#tbh ive been wanting to watch the anchor man for a really long time now

[homosexual-fast-dancer]

so you like michael scott ???

(throws brick tamland from "the anchorman" at you) another steve carrel (did i spell that right ???) sillyman for ya jjajsjdj 🫶

Yeah I like Michael Scott, he's a f*cking loser

Now onto this Brick guy!

...dear god

[purecamp]

Hi, I have a question about your mamma mia au! Is Pat dead on Here I Go Again? Because I was thinking that if she passed away before higa, Sharon and Willam would attend the funeral right? Wouldn't Sharon bring Trixie too? Wouldn't Willam go talk to her and get suspicious about Trixie? Is this me subtly asking you to write an oneshot about it just because I'm not ready to let go of this universe and also wanting you to write more Shillam? 😂

ahaha anon this tickled me tbh. first of all thanks for the love (!!!), so i’ll try to answer in parts

-unfortunately she has passed before higa because she would be 113, which is possible but... unlikely ahaha -ive been debating this since waaaay before u asked me bc its something i thought about a lot, like would sharon bring trixie or not? would she even go? lots 2 think about, decisions decisions -i would write oneshots for you in a second. plz feel free to request them at any time omg

anyway, i guess i’m gonna give it a go here! 

She was a good age, Sharon knew that. Spritely in nature right up until her last moments, Patricia Belli passed away in her retirement home at the age of ninety six.

Her letter had arrived in the post; a short and not-so-sweet note letting Sharon know that if she received this letter, then she had died, and the nursing home staff had actually honoured her request of them to send it to her. Somewhat of a doting grandma - owing to the fact that Sharon had no idea what Pat would be to Trixie if she even was related - she had attached some plastic-wrapped sweets and lollipops.

God, this was going to be difficult. On top of having to close the hotel, at least for a day whilst she attended the funeral, Sharon was going to have to explain the concept of dying to her three-year-old girl, who thought the world was nothing but sparkles and sunshine.

And that was without slotting in time for her own grief. In four years, Pat had transformed Sharon’s life, and she owed her everything.

Times like these were when Sharon wished she had a little bit of help. She needed to cry and sniff and weep into somebody, to wallow in the horrible feeling of finally being alone in the world with herself as the only adult to rely on. She needed to continue working in order to stay alive, and keep her home paid for and her daughter fed. She needed to sit down and explain to Trixie than Nana Pat was gone, and she wouldn’t be coming back. She needed someone else to bundle her up for once and tell her it was all going to be okay.

“You alright?” Maria broke her out of her thoughts, tapping her as she went past behind the bar to fetch a few more bottles of ale.

Sharon grabbed a rag and continued drying up the glasses - Maria had offered to extend the hotel into her bar, meaning Sharon now managed a hotel and taverna in one. “Yeah, just... Can’t believe she’s gone, you know? I always felt like Pat was gonna live forever.”

Maria nodded. “It will be strange, we miss her around here. She was regular for many years at this taverna. Party held here after the service, in her honour.”

“She’d like that. Everyone getting drunk for her.” She sighed, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want to have to tell Trix. She’s only young, after all.”

Shrugging, Maria offered a kindly smile. “Brave and strong, like her mother. Even if teeny tiny.”

Despite her heavy heart, Sharon laughed.

---

“Mama! You’re here!”

The same cheerful greeting that Sharon was met with every afternoon came at her once again, lifting her low mood a little. A flurry of pink shot towards her, Sharon noting a smudge of blue paint on her face and some scuffs on her shoes from a day of playing before she was tackled in a huge hug.

“I’m here, little pumpkin. Did you have a good day?”

“The best!” Trixie trilled. “We did painting, and running, and I played dolls with Kimmy and Pearl showed me how to draw hearts!”

Ever-suffering, her preschool teacher was stood by the door to the classroom, her gaze tired but still warm as her last student clung to her mom. It wasn’t too often that Sharon was last to pick up her little girl, but it happened enough that she knew to just sit Trixie down with some colouring and leave her to it. Today, the grief had slowed Sharon down, and she was behind on most of her maintenance.

“Sounds fun! Now, are we walking out of here or is mama carrying you all the way home?”

Trixie took a moment to think about it, before smushing her face into Sharon’s neck. “Mama carries me home.”

Sharon sighed, figuring that she needed to keep Trixie happy if she was going to deliver such bad news. “Okay, just this once. Say bye bye, now!”

“Bye bye, Miss Coulée!”

Just Sharon’s luck, the walk was roughly long enough for them to discuss the subject. She was careful not to let her own emotions influence Trixie’s too much, knowing that a sobbing little girl would be much harder to console when she herself wanted nothing more than to break down in someone’s arms. Curious and a little confused, she asked a few questions which Sharon tried her best to answer, all while avoiding the term “Heaven”. It felt like she’d done an okay job, all things considered, but the fact that she had to do it alone meant she was more than nervous. This wasn’t going to traumatise her into therapy as an adult... she hoped.

“Will she miss me?”

Fuck, this kid was tugging at every single one of Sharon’s heartstrings. It didn’t seem possible that she had been the one to give life to something so goddamn cute.

“Nana Pat? I’m sure she will miss you, baby. And we’ll miss her, too.” Sharon took a deep breath. “But she’s still with us, isn’t she? Because we remember her, and we always have our memories.”

Trixie nodded thoughtfully. She had begged and begged to sit on Sharon’s shoulders, so now she idly played with loose strands of her hair, the messy bun practically ruined from the day’s work anyway.

“But she won’t come back because she’s too old.”

The child-like ability to make the most innocent and heartbreaking of things funny was one that Sharon hoped Trixie held onto forever. Even with her own heavy sadness, she giggled slightly.

“That’s right, bubba.”

A pause. “Are you sad, mama?”

Sharon nodded infinitesimally, trying not to trigger her tears. “Lots of people will be sad. When we go to the funeral on Saturday, there will be lots of sad people wearing black who all love Nana Pat very much. Will you promise me to be a really good girl and just sit quietly with me? We don’t want to disturb anyone.”

Trixie leaned forwards, pressing her lips to the top of Sharon’s head in an awkward, well-meaning kiss. “I’ll be good.”

---

She was golden. Sharon had done all her crying in the morning, before Trixie scrambled into her bed, and she was relieved at how easily her toddler had gone along with everything. Getting herself dressed had been a breeze; she even tried brushing her own hair, which was unsuccessful but nevertheless touching. Trixie then scampered off to play whilst Sharon got ready, giving her a few more moments alone.

Smoothing down her skirt, she examined herself in the mirror. An uncomfortable possibility had dawned on her that night, as she tried to sleep, and it made her unbelievably nervous. After all, he was her great-nephew...

She didn’t look that different than the day they met, surely? But yet, staring at herself, Sharon started realizing how little she resembled that girl already. Only four years had passed, near enough, and at twenty one and a mom, there was almost nothing to anchor this version of herself to the similarly-burdened yet unrealistically carefree seventeen-year-old that Willam had known.

Her hips were wider now, one of the few permanent modifications that Trixie had given her, and for all her low income meant a reduced diet, there was still the remains of a post-baby pouch that stubbornly remained. Black dresses were slimming, Sharon reminded herself, not that the rest of her needed it, but she hoped it was enough that if Willam did see her, he wouldn’t notice anything different.

That being said, he was a man. The little things didn’t matter. The living, squirming three-year-old, however...

Sharon sighed and relaxed, not bothering to try and suck in her stomach like she had before. Willam definitely wouldn’t notice it, he’d be too busy staring at Trixie. The human that he might’ve helped her create. That she had opted not to tell him about. Even though she had an easy way to do so via his now deceased great-aunt.

Fuck.

They made their way up to the little old chapel on the island in good time. Pat knew and loved her home more than anything, so relatives had been flocking from around the world to a tiny chapel on a tiny island out in Greece. It was a difficult walk, and with every step Sharon had to face that she really was in this alone now.

Not wanting to intrude in spite of her invite, Sharon slipped into a pew at the back and bowed her head, clutching Trixie in her lap as more of a comfort than anything else. Thankfully, as more and more people filed in, Trixie seemed to sense that her mama was upset, and quietly played with her flamingo teddy.

He was one of the last to walk in, of course - he would have to make an entrance. Swaggering in, his expression mostly calm, and his sheer confidence was highly inappropriate for a funeral and god if Sharon didn’t sound like her fucking mother. He was young and hot and the swagger seemed to be a Belli thing, because no one paid him any attention. Somewhere, whether in heaven or in her coffin, Sharon knew Pat was cackling with laughter.

And, of course, he just had to speak too. Sharon lifted her head a tiny bit to watch him, trying to ensure his gaze didn’t flicker onto her.

“So many kind things have been said about my dear great aunt today, and whilst it has warmed my heart I’m here to undo it all.” Willam started, filling the room with soft laughter. “Rest in peace, Granny Pat. You were old as fuck, but we’ll miss your rottenness. She had an ego bigger than mine and a liver bigger than Dad’s, and she was the life of the party. We love you, Pat.”

Everything about him was so familiar. Sharon tried not to think about it, but her mind was flooded with him. He didn’t look different at all, but she supposed LA had treated him well. Tanned and charming as ever, he seemed to woo his family as easily as he had seduced her into bed with him... or at least, that was how Sharon chose to remember it.

This was going to be a long day.

---

In all honesty, Sharon didn’t go out much anymore. It came with the territory of being a full-time parent and hotel owner-manager-chef-bartender-maid, but she was tired almost all the time. When Raja and Jinkx came over she made exceptions, but on a day-to-day basis, once Trixie was in bed, Sharon was exhausted from exerting herself to make sure she could even be finished and home in time for Trixie’s bedtime story. So, being out in the taverna in the late evening?

Unbearable.

As soon as everyone came in, Maria offered to take Trixie and keep her entertained behind the bar - which probably wasn’t the most responsible choice Sharon had made as a mom, but she knew Maria would take good care of her as she always did, and insisted she needed to mingle.

Mingling was the last thing on her mind, but she reluctantly grabbed a drink and tried to remain casual in a room full of strangers. After all, none of them knew who she was. None of them knew what Pat meant to her, and everything the daft old woman had done for her. None of them knew that without Pat, it was likely that her beloved daughter would’ve been given up for adoption and Sharon would’ve had to return home to her mother with her tail between her legs. Pat had made it possible for her to live, and as rough as it was, it was nice to be self-sufficient at twenty one.

“Hey! I thought it was you! Hi blondie!”

Sharon clutched her glass a little tighter and turned around slowly. “Forgot my name already?”

There he was, right next to her, having made his way across the room with bright eyes and a shiny grin. LA really had treated him well.

“You’re unforgettable, Sharon, don’t play me like that.” Willam teased. “Good to see you again. I knew goodbye wouldn’t last forever.”

Sharon scowled, but it didn’t last. “Hence why I said we wouldn’t have one.”

“Good point.” He gestured to her glass. “Vodka?”

She shook her head. “Just coke.”

“Pffft. Boring. Pat would want you to have some vodka. Or gin. Or both.”

Rolling her eyes, Sharon took a sip from her decidedly non-alcoholic drink. “I have responsibilities to take care of, I can’t just get drunk.”

As she spoke, her gaze went searching through the throng of people, praying Trixie wasn’t about to run over and squeeze her legs in a damning cuddle. To her relief, she was that she was balanced on Maria’s hip, happily giggling away with her out of Willam’s eyeline.

“We’re twenty one, Shar, and you haven’t seen me forever. Live a little!” Willam encouraged. “Seriously though, it’s good to see you. I didn’t know if you would still be here or if you still saw Pat around. It’s nice to see a face that I know she’d be happy to see, too. She hated most of the people here.”

God, the past tense. Sharon tried not to well up.

“You’re the only face here I know.” She admitted, her voice thick. “I feel a bit lost, honestly. If I didn’t have work, I’d be doing shots to loosen up.”

Willam laughed at that. “Right! I’m glad you know my face, at least. Familiar face, familiar arms, familiar chest, familiar d-”

“Stop!” Sharon shrieked, giggling in spite of herself. “Your great aunt has just died and you’re talking about our teenage sex? You’re disgusting.”

He shrugged. “I’m a Belli, it runs in the family. All this nonsense about her living to a ripe old age... please. She wasn’t ripe, she was rotten. It’s why we love her so.”

Sharon chuckled appreciatively. “I’m gonna miss her.”

“Me too. She’d be glad to see us brought back together, though.”

“Yeah. Although I’m not gonna sleep with you again.”

Willam’s laugh was a little too loud, attracting some disgruntled murmurs from surrounding family members. “Welp, there goes my weekend plans.”

It was surprisingly nice, talking to Willam. As much as Sharon had been terrified that the first topic of conversation would be them, and it would inevitably lead to a confession, they fell into a fleeting friendship as easily as they had four years ago. Determined to keep things light, Sharon steered away from her work or home life as they talked, but it was still nice to catch up.

That being said, she also kinda never wanted to see him again. Nothing personal, just... for Trixie’s sake, she had closed that chapter of her life and under no circumstances would she be reopening it. Not now, not in twenty years, not ever.

“I assume you’re breaking into stardom in Hollywood, right? I’ll be seeing you on movie posters?” 

He laughed. “A star is born, baby. Keep your eyes open. And you, are you taking to the stage now you’re away from your bitch of a mom?”

Sharon shook her head. “Nah. I don’t... I don’t have time anymore. And with the girls gone, too...”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t need them. And we should sing together again sometime, too.”

At that, Sharon sighed. “There’s nothing keeping you here, Willam, not now she’s gone. We had fun, but... there’s no point holding onto that. I got over my exes, I have to keep living and so do you.”

Willam nodded. “A goodbye without a goodbye. I get it. It’s difficult, but we have to let go.”

Yeah, Sharon told herself. In more ways than one.

“It’s not a personal thing, you know I care about you as a friend-”

“I know.” Willam told her. “I care about you too. But I get it.”

He pulled her into a hug. “Needles, take care of yourself. You’re skinny, take advantage of the free food. Fall in love. Make music. Do things to make you happy. You deserve that.”

Speechless, Sharon could only nod as he held her. “I can tell you’re ready to leave, so I’ll say goodbye now. You’re a one of a kind, okay? Keep going, angel thighs.”

Pfft. The old parody nickname - trust Willam to remember that.

“Thank you, Willam.”

---

Trixie was fast asleep in Sharon’s arms. Her warm weight had settled comfortably into her as she walked home, and Sharon relished in the way her sweet daughter could fill her aching heart so perfectly. Her blonde curls were messy, just like her own were as a child, and she was completely tuckered out.

Her adorable girl had little outfits, a bedroom of her own and a roof over her head all thanks to the love and kindness of one foul-mouthed, gin-loving lady. As the sun started setting, Sharon realized she owed another Belli a lifetime of gratitude.

“Thank you, Pat.”

[vegetalass]

Veneno

its almost 5 am and i’ve been working on this for WEEKS and im sick of it!!!!! i think its the longest fic ive written in my life tbh...

I really wanted to play with the idea of a Sidestep who was manipulating herald, as I remember Malin mentioning multiple routes exploring a few different possibilities of treatments to the ROs. so this is my take on the manipulation theme!

partially inspired by my ex, who has a dumb nickname I never called him, and who once said to me “even if you can’t say it back, i’ll wait.” 

sorry for giving herald a cat. i was actually just describing mine lol. 

warning: contains Fallen Hero: Retribution spoilers, with sweets and drinking vice mentioned. 

HUGE thank you to @abyssopelagick and my friend GRUM!!!!!!! who i can honestly say i wouldn’t have been able to post without. ily both! 

FH:R belongs to @fallenhero-rebirth

Herald/gn!Reader - 2753 words

You knew it. You knew Herald used to be rich.

Maybe it was his perfect hair and blue eyes that gave it away, or the fact that he mentioned having a television as a kid. Maybe it was because he was so sweet and shy when you first met, that when you found the collection of pills beneath his bathroom counter when you went snooping through his stuff, that you realized you’d never even considered the fact that he’s probably never had to starve.

In retrospect, maybe it should’ve been a little more obvious after the first night you spent with him, and you should’ve taken better precautions to handle his delicate, loving nature, but so far you haven’t complained and you’re not about to start. Not only has everything worked out, but currently, you’re laying in the soft, old sheets of Herald’s bed, in his nice and clean apartment you can only describe as luxury.

Better than what you have. Better than what you had.

It makes you feel like a kid, the type with no concept for anything except longing. The kind of kid that reads books about bakers who sneak bread to dying girls, and blond princes who insist on liking someone their father hates.

And boy, does Herald like you.

He’s such a prim boy, if not just a sweet one. Kind, generous, loving, you name it. Anybody would be lucky to have him, and for now, that means you. The money is just a bonus, one that you could easily get used to.

Whether this has always the case, though, is another question. One that doesn’t matter much, because you find it’s just been nice to have been surprised as a telepath. Not to mention, you could always use the resources.

In some ways, it makes you want to laugh; to think that Herald knows nothing of your endeavors to kill him, and that all his good fortune can’t do a thing to stop you.

But in others, you feel like crying because he’s a boy who loves you and you have nothing left to offer in return.

You’ve decided not to mull on it. Because when he invites you to spend the night, and kisses you endlessly in that red-hot way, staying in his bed after is so comfortable and warm that it almost feels like the reason you don’t intend to get caught as a villain for a while.

So, you’ve been starting to come over to his place a lot recently.

It wasn’t intentional, your relationship with him. You always tried to tell him that it was Sidestep he was dreaming of, not this new you. But from the moment you let him kiss you on that day in HQ, and then later on that other night after your first date... it became harder and harder to stop yourself from growing quite… fond of him.

Even if it wasn’t planned.

Despite the mess that you’ve gotten tangled up in, in every possible way, it has been a really fun way to pass the time. Watching the way Herald dances around you as if you’re a breakable doll who’s done no wrong, even if he loves and trusts and admires you.

And the fact that you sometimes have emotional outbursts where you cry about disappointing him only adds to the effect of it all. It’s a risky but satisfying game, and even if part of it is genuine, you’re still a villain and have to remember the limits, though you don’t want to be evil all of the time. You might run out of luck.

Herald doesn’t know that, though. There’s actually a lot that he doesn’t.

Part of the fun is trying to guess how long you think all of this good might last. Because good things never last, do they?

But that’s no matter right now, and you shake your head from the thought, because the only person who has even dared to figure out your true nature is Herald’s cat, who hasn’t taken kindly to your presence since the start.

What a smart animal.

She’s a fat, old thing. A tabby, with piercing, green eyes. She was hiding on the first night you came over, probably busy licking herself and thinking that you were another romantic partner here to screw her Daniel over. She was right, but you just kept coming back.

Currently, she’s washing herself from her place on Herald’s dirty hoodie on the dresser across from you, looking up occasionally to hiss in what feels like a mocking, angry tone.

Re-Gene! Villain! I know what you’ve done, and you leave my Daniel out of it!

Tough shit, cat, though it’s still a shame she won’t let you pet her.

Not like you’re planning on moving out of bed, anyway.

It’s only in between your stints of dozing to the sound the sickly sounding auburn news anchor on the TV and mulling about whether sweets or a drink would taste better first, that you notice the approaching presence of Herald’s feather white aura growing closer, and realize that he must be in the building.

Even the now-napping cat seems to stir in acknowledgement before the both of you notice the sound of keys struggling in a locked door, as if you couldn’t try to pinpoint Herald’s exact location by entering his mind from your comfortable position with a little effort if you really wanted to try.

Immediately, the cat jumps from her comfortable perch to the floor, and rushes to the front door in an attempt to reach Herald halfway, get a scratch, and then rat you out as if he’d even listen if she could talk.

Either way, he’s home.

You can hear meows, and it’s easy to imagine how she tangles around his ankles as he squats to give her ears a good scritch. The pleasant imagery is interrupted too soon, though, as suddenly she yowls and you can hear the pit-pat of her feet as she rushes your way in her attempt to tattle on you.

“Oh, you,” you can hear him mutter at her as his footsteps echo in your direction before he hobbles into the room with a nasty limp. He looks about as close to someone who just got hit by a car and lived as someone possibly could, as his mess of gold hair is wind-blown and tangled, face bruised and dirty, and from the way his head is tilted down, must’ve been slouching for a while.

He looks... defeated, and you smile at the sight, hoping that you somehow look kind.

The cat continues to meow until Herald looks up, eyes widening in surprise when they finally meet your gaze, and despite his bad posture, or lack thereof from his aches, brightens immediately at your smile.

“Hi,” he breathes, finally standing up to throw his keys onto the little table resting by the door to his room.

“I wasn’t sure if I could let myself in-” You nod in his direction, before he interrupts you.

“Of course,” he blurts, almost too quickly, and then quickly looks away from your face when he finishes. “Always.”

You smile, feigning relief, even if you don’t really care.

Herald continues on, shuffling from where he’s standing to a dresser not far away, and you sit up in his bed to watch as he strips from his Ranger suit to reveal another handful of purple-blue wounds and scratches layered above his already scarred chest. He must be hurting.  

“Daniel...” you call to him in an attempt to seem worried, and he hums in acknowledgement, “Are you okay?”

He grunts, and in the silence that follows, the TV seems to grow louder in his place. You hadn’t realized that it switched from the weather special to a Los Diablos Breaking News! segment.

“Ranger spotted in successful attempt stopping local mob,” the smiling woman says, eyes blurred toward the camera as a clip of Herald handcuffing a man in a black jumpsuit takes over the screen.

You smile again because he’s a really good guy. A great one. And his fighting has been getting better.

Part of you wonders if it’s due to the fact that you’ve been training him, and the other part wonders if you should be worried. He’s always been someone who appears a lot weaker than he actually is. And you want to stoke the flame.

“You don’t have pull the tough guy act with me, Daniel,” you say to him, this time more forcefully.

You know he always notices when you use his real name, which is one of the reasons why you started using it. This time, you watch as he lowers the green shirt he’s been holding to his chest to look at you with those endless blue eyes and sigh wistfully.

“I get it, you know I do,” you try again, this time with the intent of at least getting him to open up.

You’re nervous, at first, scared of what he could say to you. That he knows you’re playing games, or that he doesn’t want you around anymore. But nothing has ever warranted this response in the past, so you wonder what’s happened to him to make him look at you like you just hit him over the head.

Ha.

You have hurt him. You even ruined one of his legs, but that was in the past, and it’s not like he knows that was you. If he did, you’d hope that he’d just be grateful enough to appreciate the fact that you didn’t kill him that night, too. He shouldn’t have any reason to look worried when you’ve just been here, lying in bed, silently waiting for him to join you, so you suppose you shouldn’t be worried either.

The TV speaks again.

“Impressive feat for the youngest member of the Rangers, who just under a year ago was taken down by the notorious Puppetmaster at their debut sighting.”

Herald is still paused, except this time, you notice his gaze has moved from you to the screen in front of him.

Though the news channel was initially spouting a success story, it’s no surprise that they’re now comparing Herald’s skills to when the both of you fought. It’s also not a surprise when the golden boy of the Rangers suddenly looks even smaller than before when he whips back around as to stop glaring at the news anchor as if she could even see him. You wonder what she would do if she could.  

You don’t speak.

“You know…” Herald starts, ignoring your previous words all together, “I’m worried about you.”

This doesn’t shock you, though not because you’re a telepath. He’s a naive boy, so of course he is worried, and because part of you cares about him in some twisted way, the good in you wishes that he wasn’t.

Worried or naive?

Both?

Deep down, you know he shouldn’t like you and you crave to tell him as such. To berate him, to beat it into him, to scream that he’s just a stupid, little boy in love with an animal who has a past he’d never understand. But it’s easy to stop yourself because you always do.

You hesitate to respond, but mutter back anyway. “Why?”  

You know he means it well, he means everything well, but the words come out harsher than you intended them to, and you quickly have to pat the spot next to you in bed to ensure that Herald thinks you’re not angry at him for simply… being him.

The little, sweet and young Sidestep that is still left in your heart is screaming to be kinder; telling you that you should just be happy that there is someone still cares for you and is able to show it. But there’s an ache in your heart, and suddenly the thought of both your past and your future make you feel like you have to get piss-shit drunk, puke all over yourself, and then immediately get heartburn.

So you decide to ignore the thought all together, and focus on the fact that Herald is now staring intently at you again. Only half-dressed (which is distracting), still, but staring nonetheless.

He tilts his face towards the ground to slouch once more, before whispering, “I just don’t want… them to come after you, too.”

“Oh, hush,” you say instantly, patting the bed again, before reaching out your arms for him to join you as he makes his way over. You know who he means, and the person already has.

You.

You are coming for yourself.

“Puppetmaster is growing very strong, when they learn you’re still around… they might-” He cannot finish the thought before he reaches the bed and ducks himself into your waiting arms.

You roll your eyes as you rest your cheek on his soft head. He really is a silly boy.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, into his hair, “I still have you, don’t I?”

He stays silent, so you continue the charade.

“You’re the one on the frontlines, so if anything, I’m the one who should be worried,” are your final words, before Herald cups your cheeks in his large palms in an attempt to kiss you. Before he makes it, however, you have to swat his face away because you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles deep from inside your chest at the realization of the situation.

Herald looks stunned, but smiles meekly in return when he decides you aren’t angry, and then laughs with you, even if he doesn’t get the joke.

“You’re silly, Daniel,” you say, settling with simplicity, because what do you say to the love who you’re lying to? What can you say, even if you kind of love them back?

But Herald, or maybe Daniel now (as you don’t much care which anymore), just blinks slow and smiles, content being held tightly in your arms.

You want to consider it strange, all this dedication to a person he doesn’t really know, this old Sidestep person, whoever they are, except that in a way, you realize, he does know you.

He knows the you that you have given him, this laughing kid, and in a sense, you truly believe that that’s not really you at all; because you just play this game too well, and he’s been wrapped around your finger from the start. You allowed for this, and you don’t want to say you regret it.

He’s a sweet boy. Always has been. And he never fails to surprise you.

“I love you,” he declares suddenly, voice quiet, sweet, and calming.

And you’re shocked. Not because you didn’t know that, but because you weren’t expecting to really care. And underneath his covers, everything seems three times as sweet. You weren’t expecting to be flattered, and there’s a part of you doesn't even mind. Another thing you could easily get used to. So responding is easy.

“Thank you, Daniel. I mean it.”

And he nods, still cuddled against your heart, your tattoos, looking at you like someone who could truly be loved. He is smiling all the while, too.

“Even if you can’t say it back, I’ll wait,” he says, lips barely curled, blue eyes sparkling.

It’s a nice gesture: this sudden, heartfelt proclamation, but you can’t say it’s one you deserve, as you have been so cruel to both him and yourself. Even though the Sidestep in you would rather jump off a roof, crash, and die before breaking his heart, you have long since realized that there is still a villain inside you that is hungry to laugh and cheer when Herald finds out who really tore him apart on that night at the museum.

You’d feel worse, but that day really was amazing. Finally making yourself proud, even at his expense.

However, the thought quickly escapes you, as this time, when he leans over to kiss you, you let him. His lips are warm on yours, and as you find your fingers tangled in his hair, for a second, it almost feels as though this relationship wasn’t built on a lie.  

“I know,” you respond, smiling sweetly at him for once, genuinely, because even if could change your behavior, you cannot help your pride, and you cannot help your heart.

And when you’re going to break his anyway, even though you know you should stop this mess, because a small part of you loves him, you might as well make sure it hurts.