other side of the door, and Miguel leaned forward, straining to hear.

"He's... probably upset with me." Another pause. "I should go."

"N-no, don't!"

He clapped his hands over his mouth again when he realized he had spoken. There was a soft clatter of bones on the other side of the door—clearly he'd startled them as well.

"...Miguel," Imelda began again, her voice edged with caution. "May we come in?"

Well... no use in staying quiet anymore. "S-sí, Mamá Imelda."

For a moment he expected the door to open, only to be startled when the orange-tinted ghost of his Mamá Imelda phased through the door. She looked confused upon not immediately seeing him, and looked to her side, only to pause. "Héctor, come on."

"...H-he only said you, not me."

Rolling her eyes exaggeratedly, Imelda reached through the door and yanked Héctor into the room. His shoulders were hunched and his hand gripped his wrist behind his back in anxiety, but from the other side of the door, Dante gave a satisfied ruff and trotted away.

Now that his great-great-grandparents were actually in the room, it felt pointless to keep hiding, but at the same time, coming out from hiding would mean he'd have to acknowledge he'd been childish enough to hide under his bed in the first place, so Miguel stayed put.

"Miguel, it's all right," Mamá Imelda said. Her voice was calm, like it had been the very last time he'd heard it, right before he'd been sent back to the Land of the Living, and his Papá Héctor was seizing up in violent flashes— "You can come out now."

Miguel swallowed; his throat hurt, and he turned his head away.

"I'm... sorry I scared you," Héctor said, his voice rougher than Miguel had expected.

"You didn't scare me," Miguel mumbled. He wasn't really sure what gave Héctor that impression in the first place, but then, Miguel had just turned and ran from him.

Hearing his voice, Héctor knelt down next to Miguel's bed, and Imelda followed suit, leaning down in an attempt to see him better. "Is something else the matter, mijo?"

Miguel swallowed again, feeling more and more like some dumb kid with every passing moment. Part of him almost didn't want to say what was bothering him, but... unlike his living family, Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor would be the ones to understand, even if it was really stupid. Even so, it was an effort to make himself speak, and his voice cracked: "I don't... want to go back to the Land of the Dead."

"Oh, mijo." Héctor's voice was warm with sympathy. "You won't have to go there again for a long, long time."

The knot in his chest loosened a little at the realization that his great-great-grandparents were not mocking him. The worries, however, kept a tight grip on him. "But... I can s-see you."

"So you can," Mamá Imelda remarked. There was a frown in her voice. "Miguel... did you get yourself cursed again?"

"I-I don't know!" he cried, and growled in frustration when his voice squeaked again. "I didn't do anything! I-I didn't steal, I promise!"

"If he's been cursed, we can just send him back. There's petals everywhere." Héctor pushed himself back into a standing position, and helped Imelda up. Something seemed odd about the way it looked, but Miguel didn't dwell on the thought. "Come out from under there, and let's take a look."

With his great-great-grandparents backing up to give him space, Miguel finally crawled out from beneath the bed. Unable to meet their gaze, he simply stared down at his hat on the floor.

"Let's see your hands," Imelda said, and Miguel obediently held out his left hand, still looking away.

He suddenly felt a strange combination of cold and warmth pass through his hand, and shuddered, pulling it away and looking it over. Nothing seemed out of place. "What happened?" he asked, and finally looked up to see Héctor and Imelda staring down at him in surprise.

"Oh," Imelda finally said, and reached out to him again. She moved to place a hand on his shoulder, and while Miguel could sense a faint warmth from it, he could not actually feel her touch. When she lowered her hand further, it passed completely through his shoulder, and he shivered from the chill.

"...You can't touch me," he said slowly. It was like when he'd tried to touch a living person last year, except the opposite. Experimentally he reached for his Mamá Imelda's hand, but his passed straight through hers, leaving a similar sensation of warmth and cold.

"Strange." Imelda crossed her arms, frowning as she stared at the floor. "This didn't happen before."

"And everyone else can still see me, too!" Miguel added. "They couldn't last time."

Héctor's face broke into a hesitant smile. "Maybe it's a leftover from last time," he said. "A good leftover from the curse."

Shuddering, Miguel shook his head. "Uh-uh, I'm not taking that chance. H-here!" Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few petals, more spilling out onto the floor. "Can you take this?"

For reasons he didn't immediately understand, Héctor seemed hesitant to take the petal, but Imelda stepped in for him. She reached out, carefully, and plucked one of the petals away—while all of them remained in Miguel's hand, a spirit copy of one had appeared in hers. "I suppose it counts as an offering," she remarked, then held it out to Miguel again, her expression growing more serious. "Miguel... I give you my blessing."

Miguel held his breath, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Imelda flicked her wrist and held the petal out again, closer to Miguel. "Miguel, I give you my blessing."

They waited.

Nothing.

"Huh." Héctor stared down at the petal. "If you can't give a blessing... there must be no curse."

"S-so..." Miguel fidgeted. "I don't have to... g-go back? And see de la Cruz?"

Héctor stiffened, his gaze going distant, while Mamá Imelda carefully held her hand over Miguel's shoulder. "No, mijo. Why would you think you would have to do that?"

"I-I... I dunno." He stepped back, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. "I've..." He swallowed—he couldn't tell his parents this, but he could tell them. "I-I didn't tell you about it in the letters, 'cuz I didn't want you to worry, but... I've been having nightmares about him for a long time. Since it happened. And wh-when I realized I could see you, a-all I could think was that... I was cursed again, and I'd h-have to go back to the Land of the Dead, and... s-see him."

"You won't," Héctor said suddenly, causing Miguel to jump; his voice was a lot rougher for some reason. His gaze was out of focus, like he wasn't really looking at anything, or like he was seeing something that wasn't there. His left hand gripped his right wrist tightly, to the point where it was shaking, Miguel thought, but no—his entire frame was shaking. "N-not ever again. You won't."

"Tranquilo, Héctor," Mamá Imelda said, now placing a hand on Héctor's back, while another gripped his right hand. "Estas bien."

Confused, Miguel looked them over again... and then he saw it. Mamá Imelda was not holding Papá Héctor's hand, but a weird contraption attached to his wrist. "Oh!" he cried, his own fear momentarily forgotten. "Papá Héctor, what happened to your hand?"

That seemed to snap Héctor out of... whatever was going on with him, and he wilted, the life (so to speak) seeming to drain out of him. Imelda looked between the two in sympathy. "Seems you've both been hiding something from each other," she said softly. Gently she pushed Héctor forward. "You can tell him, mi amor."

"Not all of it," Héctor said, his voice a lot weaker than it had been as his gaze rose to meet Miguel's. There was a great deal of guilt in his expression, and it made Miguel feel sick. "We... d-didn't want you to worry, mijo."

Miguel pressed his hands between his knees anxiously. "Worry about... what?"

Slowly Héctor raised his right hand—or rather, the contraption attached to his wrist—and turned his arm a certain way. The contraption—a prosthetic hand, Miguel finally realized—clenched in response. Héctor moved his arm again, and the prosthetic hand un-clenched. Miguel stared at it in wonder before a terrible thought crossed his mind.

"P-Papá Héctor? What happened to your real hand?"

Héctor drew in a breath, gripping his wrist, but making no effort to hide his prosthetic hand this time. He stared down at the floor, almost looking like he was going to just... go blank again. "It's... it's gone," he finally answered. "I don't have it anymore."

"What—?!" Miguel jumped up from the bed, looking up at Héctor in alarm. "Why?!"

Again Héctor didn't answer, and started to tremble again, and Miguel's stomach wrenched in worry.

But Imelda stepped forward, again placing a hand on Héctor's back, though this time she faced Miguel. "First, you should know that we are safe now," she said firmly. "None of us are in danger."

If that was supposed to make him feel better, it had failed miserably. Miguel's legs shook, and he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed again. "Then... you were in danger?"

Mamá Imelda turned toward Héctor, rubbing his back carefully.

"Ernesto," Héctor blurted out, as though he'd had to force the name through his throat. "H-he took it."

"What?!" Miguel's breathing quickened, and he had to fight to push the nightmares he'd had of the man aside. "Can't you get it back?"

"We tried to, mijo," Imelda answered.

"It's gone f-forever," Héctor stammered, his throat jerking in a phantom gulp. With his attention drawn toward it, Miguel could spot faint scratch marks in the vertebrae, though he wasn’t sure what that meant. "He... t-tried to make sure I never played music again."

Something dropped from within Miguel's chest, falling straight through him and beneath the floor, and taking the life of him with it. "You... can't play music...?"

To his surprise, Héctor cracked a wavering—but genuine—smile. "Just because he tried doesn’t mean it worked."

With practiced precision, he loosened the straps on his prosthetic hand to remove it. He then reached into his pouch, swapping out the prosthetic hand for something that looked more like a claw, which he attached to the wrist instead. It looked weird, Miguel thought, like something a cartoon villain might have, but still kinda cool. After producing a guitar pick and placing it in the claw, he then stooped down, picking the skull guitar—or rather, a spirit copy of it—off the floor. He took a moment to feel the guitar in his arms, and drew in a breath, shutting his eyes.

And then he began to play.

It was not the same skilled music he had heard his great-great-grandpa play a year ago, in an old shack in Shantytown, nor was it the beautiful accompaniment he played for Mamá Imelda later that same night. It was Miguel's own tune, Proud Corazon, carefully plucked from the strings.

But there was clearly a struggle to it—Héctor nearly dropped the guitar pick at one point, and he occasionally struck a note wrong. There was also no skillful finger work, since he had no fingers on his right hand to work with.

"It's... not the same," Miguel said softly. And without warning, the emotions bubbled up from within his chest, breaking through him in the form of a sob. He growled, forcing his emotions back down, and lowered his head, gripping it in his hands. "This isn't fair!" he choked out. "Wh-why won't he leave us alone?!"

"Hey, hey." Héctor was suddenly sitting at his side, his good hand—his only hand—hovering just behind his back. "It's okay, mijo."

"He's in prison now, and should be for a while," Imelda said lowly, taking a seat at his other side. "So he is leaving us alone now."

"But he's not!" Miguel said, kicking his heel at the edge of his bed for emphasis. "He doesn't leave us alone! There's still people who like him, and they think we're a bunch of liars, and even though he's not here, I have nightmares—"

"I know," Héctor murmured. "I know." Careful of clipping, he wrapped his arms around him in an invisible embrace. Somewhere in the back of Miguel's mind, he realized that he could still feel a faint warmth, even from the prosthetic.

"He haunts our dreams too, sometimes," Imelda muttered, crossing her arms.

"W-well... you can hit him with a shoe, at least."

He realized how ridiculous that sounded just before Héctor burst out laughing, pulling away from Miguel and slapping his leg. Imelda only rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. "Yes," she admitted. "I can do that, but not hard enough to knock any amount of sense into him."

Though his face burned a little in embarrassment, Miguel tried to grin anyway. "Well if you hit him that hard, you'd probably just break his face."

The comment made Héctor laugh even harder, doubled down over himself and clutching his non-existent sides.

"...Did you get to hit him again?" Miguel asked, suddenly curious. "For real, not in a dream."

Imelda sighed. "No, but I believe your Papá Héctor did."

"Really?" He turned to Héctor for confirmation.

"S-sí," Héctor replied, looking up and grinning. "Hard enough to make his cabeza spin."

For a moment he pictured the face he'd so often seen in his nightmares... and Héctor's fist connecting with it. "...Cool."

"Heh, I guess it was cool." Héctor smiled down at him, only to cringe back with a shudder.

Alarmed, Miguel sat up straighter. "P-Papá Héctor?"

"Ah, it's, um, n-nothing," he replied, wrapping his arms around himself. "Just... remembered something I'd rather not."

"Oh... that... happens to me, too." He went quiet for a moment, staring down at his feet. "My Mamá and Papá told me before that... sometimes, things can make us remember bad things."

"Was that what was happening to you earlier, Miguel?" Imelda asked, leaning closer. "When you ran away from Héctor?"

"Sorta." He gripped the edge of the bed uncomfortably. "I was just being dumb, and was scared of going back and seeing de la Cruz again."

Héctor breathed out a laugh. "At least you didn't jump out a window when you were scared."

Miguel gave him a look. "Did you do that?"

"Eeehhhh..."

"He did," Imelda confirmed, rubbing her forehead. "Don't follow his example."

"Uhh... point taken." Miguel shrugged awkwardly. He felt a little better, though, knowing Héctor knew how he felt, but... "...Papá Héctor," he said, and waited until Héctor leaned closer. "Does it ever happen, when... something happens, and reminds you of a bad thing... and... suddenly it's like... you're there? Again? Even when you're not?" He gestured helplessly. "Like... you're there, and you can feel it... even though you're not..."

"Sí, mijo," Héctor said gently. Miguel was afraid to look at his face to read his expression. "That… has happened to me."

Swallowing, Miguel found his throat suddenly tight again. He pulled his feet up onto the bed, leaned his head on his knees, and wrapped his arms around his legs. His voice cracked again as he spoke: "I wish it would stop."

In spite of what his parents had said, he still couldn't help but feel dumb for still being so scared, after all this time—for still panicking about someone who wasn't there anymore. For being afraid of someone who couldn't hurt him. And he couldn't even talk to anyone about it—he couldn't tell his parents, his living family. How would they ever understand? But... why would they even need to? Why couldn't he just get over it?

But slowly he was aware of a faint warmth in the air, despite the fact that it was November. Lifting his head a little, he found an orange glow surrounding him, and was momentarily afraid that he was being transported by petals again, as he had a year ago. But raising his head further, he realized... no, it wasn't marigold petals.

It was Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor, cocooning him in a soft, protective embrace.

Part of him wanted to protest—tell them that he was fine, that they didn't need to worry like this. But that thought was soon quenched by the realization that, unlike his parents... they understood. They knew exactly what he had gone through, and exactly what his nightmares were about.

They knew that sometimes... he really wasn't fine, and they knew why.

"Does it... ever stop?" Miguel found himself asking, already dreading the answer.

"I don't know," came Héctor's reply, confirming Miguel’s fears. He spoke softly, though his voice had a rough quality to it again. "But... whenever it does get bad... go ahead and tell us."

Imelda nodded at his other side. "We won't always be here, but we'll help however we can."

"G-gracias." Finally uncurling himself, he felt warmth around him spreading into his chest. Even just knowing that someone else knew... it made him feel less alone. But... he turned to Héctor. "...Will you tell me, too, Papá Héctor?"

Héctor leaned back in surprise, but was clearly touched by the gesture. "Of course, mijo."

Swallowing again, he reached out, imagining he could hold each of their hands. Really he could only hold his hands near theirs, pretending to feel the solid bone beneath his fingertips. While he couldn't feel that, he could feel the warmth of their presence, and that would have to be enough for a long, long time.

The moment was broken by his mamá's voice calling from inside the house: "Miguel? Did you go to bed already?"

"Oh—no, sorry, Mamá!" Finally Miguel slid off the bed, rubbing at his face. "I was just... uh..." He glanced back at his skeletal grandparents, who nodded to him. "Taking a break."

He could hear his mother's footfalls coming closer to his room, as well as the cooing of his little sister. "Come back out here soon! My papá was asking if you would play another song."

"Coming! I'll be out in a minute!" He reached down to pick up his hat.

"Out into the fray, eh?" Héctor said, standing up off the bed. “Here—“ He stooped down to pick up the guitar, only to blink when he found the spirit copy in his hand again. "Oh."

Miguel laughed, picking up the guitar on his own. "I got it, don't worry."

"Are you going to be all right, Miguel?" Imelda asked. "They shouldn't make you play more music if you're not feeling well."

"No, I..." Miguel looked up at his great-great-grandmother, then turned to meet the gaze of his great-great-grandfather. "I... I'll be fine," he said, and meant it.

Then, noticing the spirit copy of the guitar still in his Papá Héctor's hands, he gave a mischievous grin. "I'll play them more music... but only if you can keep up with me!"

Héctor seemed surprised, but smiled all the same. "Can't pass up a challenge like that." He clicked the two ends of his prosthetic claw together before slipping a guitar pick back into its grip. "Let's see if you can keep up with me!"

"You're on!"

Feeling his spirits lifting, Miguel hurried out of the house, his great-great-grandparents just behind. When he saw the other spirits around the courtyard, he paused, his stomach momentarily jumping in terror.

But he felt a warmth on his shoulder, and he didn't need to look back.

His fear wouldn't go away entirely, but it no longer held him back as he lifted his guitar, and began to play.

#hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my art #my writing #fanfic

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princess-of-the-worlds · 5 years

Text

our love was never meant to last

For Day One of Klaroline AU Week 2019: Mythological Creatures.

Happy KC AU Week! It was always my favorite part of the Klaroline fandom, and I’m so glad that Luiza (@klaroline-events and @itsnotacrimetoloveyou) brought it back! Lu, ily!

Prompt was partially suggested by @dottie-wan-kenobi who told me to write mermaids and partially by a short story I wrote in high school that I never completed.

Also, can I mention, I hate the new tumblr text formatting.

***

ao3 link: here

word count: 6281

summary: When Hope Mikaelson begs her grandfather Klaus for a story, he tells her off a love long-lost. Seventy years ago, Klaus Mikaelson, then a RAF pilot, tumbled into the sea when his plane was shot down and was rescued by a beautiful girl with sunshine hair, a wolfish smile, and a silver tail. Their story was tragic and never meant to last.

***

One of Hope’s earliest memories begins like this:

It is a late summer afternoon in Albany, New York. The house is empty; Hope’s parents and grandmother are away running errands. The air is muggy and thick enough to choke on; Hope’s grandfather sits in his rickety old rocking chair on the porch to take refuge from the scorching rays of the sun. Hope perches at the edge of the porch, only a small distance away, kicking her slender feet out in no discernable rhythm. She stares out into the empty street in boredom, finding no fellow children to run out and play with.

It's too hot; everyone is avoiding the heat, choosing to remain indoors with the artificial chill of their air conditioners and fans.

Her grandfather leans back in the chair, and it creaks as he shifts his weight. He too cannot stave his impatience with the spy thriller he had been reading, so he sets it aside, down on the floor.

“Would you like to hear a story, Hope?”

His voice, a low baritone tinged with an eclectic mix between a Southern and British accent, is a startling relief from the sleepy silence of the neighborhood, and Hope perks up, turning to face him.

“Yes! That would be awesome! I am so bored.” She stretches out the syllables of her words in child-like exaggeration, pouting up at her grandfather.

“There are several that I can think of…” he begins, but Hope interrupts.

“No, grandad!” she cries. “You’ve already told me all of your stories.” Hope blinks eyes heavy with exhaustion up at him. “Tell me a new one.”

“A new story?” her grandfather mutters, stormy eyes going distant as he thinks back. Having decided on one, he turns his attention back to his granddaughter and smiles gently. “I think there is one story from your old grandad that you have never heard.”

***

I know that you have learned somewhat about the Second World War at school. It was a terrible war; there were so many innocent deaths, so much violence. But, I was never involved directly in the fighting.

No, I was a pilot. I flew airplanes for the British Royal Air Force. We often went on dangerous missions; it wasn’t always a guarantee that we would come back home. And, what we were doing, dropping bombs to destroy German U-boats, it wasn’t a terribly-good thing to do. But we were saving lives.

On one such mission in…September of 1945, I think, I was flying over the ocean. The Atlantic Ocean, it is the ocean between the United States and Great Britain.

Around me, the sky was surrounded in inky darkness; it was nighttime. And it was raining, such stormy weather that hadn’t been seen all summer. Still, I was safe inside my airplane.

Suddenly…I saw a flash of fiery light streaking toward me; it hit my plane with such a loud boom that my ears still rang for moments after.

My plane had been hit by fire from an enemy pilot.

They had ruined my plane’s engine, and I no longer had control. The plane began to plummet down so swiftly that my head smacked against the ceiling, and I was knocked unconscious.

I woke up once, only briefly. I had somehow fallen out of the plane, and I was dropping towards the ocean like a stone. My side was aching; I could not feel it, but I was paralyzed with fear and shock. I thought I was going to die, and I passed out again.

Once more I woke up. I had just plunged underwater; it was freezing, my entire body ached, and the water kept dragging me further down.

I opened my mouth to breath, a stupid mistake. The water rushed into my mouth, filling up my lungs, stinging the way skinning a knee does but everywhere. I tried to swim, I reached out a hand to claw my way out of the water, but it was too heavy, my body was too heavy. I only sank faster.

The water burned like hot lava in my stomach after I was forced to swallow some.

Everything began to become fuzzy at the edges, and I couldn’t tell upside from down. Still, I fought to keep my eyes open, but it was a losing battle.

And, then, imagine this.

Just as all I could see became darkness, there was a flash of silver, almost like light. It was shimmery, metallic. And I tried to reach for it.

But my body was still not under my control.

I thought I saw a face, a human face, but that was not possible. No one could be underwater with me.

I could not ponder this, because unconsciousness came quickly.

***

When I came to, I saw the brightest sky I had ever seen. Brilliant and clear, not a cloud to be seen. And below me? The softest, purest sand ever felt against the exposed skin of my arms.

I shifted against the sand, pain licking like flames down my sides. I was in the most agony that I had ever felt. Something hot was boiling up in my throat, and I gagged, unsuccessful in keeping it down. I turned my head and vomited the remains of my last meal onto the sand; I kept my eyes away from the mess. My stomach roiled again as I dry-heaved.

Something hovered into my view.

A face. The face I had caught a brief glimpse of underwater.

It was a woman-no, it was a girl.

She was beautiful, yes, but did not surpass my childhood sweetheart Camille in beauty. Her skin was unblemished and fair like the sand I lay against, and her hair, hanging loose further than I could see, was a sunshine yellow, though it gleamed even more golden when it caught the light. But, more remarkable, was the keen intelligence that shone in the depths of her cerulean eyes, muddled against the stare of a predator.

I craned my head to allow my gaze to travel further than her delicate collarbones and a slash of nearly sheer fabric that covered her entire upper body; I glanced down and then immediately jerked my head back in bewilderment. I snuck another painful look to make sure that my tired eyes and brain were not playing tricks on my mind.

This girl had a tail.

At her waist, where Camille would wear her skirt, was a majestic tail, silver in color. It was a beauty, iridescent, wide at the waist but narrow where the flipper protruded. It flexed, shimmering with lustrous color under the rays of the luminous sun.

My brain could not compensate for both the agony and the impossibility of a girl with the tail of a fish.

I screamed, the sound ripping itself from my throat. It was the sound of a wild man, a man losing his soul; it was a sound that I believed myself incapable of making until that moment. I screamed myself hoarse, until my throat rubbed raw against itself as I attempted to make noise, but the girl with a tail made no indication to move.

Finally, when all the noise and all the fight was drained out of me, sucked away and replaced by an exhaustion so heavy I felt it in my bones, the girl lunged into my view. I could not flinch away; my limbs dragged against each other as I attempted to move.

She opened her lips, a slash of bright color against the white sand, and I braced my body, stiffening away the best I could.

But she spoke not.

No, she sang.

And her song, oh her song, light, airy, melodious, unlike anything I had ever heard. It was distant at first, the hushed background noise of a radio while the channel is being adjusted. It was still one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.

Then I began to listen.

It was harmonious, it was precise, her song was in tune with the rhythmic beating of my heart.

A magical spell was woven in her music, in her song, in her voice. Her voice wove threads in my mind, dulled it until I could no longer refuse to obey, fogged the rest of my brain until the slapping of ocean waves no longer registered. The color of my vision faded, her face disappearing, only her voice left as my guiding focus.

Her voice paralyzed my body. I could not flinch, I could not tremble, I could not resist.

So, I obeyed her song.

And my mind slept.

***

For a second time, my mind stirred, and my eyes fluttered open. The aching in my bones was now a lingering memory, my pain receptors somehow dulled so my body was temporarily relaxed from the pain. There was faint light filtering from above, though my eyes were staring straight ahead at the slate cavernous ceiling of a cave. My body rested on a surface more solid than the sand had been, but my fingers twitched unconsciously and stroked against the slippery silk of cloth.

I shifted my body; there was heat flaring over my body suddenly, so thick it weighed heavy in my chest and lungs. I coughed, a million bees buzzed in my mouth and throat.

Immediately, there was relief in the form of a cool, soaked rag draped against the delicate skin of my forehead. The difference in temperature was as distinct as the difference between black and white. Water trickled down the sides of my temples, and I sighed audibly.

The rag was a heavenly gift to me in my poor state.

I turned my face towards my savior as a blind man would to the sun, but, immediately, I recoiled and tried to shove myself further away.

The girl had placed the rag on my forehead and was now lifting it. I traced the paths of her slender hands with my eyes and watched as she dipped the rag into a small pot likely filled with water, allowing the cloth to become weighty. Then, in rapid, harsh movements, she retrieved the rag, squeezed the liquid from it thoroughly, and returned it to its position on my forehead.

Her hand brushed against the prickling skin on my forehead; her skin was smooth and soft against the dampness of my temple.

I stiffened, heart roaring to life, but there was no escape. Despite the lack of pain in my body, I was pinned between her and the cavern wall.

“Get away from me,” I demanded weakly, bursting into a fit of violent coughing that left me doubled over. Even speaking strained my voice after my bout of screaming…days ago? Hours ago? Time seemed to have passed so sluggishly since I fell from my plane that I could no longer tell.

She ignored me.

“Humans.” She clicked her tongue with strange indifference. Her voice was cool, evenly-pitched, almost throaty. It struck me as odd; after hearing her song, I had expected her speaking voice to also be honeyed and lilting. “So clumsy and fragile.”

Singing…

“What did you do to me?” I blurted in outrage and immediately regretted it when my throat ached.

“Hmm?” The girl swept the rag from my forehead, and, though the heat was swiftly returning, I shivered. “What did I do?”

“You forced me to sleep!” I protested.

“Oh, yes. That,” she replied tonelessly, as though it had suddenly occurred to her. “I sung to you.”

“You sung to me?” I managed to prop my head up at a slight angle; my eyes unconsciously travelled back to her waist.

I would have blushed at the shamelessness of my gaze, several years in the air force had not trained away the innocence and decency ingrained in me by my family and culture, but my eyes were then popping out of my head at her current lack of tail.

“You have legs!” I gasped audibly. “Where did your legs go?”

She rolled her cerulean eyes, a gesture usually found uncouth on most ladies but that strangely suited her. Once again, she ignored my question. “You have several broken ribs and deep surface wounds. None are critical, but some may scar and mar your pretty face.”

I was unsure if she meant that as a compliment.

The girl continued, “I have treated your wounds with a paste made of lavender and wintergreen; both are natural anesthetics. Your ribs I have numbed with a gel of clove oils. They must heal internally, and you must keep them tightly wrapped.”

“Why are you doing this?” I must have mumbled, and the girl smiled, a wolf smile not fit for her fair features.

“I don’t like my victims untainted.”

The air was snuffed from my lungs, and the blood must have drained from my face, leaving my countenance considerably paler, because the wolf girl’s wolf smile grew wider.

“Relax,” she purred, voice silky and deceptive. “I won’t harm you. I don’t like getting my hands dirty. I only sing humans to death; that’s where the fun is, the deception and the chase and the hunt. I’m a predator.”

Chills ran down my spine, warning bells echoing in my ears. “Dangerous girl, what kind of creature are you?” I managed to gasp through my strangled throat.

“Silly human boy.” Wolf girls’ laughs were not meant to sound like tinkling silver bells. “I am a monster. I lure boys like you in and watch you crash to your own death into rocks. I am a siren like in those myths humans are so proud of. I change form at will.” The tense silence that stretched between her next words brought tentative hope to my heart. “I will heal you, and then you will leave.”

I had no time to flinch when she yanked the threadbare fabric of my shirt up and ripped wraps of fabric away from the skin that covered my ribs. If the pain had not been dampened, I would have howled.

She would have likely sneered in satisfaction.

“Hold your shirt away from your skin,” the siren ordered, and I obeyed out of fear. “I must replace your bandages. I will return in a moment.”

I must have drifted off from the exertion of my body, because, when I focused my dazed eyes, there was a subtle gleaming between new cloth on my ribs, likely more numbing gel.

My stomach growled noisily.

Strange. My brain had not registered hunger.

The siren materialized at my side, clutching what appeared to be a hollow coconut shell. Something sloshed inside it as she shoved it none-to-gently toward me.

“What is that?” I mumbled. When she raised an eyebrow, I repeated my words with more volume.

“Food,” she replied crisply. “Careful when you raise yourself up.”

She lent no helping hand as I tenderly propped myself up, leaning my back against the hard rock behind me. I retrieved the shell from her hands, avoiding skin contact.

The liquid inside the coconut was thick and slightly murky, though the color was most likely due to the small herbs dotting its surface. I raised the lip of the shell to my mouth and tilted; the brew had a sharp, sour flavor that I did not shy away from. It reminded me of my mother Esther’s chicken stew, something I had not had in several years, or at least not since rationing began in England.

My hunger took over me, and I drained the shell. Some liquid dribbled over my lips as I swallowed; I wiped the excess away with the back of my hand as I set the shell on the cot besides me.

The siren watched me with clever eyes, smile finally gone.

Hunger momentarily quelled, my body not in any immediate trouble, I surveyed the cave in which we rested.

The space was small and tidy, furnished with a mishmash of objects like the cot I was laying on, a burgundy rug embroidered with ornate patterns, or the curtains of translucent cloth that fluttered as a light breeze brushed through the entrance of the cavern.

“Where am I?” I dared question.

“An island,” came her brief response.

“An island where?”

The siren’s eyes glimmered as jewels would. “That is not a concern of yours when you remain in this condition. You are to remain on this island, my island, under my care until you recover to near-perfect condition.”

“Do I have a say in this?”

“No.” Her refusal was perfunctory but decisive, and I realized that I did, in fact, not have a say in my condition.

“Sleep,” she instructed, and, though this time her words were more of a mere suggestion, I still heeded them.

For several days, we existed like that. I slept on the cot, feeling as if my legs were deteriorating from their lack of movement. The siren would drift into the cavern occasionally to change my bandages or apply more ointment or forcibly hand me a shell of the same brew. She would always disappear to the water at nightfall, always wearing dresses of the same nearly-sheer fabric. My pain remained numbed for most of the passing time, leaving me to assume that the siren slipped her painkilling substance in my meals.

We shared vague, undisturbed conversation. She never proved intimidating after the day I first awoke, though she behaved as if I remained uninteresting.

One of our exchanges went like this:

“Have you no name I may call you?” I asked her as she scraped a paste of herbs for my next ointment. It had been less than a week after I nearly drowned, and I lounged the best I could against the solid surface of the cot.

“What may I call you?” she shot back rapidly, clever hands at swift work.

I detected no venom in her taunts, a usual occurrence of late; it seems that she was beginning to warm up to me. “Klaus,” I told her.

“Klaus.” She tested my name several times, weighing it on her tongue with curiosity. “What is the significance of your name?” Her voice had taken a near childlike quality.

“It is a diminutive of Niklaus, which means victory of the people in a certain language.”

“Victory?” The siren’s full lips curled into a soft expression, lacking the sharpness of her wolf smile. “What war are you fighting?”

Her question struck a chord with me, and I laughed hollowly. “No war that I can win.”

She eyed me intuitively before nodding silently, her hair bobbing along with the movement of her head. “You may call me whatever you please. I have no name and have grown accustomed to the titles others award me.”

It took mere seconds until inspiration struck me. “May I call you Caroline?” I briefly knew a Caroline once, a daughter of distant family acquaintances, and something about the sharp stare of the curious siren reminds me of her.

The siren nodded her assent, and Caroline she became.

***

“Why do your fellow humans war in the sky and in the sea?” she questioned only a few days later.

I gaped at her in astonishment. This was one inquiry I had never expected. “We’re fighting a war,” I finally managed to reply. “The last war like this that my country fought in was called the war to end all wars. It seems that this might be the war to end all wars.”

“What is the conflict?”

“Conflict?” I echoed with bewilderment.

“Why does your country fight?”

“We must crush the forces that threaten the will of the world as I know it,” I stated, a sentiment I had heard from many of my fellow pilots.

She glances at me and then away, as if one view into my eyes has exposed my meager secrets. “And why do you fight?”

“I fight, because my country chose me to,” I reply swiftly, but she had heard what I had left unsaid

“But you do not choose to,” Caroline guessed.

My silence served as confirmation.

Her eyes softened to the closest that I had seen as kindness in her expressions. “It was never my intent to force you to sleep against your will,” she confessed, “but it was a necessity for your body to heal.”

“I have never had my mind turned against my will until that instance,” I commented quietly. “I never intend for it to happen again.”

“Take this as my word. Or, rather as my vow.” Caroline had been kneeling on the rug besides my cot, but, now, she rose to look down upon me. “I will never sing to you again,” she promised sincerely.

After that day, the last vestiges of our stony animosity were washed away, and we treated each other as equals, dare I say friends.

***

Several days later, Caroline determined that my wounds had healed well-enough for her to allow me to venture outside.

First, however, she urged me to practice walking around the cave.

It was easier said than done.

Despite Caroline’s assistance in slipping off the cot, the moment I attempted to stand I wobbled so critically that I would have fallen had Caroline not been there to catch me.

“Steady,” she murmured, eyes shifting down to my trembling legs. “Take this step by step, and, soon, you will be able to stand.”

How odd had our acquaintanceship become that it never once occurred to me to doubt her words.

Steady step by steady step, I spent hours that day relearning how to walk, and not once did Caroline ever leave my side.

At the end, I was trembling and sweating, my legs aching hollowly as if I had run miles and exerted my body more tremendously than I had done, but I had managed to walk the length of the cavern several times.

“What did I say?” Caroline crowed as I moved to perch on the edge of the cot in exhaustion.

“Even a blind miner strikes gold once,” I replied stubbornly.

The next day, Caroline dragged me from my cot early in the morning.

“What?” I groaned, rubbing my eyes blearily. My last meal had been last night, and her pain-numbing concoction’s effects were wearing off; I could feel the aching beginning, deep in my bones. If I still sustained true pain from my injuries, even after two weeks, it would hit sooner or later. “I think I’ll need more of your painkilling substance soon.”

“I will give it to you soon,” she promised sincerely, “but hurry!” Caroline bundled me towards the entrance of the cave while I tottered for balance. Her push was gentle but steady, and, slowly, I limped towards the lip of the cave, further than I had ever been.

I broke through the shadow of the cave, bare feet brushing against the velvety but grainy sand, my boats having left unworn in the cave for weeks, and gasped, heart nearly thudding out of my chest as I surveyed the landscape that unfolded below me.

The sun had just risen, casting yellow light that washed over the dark sea and formed a trail of white where the light hit the water. Around me, the dusky purple of the night sky was lightening for day, revealing a verdant forest of green to my right. The snow-like beach lay spread to my left, speckled with grey and brown boulders.

“Of all the sights in the world,” I breathed quietly, “this is one I am glad that never went unseen.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Caroline admitted. “Come.” She motioned with a single hand as she began to herd me down a gentle slope that led to the beach.

“You wouldn’t know?” I questioned curiously.

She shook my question off and took off running towards the long stretch of beach. “Chase me,” she demanded in a joyful cry.

I laughed loudly for the first time in weeks, and the sound echoed in the silence around me. I followed Caroline, trailing behind in a quick walk, not trusting my legs enough to run.

In front of me, Caroline reached the water and came to an abrupt halt. She waited a few moments for me to catch up, glancing back at me with invitation in the endless oceans that were her eyes. As I grew closer, she began to chuckle, a melody almost as stunning as her song.

She took a running start, water flying up behind her as she dashed forward, before diving forward into the water.

As her head became submerged in the water, the air surrounding her legs began to blur slightly, as if becoming covered with a smoke screen.

I will never be able to describe exactly how it happened, but it was almost magical, the way her legs metamorphized into her shimmering tail.

I had reached the edge of the water and hesitated slightly.

The memory began to loop itself in my head: how the water had reached into every crevice of my lungs, how it had filled my nostrils until I could no longer breath, how I had begun to choke, how the water weighed me down, dragging me further into its depths.

A cool spray of water slapped me in the face, and I gasped, breaking free from that nightmare’s hold, head turning to gaze at Caroline.

She had splashed me with the fin of her tail, and she did it again, sending a torrent of water splashing into my face.

I only blinked slowly as my hair became plastered to my head.

“Well,” she called eagerly, “are you coming in or not?” When I failed to respond after a brief pause, her face took on an expression of concern. “Oh. It did not occur to me that you may have retained a fear of the water after your near death.”

“No,” I said frantically, attempting to soothe her worries. “That is not what it is.”

She shook her head in refusal. “I am centuries old, Klaus. I am not oblivious. It should have occurred to me, I apologize.”

“No…really…” I sighed. “It is not right for me to be afraid.”

Caroline stared at me critically. “Why is it not right?” she asked calculatingly.

“Men in my society,” I began softly. “We are not supposed to have such ordinary weaknesses.”

Snorting in disbelief, she swam up to where the shallowness of the water began, and, when she edged out of the water, she walked on her feet, skin still covered by the cloth of her dress, now soaked and floating above the water.

I gaped briefly, amazed by her transformation.

She strode up to me, nearing closer until we were nose to nose. “That is complete and utter bullshit,” she snapped. “I have swum the waters of this world for far longer than you could imagine, and, of every man and women who have sailed these seas, for there have been many women, and who I have lured with my song, all were susceptible to ordinary weaknesses or fears. It is only natural. Every person has fears; one must simply be courageous enough to brave them.” Caroline seated herself on the sand and reached up a hand. “Come.”

I gently eased myself into the sand beside her. “You have lived long, haven’t you?”

“I have.”

“Yet you have never seen the world,” I stated in confusion.

“I cannot,” Caroline explained. “It is not in my nature. I am not meant to walk among the humans; I am meant to be their death and destruction. I was created from sea foam to be such.”

“You walk alongside me; you have cared for me.”

She laughed in melancholy. “That is different. I will never be able to live amongst the humans; there is no point in pretending otherwise.”

“If I could,” I breathed. “I would take you anywhere in the world. You deserve to see it as such.”

“That is the kindest offer anyone has ever made me.” Her smile could have launched a thousand ships; she would have been Helen of Troy, her beauty amplified by her happiness.

I do not know how we shifted until our sides were pressed together; I could feel the heat of her skin brushing against mine through the thin fabric of her dress and my trousers.

She turned her face towards mine, and I must have done the same for our lips were touching.

Her lips were soft as they brushed against mine, a whisper of butterfly wings.

Our kiss was sweet and soulful, but there was a dissonant cacophony of danger bells clanging themselves in my head.

I reached a tender hand to cup her face, stroking my thumb over her cheekbone, before slowly drawing my head back.

“I cannot,” I apologized in a hushed voice. “In other circumstances, I would be able to love you, but I cannot now. My heart already belongs to another.”

Her eyes were understanding. “Who?”

“I can only show you.”

So, my heart writhing in emotional pain, I led her back to the cave and to the heap where my bomber jacket and boots lay. From that inner pocket, I withdrew my compass. Amazingly, it remained intact, despite all the trauma it had gone through; the lid was only the slightest bit dented. I flipped it open to reveal the photograph that lay embedded within.

“This is Camille,” I stated softly. “We met as children.”

The photograph was from that last occasion we saw each other before my training, before she had gone off to work as a nurse in the war hospitals; we had gone dancing. Though the print was black and white, my mind filled in the brassy yellow of her hair - not too dissimilar to Caroline’s, the flecks of green and grey in her eyes, the rosy red of her cheeks. She remained burned in my memory: her sparkling eyes, her angular chin, the narrows of her delicate hands, the melody of her laugh.

“Do you love her?” Caroline’s eyes were glossy with unshed tears, but there was a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Very much.” A lovestruck expression overtook my face. “She is kind but witty; her words can be barbs on her tongue, but she never wields them to hurt, only to sooth.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She is.” I nodded eagerly.

Caroline laughed without venom. “Love is the one human emotion I never understood,” she said straightforwardly. “I believe I never will.”

I could not respond to that.

***

For days after, conversation between us remained stilted and awkward until, one day, Caroline sat me down and forced me to talk about Camille.

“I’m a sucker for love stories,” she demanded.

I could only oblige.

From then, we laughed and talked the way we had before.

A day almost four weeks later, Caroline declared that my injuries had healed almost fully.

“Now what?” I inquired as I perched on the edge of my cot.

“I do not know.” She shrugged, hands fiddling with the cloth of her dress. “Let us eat while we ponder your next opportunities”

After another meal of broth, we traveled out the beach. My fear of the water had dulled slightly, enough that I did not panic when we waded out into the water as we were currently doing.

“It never seemed that you wished to fight in your human war,” Caroline told me.

“That is true,” I remarked. “I was drafted; I had no choice.”

“Do you not need to return?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I replied truthfully.

The war had not occurred to me in all my weeks with Caroline; it was a thing of the outside world, distant and nearly forgotten.

“I do not need to,” I mused. “I could stay here with you.”

Her eyes flashed. “No, you would not survive here. Humans have short lives, and yours would end soon enough. I would be lonely again. Besides, you have family and someone who loves you.”

“You can come with me!” I cried passionately.

She barked a bitter laugh. “I have already told you, Klaus. I cannot be a human; I cannot live amongst them.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

Her wolf smile had returned. “You are so naïve,” Caroline hissed. “I bring death with my song. I would destroy humanity. It is not a choice; it is a compulsion. I stayed away from humans for a reason, watching from a distance. You showed me the best of humanity, but even my song was too much for you. My song will ruin you; we will never be able to live together in harmony anywhere.”

There was a flood of agony to my heart and head. “I have never met a soul like you,” I said, trying to appeal to her. “We could figure it out together.”

Her angry demeanor cracked as her eyes flooded with tears. “It will not work,” she stated simply, turning her face away.

“How do you know?” I protested.

“You will never understand.” She rose elegantly, like a queen. “Come with me.”

I did not follow. “Why?” I asked stubbornly, holding my ground, bare toes digging into the sand.

“Please.” Her airy voice cracked with emotion I could not understand.

At the pleading in her voice, I loosened my body and took a step towards her. “Fine.”

Briefly, there was brightness in her pained smile. She began to walk towards the cave, and I trailed behind her, my bewilderment growing as we entered the cave. Caroline grabbed my bomber jacket and stuffed it into my arms. “Put those on,” she ordered, gesturing to my boots. “You’ll need them where we’re going.”

I obeyed, asking as I balanced to pull my boots on, “Where are we going?”

Caroline held out a hand to me. “Wait.” The moment I had tied the laces of my boots and slid my jacket on, she led me out of the cave.

We traveled along the cave until the path became steeper and steeper, until I was gasping for breath, though Caroline remained unaffected, until the cave became a mound of rock surrounded by dirt. We were crossing to a side of the island I had never seen before, following the line of trees from the forest but never venturing inside. Finally, roughly ten minutes later, we arrived at a small cove with a direct view to the sea. I stopped at the entrance while Caroline ventured to a large rocky overhang.

From its shadow, she heaved out, with incredible strength, a vast wooden platform, made of logs tied tightly together, with a narrow paddle attached.

It was a raft.

“Sirens have always had an innate sense of the sea. For example, I know that, if you paddle out for a few hours and drift in the same direction for some more, you will find yourself in the path of a ship,” she told me nonchalantly. “It could be a U-boat, but it is more likely to be one of your country’s boats.”

“I do not understand,” I stuttered.

On the contrary, however, a small seed of comprehension began to sprout in my mind.

“You do not need to.”

Then, she opened her mouth again, lips stretched wide, and I understood.

Caroline began to sing.

It was a terrible song, music of hopelessness and frustration and sorrow and loss. Her voice, as airy and beautiful as it was, was also rough and full of turmoil, a voice of grated rocks and sharp edges. One listen would open up your heart, one listen would cut a wound, one listen would cause bleeding.

I tried to steel myself against her voice; I stilled my heart and mind, left them as hardened as possible.

It was futile.

Her song drove itself into my mind, wrapped itself around my heart. Her warbling ordered my feet to move against my will, to stride toward the raft and toward her in clumsy steps.

My body couldn’t resist as it stumbled toward her.

I came to stand in front of her.

“Why, why are you doing this?” I cried emotionally. “Let me stay here with you.”

At that moment, all thought of the war, of my home, of my Camille were driven from my mind; my only focus was Caroline.

She turned her head to face me, still singing. Her eyes were wide, the endless water in the endless oceans of her eyes finally spilling over and down her quivering cheeks as she took miniscule gasping breaths between notes. Her lips met and parted as she articulated her music.

My body moved itself to the raft and tugged it further to the ocean tide that teased the shore.

Of my own accord, I called out to her, but my helpless pleading fell on deaf ears.

I was seated on the raft, able to sprawl my full body across it and still reach the oar.

Caroline continued to sing.

“Please…” was all I could manage.

She gave me a bitter, sea salt smile as one of my hands lifted the oar.

No amount of resistance could tear my palms from the oar as my arms began to paddle, pulling the raft into the hungry tide. The song never lifted from my mind, though my heart remained free to beat in relentless agony.

As the raft began to drift into the ocean, my head was forced to turn to face the water, until I could no longer see Caroline.

Only her voice continued, tainting itself into my ears.

Her song changed suddenly, no longer heavy or dark but now light and freeing. There was loss, yes, but it was overcome by the coolness of sacrifice, by the sweetness of innate selflessness.

The siren’s song remained in my ears all the way to sea…

#kcauweek2019 #klaroline #klaus mikaelson #caroline forbes #klaroline drabble

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losingmymindtonight · 5 years

Note

Okay but can we take a second to appreciate the underrated whump?? — Peter terrified as he falls thousands of feet, tangled in a parachute with seemingly nothing to break his fall (he literally thought he was going to die). — He survives the fall but crashes into a lake (ouch) and was under for so long he lost consciousness. Imagine surviving a fall from that height only to be faced with drowning directly afterwards. (Cont.)

— When Peter was screaming with the effort of holding the ferry together in a desperate last ditch attempt to save the people he put in harms way. — The entire fight with Shocker??? He got slammed into the side of the bus and sucker punched into another then flipped around like a crash dummy. — The jet sequence. Peter had a horrible fear of heights. He was literally above the clouds, fighting a super villain on a plane going hundred of mph and nearly got knocked off countless times. (Cont.)

— The beach fight. Enough said. — WHEN HE WAS ON THE SIDE OF THE Q-SHIP & RAN OUT OF OXYGEN?? — When Quill threw those ropes that electrocuted Peter — Quill holding a gun to his head (Bonus: how terrified Tony looks bc of this) — Thanos choke-slamming him into the ground then chucking him at Dr. Strange — When Thanos shot all that fire & Pete was so quick to jump back in and stop him, only for Thanos to knock him down.

Moral of the story: For a fandom that loves whump so much y’all sure do sleep on the best moments 😪

God, let me tell you, I love that drowning scene in Homecoming more than I love my own family. Just think about the trauma. Peter being terrified of water. Peter refusing to go anywhere near the swimming pool in the Compound. Peter disabling the parachute in his suit every time Tony replaces it because all he can remember is how it felt to wrapping in plastic, fighting to breathe. Peter hating showers, hating baths, hating washing the goddamn dishes. Winter rainstorms are the worst because the wind whips cold water right into his face and he has to remind himself, over and over, that he can breathe. He’s not underwater. He can breathe. Tony having his usual guilt complex when he finds out exactly why Peter flinches at the sound of a faucet. Sure, it wasn’t directly his fault, but he made the suit. He made the parachute. Peter almost drowned because of an oversight, an oversight that never should’ve slid past him in the first place.

I don’t care how strong Peter is, I feel like that ferry scene definitely should’ve dislocated at least one of his shoulders. At the very least, Peter’s dealing with some serious muscle/ligament damage. He’d be sore for days to weeks, depending on how quickly his healing factor works. Also, can you imagine those few moments of desperate when he knows this isn’t working? When he realizes he’s not strong enough to hold the ferry together, but he chooses to keep trying anyway? He’s gotta think he’s going to die in that moment. If Tony hadn’t shown up, he probably would have.

The entire sequence of events after Peter leaving the dance in Homecoming are glorious. Obviously, a ridiculous amount of fic has been written about the building collapse scene. I love your additions, and I’d also like to add the fact that Peter fully crashed Flash’s car. While it’s pretty mild compared to all the other shit Peter goes through that night, I’d really like to see how that kind of experience would affect Peter when he tries to get his license. I also love the headcanon that Peter is terrified of planes after his fight with the Vulture. I mean, how could he not be? He’s already scared of heights (and he seemed pretty nervous during takeoff in the Director’s Cut of his video diary during Civil War) so I doubt planes are his favorite thing in the world. Now throw in almost dying on one? Next time Tony tries to drag Peter on a plane, it does not go well.

Now let me tell you, anon, the Q-Ship whump is SO slept on. To prove it, I’ll just throw in the original concept art of that scene:

You know how often I think about that photo? Every goddamn day. It haunts me in my dreams. I think of it and instantly start weeping. It’s so beautiful.

Tony actually physically catching an unconscious Peter? AKA: everything I’ve ever wanted. What does Tony do after this frame? Does he haul him into the ship and hope to god it’s got a supply of oxygen? Where is the Iron Spider suit? Is it just late? Is it not ready? Does Peter never get it at all? @Marvel please tell me.

And In the actual scene, Peter’s eyes don’t roll back until after he starts to fall. Which means he was at least partially conscious when his stickiness stopped working. I feel like that’s an important piece of information that everyone should know.

I’m also so glad you brought up the scenes with Quill electrocuting/threatening Peter because I have wasted a good portion of my life contemplating that as well. I so wish they’d electrocuted him longer. Do I sound like a crazy person? Yes. Do I care? No.

Tony’s face when Quill threatens Peter? Golden. Do I 100% think I deserved a scene of Tony checking Peter over once Quill lets him go? Absolutely I think I did. Do I keep it tucked away safely in my dreams? Oh you betcha.

TL;DR: Peter Parker is precious and I have approximately a billion different scenarios in my head for every single one of these scenes.

#i didn't actually mean to go through and respond to almost every scene she gave me but #sometimes things just happen yknow #GOD now I wanna write some whump #irondad #spiderson #tony & peter #peter parker #@marvel hurt him more #except not the permanent way okay #apparently i have to specify that now

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jr4de · 7 years

Text

Tagged by @genderfluidintake (holy cow a thingy! I was practically confused when I saw something in my activity log, heh :D)

1ST RULE: Tag 9 people you would like to know better

2ND RULE: BOLD the statements that are true

APPEARANCE:

I am 5'7" or taller

I wear glasses

I have at least one tattoo (Nope, but I’d be happy to get one, I just haven’t)

I have at least one piercing (Nope, but I’d be happy to, I just haven’t. Lots of people think I used to have an eyebrow piercing because I have a scar there)

I have blonde hair (Nope, brown!)

I have brown eyes (Nope, kinda slate-y blue)

I have short hair (Can I like... opposite-bold this one? Because it’s so long and beautiful and I love it)

My abs are at least somewhat defined (because I’m skinny af so you can just see all my muscles)

I have or have had braces (past tense)

PERSONALITY:

I love meeting new people

People tell me that I’m funny

Helping others with their problems is a big priority for me

I enjoy physical challenges

I enjoy mental challenges

I’m playfully rude with people I know well (uuhhhhh that’s a long story but I guess suffice to say I often forget myself and try to be? And then it all goes wrong when I cross a line I didn’t know existed to begin with, heh. With time it seems like it might be getting better? Although it always seems like it’s getting better until it suddenly runs aground again, heh)

I started saying something ironically and now I can’t stop saying it

There is something I would change about my personality (Hmm. If this isn’t a question I’ve lost a lot of sleep over, I don’t know what is - but I think I’ve settled on “not”? Depending on what one counts as a personality, of course, but hey)

ABILITY:

I can sing well (I think so, at least! I was in vocal jazz for a few years and it went pretty well :D)

I can play an instrument (Alto Saxophone! Or really basic guitar but I don’t know chords or fingering or tabs, I just pluck at it until it makes the right note and then I remember it and move on to the next note, and keep going until I know a song. Heh yeah it’s a shittily slow way to learn :D but I managed Sunshine of Your Love? So that’s cool!)

I can do over 30 pushups without stopping (thanks to my time in a paramilitary organization, yes! My record remains 107 at a stretch as far as I can recall, although those were admittedly not cadenced and called so that’s not as impressive.)

I’m a fast runner (I loves me some sprinting, and marathon stuff is fun too! Treadmills=bestmills or something)

I can draw well (Ehh? Decently, I think - I had a webcomic that was decently popular, but art was never its strong suit. Still, I think I can definitely draw *decently*, but not *well*)

I have a good memory (for useless things. Not like, birthdays - but I’ll remember that one time you said you like lavender more than lilac. Of course, I’ll also remember it even once your preferences have changed, or if you misspoke in the first place, heh >.>)

I’m good at doing math in my head (Define “good” and “math” but yeah probably. I cannot estimate a number of items for shit - if there are fewer than eight but more than two, I say five; otherwise it’s just a crapshoot - but I can math, regardless!)

I can hold my breath underwater for over a minute (Well, I could last time I checked. I didn’t try today, so...)

I have beaten at least 2 people in arm wrestling (yeah but I mean some of my friends have been like really tiny, folks. I’ve also lost to like fifty :D)

I know how to cook at least 3 meals from scratch (chicken sandwich, ham sandwich, baloney sandwich, done. Heh, nah, just kidding - I make a burger I call the Nutty Jerk; it’s beef and chunky peanut butter for the patty, with Jerk spice mixed in, topped with a slice of orange and a small dollop of smooth peanut butter on top of the patty that melts over it. I really like it, it’s tasty!)

I know how to throw a proper punch (Technically, two of them - boxing through personal training, Shotokan Karate through my marvellous black-belt wife :D)

HOBBIES:

I enjoy playing sports (but don’t conflate that enjoyment with skill >.>)

I’m on a sports team at my school or somewhere else

I’m in an orchestra or choir at my school or somewhere else (Past tense? I was in one)

I have learned a new song in the past week (I mean, I looked up lyrics that I didn’t know and now I sing them when the song comes on, so...?)

I work out at least once a week

I’ve gone for runs at least once a week in the warmer months

I have drawn something in the past month

I enjoy writing (so much. So so much.)

FANDOMS ARE MY #1 PASSION

I do or have done martial arts (for like a year and then they wouldn’t let me break the boards because I was too little and that was sad. I learned way more from my wife)

EXPERIENCES:

I have had my first kiss (and my second! And third, and fourth, etc.)

I have had alcohol (Heck, I had some today! If you ever see a white Reisling from Germany, imported, in a black bottle shaped like a cat? Give it a shot - it was delicious; light and fruity and surprisingly sweet, but not quite to icewine levels)

I have scored the winning goal in a sports game (my sportsball matches were rarely winning ones, be it soccer or lacrosse. It’s likely I have, but I can’t recall for certain.)

I have watched an entire season of a TV show in one sitting (I mean, it’s not hard with Firefly, it only takes like three hours >.>)

I have been at an overnight event (what, like a sleepover? I think, no matter what, the answer’s yes)

I have been in a taxi

I have been in the hospital or ER in the past year (Thankfully, no! Maybe I’ve broken my streak! For a while there I was averaging out to once every two years, which some people might suggest is pretty frequent.)

I have beaten a video game in one day (Uh...don’t think so? Maybe.)

I have visited another country (Several!)

I have been to one of my favorite band’s concerts (Arrogant Worms, Barenaked Ladies, Blue Man Group, Tragically Hip - not in that order, per se, but I loved and love them absolutely.)

RELATIONSHIPS:

I’m in a relationship

I have a crush on a celebrity (Uhhh... define crush I guess? I think there are lots who seem like really cool folks, and pretty, but I don’t know if that counts. Sorry, attraction’s always been an odd one for me to discuss, heh)

I have a crush on someone I know (again as above? But I think I’m safe in saying there’s a yes here. Pretty sure if you and your wife have discussed stuff like that it probably counts as a crush, eh?”

I have been in at least 3 relationships (not unless the definition of “relationship” is very different to what I expect)

I have never been in a relationship

I have asked someone out or admitted my feelings to them (I’ve done both! It’s gone multiple ways :D)

I get crushes easily (???? I don’t know? Crushes? I think people are great and cute easily. Or maybe I love them? I don’t know!)

I have had a crush on someone for over a year (crushes?? Ahhh it’s all about crushes and I don’t know, but I’ve liked someone for more than a year? So I’d say it counts. Probably just overthinking it as per normal, heh >.>)

I have been in a relationship for at least a year

I have had feelings for a friend

MY LIFE:

I have at least one person I consider a “best friend” (more than one, even if we haven’t talked recently - but that’s indicative, to me. Sometimes we won’t talk for a year but then when we do, it’s comfortable and wonderful all over again. That’s how I know :D)

I live close to my school (I live close to the empty lot where my school used to be when I went there and it still existed? Also near my old Elementary school. I don’t live near my post-secondary stuff, that’s on the mainland)

My parents are still together

I have at least one sibling

I live in the United States

There is snow right now where I live

I have hung out with a friend in the past month (we went bicycling!)

I have a smartphone (now, although it took me a long time. My dad literally bought one for me while I was at work, heh >.>)

I have at least 15 CDs

I share my room with someone (I share everything with her! She’s great!)

RANDOM SHIT:

I have breakdanced (took Ukrainian dancing when I was a kid, and there’s a move called “the Coffee Grinder” [or at least that’s what they called it for us heh] that’s pretty much a breakdancing move, and I’ve pulled it out on a few occasions. It’s like, eighties breakdancing, but hey I think it counts)

I know a person named Jamie

I have had a teacher with a last name that’s hard to pronounce

I have dyed my hair

I’m listening to one song on repeat right now (nope, a whole playlist on repeat! Fad Gadget, A1 people, Art Vs Science, Shiny Toy Guns, Pendulum, Barenaked Ladies, Arctic Monkey, Kristin Andreassen, MIKA, Maximo Park, and uh... I think another one or two but I can’t remember. Heh.)

I have punched someone in the past week

I know someone who has gone to jail

I have broken a bone (really big! Broke a few, actually - hairline fracture, three bones in my right foot; spiral fracture of the left femur that nearly took my life, but I made it through! And now I have some metal rods that used to be in my bones, so that’s cool :D)

I have eaten a waffle today

I know what I want to do with my life (I know about a million things I want to do with it, heh >.> That’s not the hard part <.<)

I speak at least 2 languages (I think my conversational decency in French would count? I’m not nearly fluent, but I’d say I speak it - more than enough to get around town, certainly. Enough to talk over letters or in a slow conversation, but not enough to watch an action flick, heh)

I have made a new friend in the past year

Uh... tagging people. Yeah, that’s a little bit anxiety-inducing, so I’m just gonna pass on that? Sorry, I know it’s not playing by the rules and that kinda sucks but I honestly wouldn’t know where to start, heh, but anybody can do it if they want and say I tagged them! Thanks, it was fun!

#Info #Wow! A thingy!#This was fun and totally unexpected :D #Also I'm kinda a bit of a wreck maybe heh but it's all good :D #Sorry for not tagging anyone I feel legitimately guilty about that

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kirishwima · 7 years

Text

Get to know me tag!

Tagged by @teakoii

1. What is your full name? Don’t really want to give out my full name on tumblr lol, but I’m Sophia (and if we’re going for embarrassing details, I got a middle name, Marina lol)

2. What is your nickname? A lot of people call me babushka? Or just shortened versions of my name like Soph and stuff

3. What is your zodiac sign? Cancer

4. What is your favorite book series? Hmmm this is hard lol. The only series I can honestly admit to have read entirely is the Hunger Games :p

5. Do you believe in aliens or ghosts?

Aliens are 10010% real and probably want nothing to do with earth, LOL. Ghosts...it’d be so cool if they’re real. Highly doubt it though

6. Who is your favorite author? Neil Gaiman!! He’s amazing!

7. What is your favorite radio station? Mix fm...any cypriot reading this will know lol

8. What is your favorite flavor of anything? Of anything...probably coffee taste lol. Or mint? One of the two

9. What word would you use often to describe something great or wonderful? Hmm, amazing? Awesome? idk lol

10. What is your current favorite song? Current favourite is probably Andromeda by the Gorillaz :p

11. What is your favorite word? in english?? no clue hahah :p

12. What was the last song you listened to? Despacito ;u;

13. What TV show would you recommend for everybody to watch? Voltron obviously hahah, um, maybe American Horror story? But only season 2 lol, or Black Mirror bc it’s amAZING

14. What is your favorite movie to watch when you’re feeling down? Ghibli films! Especially Howl’s moving castle or Spirited Away! c:

15. Do you play video games? I do but not as much lately bc of uni

16. What is your biggest fear? Uhhh if we’re going for deep dark fears, probably the entire concept of eternity? Like the thought of something having no real start or end just freaks me out lol

17. What is your best quality, in your opinion? I honestly can’t think of one hahah, i’ve been thinking for a couple of minutes and can’t think of anything :p maybe that i’m an easy person to get along with

18. What is your worst quality, in your opinion? I can make a list tbh lol, absolute worst would probably be that i’m way too sensitive & care too much about what other people think

19. Do you like cats or dogs better? NO DON’T MAKE ME CHOOSE I LOVE THEM BOTH I LOVE ALL ANIMALS ;-;

20. What is your favorite season? Summer!! :D

21. Are you in a relationship? Nope

22. What is something you miss from your childhood? I don’t miss much. Maybe not having this much of a workload if anything lol

23. Who is your best friend? Why have one when you can have 3? :D @faded-r0ses @now-this-is-wtf @ibreathestucky <3 <3

24. What is your eye color? Brow

25. What is your hair color? I change it every few months lol, it’s currently black!

26. Who is someone you love? So many people :p Friends, family, a lot of people! c:

27. Who is someone you trust? The squad obviously, but p. much all of my friends?? Like if we’re buddies then that’s it, i trust u lol

28. Who is someone you think about often? Like i think about my dog a lot bc i haven’t seen his fluffiness in like four moths now but i think about a lot of people often? not one set person

29. Are you currently excited about/for something? I’m excited for an eternal slumber tbh, or like, vacation. I need a break TuT

30. What is your biggest obsession? Voltron probably, and also random but history?? i love. history lol

31. What was your favorite TV show as a child? POKEMON! It was a Sunday morning ritual to watch pokemon :D

32. Who of the opposite gender can you tell anything to, if anyone? Anything? Probably no one :p

33. Are you superstitious? Not really?

34. Do you have any unusual phobias? Like, I’m afraid of small white rooms with no windows. Random? Yes. Unusual? Idk?? :p

35. Do you prefer to be in front of the camera or behind it? I’m insecure af but like photography so behind it lol

36. What is your favorite hobby? Writing! :D

37. What was the last book you read? I mean i read a shitton of anatomy and physiology books throughout this year, do those count? Ah and The anatomy of being by Shinj Moon, though it’s a poetry book

38. What was the last movie you watched? Avengers Age of Ultron probably

39. What musical instruments do you play, if any? Nothing, sadly TuT

40. What is your favorite animal?

I can’t. ChoOOSEE I LOVE SO MANY. If i can have like a top 3?? It’d probably be dogs & cats (in one place bc i can’t choose), foxes, and lizards? or i think they’re called newts in english? ya.

41. What are your top 5 favorite Tumblr blogs that you follow?

Definitely @teakoii they’re they’re the literal cutest & amazing artist, definitely 2/3 the squad: @ibreathestucky (she’s a fandom goddess ok <3), @faded-r0ses (aesthetic ho right there), (((our remaining 1/3 @now-this-is-wtf not included bc she nEVER LOGS IN)) Also @wipengineer <-the queen of angst

and @maristine :D Quality voltron content right there~

and also a LOT of other blogs, some that i interact with and some not but i’m too shy to mention/tag >.<

42. What superpower do you wish you had?

Being able to breathe/survive underwater. Bye bye humans. I’m a fish now. You’ll never catch me. Also shapeshifting would b awesome bc. Cmon. You could become a dragon. Take that responsibilities.

43. When and where do you feel most at peace?

The beach, definitely. Or anywhere near large bodies of water? Give me a lake or river any day and I’ll probably never leave lol

44. What makes you smile?

A good ol’ meme never failed me so far, also good music? And coffee, and cuddly animals or just hugs in general i love hugs

45. What sports do you play, if any?

I do some swimming and begrudgingly go to the gym when my roommate drags me along but that’s pretty much it lol

46. What is your favorite drink?

CoFFEE. I swear my blood has been replaced with caffeine by now

47. When was the last time you wrote a hand-written letter or note to somebody?

I wrote a post-it note to my roommate to let her know i’m out does that count?

48. Are you afraid of heights?

Nope! I love looking down when standing somewhere v high or in a plane and stuff lol

49. What is your biggest pet peeve?

I had to google what a pet peeve is TuT

Hm, i can’t really think of anything? Not a lot of things bug me tbh, except for big things like you know, like rudeness or belittling someone else e.t.c

50. Have you ever been to a concert?

Yup!

51. Are you vegan/vegetarian?

Vegetarian!^^

52. When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?

Define how little. I had a big phase of wanting to become a Power Ranger so.

According to my family i was always between vet or doctor though lol

53. What fictional world would you like to live in?

Ohh boy, i can’t just choose one!! :p Something magic-related definitely

54. What is something you worry about?

Something? Something? More like everything. TuT

55. Are you scared of the dark?

Nope!

56. Do you like to sing?

No unless I'm either drunk enough or blasting the radio loud enough for no one to hear me hahah

57. Have you ever skipped school?

I was way too much of an ‘example student’ in high school so no lol. As for lectures in uni though..well. ;u;

58. What is your favorite place on the planet?

The bEACH. ANY BEACH. IS THERE WATER AND SAND? THEN I LIKE IT. :D

59. Where would you like to live?

Italy! My dream is to move to Italy after i graduate!

60. Do you have any pets?

Yes, a cute lil’ bean of a doggo~ (or as my friends very...politely say, the chubbiest, clingiest chihuahua they’ve ever met lol)

61. Are you more of an early bird or a night owl?

Both? It depends lol

62. Do you like sunrises or sunsets better?

BOTH I CAN’T CHOOSE TuT

63. Do you know how to drive?

Yup! Although parking is an entire different story LOL

64. Do you prefer earbuds or headphones?

Headphones, earbuds are annoying ;-;

65. Have you ever had braces?

Yes. I pretend that that time period never happened ;u;

66. What is your favorite genre of music?

Hmmmmmm. Hmmm??? I can’t choose? Probably either indie/chill music or punk rock but i listen to so so many genres

67. Who is your hero?

I can’t really think of any celebrities, but if we’re talking people, probably my grandma? She was a badass woman that was raising two kids in her twenties whilst studying & graduating med school, then moved on to become the first woman gynaecologist in her country. Hats off to her really.

68. Do you read comic books?

A bit!

69. What makes you the most angry?

Honestly people that just. Can’t. Respect. Others.

So racist/homophobic/transphobic/sexist people, people who can’t respect someone else, people that think they’re superior to anyone, and also people that hurt/abuse animals- it’s like hey buddy. Find the nearest trash can and shove yourself in it, it’s not nice to litter.

70. Do you prefer to read on an electronic device or with a real book?

Real books. I understand that electronics are more convenient but there’s nothing better than actually holding a book in your hands and flipping the pages ;u;

71. What is your favorite subject in school?

History and english lit! And greek literature! All theoretical subjects really, lol

If we’re talking currently, then it’s embryology, definitely. I love it!!

72. Do you have any siblings?

An older sister and two older brothers

73. What was the last thing you bought?

Bananas and vegetables, lol

74. How tall are you?

165cm. I think it’s 5′5″

75. Can you cook?

I mean i nearly burn the kitchen down every time but i try

76. What are three things that you love?

Animals, good books, coffee

77. What are three things that you hate?

Rude/mean people (aka every single person with a Trump-like mindset, the dude himself included ofc), that’s pretty much it? it takes a lot for me to hate something

78. Do you have more female friends or more male friends?

Female

79. What is your sexual orientation?

Pan! Still figuring out if that’s Panromantic or Pansexual :p

80. Where do you currently live?

Czech Republic

81. Who was the last person you texted?

My roommate

82. When was the last time you cried?

Like, 2 days ago i think? I was stressed, tired and sick lol

83. Who is your favorite YouTuber?

Markiplier! Also a lot of creepy pasta narrators, Lazy Masquerade being my fave probably :p

84. Do you like to take selfies?

Sometimes? it really really depends on my mood lol

85. What is your favorite app?

Instagram probably

86. What is your relationship with your parent(s) like?

Ehh. I get along great with my dad although we don’t talk much, and i get along as well with my mom, just wish she’d realise i’m not a kid still lol.

The older i get the better we get along i guess, although there’s some things we’ll never agree on

87. What is your favorite foreign accent?

I like Spanish accents a lot? I have a lot of Spanish & Portuguese friends and love their accent when they speak english :p Also Russian accents?? Don’t ask me why. I just really like them lol

88. What is a place that you’ve never been to, but you want to visit?

Japan! I really want to go to Japan. And USA? And Canada? Like, big-city places because I’ve never been to one ;u;

89. What is your favorite number?

90. Can you juggle?

I got the balance of a tomato on an acid trip, so that’s a no hahah

91. Are you religious?

Not...really? I was raised in a very religious house and the more i learned about church the more i disliked it. I still like some aspects of it though so...I’m figuring it out still

92. Do you find outer space of the deep ocean to be more interesting?

I CAN’T CHOOSE THEY’RE BOTH SO FASCINATING I WANNA FLING MYSELF INTO SPACE AND DISCOVER THE SECRETS OF THE OCEAN IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK

93. Do you consider yourself to be a daredevil?

With enough alcohol in my system and good friends, ya. As it is? Nope, I'm that one friend in horror movies that says ‘hey guys, this is probably a bad idea’ and promptly dies lol

94. Are you allergic to anything?

A bit allergic to dust but that’s pretty much it i think

95. Can you curl your tongue?

No ;-;

96. Can you wiggle your ears?

How do people dO THAT no i can’t

97. How often do you admit that you were wrong about something?

If i know I'm in the wrong i always admit it & apologise, or so i hope :p

98. Do you prefer the forest or the beach?

The forest is fun too but...the beach. Definitely. ((Plus there’s no bugs at the beach! ;u;))

99. What is your favorite piece of advice that anyone has ever given you?

If you try your best and work hard, the result won't matter because you gave it your all and that’s what counts.

100. Are you a good liar?

Not at all, you can immediately tell if I’m lying because I start to giggle lol

101. What is your Hogwarts House?

Hufflepuff!

102. Do you talk to yourself?

Yes. It’s actually funny bc i keep switching between languages when i do

103. Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

Introvert ;;

104. Do you keep a journal/diary?

Not exactly. I try to keep a journal but it usually ends up with doodles and scribbles from class lol

105. Do you believe in second chances?

Most of the time, yes.

106. If you found a wallet full of money on the ground, what would you do?

Honestly? I’d probably leave it, OR if there’s any shops nearby, I’d take it to a store clerk, since the person that lost it is more likely to go into a nearby shop and ask if they’ve seen their wallet than to a police department, I think? idk

107. Do you believe that people are capable of change?

Yes, definitely!

108. Are you ticklish?

Ridiculously ticklish. @now-this-is-wtf and @faded-r0ses have a field trip with this fact T-T

109. Have you ever been on a plane?

Yup!

110. Do you have any piercings?

I got a lot of piercings on my ears and had nose ring but I think it’s healed now? Will be getting a septum piercing in July though~

111. What fictional character do you wish was real?

Lance. Lanceeeeeee. How could i not want my fave ever to be real lol

112. Do you have any tattoos? Not...yet. Soon though!

113. What is the best decision that you’ve made in your life so far?

It wasn’t exactly my decision, but switching schools back in middle school. Would have never met my tiny best friend otherwise, or met some other amazing people & teachers

114. Do you believe in karma?

Not really

115. Do you wear glasses or contacts?

Glasses, can’t put on contacts to save my life

116. Do you want children?

I don’t really like kids so. Ehh.

117. Who is the smartest person you know?

Hmm, people are smart in different ways and aspects. So I don’t know one person who’s the absolute smartest!

118. What is your most embarrassing memory?

Probably that one time at Comic con when i had a skirt-too-short problem (bless my backpack and the random leggings i had shoved in there for some reason lol), or that one time i got asked for an ID when i tried to buy a beer. At a supermarket. And they still wouldn’t believe me until I showed them my university card as well. (Sad thing is it wasn’t even for me lol)

119. Have you ever pulled an all-nighter?

yup, way too often lol

120. What color are most of you clothes?

Black. So many black clothes lol. At least that makes laundry much easier :D

121. Do you like adventures?

Yes!

122. Have you ever been on TV?

Only for some small interview clips when I was in high school lol

123. How old are you?

124. What is your favorite quote?

“Sometimes, I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living”

125. Do you prefer sweet or savory foods?

I don’t like sweet stuff much so savoury! OK, NOW, WHO TO TAG~

Squad, do it if you’re up for it @ibreathestucky @faded-r0ses @now-this-is-wtf (esp. you Guac I know you’re a free potato now with exams over~), and my tumblr buddies @maristine, @wipengineer (and yes i know u got the google doc but hey! :D), @the-blood-in-your-bruise and honestly, whoever else wants to do it, that’s it, you’re tagged by me hahah ^^

#get to know me tag #ofc you don't have to do it if u don't want to @the tagged ppl! <3

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