#i’ve been wanting a chance to draw her associated flowers bouquet

[liliaceaae]

does rhea have any assigned/associated animal, color, or flower?

(i love rhea so much she’s so pretty and cool and ur so big brained for that)

yes! rhea’s representative animal is a cat due to her equally soft and sassy personality

also because she’s light on her feet like a cat

some other animals I considered before settling on the cat was a fox, dove, or deer!

some flowers that are associated with her are the lotus, lily of the valley, gardenia, and baby’s breath

many of them signify themes of purity and persistence, which I think represent her development/character quite well

[suddencolds]

Bad Timing | Genshin Impact

During Windblume festival, Diluc ends up hosting in an event in a venue that’s suitably decorated. Unfortunately, he just happens to be allergic to the flowers.

(This might be the most self-indulgent allergy fic I’ve ever written, haha. DIluc snzfic + pollen allergies + company from someone... unexpected.)

—

It starts as a miscommunication.

It’s harmless enough. Donna, whom Diluc vaguely remembers seeing outside of the flower shop just adjacent to Angels Share, makes an arrangement with Charles to decorate the Dawn Winery. An act of gratitude, or something along those lines—just in time for Windblume Festival.

At least, that’s how Charles tells him about it, just as Diluc is about to leave from his shift the night before the party.

“Decorations?” he asks. “I see. I will have to give her my thanks. Did she speak to Adelinde about it?”

Charles ponders this, taking his place behind the counter. “I’m not sure,” he says. “She says she hopes it’s to your liking, though.”

It’s all Diluc can do to nod. Decorations for Windblume usually mean one thing, but there’s a reason why the tavern is scarcely decorated, and it’s not that he doesn’t have the means to decorate. The tavern’s current undecorated state—with the exception of pressed-dry flowers or flowerless vines strung around the second floor railings—is meant to accommodate… well.

He doubt Donna knows, because he’s never had a reason to bring it up in conversation. As far as truths go, it’s somewhat embarrassing. For now, he can only hope that her act of kindness isn’t as extensive as he thinks.

— 

It’s an oversight, for sure, but it’s not until he steps foot into the main hall of the winery, two hours before the event’s inception that he realizes the extent of it.

The winery is crowded with flowers. There are snapdragons and cecilias strung up around the balconies, windwheel asters in neatly arranged bouquets on every available table, dandelions and wolfhooks cresting the fireplace. Vines of ivy and windwheel aster blossoms are woven around the staircase railings.

Instinctively, he raises a hand to cover his nose and mouth, as if to shield himself from it all. There’s a telltale itch already settling in his nose.

It’s a beautiful sight. But Diluc is very, very allergic.

He flings every window open—surely the air from outside must be an improvement—and bolts out of the building as soon as he can. Just from a few minutes of occupying the winery, he’s already congested, and his eyes are brimming with allergic tears.

The event—a celebration of the anniversary of the Dawn Winery’s founding, that happens to align closely with Windblume every year—is going to last for five hours. Moreover, there will be esteemed guests present, with which he’ll have to discuss business matters, which means that he has to be present.

Diluc shuts his eyes. Seasonal allergies are not anything that will cause him lasting harm, he’s sure… except, perhaps, to his professionalism. The winery has been in a financially good place these past few years, which means there’s barely any pressure on him to prove his own competence. His presence is more for show than for anything else. This should be fine. A five hour celebration, and then he’ll be out of here. He can ask the maids to deal with taking down the decorations later.

—

He arrives early, stands as far from the floral decorations as he can—it’s difficult; they’re everywhere—to make sure everything is in place. Despite his efforts, the winery is practically a flower garden, thanks to Donna’s well-intentioned arrangements. It’s not long before he’s sniffling again.

His eyes are starting to water, too. He wipes them gingerly on the cuff of his sleeve, sniffles, and nods his acknowledgement to the guests that are starting to file in.

“Sir Ragnvindr,” someone he recognizes as a business associate says to him, holding a flute of champagne. “How are you on this fine evening?”

How does he look? Diluc sniffles again. “I’m well,” he says, rather curtly.

“Mondstadt’s Windblume Festival is certainly a sight,” the associate is saying. “I’m glad I stopped by town at such an opportune moment.”

Diluc can’t think of anything he’d want to do less, right now, than entertain someone’s small talk. “It is one of Mondstadt’s most… hiIh!— most esteemed annual traditions… hiih-!” Damn it. Not now.

The itch in his nose is back. Luckily, the associate either doesn’t notice his predicament or doesn’t find it worth commenting on.

“Is that so? Tell me more about it.”

Diluc sniffles again. Anything to keep his nose from openly running. “I’m... sure… hiIIH-!” Barbatos, he needs to sneeze. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. “...There are many people here more qualified to recount Mondstadt’s hiIhh-!… history… snf!… than I am.”

The associate raises an eyebrow, cocking his head. “Have you not lived here all your life? The previous owner of the Winery was Crepus Ragnvindr. I was under the impression that he was—”

“My father,” Diluc confirms, before he’s ducking away to stifle a sneeze, almost perfectly contained, into his wrist.

“hiIH’NGxt!” He gasps, sniffling, and presses his wrist closer to his face for the second. “hh…. hiiIH’NDGxt!”

It’s two sneezes, but they’re barely relieving. He raises his head, blinking. “Excuse me. Your assumptions are correct, though I…” he makes the mistake of rubbing his nose—something about the gesture just makes him need to sneeze. “hiIH… it’s been awhile since I’ve, snf, had the chance to properly celebrate, and longer still since… hIIh-!... since I’ve heard the history.”

“That’s strange,” the associate says. “You have lived in Mondstadt your whole life, yet you don’t know it’s history? Then again, I heard that you left for a few years, so maybe you feel no attachment to it.” It’s a thinly-veiled insult, but Diluc is too distracted to address it. He wants nothing more than to sneeze freely, but he’s sure that it would be loud, and it’d draw more attention than he wants right now. For now, he settles for raising a hand to—

“hiIH’DGXxt!” God, his eyes are watering, and the sneeze—though stifled—is forceful enough to jerk him forward, his shoulders shuddering.

The associate cringes. “It is a shame that you are spending the festival unwell.”

“I’m fine,” Diluc says, “Just… snf, just… hih!… HIih’GGKXt-shiu! ngh...” He needs to get out of here. Stifling offers virtually no relief at all, and he’s not going to stop sneezing anytime soon, from the looks of it.

He sighs, rubs his nose on the back of his hand, tells himself he can handle a few extra decorations. “Sorry. Did you, snf, have business matters to discuss?”

The associate’s expression hardens. “As you know, we have been ordering from the winery for a couple months now. I regret to inform you that there have been a few—”

Diluc blinks quickly. He can already feel his breath wavering—the start of another long, embarrassingly desperate buildup, probably.

“—troublesome incidents, specifically regarding the delivery of the wine. The delivery vehicles have been delayed on a handful of occasions—”

“hiIH! snf… hIIiih…”

His nose is tickling with such ferocity it’s almost torturous. He needs to get outside. His allergies are tolerable out in town in the open air, as long as he walks quickly enough and avoids all of the more festive installments. But here, in an enclosed space so thoroughly decorated, in a living room with mediocre circulation at best, surrounded by more flowers than he’s ever seen in his life…

“—just last week, the delivery cart was stopped by an assembly of hilichurl archers that destroyed nearly half the stock. Three weeks before that, the carriage caught the notice of one of Liyue’s Ruin Guards. I expect you are aware of these incidents?”

Diluc clears his throat. “I am. An excess of wine was sent back—hiiH! … in both cases, snf!- as soon as word of these setbacks… hIIH... reached the winery, snf.” The congestion is starting to settle in his voice, dulling his consonants. “You yourself… HIIh-! verified that the shipments m-made… hIIH-! it back to you… HIIIh!”

Sevens above. He doesn’t want to sneeze again, in front of someone who’s looking at him with a combination of disgust and condescension. But he knows, by now, that the most he can do is delay the inevitable.

“Ah,” the man waves a hand dismissively. “We did get the wine eventually. But it was still delayed, you see. Quite—”

—Diluc gasps sharply. “HIIIih-!”

“—an unprofessional experience, to say the least.”

His shoulders tense, as he jerks forward again, catching a barely restrained sneeze between the pinch of his fingers. “hihH'GXNt...! snf, hIIH… HIIH’NGDTtsh!” His body shudders with the release; he can feel the pressure of the sneeze settle behind his eyes, along with a dull ache—he’s going to give himself a headache if he keeps this up. “hiih-!... hiihHH…” This would be less humiliating if he could just sneeze and be done with it. Instead he finds himself caught in buildups that go nowhere, with a tickle in his nose that refuses to abate. “HIIIH… hIH’GZSchhh! snf… hhH-!”

Barely a breath in, his breath is already hitching again. He ducks into his sleeve, cringing, just in time for—

“hh… hiiH!... hh... HIIH’GXnT—shEw!!” The failed attempt at stifling is strangely relieving, all things considered, and he exhales shakily, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Sir Ragnvindr,” The associate says pointedly. “I’m sure you can see where the problem lies. Delays are not exactly conducive to business.”

Diluc bites back an irritated retort. Delivery to Liyue from Mondstadt is bound to have its complications, given the concentration of enemies outside of the two cities; he’s sure this associate is aware of that, too. He has no control over whether the deliveries get interrupted, and he’s pretty sure it’s the associate’s fault for not putting the orders in in advance.

“What… snf… would you suggest, then?”

The associate smiles. “Given our longstanding role as customers, I believe monetary compensation would only be fair.”

Diluc sighs, scrubs at his eyes with one hand. “You can bring it up with Elzer. He is usually the one to handle these sorts of things,” Diluc says. “In the future, though, to save both of us the trouble, it would be best if you would... snf!... take care to place your orders in advance.”

The man stares back at him, his lip curling. “I beg your pardon?”

“The roads between here and Liyue are dangerous. I cannot always guarantee a safe delivery,” The tickle in his nose is back, relentless. If he’s going to sneeze again, the last thing he wants is to do it in front of this associate. Instead, he turns on his heels, sniffling. “Excuse me.”

He just about bolts from the room, past the floral decorations and up the staircase. The second floor is darker, lit only by the ceiling chandelier. He all but slumps against the wall. His nose is still itching, and he raises a gloved hand as his vision goes watery and indistinct—

“hiIIH’IISCH’iiuu! Hh… hDDt’TTZCSh’u!”

He doesn’t have time to wonder if anyone’s heard. Suddenly he’s gasping again, fumbling for a handkerchief, pulling up one sleeve so he can wipe his nose on the back of his wrist when he doesn’t find one. “Hiih… hiIIIH… snf-!”

The tickle falters just as suddenly, leaving him on the precipice of a sneeze, suspended in ticklish wait. He rubs his nose again, in hopes that the pressure on the bridge of his nose will be just irritating enough to coax out a sneeze, but...

It leaves him panting, his eyes still shut as he stands there, his breath still shaky with anticipation.

“hiIIH…! snf…” Nothing, still. “HIIIh...”

He rubs his nose again, hard, on the back of his wrist. Maybe if he could just sneeze—give his body relief in the fit it so clearly wants—it will solve his predicament for the next fifteen minutes, at least.

He just has to find somewhere quiet.

He rounds the corner on the second floor, stumbles through the door at the end of the hall out onto the balcony. The fresh air is immediately relieving, and he sucks in a long breath, leaning forward on the balcony railing. With the exception of some of the Dawn Winery staff, no one’s outside, and he doubts any of the guests will have reasons to spend enough time on the second floor to find the door that leads here. He figures it’s as good a place as he’ll find, for the time being.

The itch in his nose still burns, almost intense enough to make him shiver. Cecilias are wound around one of the balcony’s wooden rungs—he wonders, momentarily, if it’d be worth it to—

The door behind him swings open. He startles.

“Oh,” someone says from behind him. “...sir Diluc.”

It’s Rosaria, from the church. He doesn’t know much about her—he can probably count the number of words they’ve exchanged on one hand. She’s at the Angel’s Share every Thursday with Kaeya, downing drinks faster he thinks could possibly be healthy—though she must know her limits, given that she never seems to get as drunk as some of the knights do. Now, she eyes him warily.

There’s a windwheel aster clipped to the lapel of her shirt.

“Didn’t expect you to see you here,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you like, the most important person here?”

“Something like that,” he says.

“Then I suspect there’s a reason why you’re hiding out here.”

He doesn’t answer. How can he? “Ah, well, it’s fine,” she says, sounding unbothered. “Whatever reason you have, it doesn’t really matter to me. Hope you don’t mind if I smoke.”

He sniffles, turning away to wipe his nose on his wrist. “I… don’t.”

“Okay. I figured you’d be happier if I did it outside, anyways.” She steps into place next to him, digs through her pockets for a cigarette. “Think you could light it?”

He lowers his hand and turns to face her. Before he has a chance to light it, though, something about the proximity of the flower on her shirt is just enough to set him off — the next breath he takes leaves him gasping, his eyes watering immediately as he ducks violently into his elbow.

“hiIH… nGKTt!”

He’s not even close to done. “hiIH… hiiihH…. HH-!! snf-! hHiih’NDGXtT!”

“Bless you,” she says. “Are you sick?”

“Your… shirt…” is all he manages to gasp out, before he’s pressing his elbow tighter to his face, muffling another sneeze into the fabric of his sleeve—

“hiIH’IIIGXTtt… HIIiH-! Hiih… HIIH’IISsch’iu! Excuse me... HIih’GGKXt!!...”

“Oh,” she says, sounding like he’s just let him in on a secret. “You’re allergic.”

“Unfortunately,” he admits, feeling his face grow hot.

“You should’ve said.” She unclips the windwheel aster from her shirt, gives it half a look, and flicks it over the edge of the balcony.

“Wait,” Diluc says, his eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t mean to… hiIIh-! snf... imply you should get rid of it.”

Rosaria smiles unreadably. “I wasn’t wearing it by choice. A friend coerced me to. Is it just windwheel asters that set you off?”

“It’s… hiiiiH… it’s just about everything… hiIH’ITTSChh! hiIH… NGKTT-shiiu!” It’s getting harder and harder to stifle, but it’s already embarrassing enough to sneeze in front of her in the first place.

“Everything, huh? Sounds awfully inconvenient.”

He lights her cigarette with his vision. “Thanks,” she says, and immediately pulls it in to take an appreciative drag. “Kind of suffocating to be inside with so many businessmen for so long, if you ask me.”

He sniffles harder, rubbing his nose on the cup of his sleeve.“I… snf…! I’m not going to be stopping anytime soon. You should probably… hiih... find somewhere else to smoke… hiiH... hiih’GKTT-!”  

“You know,” Rosaria says, after a beat. “You’d be done sneezing sooner if you didn’t hold them back like that.”

If Diluc wasn’t blushing before, he’s sure he must be blushing now. It’s embarrassing to hear her address his sneezing in such a straightforward manner—he’s starting to see why she gets on so well with Kaeya.

“I’m fine, thanks… hiih… hiiH’NGXT’Sshh! HIIH’GKTT-! ugh...” Maybe she has a point—the stifling is starting to make his head hurt, and he hunches forward, still sniffling, to lean more heavily on the railing.

She shrugs. “Okay. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind. Why’d you decorate the winery like that, anyway? It seems awfully… masochistic.”

“A misunderstanding. Donna’s doing, though… hiiiH!... it would have been ungrateful if I had taken the decorations down... hiiih... hiIH’GkkT!!” — caught neatly in the palm of his hand. “hIih… hiIIH… nGSSCHh! snf…”

“Sevens, Diluc. Drop the formalities and let yourself sneeze. I’m getting a headache just listening to you.”

He frowns, lifts his hand from his face, only to clamp it back on when he realizes what a mess he’s made out of himself, his skin prickling with embarrassment. “If you’re certain...”

She scoffs, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Trust me. I couldn’t care less.” Usually, smoke doesn’t bother him—his pyro vision would be significantly more inconvenient if it did—but now, with his nose so sensitive, it’s exactly the last push he needs to send him over the edge.

“hIIH.. HIIH…” He blinks through teary eyes, his grip tightening against the railing. “HiiH… iHH'GZCHh-iiu! Hihh… hhD’TTschH’iu! snf.. hiIH... HIHH'iischHiew!”

The relief from letting himself sneeze is immediate and almost dizzying. He gasps again, taking a step back from the balcony. The next sneeze snaps him forward at the waist.

“hiIH’ISCHhiuu! hiIih… GKKTT-’SHiuu!” Rosaria disappears back into the manor, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her leave, but he’s too out of it to properly react. “Hiih… hiIh… HIIH’ISCCHh’yuu!” He sniffles against his wrist, his shoulders just about slumping with the relief, before they’re tensing again just a few seconds later. “hiih… hiiih.. hiiIH’NGTTT-SHIu! Hiih… HiiH’IIIISCCHh’iuu!”

He groans, sniffling, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands—it seems like an appealing enough option, if not for the fact that he’s been covering with one of them. The door behind him opens again.

“Thought you might need this,” Rosaria says, and hands him a handkerchief. He takes it gratefully. It’s only after he’s blown his nose into it—quietly—that he trusts himself to speak.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll find a time to give it back when it’s clean... snf.”

She blinks at him, her eyebrows furrowing as she looks him over. “Geez, you look awful. I’ll ask Kaeya to stop by later so he and I can take down the decorations for you.”

It’s surprisingly sweet. “You don’t have to,” Diluc says, wincing at the congestion in his voice. “I can get it... dealt with… hiih’IISSSH’iuu!”

“Your maids can, you mean. Still, it will be faster if we help out... your bedroom’s on the second floor, isn’t it?”

When he nods, she shrugs, leaning back casually against the doorframe. “Even more reason to get it cleaned up faster, then. Would it kill you to accept some help for once in your life?”

Diluc sniffles, folding the handkerchief neatly. “I suppose not. I... appreciate it, then.”

She smiles at him. “It’s the least I can do. I’ve been leeching off your free alcohol this whole afternoon, so we can call it even.”

[urionelle]

Commander Interview

♡ Tagged by @long-journey (thank you so much!) OC Interview: Fleur of Dusk

Draw (or use an old drawing, don’t worry!) or take a screen of your character in an interview setting and make them answer the following questions!

[Commentaries between brackets are my own to explain stuff - Fri.]

INTRODUCTION

Can you introduce yourself?: “I’m Fleur! I used to have the name Fleurith but I decided to short it up. I’m... uh... From the Cycle of Dusk, awakened at 05:59pm!” She’s visibly nervous.

What is you gender identity, orientation and relationship status?: “I, uh... what? Oh, right. I identify as female. And uh... I could like anyone... So anything else doesn’t matter... like looks and etc, really! I don’t know a name for that... [she’s pan & demi] And uh...” - she giggled nervously - “Yes, yes, I have a beloved.” [It’s Throyann... I don’t make the rules]

Where and when were you born?: “The Grove! Awakened beneath the Pale Tree. Hm, I used not to really care for numbers, but since many people ask this...” - she makes a pause to count mentally - “it was 9 years ago!”

What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?: “Longbow and daggers/axes. I like being able to move myself a lot, since I don’t have much physical strength, I rely on precise strikes and opportunity. Though I think it’d be nice if I trained bigger weapons someday!”

Lastly, are you happy?: “I am! It’s pointless to overthink what my life could’ve been, so I appreciate the moment that I have now and I hope for the best.”

FAMILY AND FRIENDS

What’s your family like? What is your relationship with them?: “You mean... everyone in the Grove?” - she giggles - “Hm, I have a pod twin, are you familiar with that? Their name is Albireo and we’re very close. I also have many companions, like Shakah [her tigress]! And I also have my friends Caelum, Moriah and Kerbasi! And my former mentor Oaklain! And my beloved... And other friends...”

Have you ever ran away from home?: “Why would anyone do that?” [She’s not familiar with the concept.]

Would you consider marriage or having children?: She blinks confused. “I have yet to understand the concept of marriage. Like why do you have to prove anything to anyone by making what you have with your beloved ‘official’? Isn’t it not enough just to stay together, love and support each other? I don’t understand it, personally, but I hope people are happy about it!” She makes a pause. “I don’t have offspring. I can’t have them and I don’t plan on adopting either.”

Do you secretly hate one of your friend?: “No!” She makes a shocked expression. “If I did, then they wouldn’t be my friend!”

Which friend knows everything about you?: “Caelum.”

ASKED BY FANS

Are you literate? Have you been to school?: “I... have always known how to read... I came to life knowing it. I have not been to school places. I always wondered what it’s like. Maybe like the mentors in the Grove?”

The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?: She swallows dryly. “It’s personal.”

What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?: “I can’t think of anything. The past barely haunts me, but I’m... quiet prepared for most of the things in the future [through endless overthinking... she’s workng on that] and I read the room easily. It’s a bad habit or trait, sometimes.”

Do you have mental health or physical issues?: “I... do, I think? I didn’t know the name before... Like, I feel like I’m inside a small, tiny box or like there are big walls around me getting closer and closer and suddenly I seem to have forgotten how to breath! Or like, I can’t see anything around me, I feel doomed! I thought I was physically sick the first time... but then it kept happening.”

What is your current main goal?: “At this time, I just want to relax. I check on my associates [she means Taimi and Gorrik] in case there’s any new information I should know, but besides that, I’m trying to take a small, personal break.” [She’s currently asserting things with Throyann ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ♡]

CHOICES

Drink or food?: She tilts her head. “Both? Oh, do you mean preference? Then it’s... drinks!”

Cats or dogs?: “Uh... cats because of Shakah, but both are adorable!”

Early bird or night owl?: “None,” she giggles. “I like to go to bed before midnight and stay on it in the morning for a while. Of course is something I can’t do while on commander duty, but I’ve been doing this a lot lately!”

Optimist or pessimist?: “Optimist! The chances of things going good are the same as going bad, so I prefer to think positively. One would be surprised how nice it is to change bad thoughts into opportunities or good thoughts! It’s something I have learned with my friend Caelum.”

Sassy or sarcastic?: “Sarcastic. I’m not sarcastic myself, but it’s a trait I like on others... for some reason. When they’re at my side, of course.”

HAVE YOU EVER

Been caught sneaking out: “No.”

Broke a bone: “Well, not the kind of bones you're familiar with, but yes.“

Received flowers: “Yes! Not bouquets though, I don’t like those - why would anyone kill flowers to give someone? I have received them in vases so I can plant them on my garden!“

Ghosted someone: “Like... on Mad King? Or... dying? Or... what?!” [She’s not familiar with the concept]

Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn’t get: “Yes...”

[im-the-king-of-the-ocean]

5 for Nuts and Dolts, because the hug in the trailer is still on continuous loop in my head and the only thing better than an angsty hug is an angsty hug AND KISS 8 for Data Farm, because I'm weak for the idea of Oscar being unexpectedly prince-like and making Penny feel like a princess (or the other way around) I can't remember the number, but the interrupted kiss for rosegarden No pressure to do all of these, I just couldn't decide on one ship because I love all of them

(as a brief refresher: Data Farms Fic Link, Rosegarden Fic Link)

...and here’s to finally being able to answer this ask and revealing the ridiculous (sort of) secret plan I’ve carried out over a month (or two maybe idk) and what’s now a six-chapter fic!

(no, I’m not joking, this (Rose Puppetry) was literally A Thing bc I’m Like That)

So, to explain, way back when I was doing requests for this kissing meme, it was around the same time that you introduced me to the Mechanisms music, and then the Magnus Archives after that.

Subsequently, I thought it would be really cool to make one of these three requests Steampunk-themed.  I decided on the Nuts and Dolts one bc, when I first listened to Once Upon A Time (In Space), I associated Ruby and Penny heavily with Rose and Cinders (I think it was bc the album was brought up in reference to Souls or something like that?  Also Rose Puppetry was my alternative solution to just derailing Souls completely into Being A Steampunk Fic).

Anyways, I started out with the intent to do a short oneshot where Penny breaks into a facility to save Ruby, which would be reminiscent of the final attack on Old King Cole that led to Cinders being reunited with Rose.

Except then I got carried away by world-building (bc it was so freaking fun) and Rose Puppetry became an entire multi-chapter fic all of its own.

For the record, I think I originally @ you when I posted the first chapter bc I was going to say that the fic was a response to this prompt and then quite literally forgot to actually say that anywhere.  I then realized that, if I kept quiet about it, I could turn it into a surprise, which seemed like a fun thing to do, so I went for it.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy the end of Rose Puppetry!

.

5. Throwing their arms around the other person’s neck, hugging them close before kissing them passionately on the lips.

...

Rose Puppetry Ch6: The Tale of Little Briar and the Huntress in the Cottage

Summary:

A century ago or so, Atlas set out to conquer the world.  Penny was built to be a spy, an infiltrator meant to find weaknesses in Vale’s defenses before the invasion.

She did.  Then she fell in love.  And rebelled against the kingdom that had created her.

Ch1.  Ch2.  Ch3.  Ch4.  Ch5.

Every child in Patch knows of the Huntress who lives in the cottage on the outskirts of town.  Their great protector, who keeps the dangers of the woods at bay so they can go about their lives safely.  No one knows, not really, where she came from.  The youngest kids among them generally want to ask, but their parents usually shush them before they can try.  It’s considered improper, prying into what should be left well enough alone.

Briar knows more about the Huntress than any of her peers, but you’d never catch her boasting about it in the school yard.  No sir.  She can keep a secret extremely well, she can.  Well that, and she doesn’t want the Huntress to be upset with her and ask her father to not allow her to make the weekly deliveries anymore.  Briar loves visiting the Huntress’s cottage, with its duck pond and its thick bramble of roses.  But, most importantly, she loves being let inside and allowed to watch the Huntress work for just a little while.

For, in addition to being their protector against the scary monsters that lurk in the woods, the Huntress is Patch’s one and only mechanic.  There used to be more, of course, but that was back before Briar was born and they all got called off to fight in the Great War against Atlas.

Briar once asked if the Huntress fought in the Great War, too.  She remembers how the Huntress fell silent, the gloomy expression that had seamlessly eclipsed the Huntress’s entire being, and quietly swore never to ask again.  It’s not important for her to know, Briar decided.  Not like learning how gears, cogs, and screws all fit into machinery and make things like the big clock in the tower in the center of town work.

It’s a sunny day.  A few wisps of clouds linger in the sky, but not many.  Briar skips home from school, humming a happy tune of her own creation as she goes.  She briefly pauses to scratch the noses of the cows who’ve wandered to the fence of their pasture bordering the road.  The cows moo at her and sniff Briar’s fingertips for treats.

“Sorry, I don’t have anything for you today.”  Briar giggles as their chin whiskers tickle her.  “If I have time after I visit Ms. Rose, I’ll try and bring you all back something, but I make no promises.”

She continues on her way, only stopping in the Mech Field to pick a collection of bright, cheerful wildflowers.  Briar pauses to consider the ruins of the old war machines, but Ms. Rose once warned her very sternly not to get too close to the fallen mechs without her supervision, so Briar doesn’t.  Instead, she takes a spare hair ribbon out of her school bag, ties it snugly around the stems of her wildflowers to keep them properly bunched together, and heads home.

Her mother has the weekly grocery basket for Ms. Rose waiting when Briar arrives.  She helps Briar securely fasten it to the deliveries bicycle and situate the flower bouquet on top so the bumpy ride won’t jostle them too much.

“Keep an eye on the time,” Briar’s mother gives her the usual warning.  “And, if it starts growing dark, have Ms. Rose walk you home.”

Briar rolls her eyes.  She’s big enough to come home all on her own, even after sunset, she thinks.  Still, she promises, “I will!” before taking off on the bicycle.

Smoke lazily drifts into the sky from Ms. Rose’s cottage’s chimney as Briar makes her approach.  The huntress’s dog, a great, big creature with a lumbering gait and a lolling tongue, appropriately named ‘Wolf’, runs to greet Briar as she approaches.  She slows her bicycle to a stop and dismounts.

“Hey, Wolfie.”  Briar scratches behind the dog’s ears, and gets licked enthusiastically for it.  She laughs.  Wolf dances excited circles around Briar as she walks over and leans her bicycle against the cottage.  “Stop that!”  Briar commands Wolf, only half serious.  “I have to get the groceries inside!”  She nudges the door open and walks into the cottage.

“Ms. Rose?  Are you here?”  Briar calls out.

“In the workshop, Briar!”  Ms. Rose yells back from somewhere deep inside.  Briar grins.  With some care, she shoves the groceries in the refrigerator.  Ms. Rose will organize them however she pleases later, after a few more hours of work, at least.

Briar goes to hurry through the kitchen, but remembers herself, and pauses at the sink to fill a pitcher with water for her wildflower bouquet.  She carefully lowers the flowers in and unties her hair ribbon from around their stems.  Then, after tidying the bouquet a little, Briar walks further into the cottage.  She doesn’t go immediately to the workshop, but to a room Ms. Rose only recently granted her permission to enter.

Briar pauses and takes a breath in the doorway of the bedroom.  It’s always a bit weird to do this.  She’s never actually met Ms. Penny.  Not back before, when she was awake.  Ms. Penny doesn’t know who she is.  Never had the chance to, really.

Regardless, flowers always make Briar feel better when she isn’t feeling well.  With Wolf padding loyally at her side, Briar approaches the bed where Ms. Penny serenely sleeps and situates the bouquet on the table beside it.

“Good day, Ms. Penny,” Briar speaks politely, for she’s never spoken to a mechanical person, or one who’s never woken up, before Penny.  Briar still feels kind of odd about that, but, since she first stumbled across Penny’s room, she’s been determined to try and make her feel better (if that’s at all possible).

“Spring’s here.  The first of Mr. Oobleck’s lambs were born the other day.”  Briar starts her usual, short, babbling update about life in Patch.  “They’re extremely cute.  I’ll draw you a picture, so, when you wake up, you won’t have missed seeing them.”

“She’d like that, I think.”

Briar jumps, and spins around.  Ms. Rose stands in the doorway, leaning against its frame.  She smiles softly at Briar, and joins her by Penny’s bedside.  “Penny never…I think she always lived in cities before we met.”  Ms. Rose takes a deep breath.  “I’m not sure she’s ever gotten the chance to see a newborn lamb.”

“Then this will be her first time,” Briar says confidently.

“Yes.”  Ms. Rose smiles sadly down at Briar.  “Run along to the workshop now.  I left today’s assignment out on the table for you.  Try to see if you can get started on your own.  I’ll be along in a moment.”

Briar does as she’s told, but not before stopping just outside the bedroom and sneakily poking her head back in to watch Ms. Rose gently smooth Penny’s long, soft copper curls and place a kiss on her forehead.

“Don’t wait too much longer to wake up, my love, alright?”  Ms. Rose whispers.

Briar slips away, feeling a little guilty about spying on such a private moment.  She doesn’t know why Ms. Penny sleeps, what caused her to fall into her lasting slumber in the first place, but Briar does know that Ms. Rose came to Patch to have a quiet, safe place to repair her.

The assignment Ms. Rose set out for Briar that day is a small music box.  One that had, in all likeliness, played a lovely melody at some point, but has long since worn out.  Repairing it shouldn’t be the hardest of tasks.  Not now that Briar is a handful of months out of transitioning from ‘kid who gets to watch the Huntress work’ to ‘unofficial mechanic’s apprentice’.

Ever so carefully, Briar removes a tiny, rusty gear from the music box with her tweezers and sets it aside.  She looks to Ms. Rose, who smiles reassuringly back at her.  Briar finds the replacement gear, plucks it up with the tweezers, and goes to insert it right where it needs to—

“Hello?!  Huntress are you here?”  A voice shouts into the cottage.  Wolf scrambles up from lying under where Briar’s feet dangle off her stool and barks loudly.  Briar jumps.  Her tweezers fall out of her hand.  The replacement gear goes flying.

“Just a moment!”  Ms. Rose calls back.  She helps Briar retrieve the gear from where it’s fallen to the floor.  “Think you can work on your own for a bit?”  Ms. Rose asks.  When Briar nods, the huntress wipes grease and oil smudges off her fingertips onto her leather apron and goes to see who has come asking after her aid.

Briar half listens to the ensuing conversation about a broken down car on the road as it drifts through the cottage to her.  Ms. Rose briefly returns to the workshop for her portable tool kit, and then leaves to go repair the automobile in question.  She promises she’ll check Briar’s handiwork upon her return.  Wolf ambles back over to Briar.  The dog circles a couple times to settle, and then returns to napping.

For the next couple of hours while Briar works, things are quiet and peaceful.  She finishes repairing the music box.  With bated breath, Briar winds it up and sets it down on the worktable.  A soft tune fills the air.  Briar can’t help but smile.

Too excited to wait until Ms. Rose gets back to show off her success, Briar carefully scoops the music box up in her hands and carries it to Penny’s room.  She puts it down by the wildflowers she brought earlier, and lets it play its song a second time.

So caught up on listening to the music box’s melody is Briar, she doesn’t catch when it’s joined by the sounds of other mechanisms whirling and clicking.  Ones that have long remained at rest, but, at the sound of a comforting song, rouse again.

Movement catches Briar’s attention.  Before she realizes what’s happened, a pair of bright, dazzling green eyes meet her own.  They almost seem to glow, as if they’re lightbulbs that have spent a long, long time charging up and want to celebrate the chance to finally illuminate.

“H-hello?”  The voice is hoarse, creaky with disuse.  It’s nothing like Briar imagined it would be.  “Briar?”

Briar blinks rapidly.  “You know me?” slips from her lips before she can stop the question.

“Of course.”  Tentatively, Penny moves to push herself up in a sitting position.  One of her hands slips before she can put weight down on it.  Briar rushes forward to help support her.  “Thank you.”  Penny smiles gratefully at Briar.  “To answer your question, I heard you.  The days you came and talked to me and brought me flowers.”  She pauses.  “I’d very much like to see Mr. Oobleck’s lambs.”

“Oh.”  Briar takes a minute to process this.  “I didn’t think…” she’s not sure what to say.  She’s imagined this moment hundreds of times, but, now that it’s happening, Briar’s mind is frustratingly blank.

“It’s alright.”  Penny gives her a small, soft smile.  “It’s not everyday someone you’ve only known as a ‘sleeping lady’ wakes up.”

“I-err-yeah…” Briar pauses.  “If you don’t mind me asking, how could you hear me all those times?  Since you were asleep?”

Penny inhales deeply and exhales, the clockwork of her body moving with the motion.  “It’s a bit complicated.  A short explanation would be that, even without enough power to function normally, I could still record audio.” Penny shoots a knowing smirk in Briar’s direction.  “I would love to give you the fully detailed explanation.  Later.  If you don’t mind, there’s someone who’s long overdue for a hug, I think.”

Briar’s eyes widen.  “Oh!  Ms. Rose!  Of course!”  She scrambles up to fetch Penny a walking stick to lean upon as she gets up.  “She went out to repair someone’s car.  I think it’s just down the road!”  Briar hovers, ready to support Penny if she needs help with walking.  When Penny makes it to the doorway on her own, Briar relaxes a little.

Together, with Wolf keeping pace with them (and Briar would swear the dog is keeping as much a careful eye on Penny as she herself is), they make their way outside.

Penny pauses, and looks up at the blue, blue sky.  She blinks.  If she were capable of crying, she probably would have.  “I never dreamed I’d see it again.”  Penny whispers.  She turns to look ahead, down the road she and Briar intend to walk, and sees someone coming toward them on it.  Penny gasps.

There is one sight that Penny dreamed of, longed for, during her oh so very long slumber.  One sight, her vague, ethereal thoughts could never quite capture, but tried to constantly.  The person she sees on the road doesn’t quite fit the picture Penny remembers.  The person is no longer a youthful maiden, but a full grown woman.  Her black-red hair is longer, kept in an untidy braid over one shoulder.  She’s wearing the garb of a mechanic, and not combat dress.  Branching scars, leftover from a (Grimm) time Penny would very much like to leave in the past, dance across her skin.

“Ruby.”

Penny breathes the name out at the same time Ruby sees her, stops, and stares.

A moment passes where no one moves, where the world is held frozen in shock.  Anxiety ripples over Ruby’s face.  Worry that needs no verbal words to describe it.  That Penny won’t love this older version of her.  That this person she had to grow into while she patiently waited for Penny to wake up isn’t someone Penny will be able to bring herself to love.

Penny takes a step forward, and then another.  Her walking stick is cast aside as she recalls how to push her legs into motion as fast as she can.  She runs, reaching Ruby in the blink of an eye.  Eager to vanquish all the anxieties she sees in her beloved, Penny takes Ruby up in her arms and spins her around and around.  She laughs, causing Ruby to laugh with relief too.

They’re together.  Nothing, no war or conflict or spiders who want to control them, can get in the way of that any longer.  They may have once been puppets in a grand scheme, but they’re free now.  Free to do whatever they wish, as long as they wish.

Penny stops spinning Ruby around.  She holds her close, drinking in the sight of Ruby’s sparkling, silver eyes.  Without thinking about it, they press their foreheads together and simply gaze at each other.

Later, they’ll let Briar commit a condensed version of their story down on paper.  A fairytale, it will be.  One only a handful will actually believe there’s truth to, but that’s just as well to them.  Right now, this moment?  This moment is just for them.

Ruby wraps her arms around Penny.  Penny leans in.  Their lips find each other.  Tentative, unsure, aware they have a lot to adjust to again with each other (but eager to get started).  The kiss is soft and sweet.  A promise of many, many more to come.

They don’t live happily ever after.  For Penny and Ruby’s story doesn’t end here.  It goes on, with many days full of love, and equally as many filled with struggle as they learn each other’s embrace again.  There are moments when the scars of the past threaten to consume them, and moments filled with nothing but laughter and joy.

Overall, though?

Penny and Ruby live together for a very, very long time, and that time together is largely marked by their shared happiness.

[darlingpeter]

black butterflies and déjà vu

hi everyone! this wasn’t a request but it’s something that i’ve been working on for quite a while! it’s based on one of my favorite songs of the same title by the maine! this is my attempt to slowly drag myself out of the lonely pit that is writer’s block, and any feedback is super appreciated!

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: none, just some extreme fluff

length: 3517 words

what would you say

If you could say

Everything you needed to

To the one you needed to?

Bucky first met you at a farmers market.

Ever since he moved to the compound after the Winter Soldier stuff died down, Steve had encouraged him to get reacquainted with the city, and more often than not, that meant wandering the streets of Brooklyn with a baseball cap pulled down over his face, his hands stuffed in the pockets of a sweatshirt as he walked.

There was something about open-air markets that always drew him in. Maybe it was because with all of the change that the world had undergone while he was iced, the markets always seemed to stay the same with their cacophony of friendly chatter and loud bargaining, the delicious smells of street food and kettle corn, and the friendly atmosphere that existed in a city that could be so harsh.

He avoided eye contact as much as he could with the people around him, still harboring the fear that someone would recognize him from the months his picture spent flashing across the news and make a scene.

He didn’t want to be feared. He just wanted to be normal. As much as he could be, at least.

He loved the diversity of the booths that were available. There was everything from handmade soaps and candles to hand-dyed shirts and fresh produce. Kids ran by with bright balloons and bags of kettle corn, and he found a small smile spreading across his features before too long.

His gaze was captured by the way that the panes sitting outside a booth selling stained glass caught the sunlight and transformed it into ethereal colors. However, something far more breathtaking caught his eye.

You.

Okay, so maybe Steve’s advice wasn’t the only thing that kept drawing him back to the weekly market. Maybe it was the gorgeous girl that always stopped by the same booth that sold flowers at just about noon every week, the kind varying weekly with what the shop had to offer. That week, it was a bouquet of colorful wildflowers. The week before, it had been zinnias, and dahlias the time before that.  

He knew it sounded creepy. God, it sounded creepy. But seeing you offer a friendly smile to the vendor, slip a generous tip into the jar next to the register, and then walk away with the flowers in one hand and a cup of coffee from a shop a block away in the other just brightened his day in the way that few things could.

So when he woke up at 6 AM like he always did because of his bullshit circadian rhythm, he heaved out a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his face, dread settling into his bones like it always did in the morning. However, when he realized that it was a Thursday, the weight seemed to lift a little bit, because it was the day that he would be able to see you at the market.

He took a quick shower - cold because he didn’t have the patience to wait for the water to heat up - and then pulled on what Tony called his “civilian getup,” which consisted of jeans, a black long sleeved shirt, and a plain grey baseball cap. With little else but a quick look in the mirror, he was out the door and into the dewy morning.

He walked the all-too familiar path through the neighborhood, melting into the small amount of traffic of people to walking to work or any of the various coffee shops that litter the storefronts in order to get their morning fix. Before he was iced, he would’ve likely been part of that crowd, but he had a strong belief that people nowadays liked their coffee too sweet, and if he were to just get it black, why not make it at home and spare himself the few bucks?

He fiddled with a loose thread in his pocket as he took the turn toward the market, smiling as the bustling street came into view. He was happy to recognize a lot of the regular booths, and even offered a small nod to the woman at the beeswax stall who gave him a smile and a kind good morning.

However, when he reached the other side of the market, near the all-too-familiar flower booth, his ray of sunshine was nowhere to be found. He was distracted for a moment, wondering why she broke her normal routine and where she could be, when the answer literally walked into him.

You had just hung up from a phone call and hadn’t been paying attention, causing you to run into the brick wall of a man, dropping your cup of coffee and small bouquet of orange tulips onto the pavement. Bucky cringed, hearing the crunch of paper and the splash of liquid on the pavement and immediately crouched down in order to help pick them up. He gently scooped up the blooms and stood, but he went rigid when he lifted his eyes to meet yours.

It was you.

You were frozen in shock, your eyes wide, and Bucky’s heart sank, scared that you were frightened of him. That fear dissipated only a moment later when you let out a soft gasp and a squeak of “oh my God, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

It was only then that he noticed that quite a bit of coffee had spilled on his jacket, and that its scalding heat was just beginning to seep through the fabric. He wanted to assure you that he was fine, but under your concerned gaze his cheeks turned pink and his words got caught in his throat.

“I-I’m alright, sorry about your coffee, miss.” He managed to stutter out, holding out the flowers.

“It was completely my fault, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” You apologized as you took the flowers from his hands. Your fingers brushed gently over those on his metal hand, and even though his hands were gloved, it still made him tense. Luckily, you either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to call him out on it because your expression never faltered. “God, I’m such an idiot, I’m sorry.”

“I could buy you another cup of coffee, if you want?” He blurted, his mouth moving much faster than his mind was.

He was afraid that he was being too forward and that you would think he was some kind of creep, but he was relieved when you smiled at him. “I actually have to go to work right now, but I’d love to take you up on that offer later, um…”

“Bucky.” He quickly supplied, and your face lit up with a kind smile.

“I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

For some reason, being around you and being able to talk to you just made him feel warm in a way that he hadn’t felt since before he had been iced. After you quickly exchanged numbers and said your goodbyes, you flashed him a genuine grin and called, “I’ll see you later, Bucky!”

Hearing you say his name gave him butterflies in his stomach, and as he watched you walk away, he was half-convinced that the interaction was all a dream.

~

It took three dates for Bucky to open up to you about who he really was.

The two of you had gone back to your place after grabbing dinner at a diner that claimed to have the greatest pie in all of New York (and it had been pretty damn good, he wasn’t going to lie). You cracked open a bottle of rosé and poured it into two coffee mugs. “I once had two wine glasses but then a friend had her bachelorette party here and I bet you can guess how that turned out.” You said in explanation, and Bucky let out a small laugh.

He had learned a lot about you in the past few weeks. He knew how you liked your coffee, what emojis you used the most while you texted, and what your favorite kind of chocolate was. Topics ranged a little deeper on your dates as well, as you told him about how you grew up, why you came to New York in the first place, and revealed your favorite spots in the city to find some quiet amidst the constant buzz of chaos.

He felt as though he was finally starting to get to know you, but also felt guilty because in listening to everything you had to say, he didn’t interject much about himself into the conversation. It’s not that he didn’t have the opportunity to; there were plenty of times where you asked about him and he would hesitate and say something vague or change the subject. He hated it - he felt like he was lying to you in a way, and he just couldn’t bear it anymore.

So he told you on the couch that night, with his heart pounding in his ears and his hands shaking slightly as he held onto his mug. The moment that “the winter soldier” passed his lips, your expression fell, and his face grew hot with shame. He avoided eye contact with you as he stared into his cup.

“I thought you looked familiar.You were on the news.” You spoke softly after a moment, and Bucky’s heart sank. He could only imagine the horrendous and vile thoughts you now associated him with, and he was unable to deal with the fact that your gaze, which had been so kind and warm in the past, would now be clouded with judgement or maybe even fear when it fell upon him.

He cleared his throat, set his mug down on the coffee table, and stood, wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans. “I-I’m sorry, I should probably go. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He murmured hurriedly, cursing himself for thinking that he had any chance with you. He

“Bucky, I’m not scared.” You spoke softly, and when Bucky turned back to look at you, he saw nothing but concern in your eyes. You wordlessly reached out for him, and he took it your hand with his gloved right. He sat back down as you gingerly placed your mug on the coffee table beside his and sat cross-legged facing him on the couch. You pulled his hands into your lap, his palms facing upward. Wordlessly, you pulled off the glove of his right hand, revealing the calloused skin of a man who worked with his hands.

The left one got pulled off as well, and Bucky tensed as the plated metal of his prosthetic came into view.

You gently ran your fingers over the cool cybernetic surface and he watched uneasily.

“I did some of my own research about the Winter Soldier too because I felt like there was something missing from the normal spiel that they gave on him on T.V. and I know that they had you all wrong. I read about what happened during the war and with Hydra, and I know that you didn’t do all those things that they said you did. That was the Winter Soldier, not Bucky Barnes.” You raised your eyes to meet his after the last bit to find his, starting to brim with tears.

You lifted his metal hand so that he could cup your cheek, but when the cool metal touched your flushed cheek, he flinched, pulling his hand away and to his chest. “You’re not going to hurt me, Buck.” You said gently.

He shook his head. “You don’t know that.” Not everything in his head was back to where it was before,  and while The Winter Soldier hadn’t surfaced in quite a while, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if something happened to you because someone managed to get their hands on the damn sequence of words that would throw everything back to shit.

You decided not to push him - his expression was too dark and held too much for you to deconstruct in an instant. Instead, you just scooted closer to him, nuzzling into his side and under his metal arm. The two of you sat in silence for a good while, the air of the room still heavy from the exchange.

“I trust you, Bucky. I know you don’t, but I do.” Your small whisper broke the silence, and the confession made his heart pound in his throat.

~

The two of you went on one more date before you made it official - which entailed meeting the rest of the Avengers. Much to Bucky’s relief, they accepted you immediately. Steve took the longest to come around, concerned about about his best friend, but even he was able to see how happy you made Bucky, and you became great friends with him as well.

After a year and a half together, the Avengers decided to move upstate, and that brought its own set of challenges. You stayed in your little apartment in the city, but after about a month of late night phone calls and making the trek to the compound on the weekends, Bucky told you about a traditional style house not far from the compound. It wasn’t two weeks later before the house was purchased and you were making arrangements to rent a U-Haul truck.

“Is that the last one?” You asked as Bucky walked through the front door of the house carrying a cardboard box. When he nodded and set the box down with the several others in the otherwise empty living room, you threw your arms up excitedly. “James Buchanan Barnes, we’re officially homeowners!”

He took the few steps over to you and picked you up, spinning you around in circles while you wrapped your legs around his waist. He came to a stop and you cupped his face in your hands, staring into his eyes with a giddy grin and flushed cheeks. He pressed forward the short distance to kiss you deeply, feeling lightheaded with happiness.

When he set you down, you gave him one more peck on the cheek before walking the short distance to the well-worn sofa and collapsing onto it. It was the only piece of furniture that had been moved into the living room, the rest would be delivered within the week “You okay, sweetheart?” He asked with a laugh after watching you fall seemingly bonelessly into the soft cushions, and you let out a groan.

“My body hurts and there’s still so much to do.” You whine.

Looking at you with a fond smile, he shook his head. “I have a plan.” He pulled you to your feet and wrapped you in his arms. “How about we start officially unpacking tomorrow, but for now you take a long, hot shower upstairs? By the time you come back down, i’ll have ordered takeout.”

“If I find where I put my laptop, can we watch Friends too?”

“Whatever you want, doll.” He said with a smile, and you let out a happy hum against his chest.

As you made your way upstairs to the master bathroom, Bucky made the call to your favorite takeout place for delivery and sat down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. He let out a long exhale as he heard the shower turn on from upstairs, and reached into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a small weight that was resting there.

His fingers wrapped around the small black box and pulled it out of his pocket, holding it between his digits absentmindedly. With one more sigh, he leaned back and popped it open, revealing the simple diamond ring that was nestled inside. He had bought it weeks ago, before he had to leave New York City, thinking that he would find the perfect moment and be able to drop to a knee and ask you to be his forever.

But the moment never came.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to ask you, because he did more than anything. It’s just that he could never find the time that felt perfectly right. You deserved the biggest, most romantic moment that the universe had to offer, and anything else felt inadequate.

He wanted to just get down on a knee and go for it, but whole universal timing aside, what would he even say? If he couldn’t have the right moment thanks to karma or whatever, he could possibly make a big romantic speech to make up for it, but that’s a lot of pressure for a moment in time unless he were to write it down, but a notecard would definitely kill the mood.

Bucky was jolted out of his reverie by the knock on the door, and he pocketed the ring once more so that he could pay the delivery man at the door.

He quickly set the paper food containers out on the kitchen counter before returning to the living room and pacing back and forth across the carpet. He ran his hands through his hair as he thought hard, brow furrowed in concentration as the box sat suddenly heavy in his pocket.

“Babe, is everything ok?” Bucky heard you say, and he turned to see you, standing at the foot of the stairs. You were wearing what you referred to as your “comfies,” which consisted of an old shirt and sleeping shorts, and your still-damp hair was mussed playfully. Your face was cleansed of all makeup and you looked refreshed and absolutely radiant. “You look like you’re going to wear through the carpet.” You told him with a fond sparkle in your eyes.

Fuck it, Bucky thought.

He dropped to a knee right there in the middle of the living room, taking the ring box out of his pocket and opening it. He held his breath and locked his gaze onto yours, waiting for a response.

“Bucky…” You said slowly, frozen to the spot and seemingly lost for words. He could tell that by the way you blushed pink and your lips turned up into the faintest smile that your shock was positive.

“C’mere, doll. I’ve got something I wanna say to you.” He beckoned softly, and you nodded, stepping forward so that he was on his knee directly in front of you. He reached up to take your hand in the one that wasn’t holding the ring.

“I’m not good with words. Or emotions, really. But I’m good with you, Y/N. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, and from the moment I met you at that market, I’ve been able to feel things and see a future for myself that I haven’t been able to feel or see since before I was iced. You’re everything that I’ve ever wanted.”

Tears were welling up in your eyes as you grinned, and you squeezed his hand. He took it as a sign to continue.

“I’ve had this ring for weeks, but I’ve been waiting for the universe to grant me some kind of perfect moment, and it’s taken me this long to realize that any moment with you is a perfect one. And I know that we’re surrounded by boxes right now, and that this might not be the romantic proposal that you dreamed of as a little girl, but I’m planning on spending the rest of my life making it up to you. Y/N, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”

Tears were freely falling down your cheeks as you breathed a “yes, oh my God,” and Bucky slid the ring onto your finger. You immediately fell to your knees on the ground so that you could embrace him, making him lose his balance and topple onto the ground underneath you with a laugh. He kissed you deeply, cupping your face in his hands and wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs.

Before too long, the two of you were sitting against the couch, watching Netflix on your laptop and eating takeout with plastic forks and drinking champagne that Steve bought Bucky from the bottle (”For whenever you get around to it, Pal.” He had said).

Tomorrow, the two of you would break the news to the rest of the team and officially start unpacking things into your new place, but at that moment, there was a still feeling of relaxation that he savored. He hadn’t felt so happy with things to come in a long time.

Bucky couldn’t wait to start the rest of his life with you. 

tags:  @howlingbarnes  @rotisserierogers @maybe-mikala @savage-stilinski

[a/n: i’ve literally been working on this for months and it’s cathartic to finally post it!! I feel like I may have been in too much of a rush to get this finished up, but I have been staring at this for a long time so I honestly don’t even know. 

any feedback would be super super appreciated as always!! let me know what you think!! i’ll be checking my inbox, my messages, and reblogs, so let me know!! :-) ]

[stalkyou4ever]

Pretty Little Liars Endgame Theory - A.D. is Spencer’s Twin (and Wren), and Charlotte’s Killer is Melissa

POSTED 6/06/2017 - Before 7x17 Aired

PLL blogs - Reblog for a follow! I want to lay out the evidence that is personally convincing to me for my (hopefully) final PLL theory. I believe fully that Melissa is Charlotte’s killer. That seems clear to me. As for A.D., I’m less certain, but I’m willing to commit to the theory that Spencer has a twin who is A.D. and Wren is her ally. I’m still somewhat hesitant to be completely gung-ho about this theory, as there are multiple notes I will make that show the theory is shaky, but there is still a significant amount of evidence that points me to that conclusion anyway, whereas no other theory I’ve considered has evidence quite as convincing.

Most of everything here is not all too original (most of my own thinking is really just in the ‘Melissa is Charlotte’s killer’ section) but I hope my straight-to-the-point bulleting format will be useful to see the best evidence for these theories laid out in one place. Even if no one reads this, I wanted a record to show that this was my theory in case I turn out to be correct.

To start off, I believe this to be absolutely true:

Charlotte was in the bell tower the night of her death to marry the love of her life, Archer Dunhill. She was holding the flowers that she took from Alison’s house because they were acting as her wedding bouquet. 

Evidence for this: Charlotte’s death was eerily similar to Spencer’s college paper she wrote for her criminology class, as revealed in 6x12. And in the murder that Spencer’s essay was about, the victim was specifically killed on her wedding night. The only explanation for PLL’s random inclusion of this detail (seriously, there was no good reason for it unless it’s this) is that it was hinting that Charlotte was getting married that night.

Evidence for Melissa being Charlotte’s killer:

As we learned in 6x17, Charlotte had called Wren and told him about Melissa’s involvement in Bethany’s death, which caused Wren to end their engagement. Melissa was furious with Charlotte for doing this. Therefore, to get her revenge, Melissa killed Charlotte on her wedding night out of spite for Charlotte ruining Melissa’s relationship and chance at marriage.

^ One more point about that. This makes sense because it is basically the ultimate culmination of Melissa’s character. She has been defined throughout the entire series by her anger with Spencer for stealing or messing around with both Ian and Wren. Melissa is basically cursed with having her relationships ruined by female family members (Charlotte being her cousin). Charlotte ruining Melissa’s engagement to Wren finally caused Melissa to snap and take physical revenge - the final explosion after 5.5 seasons of being wronged.

In 6x16-17, we learn that Charlotte’s murder weapon was a hollow rod with a rectangular opening on the end, which perfectly describes Melissa’s broken luggage handle. A.D. gets their hands on it in 6x17 and that’s the last we heard of it. Also, Melissa lied about her arrival to Rosewood (she was actually in Rosewood secretly at the time Charlotte was killed). It hasn’t been explained why she lied.

Seasons ago, there was a flashback of Melissa and CeCe seemingly fighting the night that Alison was buried and Bethany was killed. This flashback has never been adequately explained. There was a brief suggestion that the flashback is unreliable because it was Jason’s memory and he was high that night, and Charlotte said in 6x10 that it couldn’t have been her with Melissa, so Jason simply must have seen Bethany with her instead. I just don’t believe either of these cheap cop-outs; the latter doesn’t even make sense as Melissa definitely did not talk to Bethany that night. Which means it was surely CeCe and Melissa fighting. We have no idea why (could the N.A.T. Club explain it?) but clearly Melissa and Charlotte have had a history of conflict that is STILL shrouded in mystery (and ready to be explained in the series finale!)

Melissa and CeCe were also on that boat together in Cape May, if CeCe is to be believed that Melissa took the photo. The fact that the show still hasn’t delved into these two characters’ connection makes me believe it will be a topic of the series finale, which means Melissa has to have SOME role in relation to Charlotte, and being her killer would certainly be a big payoff to that.

It’s been proven time and time again that Melissa has always tried her best to protect Spencer (such as burying Bethany because she thought it was Alison whom Spencer had killed). With Spencer’s former tormenter released from Welby, killing Charlotte could have been one more effort of Melissa’s to protect Spencer from being tortured again.

*NOTE: I realize that this may seem a little TOO obvious, what with Melissa actually being an in-show suspect of being the killer. When the Liars suspect someone out loud, that usually means the suspect is not the culprit. But these circumstances are different. Usually, the suspect is ruled out within a few episodes so the Liars can move on to a new one. The Melissa suspicion was expressed but then dropped from the show with no resolution, and it was long enough before the series finale to not be the freshest thing on general fans’ minds. Its resolution will come in the finale when Melissa is finally back and revealed as Charlotte’s killer.

Also: Remember when Marlene literally showed CeCe in a black hoodie in 4x11 spying on Ezria and then never elaborated on that until she was revealed to be ‘A’? She gave us the answer far before the reveal and never brought it up again so fans wouldn’t think about it much. Same thing Marlene is doing here again with Melissa.

Now for A.D. theories. Even though I think Wren is only an ally to A.D., I’m going to lay out evidence as if he actually IS A.D.

Evidence for Wren being A.D.:

A.D.’s main goal seems to be to expose whoever killed Charlotte. This means, logically, that A.D. cared for Charlotte and was possibly close with her. As far back as Season 3, we learned that Wren was helping CeCe get into Radley by faking her identification badges (which PLL conveniently reminded us of during the Spencer-Ezra-Wren scene in 7x15). Sounds like something a friend would do for another friend. Charlotte also called Wren over the 5-year time jump to tell him about Melissa’s involvement in Bethany’s death. Why would she call him and try to help him by enlightening him to his fiancée’s secret, unless Charlotte and Wren were friends? They clearly have a (platonic) relationship that has not been explained whatsoever on this show. Not much time left to explain it except for in the series finale when it’s revealed that Wren and Charlotte were super close and he’s avenging her death! 

How many times has Executive Producer Joseph Dougherty told us “all roads lead to Radley��? Wren literally worked there, giving him access to any files and information he needed to become as knowledgeable about Spencer’s origin with Mary Drake as A.D. is. How did A.D. get their hands on Mary’s letter to Spencer (as seen in 7x11)? Wren could’ve gotten it when working in Radley. Also, there was that whole deal with Radley’s basement in 6B. In 6x20, we learned that the Records Room in the basement was turned into a secret room and all the records were taken except for one file of Mary’s. 6x16 ended with A.D. messing with electrical switches down there, so A.D. clearly knew about the room and probably took the files. The show tried to distract us with Sara Harvey seemingly being the only one who knew about the basement, but Sara’s dead, and Wren would know about it too since he worked there.

A.D. has consistently been associated with a doctor aesthetic. Rubber blue gloves have been a staple feature of A.D.’s outfits since early 6B and A.D. seemed to be in full doctor garb at the end of 6x11 in their scene with Jenna. Hanna was also forced to perform surgery on the life-sized doll of herself in 7x13. Archer is dead, so that leaves Wren as the last suspicious doctor character.

Wren’s last pre-S7 appearances had him looking extremely suspicious in 4x10. Drawing what seemed to be Red Coat. Eyeing Hanna and Caleb angrily from his car. Calling someone and saying “We have a problem. I’ll take care of my end, you take care of yours.” (It would make sense if it was Charlotte on the other end of that phone call). Eddie Lamb didn’t trust him and then vanished forever. Mona didn’t trust him, and when has Mona ever been wrong? There’s only one last chance to explain this never-resolved character development - with an A.D. reveal in the series finale.

Also in 4x10, Wren was trying really hard to stop Eddie Lamb from bringing a book to Spencer’s Radley room, at the same time that Spencer was doing her ‘A’ duty of kidnapping Malcolm. How could Wren have known that Spencer wasn’t in her room unless he knew she was working for ‘A’ (Charlotte at the time) and wanted to stop Eddie from messing that up?

On at least two occasions (as recently as 7x15), Wren has enjoyed the same drink that ‘A’ has been shown to enjoy. A clue for the observant fans. http://morethantheseashes.tumblr.com/post/161412457232/stalkyou4ever-damn-it

At this point, I feel like the show has had too many random connections to London/the UK for it to not have some significance. Archer being secretly British and a (fake) doctor could really be foreshadowing for a connection to Wren. They could be brothers or friends. Maybe Archer learned how to fake being a doctor from Wren. Maybe Charlotte and Archer met through their mutual relationships with Wren. I’m actually not the biggest fan of this theory that Archer and Wren are connected because I don’t think Archer was really working for A.D., but I have to throw it out there. It’s possible that he was, and it would be a logical reveal for Wren to then be A.D.

There’ve been a million bird references on this show. They’re everywhere. You can look up the posts and theories on that yourself. A wren is a type of bird, so there’s that. Maybe subtle hinting by the writers, maybe not.

If Melissa is Charlotte’s killer, as I really believe her to be, there’d be some poetry to Wren, Melissa’s ex-love interest, being A.D. against her.

This is obviously arguable, but I feel like Spencer and Hanna have gotten the brunt of A.D.’s actions (besides the horrible assault situation with Emison). Wren has the closest connections to Spencer and Hanna, having kissed both of them and ultimately being rejected by both.

* One problem I have is that Wren still doesn’t seem to have that great of a motivation for hating the Liars so much, other than believing them to be a part of Charlotte’s murder. Still not strong enough to warrant all THIS imo. But perhaps more will be revealed in the finale about his motivation that I can’t foresee.

** The truth of the matter is: Wren WILL be revealed as an antagonist of some sort in the series finale. I hope we can all agree on that much. Even if he’s not A.D., I guarantee with certainty that he is involved in the antagonist side of this mystery somehow. Most of the evidence I just listed above could apply just as well to him being A.D.’s right-hand man, which is more what I’m leaning toward. The only thing that still confounds me at that point is A.D.’s doctor theme. Why on earth would anyone else be wearing doctor’s clothes all the time?

Evidence for Spencer’s Twin being A.D.:

Obviously, the dream/hallucination scene in 7x01 that Hanna has of Spencer seemed off when it first aired and people have ran with it as evidence of Spencer having a twin. There’s the fact that the Spencer in the scene was not rocking the post-time jump bangs that Spencer has, but I’m less interested in that and more concerned about the fact that the dream-Spencer mentions A.D. to Hanna. Uber ‘A’ did not start using the name A.D. until Hanna was kidnapped, meaning, realistically, Hanna could not have dreamed Spencer saying “A.D.” because she hadn’t been exposed to that moniker yet. It could only really be explained if it wasn’t a dream at all, but Spencer’s twin (A.D.) talking to Hanna IRL. “Spencer” also asks Hanna who killed Charlotte in that scene. That’s exactly the information A.D. wanted and kidnapped Hanna for. 3 things in this one scene that hint at a twin.

In Spencer’s 7x13 ping-pong match with Marco, she switches to her left hand to make her winning shot. But we know Spencer is right-handed. A clue that Spencer’s twin is left-handed?

In 7x08, the ex-Radley doctor Dr. Cochran told Sparia that he delivered “two of [Mary’s] babies.” That specific wording suggests that Spencer and Charlotte were just two of some unknown greater number of babies that Mary Drake had. He also mentions that the baby he delivered years after Charlotte went into the care of protective services. We know Spencer went immediately into Veronica’s hands so that baby couldn’t have been Spencer….

In 7x15, we all felt something was off about Spencer’s scene with Wren and Ezra. She seemed slightly jumpy and nervous about being caught with Wren, asking Ezra not to tell anyone she was with Wren, not even her friends. The scene also felt weird because it took place immediately after a scene in which Spencer was elsewhere looking to meet up with Mary Drake, but was caught by Marco. There may have been a small time jump for her to get to the airport, but it sure didn’t feel like it. AND she wasn’t wearing the same clothes she had just been wearing in the previous scene (her trench coat was nowhere to be found). Combine all this with the theory I just went through of Wren maybe being A.D. or a helper, and that scene could have just been two A.D. partners-in-crime meeting up to talk shop.

When asked if we’ve met A.D., Tyler Blackburn said “You kind of have.” This quote haunts me. He wouldn’t have said this if A.D. is just a regular character we know. A.D. has to be some sort of twin, or secret family member, or SOMETHING. This also makes me doubt that Wren is REALLY A.D. - he may just be a subservient partner to A.D.

MY PROBLEMS WITH THIS THEORY:

As much as I love the idea of Spencer having a twin who’s A.D., I also recognize its faults.

The things pointed out about Hanna’s 7x01 dream scene could be explained by simple pragmatic reasoning. The lack of bangs could just be Marlene’s choice of having Hanna dream of Spencer how she used to look in high school, since most of Hanna’s memories of Spencer would have her looking like that. The mention of A.D. could really just be a mistake on the writers’ part. They probably really wanted to be consistent with using A.D. since it was new and they were writing 7x01 fresh off a hiatus where they could have forgotten that detail. Spencer asking Hanna who killed Charlotte could just be Hanna’s manifestation of wanting to know that answer herself since it got her kidnapped.

Same thing with the ping-pong match. Her switching hands could be completely arbitrary. It really runs the risk of just being fans’ wishful thinking reading into that.

When Dr. Cochran mentions “two of her babies,” he says it in a way that sounds like he really didn’t know much about Mary’s birthing history besides the two he delivered. It was flippant in a way that made it sound like he wasn’t actively suggesting she had more than two babies; he just said “two of” in case she had more than two, but he didn’t actually know either way. 

Also, and this is a kicker in my opinion, if Mary had twins for her second birth, wouldn’t Cochran have delivered BOTH twin babies? He would have said he delivered 3 of Mary’s babies then. (We KNOW Charlotte was one of the babies he delivered). It doesn’t make sense that he’d deliver Spencer’s twin but not Spencer herself at the same time. They wouldn’t switch doctors like that. This is the biggest flaw in the theory for me.

But, despite these flaws, there sure is reason to believe that Spencer’s twin is A.D. and Wren is her right-hand-man. At this point, I’m not willing to say that the twin is also Bethany Young, as one popular theory suggests. There seems to be a lot of pure speculation and wishful thinking that went into that specific theory. I’m not saying it’s definitely false, but I’d need at least one clue that’s more solid to make me really believe that. 

As for motivation, I don’t care to theorize on that much. Theories usually lose me when they get into motivation because they’re almost always based on pure speculation and very little evidence. The simple answer is that Charlotte and Spencer’s twin were siblings and Twincer cared a lot about Charlotte and wants to avenge her death. This is good enough for me for now. (I expect more in the finale though). This would probably mean Charlotte had a relationship with Twincer in order to build this bond, as the twin clearly does not feel much of a bond with Spencer.

Thank you for reading! Feel free to discuss with me! I’d love to before the show ends.

Thank you to the amazing Pretty Little Liars fandom, whom I’ve been a part of for over 5 years now. Can’t believe my last theory ever has been posted! I sincerely hope everyone enjoys the series finale to the fullest extent. Enjoy the gAme!

[uswemiliadiddams-blog]

#10 Multi-tasking

My co-worker, Sandra, was very busy during the camp. She had her camp duties, same as me, but at the same time was developing and starting up her own company. Her and her business partner were opening up a swimming school for children and parents in Warsaw. She had a lot of paper work to do as well as establishing a brand – with name, logo and advertising. For the duration of the camp, she was working away and trying to come up with a logo, so I decided, that as I was there anyway and had recently developed some new skills in digital design specifically surrounding the creation of logos, that I would help her out with some creative ideas. She knew the name of the company – 4 Elements, so we had something to work with. We scribbled down many variations over the upcoming days.

Funny story! On one of the days that we were painting t-shirts, we had our logo doodles on sheets of paper next to us to work on while the kids painted. We were both busy most of the time, walking around and helping the kids touch up some lines or do some pencil sketches ready for them to paint. Suddenly a 10 year old boy pops up from behind us holding his finished t-shirt, smiling proudly that he had finished first and asking where he can put it to dry. I instantly burst out laughing, and Sandra’s face was priceless. He had copied one of her logo designs off the paper onto his t-shirt.

“Great, now people might think I plagiarised from a kid!”

In order to set up a company, it doesn’t actually require that much. You register your name, explain a bit what it is you are going to be doing and pay some insurances every month. This was good to know, as I’m hoping to start my own company after uni. As I mentioned before, I’m interested in writing and illustrating children’s books, however I also love doing commissions and live briefs. I like the interaction with the client, and having my work being used for the world to see. I recently redesigned the logo for the bar that is my second home, the Drunken Monkey, for their side business - the Drunken Monkey Beer Bikes - and get a kick out of seeing my design on merchandise. Therefore, my company would most likely be freelance artist based.

Much of my summer’s hands on art projects had been surrounding logos and I learned a few valuable things if I were to pursue doing logo commissions, or even when creating my own. Simplicity is key. Singular colour pallet is more universal. When creating the design digitally, never send the full file to the client, as anyone with knowledge of digital media will be able to replicate it and avoid paying you. There are ways to hide your name in the code of the files to protect yourself. A logo is the most memorable – first contact association.

Back to Sandra’s logo, in the end she decided on none of the ideas we had. Time was of the essence to start getting people to sign up for classes, and she had to get a move on with online marketing. She created a pamphlet for Facebook, and again asked me for advice. At first glance it looked wrong. She had funky colours, pictures from google, illegible font and the logo was lost in the background. I instantly picked up on all these things from a design aspect for the first time. Usually when I see an ad on Facebook, I don’t scrutinise every line spacing and colouristic choice, however I’d also never been asked my opinion. We worked through the changes and as soon as she changed just a few things she could see what I was saying. The logo needs to be visible – so people associate it with the product. The font has to be readable over fancy, and the colours need to complement each other. I also suggested that she use her own photography in her adverts to avoid any chance of copyright infringement. Even though my logo ideas weren’t used in the end, I still think that I managed to successfully help her from an aesthetic perspective, and I know she has taken my advice on board, as her Facebook ads now look great!

It also happened to be her name day (celebrated similarly to birthdays in Poland) while we were at the camp. Her husband was one of the tennis trainers, and I knew them both well after effectively cohabiting together for 2 months. Last year, he forgot until the last minute, and asked me to teach him how to make a crepe paper flower, I told him then, that I’d just make it for him, but he adamantly refused and said he had to do it himself. He confided in me before the camp asking what I think he should get her, so I cheekily suggested a commissioned painting by me. I didn’t want to charge him for it though, for two reasons. The first being: I’m terrible at pricing my own work, and also, I wanted the gift to be from me as well. I asked him for a picture, and painted it a few weeks before the camp and asked my partner to send it by post to the hotel, so that she wouldn’t see it (we shared a room). Unfortunately, this is where the postal service let me down, not only was my parcel ONLY just in time (it arrived on Saturday evening, her name day being on the Sunday), but the parcel was incredibly battered and upon opening it my fears were justified. It had a big rip in the canvas. Panic struck, and I had to come up with a plan with the other trainers to get me out of an activity so that I had time to try and fix it somehow. As was the trend, it was raining the next day, which was lucky for me! Sandra and her husband are both lifeguards, so they would have to go to the swimming pool with the kids! This meant I could stay in the hotel on my own and had 2 hours to salvage the painting. Therefore, I pushed this option strongly, and they agreed! I was on my own. The hotel is predominantly overrun by children, however, being a hotel, it also caters to family guests, or even adult tennis camps. So when I say alone, I mean without my band of kids. The hotel was still fairly busy. The only tools I had with which to repair the broken canvas, were: poster paint, t-shirt iron-on paints, very thick (and old) paintbrushes, some super glue and ear buds. I sat down in the foyer and started my operation. I hadn’t intended to draw any attention, however many of the guests stopped and asked me what I was doing and praising me on my work. I exchanged information with multiple people (to date I’ve done 2 commissions already. From the kitchen lady,and the gardener). 

I somewhat managed to fix the painting – best I could do, and that evening we had a celebration for Sandra where Martin (her husband) presented her with the painting and a bouquet of flowers. There were a lot of guests in the foyer enjoying an evening drink that night, and Sandra showed my painting off to a number of people. One of the men, (one of our kid’s dads) instantly saw the crude fix, and went on to tell me how he is an art curator in a gallery in Warsaw, and for a reasonable (ehheeeeem) price, I could get it restored to the point you couldn’t even tell! We laughed about this and I said that it would be cheaper to just repaint it. None the less, I now had a contact in a gallery in Warsaw in case I ever need a masterpiece restored (or want to learn how to do it)!

I realised, if I was going to be doing international commissions there are a few important factors to consider. Definitely need to re-enforce packaging, possibly with cardboard and thick bubble wrap, make sure the canvas doesn’t rip, even if the postal service decides to play hot potato with it. This unfortunately brings up the shipping cost. Then there is the problem of currency, and completely different incomes. It’s all so confusing, and I hate talking price with people. I think it would benefit me in my future artistic career to employ a manager to handle contracts and negotiations. I’m good at the initial point of contact, and for the final product. The money makes me nervous. It was pretty much at this point that I decided, that maybe my brother and I could create a company together. He is also a very talented artist, however he went down the more academic route and mainly draws for fun. Not only that, but he’s not exactly a people person. He prefers the practical aspects of commissions, such as the value and the actual work. This means that we could perfectly complement each other! An endeavour we may seek to explore after I graduate.

[imsfire2]

One method of helping

(Author’s note: This was my rebelcaptainnetwork valentine, for tumblr user theeyeofthefuckingtiger.  I mislaid the note on how-to-post, which is why it’s a day late arriving on tumblr.  The prompt was "Are you trying to seduce me?" and I confess I've interpreted it a tad loosely; but this was what came.)

One method of helping

Or

They don’t call them Valentines in a galaxy far, far away.  But it’s just Jyn’s luck to get one.

(Sometimes people need a helping hand, even if it's only to get them to seduce one another).

The first time, it’s just a scrap of flimsy-paper with a coloured drawing on, a scribbled bunch of red flowers with green leaves, tied with a blue pencil curlicue.  Jyn has no idea how it got into her locker, but she hasn’t the heart to throw it away.  It reminds her too much of her own childish drawings, at six, at seven, at eight, and then no more.  Someone on Hoth is probably looking for their kid’s picture right now and hoping it hasn’t been trashed.

She stuffs it under her running shoes and tells herself to remember to ask if anyone’s lost a kid’s drawing.  Then forgets, caught up in the rhythm and energy of her pre-dawn workout, and the busy activity of her day.

The next morning, when she arrives at the gymnasium and opens her locker to get changed, it’s still there, and now it has a companion.  A second piece of flimsy, larger than the first, has been pushed under the locker door.  On this one, the drawing is of a single flower, red like the ones in the bouquet; and beneath it there’s writing:

The way you wear your scarf

The way you’re always clean

The way you run so free

In your kick-ass boots

You always look so fine, and

You do something to me.

She stands staring at the note in a mixture of irritation and bewilderment.  It’s a waste of resources, to use real flimsy-paper for something like this.  Granted, these are only small pieces, but still…  The drawings are infantile and the poem isn’t much better.

Someone at Echo Base is teasing her.  As if life here weren’t miserable enough, with the cold and the damp and the feeling of not-fitting-in, someone is amusing themselves at her expense.   It can’t be serious, after all.  They’re in the middle of a war.  No-one sends love notes in a war.

If it is serious, that’s almost worse.  Oh, krif, perhaps it is serious.  Just her luck if so.

She re-reads the poem and snorts.  “The way you’re always clean”; not much of a compliment.  She couldn’t even have someone get a crush on her who knew how to do it right.  Just her luck, indeed.

It’s not that Jyn is cynical about love.  She wishes she were.  Over the years she’s seen just enough of what people will do for love to know it is the most powerful, and the most dangerous, force in the galaxy.  So maybe she should be grateful for her secret admirer being so inept.  Or her joker, whichever they turn out to be.  Whether humourist or fan, it’s hard to imagine the author of this doggerel being someone who will throw their life on the fire.  So she’s probably safe.

She starts to screw the note up, and then feels sorry for the writer, and stuffs it in the bottom of the locker instead.  But for the rest of the day she wonders, and looks around her, scanning faces, searching eyes.  Someone, somewhere among her platoon, among her comrades, somewhere in this ice-hell she’s stuck in; someone, surely, will look away in embarrassment, sooner or later.

But no-one does.

The next day, there’s another note.  She looks left and right, hoping to catch someone watching, before steeling herself and unfolding it.  Another flower drawing, and another poem.

You are all sea-colours, all

Rosewood and rose, colours of

The rising sun; such warmth

In the light, shining

From you; and I

A shadow at your feet.

Well, that at least isn’t quite such bad poetry, though the images make her oddly uncomfortable.  Too much rising sun and sea; she shivers, remembering a sea with a sun that was no sun, rising within it.  

Reminds herself the writer can’t possibly guess the associations she’ll make with those words.

Then wonders too if the last line was intended to sound quite so self-abasing.  Maybe her secret admirer only meant to say that he or she is as ever-present as a shadow…

That would narrow it down to – most of her platoon.

Damn it, it’s so unfair! For the first time in years her life has something approaching stability.  She has a role in life, a group of friends.  She has things she can try to fit in with, instead of living behind a façade of not caring about her solitude and lack of any purpose beyond mere survival.  For once a relationship could have been possible; a chance of pleasure instead of a foolhardy risk.  Happiness is a real option, for someone who has goals and hopes, and a place she can call home.  If only…

A place to call home. She shivers again suddenly, and it’s not from the poem, or the chilly air.  There’s a husky voice in her mind, dark-toned and gentle, a voice that said the words she’d longed for and never dreamed of one day hearing; “Welcome home.” But that would be too much to hope for. Captain Cassian Andor is a man wholly given to the cause.  He’s kept away from her for a year, ever since Scarif, as if those insane few days had never happened; as if he’d never said “Welcome home” to her at all, or never expected her to think he meant it.  As if the memory of holding her in his arms on that beach in the face of imminent death was the most embarrassing of his life.  

She means nothing to him, not now they have the rest of the war to fight.  He’ll never see her as more than a brave comrade who needed emotional support on a crucial mission, when there was only him around to give it.

Just her luck, then, to have fallen for him.  And just her luck to have had someone fall for her who was too shy to declare themselves and too clumsy to do more than call her a girl of sunshine and roses. It’s sweet; but it’s not Jyn. She’s a woman of dust and blood and need, not blossom, not springtime and dawn-time.  Not Jyn.

It’s a special day today, the first anniversary of the Scarif Assault.  Straight after that early gym session, the rest of her morning is taken up with last-minute preparations for the parade and troop review, and then the review itself.  It’s only afterwards, aching with marching and standing to attention, that she has time, before the air support fly-past begins, to slip away to the new memorial on the Wall of Honour, and stand with her feet in flowers, to trace the names of the friends who did not come back.

Her fingers linger, touching the carved letters; Chirrut ��mwe, Baze Malbus.  

She imagines Chirrut smiling.  How interested he would have been by her latest frustration.  He’d probably have found it far more worth discussing than a troop review in his memory.

And she’s pretty sure he would have told her to give love a chance, and be unafraid.

She isn’t afraid, she tells herself crossly.  Just irritated and confused.  Who knows, her secret admirer might even be someone she gets on with.  If she just knew who it damned well was then she could give love a damned chance!  Even though it isn’t going to be the man she really wants.  She isn’t inhuman, she wouldn’t object to some intimate company.  It would be fun.  It’s been a long time to be sleeping in a cold bed, and blazing blasts but Hoth is cold!  Yes, so it wouldn’t be Cassian warming her; but it could still be fun.

She isn’t afraid at all.

But the truth is, she doesn’t want a bed-warmer.  What she wants is not to have dreamed the things she now knows were imaginary; the companionship and the friendship, the trust, the heart-stopping sense of someone understanding her without her needing to speak.  The feeling he would always come back for her when no-one ever had. The feeling she’d never be alone again. She wants it to have been true that he was starting to feel the same.  And it wasn’t.  Can’t have been.  She wants Cassian, and she isn’t going to get him.

She leaps like a scared Ewok as a hand comes down gently on her shoulder.  Spins round, reaching instinctively for the baton at her hip. And is staring into the deep brown eyes of Cassian Andor.

“Sir!”  Her voice is a squawk.  “You made me jump!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sergeant.”  His hand stays on her shoulder, firm and steady.  As if he wants to keep touching her.  That can’t be; but the sense of connection, today of all days, is unnerving.  His touch evokes memories she has wanted to put behind her for so long.  A feeling of warmth, a security, at the gentleness holding her.  Holding her as he did a year ago, so tenderly yet with all his strength.  

She inhales sharply. Looking up at him, so close suddenly, for a horrible moment she wants to cry.  Jyn never cries.  Has not cried once since that day.  Since she stood on the citadel tower at Scarif and he came back to her.  She shed tears on the tower, and on the beach, that she would have chained and bound and murdered, forever crushed, without him.  

His eyes slip past her face to rest on the memorial, on the two names engraved there side by side in death as in life.  A tiny smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

“Chirrut and Baze,” he says softly.  “I’m very glad to have known them, glad and proud.  I wish they could have seen today.”

Jyn wonders whether to make the joke Chirrut would have made, and decides against it.  She’s too keyed up, standing here, caught out; and his hand is still touching her, his warm eyes returning to hers.

He steps closer.  Says huskily “There’s something I have to ask you.”

She has no idea what it can be; and he’s a superior officer, he doesn’t need to ask.  But he is; so she nods awkwardly.  

Cassian lowers his voice to a whisper; he sounds hoarse and urgent, and uptight, and confused.  “Are you trying to seduce me?  With – with this?”

His eyes are blazing like jewels.  He reaches into the breast of his jacket with his free hand and draws out a folded piece of flimsy.  Unfolds it to display a drawing of a rose, and lines of handwriting.

Jyn gapes.  Her own hand is shaking as she pulls this morning’s note from her pants pocket and shows him.  “But – but- I don’t understand.  You’re getting them too?”

The fire goes out in Cassian’s eyes.  He steps back, and the precious weight of his hand is gone from her shoulder.  She remembers the way he looked when K-2 said goodbye, that same shutting down inwardly of every window of hope.

“It’s not from you, then,” he says, and his voice is flat with control.

No.  No, this can’t be happening.  Don’t go away from me again.

She reaches out and catches hold of the strong right hand that is still withdrawing from her, and holds it and doesn’t know what to do with it next.  For a second their fingers intertwine.  Then he pulls back once more, almost roughly.

Hastily she pushes her own note at him, and in a gabble she says “I’m sorry, I didn’t write this, I would never have had the courage!”

You always look so fine/ You do something to me… Cassian is looking fine, too, this morning; his clothes are immaculately pressed, boots polished, hair and beard trimmed and combed.  And in the silence after she speaks he looks at her with eyes that slowly take light again.

Jyn swallows hard. She’s said too much now, and he’s a spy; in the face of his training she’s probably as obvious as a child’s story written in large type with full-colour pictures.  Too late to back-track, too late to deny it and claim it was a joke.  

And damn it, she won’t deny this, it’s too true and too precious to her.  If she’s given herself away now, well, she’ll just have to live with it.  Surely he’s too good to mock her for it?  Isn’t he?

Carefully, Cassian unfolds her note and compares it with his own.  As he reads, his eyes come back to hers at the end of each line. He says “Same writing. Same terrible poetry.”

“It’s just a horrible joke,” Jyn says.  “Some idiot’s idea of humour, using my feelings to hurt you.  I’m so sorry someone’s doing this.  I would never do something this mean to you.”

“It’s not mean…”  He moves closer again, bending towards her; his face is as open as a window suddenly and his voice drops to a husky whisper.  “I just – I wish it had been you.”

“Oh!...”  He can’t mean that, surely he can’t mean…  “You wish I wrote bad poetry?”

That gets her a tiny smile.

“I wish you wrote bad poetry for me,” he says.

Such an uncertain smile, Cassian has, away from his normal ice-cold professionalism.  He cannot have practised smiling very often in his life. Hells and blazes, she thinks, he really does mean it.  

She has to swallow again, incredulity thick as tears in her throat.

“If I start to write poetry,” she whispers “It’ll probably be even worse than this.  Just to warn you.”

A tiny silence, a tiny quirk of a grin.  “I wouldn’t mind.  Not if it meant you cared enough to want to write it.”

“I do.”  Her voice has practically vanished.  Speaking hurts, but she drags the necessary words out. This way at least she’ll die with them spoken.  “I do care, Cassian.  So very much.”

The shy grin grows a little stronger.  “So, when were you going to ask me about my bad poetry?”  He offers her back the borrowed note, and she wants to hide from the heat in his eyes; and to be consumed by it.

“I would never have dared ask, I knew it couldn’t possibly be you…”

He bites his lip. “And that’s true.  But it’s only true because I would never have dared, either.”

“Oh…”

He brushes her hair back, lays his hand on her cheek for a second.  “I never thought you wanted me to.”

Something pushes Jyn gently in the back; she tears her gaze away from his and looks round, to see a short Drabatan behind her is trying to get to the memorial.  She and Cassian have been blocking it for several minutes. She moves hastily, with a murmur of apology, but she raises her hand to keep his touch in place; and he takes only one step back for her two.  She’s practically in his arms now.  

And then she is, and he is in hers.

The warmth and strength of Cassian’s body against hers, the gentleness of his wiry arms as he holds her; this is freedom, this is home.  Jyn hardly moves, hardly even breathes, for the longest moment.   A year since she knelt in this same embrace and drew the courage to let her tears fall, looking at death and no longer fearing it.  A year since the sky burned, and Cassian stayed with her till the end.  A year since an X-wing landed and saved them, carried them out of doom, three people crammed into a cockpit barely large enough for one to stand up in.  A craft just like the ones mustering now, powering up their engines on the far side of the landing field.  The fly-past will be starting in a few minutes.

Behind them, the Drabatan lays a small wreath under Sgt Pao’s carved name on the Wall of Honour. Salutes, silently.

It’s a day of mourning and celebration of sacrifice, and Jyn ought to be with her platoon, but she doesn’t want to leave the warmth of Cassian’s arms.  Not ever; never, never again.

She looks up at him at last, finally daring, finally hoping, and he bends his head and kisses her on the mouth.

And across the landing field, Flying Officer Rook, at the controls of an X-wing mustering for the air display, looks down and sees them melt into one another’s arms.  He grins to himself, satisfied.  Even poetry as bad as his has its uses.

[shadowedmiracles-blog]

Anxiety misunderstandings

First off, if you believe that anxiety is not a mental disorder, then I highly suggest you don’t even read this. Everything I say will probably irritate you and cause you to come to my ask box with things that will just piss me off further. Honestly, I don’t want to deal with it so I’d love it if you didn’t.

Second, yes, this will sound very aggressive and I can’t help it. I had a situation at work this week that caused a climax in my anxiety that I haven’t experienced since high school and caused me to spend an entire lunch break trying to convince myself that I am worth the air I breathe and definitely should not end my life.

Third, I am fully aware that there are probably a shit ton of grammar mistakes and that it probably doesn’t make sense and I’ve more than likely over simplified certain things. Keep in mind that this is based on my experience in dealing with Anxiety and watching the people in my life do the same. You don’t have to agree with me, and if you have some clarification, by all means, add it. I would love to know more. Anxiety is something that in equal parts destroys me and fascinates me. But again, this is MY thought dump, based on MY life. I tried to avoid generalizing, but I’m also too tired to be constantly vigilante enough to recognize every time I did; again, just let me know.

So without further ado, here is my ramble about anxiety based on some bullshit I have seen and experienced over the years while I have dealt with my anxiety.

1.) Anxiety is not a mental illness.

“Mental Illness: any of a broad range of medical conditions [...] that are marked primarily by sufficient disorganization of personality, mind, or emotions to impair normal psychological functioning and cause marked distress or disability and that are typically associated with a disruption in normal thinking, feeling, mood, behavior, interpersonal interactions, or daily functioning.” (x)

With that out of the way, if you have this argument, odds are you don’t live with anxiety. 

Now, when I speak of anxiety, I’m not talking about nerves before a life changing event, or the fear of telling your parents you don’t fit society norm. While these things can be something that a person with Anxiety deals with, they are also things that people without anxiety deal with often and without being crippled by them. If you do not deal with Anxiety, you experience these situations, handle them, and move on.

For a person with Anxiety, these situations seem life and death. When faced with a life changing event, their mind creates every possible scenario that could go wrong and then makes them believe every single possibility with every fiber of their being. When faced with fears, every basic sense is in overdrive to the point that a person with Anxiety swears they can taste something in the air they’re breathing, and feel every ounce of blood rushing through their veins. However, these are just small examples of the vast universe that is Anxiety.

There are many different kinds of Anxiety, and each is just as exhausting and crippling as the next.

2.) Anxiety doesn’t kill people.

Except that it can. 

Again, there are many different types of anxiety, and some can cause suicide or even homicide.

For example: One of my Anxieties makes me believe I am the world’s biggest screw up. That all I have to do is breathe and I am inconveniencing someone’s life. No matter what situation I’m in, when given a quiet moment to breathe, I will always reflect on my actions and suddenly I will have myself convinced that I did something  wrong and that I should be ashamed of it, even if I don’t know what that thing is that I did wrong. There have been two times in my life where my Anxiety had me convinced that I could only make people happy if I didn’t exist in their life and lead me to the conclusion that I just shouldn’t exist at all. Luckily, I was able to pull myself out of those situations, sometimes by recognizing that I needed help instead of fighting by myself. Not everyone is so lucky, or is able to reach out to their support system the way I am.

Another of my Anxieties is a fear based one. I have an incredible phobia of anything going into my skin, and this includes needles to draw blood or get shots. Now, let me preface by saying, I want to get blood tests done. There is so much fucked up shit in my family’s medical history and I want to know what I inherited. However, no matter how much courage I bolster to get myself to sit in the chair, while the nurse is preparing everything, my mind creates scenarios of everything that could go wrong and (again) makes me believe that they all will happen if I don’t stop the nurse from taking my blood. I was able to hold myself together once, and I almost made it, until I lashed out at the nurse and actually slapped the needle from her hand. I had not made the conscious decision to do so, but my Anxiety told me that if I didn’t, I would probably die, and my body reacted accordingly.

So yes, Anxiety can hurt people, and potentially kill. However, I am just one case. I am not every person with anxiety and these are just my own experiences, so don’t be afraid to be around someone when they are coping with their Anxiety. Be cautious for certain, be aware of what they need and try to fill those needs.

3.) Anxiety is just a bunch of emotions, so control them.

I really wish that were the case. I wish it was just emotions that I could mask with another emotion until the Anxiety emotion was muted enough that I could control it. Honestly though, more often, Anxiety is more like a thought process that you don’t get to decide where it goes. It’s a multi-plot book and simultaneously you are the hero, the villain, the jester, the victim, and the village crazy lady.

Anxiety starts out as one innocent thought that could be a statement, a question, a general wonder, or just something. That thought leads to another thought, and then that thought leads to another thought, and then you mail that thought to yourself, and when it arrives, you get smashed with a thousand pound thought train (x) that leaves you crippled and numb for an awful length of time until someone pokes me back to life and you’re trying to figure out if you figured out a solution to the first thought while that person is asking you if you want to do something that’s probably fun but sounds like a lot of work because you are suddenly exhausted and want to do nothing but curl up in the closest dark space with the hope that your mind is done torturing you enough to let you sleep off the exhaustion.

I’ve just simplified something that is extremely complicated. Just know that Anxiety is not simply emotions, and you can’t just get over it. It takes more effort to pull yourself out of it, than it did to fall down the rabbit hole in the first place.

4.) People with Anxiety are over-dramatic.

Thank you, they are probably very much aware of this, and often times it just further feeds into the Anxiety because they are aware of this and hate themselves for it.

Unfortunately, people with Anxiety are hyper aware that what is going on is illogical, and often times because of that they act illogical. That’s why many people with Anxiety will seek out logic to cope with their Anxiety. I, for example, solve math equations and riddles to cope. To me, that is the very definition of logic; 2+2 is always 4 and my Anxiety cannot convince me otherwise. However, there are times that, before I can get to that blissful paradise of logic, I react very dramatically.

Anxiety is not an excuse for being over-dramatic, but it is a cause, and most people with Anxiety would really love it if you could refrain from pointing out that they are being over-dramatic. Not just because it’s irritating, but chances are high that the person with Anxiety is already ashamed of how they’re acting and their Anxiety is already telling them that they will now go to jail for screaming that you’re an asshole who deserves to choke on a fly.

5.) People with Anxiety only care about themselves.

Quite the opposite actually. People with anxiety tend to care too much. They care about the people around them, they care what others think of them, they care about how they effect the world, and they care about how they are inconveniencing a store owner by only going in to use the store bathroom without buying something because they have no money to spend and just really need to go poop.

People with Anxiety care a lot, and more often than not, that is a trigger for Anxiety. They are probably the people that you see sacrificing their time or money when they really have none to sacrifice, and all because their Anxiety has told them that if they don’t, the world will end and it will be their fault and all the survivors will come after them with pitchforks and torches.

Or they’re just a really amazing person and you should buy them a bouquet of flowers...as long as their not allergic to flowers, then you should buy them chocolates...if they like chocolates, if not then hug them...but maybe they don’t like being touched...you know what, just cherish them.

P.S. Because we do care a lot, please know that we really don’t want to share that facebook post that says, “Only the people who truly care about me will share this”, but we just spent ten minutes crying because if we don’t share it, that means we don’t care about you, so we have to share it to prove that we care about you, but if we do share it then someone else might get offended and we just offended that person, but if we don’t then we’re offending you...get it?

6.) But (insert socially accepted mental illness) is much worse than Anxiety.

Every mental illness is awful in its own way. Each effects people differently, and even if two people are diagnosed with the same mental illness, they can experience it differently.

There is no mental illness that is the worst. They are all horrible and should be treated with love and caring in equal amounts as every other mental illness.

Honestly, I could go on for longer about this, and maybe some day I will. But right now, I am super exhausted and I still need to get a shower before heading to bed so I wont have to get up any earlier to get ready for work because I’m going to a funeral and I feel the need to put on makeup because I don’t want the people at the funeral to feel like I don’t care about my great-aunt. 

So, I’m going to leave this here. Feel free to message me. I can take critique, but I’m not in the mood to handle hate, so I’m seriously begging that you just don’t.

I hope you all are doing well.

[allaboutquinceaneras]

RITES OF PASSAGE: QUINCEANERA A LITTLE GIRL NO MORE HISPANIC CEREMONY FOR 15-YEAR-OLDS MARKS ANOTHERSTEP IN THE JOURNEY TO MATURITY

''I offer you, Lord, my youth. Guide my steps, my actions, my thoughts.''

Veronica Viramontes' voice quavers just a little as she recites her Prayer of Dedication. The petite Fresno girl is nervous at the altar. Everyone in the church is watching, listening. This is the biggest moment of her life -- her quinceanera, or 15th birthday, ceremony. She continues:

''Grant me the grace to understand your new commandment to love one another, and may your grace not be wasted in me. . . .''

Our Lady of Guadalupe, a favored Hispanic image of the Virgin Mary, looks down on Veronica from a painting high above the altar.

''Oh Mary, my mother, present my offering and my life to the Lord. Be my model of a valiant woman, my strength and my guide.''

Veronica, an eighth-grader at Wawona Middle School, is among thousands of girls in the West and Southwest who each year celebrate a quinceanera, a centuries-old Mexican and Latin American tradition that marks their passage into adulthood.

Although her voice is timid and childlike, Veronica looks so grown up. Her sequin-and-lace white gown clings to her 5-foot, 105-pound frame. The gown has a layered, billowing skirt and a cape attached at the shoulders. White gloves add another touch of elegance. Veronica's long, dark brown hair is swept up on the top of her head, encircled with a lacy band.

As Veronica reads the prayer, she holds onto a tall, cream-colored pillar candle with her left hand. Her mother and uncle are at her side, each with a symbolic, supportive hand on her.

''You have the power to change hearts. Take my heart, then, and make me a worthy daughter of yours.''

The Rev. Phil Van Linden, pastor of the Catholic Community of Mt. Carmel & St. Alphonsus, is celebrating this Saturday afternoon Mass. He stands next to the family, smiling as he watches Veronica.

''Amen,'' Veronica finishes, then looks up shyly.

At the priest's urging, church-goers stand and applaud.

Relief floods Veronica's face, and she flashes a big smile. She has finished her part of the ceremony, so she relaxes and enjoys the rest of it.

After the recessional down Mt. Carmel's 80-foot-long red carpet and a photo session, Veronica maneuvers her hoop skirt into one of two stretch limousines parked outside. She and the two dozen friends who participated in the ceremony are off to Courthouse Park for more photos. Then they'll cruise around town.

The youngsters are elbow-to-elbow in the 14-passenger limos, yet they're waving to cars and passers-by. The radios blast with the music of Prince and other popular entertainers.

Despite the driver's admonishment to stay completely inside the car, a now-animated Veronica pops her head and arms through the sunroof as they approach Courthouse Park. She broadly smiles and waves to a sheriff's patrol car.

As the sun sets, the entourage makes its way to a dinner reception and party, to continue the celebration with a DJ and a band that played tejano, banda and cumbia music.

Veronica, who started her quinceanera day quietly at 7 in the morning at Merlina's Beauty Salon on the Fulton Mall, will dance the night away until 1 a.m.

Hispanic custom

Some people say a quinceanera looks like a wedding -- without a groom.

With her elaborate white gown and bouquet, Veronica easily could be mistaken for a bride. Her nine damas, or attendants, wearing white and hunter green formal gowns, and their escorts, or chambalanes, wearing black tuxedos with tails and hunter green cummerbunds, also fit into the wedding scenario.

But a quinceanera is not a wedding; it's a rite of passage primarily practiced by Hispanic Catholics. It is part religious rededication, part social coming out.

In Spanish, quinceanera means ''15th birthday.''

Unlike Holy Communion or confirmation, the Catholic Church doesn't consider a quinceanera an essential element in the life of a Catholic. But the church respects the traditions of Hispanic parishioners and so celebrates the quinceanera, says Van Linden.

No one knows for sure how it got started, but the quinceanera custom seems to come from the ancient Toltec and Mayan fertility rites in which fathers presented their marriageable daughters to the tribe.

Today, the celebration, like the Jewish bat mitzvah for girls and bar mitzvah for boys, signifies maturity.

In order to have a quinceanera, a girl must have celebrated her first communion, go to confession the day before the ceremony, and do volunteer work at the church.

Boys may celebrate a quinceanero, but it's rare because the ceremony generally is considered a girl's coming out, Van Linden says. He's done three in 15 years of parish work.

Veronica isn't a parishioner at Mt. Carmel, a 51-year-old, red-tile-roofed church in southwest Fresno.

At the first of two prayer and preparation sessions two weeks before her quinceanera, Veronica admitted it has been awhile since her last confession. She stammered and stumbled when church coordinator Carol Jiminez first asked her to read a Bible passage and the Prayer of Dedication.

Van Linden says he views a quinceanera as a time for the church to make an impression on a girl and her family and as a chance to perhaps draw them into regular worship and activities.

Van Linden says the emphasis of a quinceanera should be on the religious aspects and he discourages the extravagance that is all-too-often associated with the ceremony.

He's among the many priests who are troubled that many families, including those of modest means, spend thousands of dollars on their celebrations.

''It breaks my heart to know how much money is being spent on these things,'' says Van Linden, a priest who speaks Spanish and English and has celebrated hundreds of quinceaneras in churches in Arizona, Guatemala, Los Angeles and -- for the last three years -- Fresno.

Van Linden encourages simplicity in quinceanera celebrations. ''Simplicity and family unity are the best values that we can teach our young people, and one way is by not incurring unnecessary costs for this church celebration,'' says the parish quinceanera policy.

And in an effort to keep the focus on the service and not the individual, some parishes, including Van Linden's, conduct only group quinceaneras.

In Van Linden's parish, a quinceanera Mass is scheduled once a month, except during Lent. Veronica was the only person who signed up for the December quinceanera, which isn't typical.

The group ceremony, he said, ''discourages the big show-time. And it levels the playing field. If a girl comes from a poor family or wealthier family, it doesn't make a difference,'' he says.

''There's a sense of community that's built on the quinceanera. It's not "my family doing this for me.'''

The Rev. Arturo Gomez, pastor of St. Anthony Mary Claret Church in southeast Fresno, says he celebrates individual quinceaneras because, ''It's a time for parents to give thanks to God and for a sense of pride for the young lady,'' he said.

Intense planning

Veronica's mother began planning for her daughter's quinceanera last spring.

Corina Viramontes, 31, says she wanted the quinceanera to be unforgettable. ''I left home at 13, so I didn't have a quinceanera.''

Viramontes took charge.

She registered Veronica with the church, found a reception hall and followed the custom of contacting family and friends to sponsor various parts of the celebration and to help defray expenses.

Veronica's father, Fausto Viramontes, does demolition work that often forces him to travel throughout the state. He was unable to attend Veronica's quinceanera, so her uncle, Jose Perez of Sanger, filled in.

The Viramontes' other children are Carlos, 13, Jacqueline, 11 -- who already is looking forward to her quinceanera -- and Jonathon, 3.

Veronica asked 14 girls and 14 boys to be part of her ''court.'' With Veronica and her escort, Raul Hernandez, that would have made 15 -- quince -- couples, one for each year of her life.

Some youngsters accepted but later backed out because of the expense of buying dresses and accessories and renting tuxedos. In the end, nine boys and nine girls, ranging in age from 12 to 17, precede Veronica down Mt. Carmel's center aisle.

Veronica invited 250 people to her quinceanera, but most passed on the church ceremony and just attended the evening reception at Las Palmas Masonic Lodge.

Van Linden says the sparse church turnout is a common and frustrating reality. Typically, only the parents of participating youngsters attend, he says. ''They want to see how they spent their money on those dresses.''

Words of wisdom

Chastity is an element of a quinceanera.

While helping her prepare for her quinceanera, Jiminez reminded Veronica that she presents herself to God during the ceremony. ''The white dress and white flowers represent you're a virgin and pure,'' Jiminez said.

Viramontes and her sister, Yvonne Sanchez, 28, don't hesitate to talk about chastity with Veronica.

''I'm proud of Vero,'' Viramontes says. ''I'm proud of her because I didn't make it this far -- I only made it to 13.

''She's saved herself to 15. I'm giving her thanks that she's lasted.''

Sanchez, who had her first baby at age 15, says she's proud Veronica is unlike other teen-age girls who ''go off and get pregnant.''

When Jiminez, during a prep session that involves the extended family, asked Sanchez for advice for her niece, Sanchez said, ''Just don't think that partying, having babies, being in love is the best. I think education should come first.''

Jiminez agreed. ''You want to concentrate on your studies. Life is very hard. You can't just say "I've had quinceanera and I can just party now.'''

Jiminez also urged Veronica to keep the spiritual aspect of her quinceanera in the forefront. She suggested that she attend Mass, pray, say the rosary each day and read the Bible.

The Bible passage Veronica and other girls read at quinceanera ceremonies is from the New Testament book of Colossians. It's from chapter 3, verses 12-17 and is subtitled ''Practice virtue.''

A family affair

Even though her family's budget is modest, Viramontes says Veronica's quincenera cost her more than $3,000. Viramontes says she had saved some money to pay for the celebration and will pay off other expenses as she can.

Her costs would have been considerably higher if she hadn't asked friends and family members to help with expenses.

More than 20 Padrinos y padrinas, godfathers and godmothers, paid for items presented to Veronica and blessed by the priest in the church ceremony, including a Bible, rosary, tiara, gold bracelet, necklace, watch and pair of gold and diamond earrings with a likeness of the Virgin Mary on the oval drop.

Other sponsors rented the reception hall; paid the photographer, DJ and band; and bought the beer, champagne and sparkling cider.

A sponsor also provided a spectacular three-tier cake with a lighted fountain under its base. The cake was topped with a girl doll in a gazebo. Little stairways down each side of the cake lead to additional layers. On the steps were miniature boy and girl dolls.

Veronica's grandmother, aunt and great-aunt prepared a buffet meal of carnitas (shredded pork), potato salad, beans, rice and corn tortillas for the 200 people who attended the reception.

A high point of the reception is a speech by Veronica's mother. She carefully has written it down and starts by thanking all those who helped with the quinceanera.

Then Viramontes is overcome with emotion and hands her notes to her cousin, Albert Gonzales. He reads:

''You've given my life and your brothers' and sister's lives so much. I've been blessed from above. ...I don't know if I could ever add to the wonderful daughter you are.''

Veronica speaks next, expressing thanks to her mother and other family members. As usual, she's a girl of few words.

''I appreciate all that you did,'' she says.

And with that, the princess for a day returns to the dance floor.