#(...i wonder what would happen on a day with afflicted. would i just die instantly?)

[fractal-quadrilioquy]

So I might possibly be good at virtuoso.

[flosbelova]

they don’t know about us

i’m back with another story lmao. also, after writing this, i realized how ironic it was. whoops.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

florence pugh x reader

summary: you and florence have been dating in secret. however, when she’s involved in a dating PR stunt to promote her new movie, you start to get worried and wonder if your relationship will ever meet the public eye.

fluffy with a hint of angst.

warnings: language, smutt-ish (18+)

word count: 3.2k+

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you and florence have been dating for almost a year now. surprisingly, no one has found out. sure, the paparazzi have followed you guys around, but you were always careful not to look like a couple. but because everyone loves rumored romance, fans had begun speculating about your relationship. however, both you and florence have denied these “rumors” and state that you’re just “very good friends.”

but the thing is, it kills you every time you have to deny our relationship with florence.

you and florence met at an after party from an award show and instantly hit it off. within a couple weeks, she had asked you to be her girlfriend and you being a paranoid person, you told her that you’d think about it. she looked hurt at first and you felt stupid for turning her down the first time, but you came to your senses and finally said yes.

ever since then, you have both lived quietly in peace. you noticed that florence seemed to be content with the way things were: “secret.” and since it didn’t bother her that much, you figured that it shouldn’t bother you either.

when florence started filming “don’t worry, darling,” you would visit the set often and stay in her trailer. no one ever really batted an eye because you were usually in the corner and no one ever noticed you. when she wasn’t in a scene, she’d quickly run to her trailer and attack you with kisses. God, your make-outs felt like they could last an eternity. but they were usually cut short as a crew member would knock and tell florence that her scene was coming up.

fast forward to now, it’s time to promote the movie. however, because hollywood is hollywood, articles immediately came out stating that florence and her co-star, harry styles, were hollywood’s new “it-couple.” this killed you inside, obviously. but you chose not to say a word to florence because you wanted her movie to be big and for her to get more recognition.

press after press, magazines after magazines, interview after interview, photo shoots after photo shoots, articles after articles, you fucking name it. “harry styles and florence pugh: hollywood’s favorite couple.” God it killed you to see it. it was EVERYWHERE.

your family and friends that knew about you and florence kept messaging you asking if you two had broken up. you had to explain over and over that it was just for press and nothing else.

but then, you thought about it. was it really just for press? what if she started developing feelings for him? what if she actually leaves me for him? am i not good enough? why do we have to be secret? would it kill her reputation if we said anything?

these questions were racing through your mind like crazy. finally, after much thinking and trying your best to meditate on it, you decide to ask florence the question.

—

it’s sunday morning, it’s a rainy day in LA, what an odd sight. you get your coffee and take a sip, enjoying the sound of rain hitting the roof and windows. you loved the rain.

you hear footsteps coming from behind you and feel soft arms embrace you. florence rests her head on your shoulder.

“good morning baby,” she says in her adorable morning voice.

you turn your head to face her and give her a quick peck on her nose. she scrunches her nose and oh god, your heart might as well have jumped out your chest. she was so cute every single time she’d scrunch her nose.

y/n focus. you have important questions to ask florence. fucking focus.

you let go from her embrace in which you heard a whine from your girlfriend. you walk to the kitchen and put your coffee down on the counter and ask florence to sit down.

“babe, can you please sit down? we need to talk.”

you can tell that florence was caught off-guard with the expression on her face. she sits down across from you and looks at you with a worried smile.

“y/n, is anything wrong?”

you can hear your own heartbeat at this point. in fact, that’s all you hear. suddenly words aren’t coming in your brain. focus y/n. focus. you take a deep breathe and come clean.

“okay, i know we’re a secret and it’s fun being sneaky and all, but i gotta admit, it’s killing me. i also have to admit that this whole PR stunt relationship with harry is killing me. look harry’s a great guy and all but—“

“i know,” florence says cutting you off.

“oh,” you say feeling somewhat assured.

“y/n, you can’t hide anything from me. your face said it all,” florence says.

“your face said it all,” damn your expressive face.

“oh,” was all you could utter.

“i’ve started to notice when you started to get distant. in that moment i knew that it bothered you.” florence says afflicted.

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t think clearly. did i really get distant?

“y/n? are you gonna say something?” florence asked anxiously.

“um, what are we gonna do? i mean, what are you gonna do? are you gonna say something? it’s been two months since the movie came out and people are still talking about it—“ you ramble.

“y/n,” florence cuts you off again. “you know how this shit works. it’s the ‘hollywood culture.’ things like this aren’t gonna die down in just a couple of months, especially for something this big.”

“then what’s gonna happen with us?” you ask hopelessly.

“nothing will happen. we just have to wait until this dies down, sweetheart.” florence says, reaching for your hand, trying to sound reassuring.

you pull your hand back. it’s clearly shown in your face that you’re conflicted and angry. “florence, i don’t want to wait for this to die down. i’m tired of us being kept a secret. i’m exhausted of having to explain to my family and friends that we’re still a couple and that this stuff is just for press. i’m tired of having to worry if you’re developing feelings for him. i’m tired of having to worry if you’ll leave me for him. my heart aches every single time i see you both on the cover of a magazine when i go grocery shopping. i love you too much to let you go.”

florence furrows her brows and looks choleric. “why can’t you just understand that i love you? why can’t you understand that this stunt is JUST a stunt to me? maybe because you’ve been so busy being so distant and jumping to conclusions. y/n, i’m exhausted too. i really am,” she says, her voice breaking. “do you know how much it breaks me because you’ve been so distant? this past month, i’ll try to hug you, and you barely hug back. and when i try to make conversation with you, you barely respond. i miss you y/n.”

your eyes are filled with tears at this point and look up to see florence with tears falling down, clearly heartbroken and in agony. on instinct, you walk towards her and pull her into a tight hug. florence hugs you back and instantly breaks down in your arms. you stroke her hair and kiss her on her forehead.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper quietly.

you couldn’t help but feel guilty that you made her feel this way. it’s true, you had been distant. you had been so caught up with worrying about the “what if’s,” and didn’t think for a second about what florence might have been feeling. this movie rested on her back and she had to do whatever she could to make sure that this movie was gonna get the recognition it deserved. even with this whole stunt, florence never questioned your relationship for one second. you did.

God, i feel like a dumbass.

you grab florence’s face and wipe the tears from her eyes. it pained you to see her cry, even when she was acting. only this time, she wasn’t acting. this was real. this was a real life situation.

florence smiled weakly at you and quietly said in almost a whisper, “i’m gonna say something soon. it’s about time that people knew.” she sniffs.

your heart dropped to your stomach. you started to regret even letting her know. i should’ve just kept my mouth shut.

florence clears her throat and continues, “it’s good that you brought this up. for weeks, i’ve been thinking how to bring this about to the public— i even confided in harry and asked for his advice,” she laughs softly.

you look at her with worry in your eyes and florence easily reads you like a book.

“don’t worry, darling. i got this handled,” florence says smiling. “also, pun heavily intended.”

you roll your eyes and chuckle lightly and hug her tightly once more.

—

a week after your conversation, you check your phone and notice that it’s filled with a couple notifications. you wondered why since your phone usually had tumbleweeds passing by. you noticed that your calendar had a very important notification. you went to check and oh shit.

how could i forget?

it’s your one year anniversary with florence and you completely forgot.

what the fuck is wrong with me?!

florence barges in the room with a big smile on her face and a tray full of food. she sets the tray on your bedside nightstand and kisses you on the cheek.

“good morning, baby! happy one year anniversary! look i made you pancakes with chocolate chips— just the way you like it— and look! i cut the strawberries to make them into hearts!” she squeals.

you looked at her dumb founded and all you could do was grab her face and kiss her passionately. she moans quietly and moves to straddle your lap without breaking the kiss. you move your hands from her face and move it to her waist and pull her in closer.

florence grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in much closer, breaking any other space in between the both of you. you feel her tongue run across your bottom lip to test the waters and you slightly open your mouth and let her tongue slip in. you let out a soft moan as her tongue touches yours. she breaks the kiss to catch her breath for a moment and proceeds to leave trails of kisses down your jaw to the crook of your neck. you feel her nibble on your neck and you couldn’t help but moan.

the sound of your moans have to be on florence’s top list of favorite sounds because what she did next made you jump.

as she continued to leave wet trails of kisses across your neck, florence slides her hand under your shirt and squeezes your boobs and runs her thumb over your nipple.

you move your chest more towards her, but as soon as you do so, she removes her hand and moves it back to your face and presses her lips gently on yours. she pulls back and looks at you alluringly.

you give her a pout. “damn we were about to get to the good part, why’d you stop?”

she strokes your cheek with her thumb, smiles, and shrugs. she gives you a quick peck on your lips.

“eat your breakfast,” she says to you.

“you’re a damn tease,” you say annoyed.

she winks at you and gets up from your lap. she leaves the room and you grab your tray and follow her to the kitchen. you took the plates from the tray and set them on the island table.

“why’d you get up? i made that to be eaten in bed! do you not get the concept of breakfast in bed?” she asks sarcastically.

“my bad. do you want me to go back?” you respond.

“no, you already made the effort to bring the food here, so we might as well eat.” she says.

—

“okay, i have a confession to make. i kinda forgot that our anniversary was today,” you say embarrassed.

florence chuckled, “i know.”

“well to make up for it, can i treat you out to lunch?” you ask nervously biting your lip hoping for a satisfactory answer.

florence had always been vocal about eating out because she didn’t want your relationship to be exploited. and because LA was always buzzing with paparazzi, you and florence usually chose to get food delivered or, florence would cook both your meals.

but to your surprise, florence says, “yeah. let’s do it.”

—

you drove to this restaurant in west hollywood that most celebrities were known to go to. they always had good services and their appetizers were scrumptious.

when you walked inside, you noticed how many eyes were on you and florence. you wondered why and then you realized… florence was holding your hand.

you tried to let go but florence tightened her grip and whispered in your ear, “it’s okay,” and gave your cheek a quick peck. you knew damn well people noticed that.

when you finally got to your table, you noticed how many heads were turning. your heart started beating fast, chills went down your spine, and your hand started to sweat.

after you got your meals, you nudged florence’s arm.

“baby people are looking.”

she looks up at you as she brings her food to her mouth and says, “let them look.”

you went back to your food and tried to focus on eating, but of course, you couldn’t. so, you checked your phone and you guessed it, your phone was buzzing with notifications from your friends and social media mentions.

“baby, put your phone down and eat. we’ll get out of here quicker if you finish your food quicker.” florence says, taking your phone and setting it next to her.

you sigh and continue eating.

after you both finish, you look out the window and noticed all the cars and people passing by. the view from the outside was so nice. the sky finally cleared up and LA was back to being sunny.

you didn’t notice it then, but florence had snapped a picture of you admiring the view from the restaurant window.

“alright, y/n, wanna get out of here?” florence asks.

“yeah, let’s go home.” you respond.

you insisted on paying the bill since it was your treat, and made sure to tip your waiter extra money.

after paying the bill, florence stands up and grabs your hand. your eyes widened for a quick second because she was holding your hand in public, once again.

that same night, florence posted the off-guard picture that she took of you and posted it on her Instagram with the caption: “my favourite view. happy one year my love.”

you decided to check your Instagram and saw that your photo was the first thing you saw on your feed. you did a double take because you couldn’t believe that florence had actually posted you.

you checked the comments and it consisted of avid fans who were excited, shocked, and in disbelief.

“OH MY GOD I KNEW IT”

“HOLY SHIT WHAT??”

“wait, what about her and harry??”

“i thought her and harry were dating?? i’m so confused”

“florence!” you scream out from the living room.

“yes, darling?” she screams back from the kitchen.

she walks towards the living room and as soon as she gets near the couch, you stand up, and try to hug her eagerly, but instead you both fall to the ground. you quickly get up and help florence.

“i’m sorry, but what the hell?” you ask in shock.

florence furrows her brows and looks annoyed. “what do you mean, ‘what the hell?’ you tackled me—“

“you actually posted me?” you interrupt.

she changes her mood and says, “oh that? yeah i did. i decided it was time, and believe me, i was getting tired of the stunt too.”

you couldn’t help but smile. you kissed her so quickly that she almost fell. “i love you so fucking much.”

—

the next day, your phone was still buzzing with notifications but this time, it was double the notifications. you decided to check your phone and saw articles supporting your relationship, saw other articles that explained hollywood’s infamous PR stunts, and unfortunately, you noticed that some articles were trying to paint florence as some sort of “cheater.” this angered you to your core.

why the fuck would they accuse her of cheating? that’s a whole wad of bullshit.

you get up from your bed and walk to your kitchen. florence was already there preparing coffee. she turns around and yelps.

“Y/N!” florence yells.

you laugh. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to scare you.”

you walk towards her and give her a big embrace. once you pull back, you don’t let go just yet. you give florence a quick kiss and finally let go.

“my phone has been buzzing all morning” you say annoyed.

“yeah mine too,” florence says, looking defeated.

you notice her expression. you grab her hand. “baby what’s wrong?”

florence let’s go of your hand and waves off her annoyance, “i saw an article that called me a cheater and i’m not gonna lie it ruined my morning.” she turned around to the island table and took a sip of her coffee.

you felt your anger rise up, but you calmed yourself. you wrapped your arms around florence’s waist from behind, and hugged her until she felt better. as soon as you do this, she turns around and wraps her arms around you, returning the embrace.

“i’ll be okay. my publicist called me this morning and said that she cleared up any rumors or accusations.” florence says, sighing.

“okay, that’s good,” you say, stroking her hair. you gave her a kiss on her cheek. “is everything gonna be alright?” you ask.

“yeah. i’m sure they will.” florence says in a hopeful tone. “whatever happens, i’ll be okay; we’ll be okay.”

you kiss her gently and whisper, “i love you, flo.”

“i love you more, y/n,” florence returns, and presses her soft lips onto yours.

—

a couple of weeks passed and you and florence’s ‘incident’ was basically last year’s issue. magazines and articles had finally shut up and stopped accusing florence of being a cheater.

you had wondered why they would even call her that since the relationship between her and harry weren’t even real to begin with. almost everyone knew that it was a PR stunt anyway, and yet, they still called her that. fucking hollywood.

however, you had noticed that florence’s mood had improved more within the weeks since she was finally able to post you. any chance she got, she would post you. as much as it embarrassed you, you kind of enjoyed the attention. you enjoyed finally being able to go out in public, hand in hand with your girlfriend, kiss her, without a care in the world. you both promised to always tell each other anything, and both of you would do your utmost best to fix them. all was well in the world. you loved each other and didn’t give a fuck about what other people had to say. and that’s all that mattered. you both loved one another.

the end

[theangriestpea]

In the Shadows : Thirteen

Summary: Jughead Jones, resident werewolf, just wants to protect his family and his pack from the incoming doom of The Red Circle. Sweet Pea and Lily join him to help keep the Southside safe from human tyranny. Meanwhile a demon princess named Myra and succubus named Lavender had a plan to bring on the apocalypse. 

Rating: Mature // Explicit

Pairings: Jughead Jones x OC, Sweet Pea x OC, Kurtz x OC

Warnings:  mild smut, vaginal sex, shower sex, kidnapping??, jealousy

Word Count: 5.1k+

A/N: eheheheheh this is finally out lol. I’ll be working on a request or two next and then TKT! I don’t show up in the tags anymore so RIP my note count

Chapter Thirteen : The Return

Hell was colder than he had expected. A lot colder. The white magic that Lily had painted onto him glowed faintly, the essence of it wrapping around him like a thin sheet of armor. The cavernous hallways were dark, lit only by periodic dim blue flaming torches that lined the walls.

Sweet Pea exhaled, his condensed breath puffing in front of him as he intently watched the needle of the compass. He could feel her again, finally after three long days, but it was very faint. He tried to keep his mind focused on the task, he didn’t have much time. Even spending an earthly hour here would equate to a little over a day. Time moved much faster in hell, and Lavender had already spent three months there. He worried tremendously about the state he would find her in.

When he saw her again, she’d finally be showing. When she was taken, Lav had only been two months pregnant. Now she would be halfway through her pregnancy, and if they hadn’t of known the sex already (though Sweet Pea wasn’t entirely convinced that the end of the world could be brought on by a little girl) then they certainly would know now. He had already planned to take her to a doctor as soon as possible to get everything checked out. Not that it was necessary, but he needed it for his own peace of mind.

Every now and then he would check the pocket watch. Thankfully it was a wind up watch that was unaffected by the strange atmosphere of hell. He wound it up a few more times for good measure, unsure if the speed of time here would have any kind of affect on the mechanism. It was best not to take chances. If he were here even a millisecond longer than an hour, then he would be damned here for eternity. He would die and there would be no hope left for Earth.

Back in the mortal realm of Earth, Lily was cleaning up the mess she had made. She could feel the piercing gaze of her mate on her back, but was choosing to ignore it. His possessive anger was not something that she really needed right now. The waxing gibbous moon was heavily influencing him. Days leading up to and after the full moon were always his most emotional, Lily had learned to deal with it.

He let Daisy down so that she could play with her toys, although she didn’t seem too interested in that. She simply sat between his feet, staring at where the demon Mammon had been. This was her first time seeing a full fledged demon, and Lily was sure that it had had some sort of affect on her. Ultimately it had been safer to keep her in the room where both Lily and Sweet Pea could keep an eye on her just in case the demon chose to play some sort of trick on them.

Now she wondered if that had truly been the best decision. Daisy seemed in a daze, her eyes ultimately unfocused as she peered across the room. Despite her worry, Lily continued to put the materials away in their rightful place. She checked on a potion that was brewing against the wall. Sweet Pea had given her detailed instructions on what to do while he was away to make sure that it was completed properly. She stirred it twice counter-clockwise before checking the temperature. It was for Lavender, and possibly for Sweet Pea if he really needed it. It would heal any afflictions they received while in the other dimension. Lav’s human half was liable to have suffered the past three days.

When she was finished, she finally acknowledged the brooding wolf that was sitting in the corner. “Are you done pouting?” She asked, knowing that they had to be prepared for Sweet Pea to return at any moment.

Jughead glowered, “you still love him.” He sounded hurt, though she suspected it was more his pride than his feelings. Lily was already feeling weak from the spell, the edges of her vision blurring. She didn’t really want to put up with this.

“I love him as a friend, Jug. He’s always been my best friend and he always will be. It’s platonic. And yes, I’m worried about him going into hell. So much could go wrong. Daisy still needs him, she’s so young and she worships him. I couldn’t imagine raising her alone.” Lily said as she rubbed her temples, eyes slipping shut in an attempt to steady herself.

“You wouldn’t be alone,” He countered, “You’d have me.” He noticed her wavering and stood, careful to not step on Daisy as he walked over to her.

Suddenly Lily’s legs gave out and he had to quickly reach out to catch her. He noticed right away that her skin felt incredibly clammy and her body was cold. “Lils?” He asked, voice showing his panic. “Hey?”

Her breathing turned labored as she struggled to look up at him, “Lay me down, Jug.” She croaked, feeling a fever starting to take over her. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, laying her down on the bed.

“What can I do for you?” He asked, jealousy and hurt completely gone now as worry took over. “Can I get anything? Will that potion work?”

“I don’t think…” Her voice drifted off as she found herself feeling incredibly tired. “I just need some sleep.”

Jughead brushed a few stray hairs from in front of her face. “I’ll watch over Daisy, and wait for the others to return. Just rest for now.”

Lily felt too weak to even nod, quickly drifting into a troubled slumber.

Back in hell, Sweet Pea was navigating the dark hallways. The hell flame torches were few and far between, and for the most part he found himself walking along in the darkness. When he did find light, he quickly checked both the compass and the watch to make sure that he was heading in the right direction.

It helped that he could feel her now. He could sense what direction she was in, the compass just helped solidify that feeling. He found himself growing colder and colder and he wished he hadn't come without a shirt. At one point he tried to take a torch from the wall, however it was bolted in place and wouldn’t budge.

He tried to concentrate on the task at hand, however his thoughts kept drifting to his unborn child. Was she okay? Had Lavender been given enough to eat? What if there was something wrong with her development because she had spent the equivalent of three months in hell? Worry plagued him more than the cold did.

Ten Earth minutes passed, however it felt more like hours here. He was beginning to feel more and more frustrated as everything just looked the same. Exhaustion was starting to overtake him as he turned down yet another dark hallway.

Suddenly he felt her stronger than ever and he knew instantly that she was close. He ran to the cell door that was nearest to the left and tried to look inside the tiny barred window. “Shanna!” He shouted, hoping with every fiber of his being that she was in there.

The torch on the wall gave the room a faint blue glow. He could barely make out a figure shift on what appeared to be a cot along the back corner. “Pea?” A tiny voice rang out. Sweet Pea’s heart leapt into his throat as he tried to get the door open. It rattled on the hinges, but did not otherwise move.

Lavender got up from her makeshift bed and made her way over to him, skeptical that he was real. Myra had played too many mind tricks on her for her to trust her own eyes. She had taken his form on multiple occasions just to screw with her. Despite this unsurety, she approached him. He certainly felt like the real Sweet Pea.

Sweet Pea was cursing at the door in front of him, he paused from tearing at the handle briefly to look at her. Now that she was under the torch he could see her a little more clearly. She looked filthy, hair matted and covered in dirt. Her clothes were ripped in several places and his eyes moved downward. He took in a sharp intake of breath when he saw the undeniable swell of her stomach. “I’m getting you out.” He said before going back to the door.

She came closer, cautious and curious. How was he going to do that exactly? She couldn’t see him very well through the door, his side of it had no light. “Pea?” She asked again, and he stopped once more to look at her.

He stared, waiting for her to speak again. “Is it really you?” She asked, and the tone of her voice was almost disturbing to him. It sounded extremely foreign, and he briefly wondered if she was real.

“Yes, baby, I’m real.” He replied before going back to trying to examine the door. He realized that the release on the lock was a simple magic spell, something even a notice witch could undo. He wondered why she hadn't been able to get out herself, but figured he would ask questions later. Now wasn’t the time.

Sweet Pea muttered the spell, knowing that once he did everyone would know that he was here. His determination to save her however did not make him even consider the possibility of having to go against demons. He’d die for her and their child. As long as she was safe, he didn’t care what happened to him.

The door finally swung open and he pulled her into a tight hug, careful not to squish her stomach. Lavender melted against him, closing her tired eyes as she felt the simple contact recharging her energy just the tiniest bit. “I’m too weak to run.” She mumbled, knowing for sure now that he was the real deal. She was just so tired, so weak, so powerless from months of substituted souls. She needed something real, not the powdered bullshit Myra had been force feeding her.

Sweet Pea swept her off her feet, one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders. He heard another tired sigh escape from her chapped lips as he began to run back from which he came.

His progress seemed even slower this time. Since his hands were full, he was unable to check the compass or the watch. He would just have to go from memory and instinct. He prayed that it would be enough to get them out.

“Pea,” Lav rasped, her voice still minute and he was sure that if hell was anything but silent then he would have been unable to hear her. “I can get us out.” She mumbled, half-awake now.

He slowed to a walk, unsure how she would even be able to do this. Lavender closed her eyes and mumbled a spell that was special to half breeds such as herself. A faint violet line appeared before the two of them, winding into the path he needed to take.

“Hurry,” She said desperately, “I don’t have much energy left to hold it.”

Sweet Pea took off, pushing his muscles to their absolute limits. His breaths came out in heavy pants as he chased the fading line. Time was running out for both of them. It had taken over half an hour to find her, now he had to make up time getting back.

Another fifteen minutes passed and he was sure his legs would give out at any moment. He would have been fine without the added weight, or if he had been able to pace himself. There just simply wasn’t time for any breaks.

Skin that was once covered in goosebumps was now drenched with sweat. The black markings began to smudge and Sweet Pea could feel the spell Lily had put on him weakening. He was starting to feel pain from his being here, the atmosphere affecting him greatly. He did his best to keep the negativity at bay, but it was growing more and more difficult.

Finally he reached the opening that was connected to the cottage. He burst through it and instantly the inter-dimensional slit closed with a soft popping sound. Sweet Pea fell to his knees, nearly dropping Lavender in the process.

Jughead ran to them, taking the hybrid from his arms so that he could collapse onto the wooden floorboards. She had fallen unconscious, sleeping against Jughead’s chest now that he had here awkwardly pulled into his lap. At first he hadn’t even recognized her, as she no longer had her signature purple hair but instead was sporting light blonde locks. It dawned on him that this was her natural hair color. The witch either didn’t realize the difference or had seen it before, Jug would later find that it was the latter.

The wolf noticed that Sweet Pea was covered in burns. Hopefully the potion would be good enough to heal him. He could also feel Lavender quickly draining his energy through their close contact. He had to quickly remove himself from her to keep from losing too much of himself. He was worried that she might take a yank at his soul if he held her long enough.

After laying her down on the floor, Jughead moved to get two mugs. “Is the potion ready?” He asked the witch that was pulling the succubus closer to him so that he could hold her, knowing that her and their child would need whatever essence he could give them.

Sweet Pea glanced at Jughead, “yes, it should be. Just pour half a cup each. That will be plenty, where is Lily?”

Jughead ladled out the hot potion into the two mugs. “She wasn’t feeling well, so she’s resting.”

He frowned, knowing something was very wrong. Lily shouldn’t be feeling badly due to the minimal spell work she did. She should be fine. He hoped that it wasn’t something too serious as he had to focus on Lavender for the time being.

Jughead padded over to them with the two cups. Sweet Pea managed to sit up enough to take one from him. He pulled Lavender into an upright position, putting the rim to her lips and urging her to drink.

He managed to get her to take the potion without much resistance, her natural reflexes allowing her to swallow. Once he was finished he took the second mug and quickly chugged it, throwing his head back in the process so that he could relish every last drop.

The streaking burns quickly healed, and his tan skin was unmarred once more. He put the mug down and held his girlfriend close, one hand trailing to rest on her stomach. It was too soon for him to be able to feel any movement, but still he had some hopes that maybe he could. After nothing happened, he let out a sad sigh.

Thankful that the potion had also healed his torn muscles and ligaments, Sweet Pea stood with Lavender in his arms. He placed her on the old worn-out couch and covered her body with an old afghan that had been in Lily’s family for decades. It had been made with comforting magic to help ease anxiety. He hoped that it would help her to rest peacefully.

He turned and noticed Jughead was holding his shirt out to him. Sweet Pea gave him a small nod as he took it and pulled it back on over his head. “I’ll go see what’s up with Lily.” He said, “Keep watch out here just in case. The house is warded against everything but Mammon, however I would rather be on guard just in case.”

Jughead looked at the half demon, noticing finally how dirty and unkempt she looked. He had never known her to look anything less than put together. Even when she was in her pajamas, every hair was in its exact place. Then again, she rarely left her appearance unaltered for anyone other than Sweet Pea. Her having fair hair was probably the most bizarre part. He had been accustomed to the purple.

He noticed her cheeks were slightly sunken in, her collar bones more prominent then they had been before. “Okay, just figure out what’s wrong so we can get her better.” Jughead said. He had this impending feeling of dread ever since Lily fell asleep. Something just didn’t seem right.

Sweet Pea entered the bedroom, immediately sensing just how sick Lily was. He rushed over to her, placing a rough hand on her forehead. It was on fire even though her whole body seemed to quake with a long lasting shiver.

There was an uncanny darkness about her aura. Normally it ranged from white to a dusty light pink. Now it was dark grey and he could tell even in that short amount of time that it was growing darker. This wasn’t good. He needed to do something about this quickly, however he was never all that good at healing magic. That had always been Lily’s forte.

“Daddy?” Daisy asked, tugging at his pants leg. She looked as though she were about to cry. “What wrong with mommy?”

He picked her up, holding her close in one arm as he used his free hand to check Lily’s racing pulse. “She has the flu, baby.” He replied. It wasn’t that far from the truth. It was a type of influenza, just not a normal kind you can catch from other humans. It was demonic and it would consume Lily’s white magic in a matter of days.

It occurred to him that the only one who could help with this was Lavender. She had used the last bit of her magic leading him out of hell. He would need to get her a soul to feed on, a live one. That would help her bounce back the fastest.

He carried Daisy back out into the living room. Jughead could tell by the look on the dark witch’s face that the situation was dire. “I need a soul.” Sweet Pea said abruptly, before Jug could voice his concerns. “It’s the only way to save Lily.”

Jughead stared, not understanding what Sweet Pea was asking of him. “Like a living soul?”

“Yes, I’d use mine if I thought we could get it back a second time.” He said honestly. “But, that is too much of a risk. I think she’s been only on supplements this entire time. If she had a fresh one then it would give her enough energy to be able to help me heal Lily. I need demon magic, and she’s all we got.”

“Can’t you just have sex with her when she wakes up?” He asked, hoping that there was another way. “Wouldn’t that help?”

Sweet Pea was growing more and more frustrated. “She’s not going to wake up on her own in time to save Lily. If you want Lily to live then you’ll get me a fresh soul for her. Otherwise, your mate will die and Daisy will be without a mother.”

Jughead hung his head in defeat. He had never been too keen on taking an innocent life. While it was a part of Lavender’s existence, he had managed to separate himself from that part of her for the most part. Mostly because her killing members of The Red Circle had direct repercussions on him and his pack. She had disturbed the peace almost more than the vargulf had.

“I’ll make some calls.” He said at last, knowing that he had two newer packmates in mind that could potentially help them out. He walked outside to talk on the phone in privacy.

Sweet Pea shook his head as he knelt down beside his soulmate. He kissed her forehead lightly, hoping that it would bring her some peace wherever her mind was right now. All he wanted to do was to hold her and talk to her and make sure everything was alright. Unfortunately that would have to wait. There was too much that needed to be done.

Outside, Jughead had called Charlie. Her and her boyfriend Fangs, the newest (and only vampire) initiate, had been on a job to tail members of The Red Circle. They were to keep tabs on them to make sure that they weren’t up to anything too sinister. Obviously they would want payback for the deaths of the two members Lavender had taken out before she was abducted.

Charlie mentioned that there was one that was a bit of an outcast. He didn’t stay with the core group often and tended to do his own thing (which included getting into fights with wolves during the new moon when they could draw no energy from it). He had gotten at least two of their packmates thrown in jail and charged with assault. She suggested they use him to both help Lily and end his particular low grade reign of terror.

Jughead told her to bring him to the cottage without being seen. He wanted them to make sure they weren’t followed or tracked. Maybe getting rid of someone who had been a thorn in the pack’s side wouldn’t be too much of a loss of life. He would burn the world down to save Lily, so perhaps one less nuisance wasn’t really that bad of an idea.

He hung up the phone and went back inside. Sweet Pea stood from his place on the floor, “Did you find someone?” He asked, knowing that if Jug hadn’t then he’d go out himself and bring someone back.

“Yes, Charlie and Fangs are bringing him.” He said. “They’ll get here as soon as they can.”

Pea nodded and sat back down, resting his back against the front of the couch. Now all they could do was wait…

A few hours later, there was a hard knock on the door. Jughead quickly opened it to find Charlie with a proud look on her face and Fangs with an unconscious man thrown over his shoulder. “One pissant for delivery.” He said with a boyish grin.

Jughead stepped aside and allowed them both inside. They made their way into the living room where Fangs dropped the spectacled human onto a nearby chair. He groaned softly but didn’t wake.

Jug looked him over, assessing him in any way that he could. “Dilton Doiley.” He said under his breath. He had remembered him from when he was buddy-buddy with the Northsiders. He had always found Dilton to be a little stranger than most. While humans typically were odd creatures, DIlton had been given an extra dose when he was made.

Sweet Pea had been looking over his notes on succubi. He had managed to find a spell that would allow him to transfer the human soul to Lavender’s body so that she could consume it without the need for sexual intercourse or physical contact.

After taking about fifteen minutes to prepare, going through the proper motions to ready himself, he placed one hand on Dilton’s wrist and the other on Lavender’s chest. He closed his eyes and began to whisper the spell under his breath. He would be using his own body as a conduit, something that could potentially be dangerous. However, the risks were greatly outweighed by the need for his partner to be awake and able-bodied.

He felt Dilton’s life force enter him, it shot through him like lightning, shocking him as he guided it into Lavender. It successfully passed through and in moments the hybrid was taking in huge gasps of air.

Sweet Pea let go of both of them, as he quickly gave Lavender his full attention. She sat up, hand immediately on her stomach as she caught her breath. She coughed, sputtering as she choked on saliva. Jughead quickly brought her some water which she greedily took in.

Once she was finished drinking, she looked up at Sweet Pea with large hazel eyes. He took her small face into his hands and kissed her deeply, happy to feel her lips moving back against his. He pulled away after a few moments. “Lily is sick. I need your help.”

Lavender sat up, rubbing her forehead as she felt a headache coming on. She thought about altering her appearance to something more attractive, but decided to not waste the magic. “What kind of sickness?” She asked, feeling groggy and sore still.

“Demon flu.” He said, not really knowing what else to call it. There was probably a more formal name for it. “I can’t heal her myself. Are you...is the baby okay?”

His sudden change of subjects gave her mock whiplash. “She’s fine, Pea. Let’s worry about Lily right now. I don’t think I have enough magic to help her right now though, but we can fix that. Can you take a shower with me?”

Sweet Pea smiled and kissed her forehead. “Of course, princess. Let me get you some clean clothes to wear. I’m sure Lily has an old flannel of mine that’ll fit you. You should still fit into her pajama shorts.”

“Carry me?” She asked, holding her arms up to him. He scooped her up into his arms. “Jones, we’ll make this quick. Keep an eye on Lily, okay?”

Jughead nodded simply before joining Daisy in the bedroom to keep watch over his mate. He hoped the two love birds wouldn’t drag out their reunion too much.

In the bathroom, Sweet Pea helped Lavender get out of the tattered dress she had been wearing. His hands ran over the bony parts of her shoulders and ribs. “I’m going to cook so much kimchi for you that you’ll be sick of it.” He murmured. It was her favorite and she had started craving it pretty heavily shortly after they finally got together. He knew it would make her happy.

Lavender was exhausted, but managed a happy smile at the thought. “I think I’ll need a little more than kimchi to get my weight up.”

He started to undress, shrugging in the process. “Then I’ll make you whatever you want. As long as you don’t leave my sight ever again.”

“I won’t, Pea.” She said, cutting on the water and stepping in. He quickly joined her. “At least my morning sickness is gone. We don’t have to throw up together anymore.”

The witch snorted back a laugh. “Thank god.” He watched as she slowly started to detangle her hair with her fingers. “You’re a hot blonde, you know that?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Please. I’m a hot everything.”

“Your tits got bigger.” He said, groping them excitedly.

Lav let out a soft moan. Her breasts had become incredibly sensitive over the past few weeks. He hadn’t quite been expecting that response, but was thoroughly pleased by it. “We have to be quick.” He mumbled, voice low.

She whined at him then, wanting more than just a shower quickie. But, she knew that Lily’s health was steadily declining. They really didn’t have the time to be sensual right now. Lav turned her back to him and placed her hands on the smooth white wall while bending over as much as she could considering her stomach.  

Sweet Pea grabbed his cock, stroking it a few times to get it completely ready. He knew she wanted something more meaningful than this, and he’d give it to her later. This wasn’t exactly how he expected their reunion to go either. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

He aligned his head with her entrance, watching as the water came down across her smooth back. Slowly he pushed into her, moaning at the sensation of her soft walls clamping down around him. It had only been a couple days but he had still missed her so fucking much. He had no idea he’d ever be so attached to another person that wasn’t his daughter.

Lavender moaned, feeling their connection suddenly strengthening. She could feel her magic increasing exponentially as he began to thrust in long, languid motions. He filled her up so perfectly that it seemed to throw her off guard every time. She still wasn’t used to it after the short time they’d been together.

He grabbed hold of her hips to keep her steady as he increased his pace, not knowing how rough he could really be with her now that she was five months along. Fuck, she felt so amazing around him that it drove him crazy. All he wanted was more and more until he couldn’t get it up anymore.

Now wasn’t the time for a marathon though, he quickly sped up to a speed and rhythm that he knew would get her off quickly. His cock hitting that perfect spot time and time again. Lavender’s head reeled as she braced herself against the wall, unable to quiet the moans that erupted from her. She wished she had something to grab hold of, fingers flexing against the wall of the shower so hard that they were turning white.

In no time at all she hit her peak, walls clamping down hard around him and fluttering, urging him to release into her. Sweet Pea groaned, twitching inside of her as he came for the first time in days. He had been too depressed to even masturbate while she was gone, resulting in the extra large load that was now inside of her.

He slowly pulled out, grabbing a loofah and Lily’s body wash to help clean her up. He got it nice and soapy before rubbing it across every itch of her shaking body. The dirt and grime came right off, gliding down in large streams down her legs.

While he did this she took the time to wash her hair, thoroughly scrubbing her scalp. This was the first shower she had had in months and it felt so good to be clean again.

Once she was rinsed off, Sweet Pea turned off the water. He reached out and grabbed a large fluffy towel to wrap around her. He watched as her hair slowly turned back into its signature lavender color, starting from the roots and creeping all the way to her ends. A few piercings and tattoos reappeared as well.

He kissed the top of her head before grabbing a towel for himself and putting it around his waist and stepping out onto the soft bath mat in front of the shower. He held his hand out for her, helping her out as her legs were still quivering lightly.

“Let’s go save Lily.” She said, looking a million times better than she did before. Sweet Pea nodded before helping her dry off and get dressed.

<ao3> <masterlist> <playlist>

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[saieras]

My name is Robert.

The Multiverse exists. Peter has found him.

But his name isn’t Tony.

It’s Robert.

As celebration for 500 followers, enjoy this post-Endgame drabble :)

Taglist at the end. Tagging people who are on the Hearts of Iron taglist, also some people who reblogged @lrel98‘s addition to @itsallavengers‘s post, with a similar premise. Let me know if you want in or out~

Peter squints as he looks out across the panorama, bathed in the lights and sounds and gaudy not-quite-night that New Yorkers are so used to. Streets and avenues stare back at him, at once familiar and foreign. From time to time his gaze would pass over a corner of the city before jerking back to refocus on a building, or a block, or some ordinary intersection, pausing until he picks out a part that’s not quite like the others—like playing a giant, never-ending find-the-difference game.

It’s… jarring. Sure, sprinkled here and there are some blocks that look almost identical to his world’s, but even more parts of the city, entire swaths even, are just… off. The skyline, too, is wrong, with buildings popping up where they shouldn’t, and others leaving gaping voids in their absence.

Like the Avengers Tower… or rather, the lack thereof.

Peter clenches his jaw and tears his eyes away from where the tower is supposed to be. He palms the rough texture of the skyscraper’s exterior. It’s his second-favorite spot to cling to and be moody on. At least the Empire State Building is the same as he remembers, complete with the exact same security camera configurations and blind spots—seriously, what are the odds of that?

For the fourth time since he’s arrived, he wonders why this hugely inconvenient detour happened in the first place. It’s probably his horrid sense of direction at work, he decides. His topographagnosia—that’s legit what it’s called—is probably so bad that it made his Multiverse Quantum Spacetime Guidewatch malfunction. God that’s a mouthful (the watch, not the affliction). Everyone would be better off calling it a Gadget. Or a Gizmo? A Goober?

Yeah, he’ll just call it a Goober from now on.

Peter sighs and stares at the piece of machinery in resignation. To be fair, he did get briefed on the possibility of this exact scenario happening—something close to a one-in-ten-thousandth chance, or so Mr. Beck said—which is kind of impressively low, given the magnitude of what they’ve accomplished.

And, again to be fair, it’s not as if Peter is really… surprised, anymore, especially with his luck in recent months.

He knows he ought to care. He ought to be more worried. He’s supposed to be Spider-Man, supposed to do what he always did when entering a new world: find out what it’s like, locate a safe spot, and gather information. See if it needs his help; because no matter what universe, no matter what dimension, people are people.

But he’s so tired. Fighting, saving people, doing good. More and more often he finds himself wanting to run away as far as possible, to a place that doesn’t need constant saving. You shouldn’t even be doing this, a small voice would nag from time to time. You’re worthless. You never saved anyone. You couldn’t save him.

Peter knows that voice is wrong—because he has these gifts and if he doesn’t use them then what did Uncle Ben die for?—and yet he just can’t seem to help his thoughts. And it’s hard; hard not to feel young, and stupid, and alone, when he knows there won’t be a slightly annoyed voice answering his calls, tired but never hanging up while he blabbers about school, or new ideas, or the day’s herowork.

Then, before he knows it, he’s doing things more to cope than to help. To feel alive himself, than to help others stay alive.

He scoffs. Cope. People always seem to ask how he’s coping. Even people who he knows loves him. May. Pepper. Happy. It makes him angry that they just don’t get it.

As if anyone can just, cope. Just move on. As if he can ever forget that moment the blue light snuffed out.

They all said he’s ‘honoring a great memory’, as if it’s consolation and he should be instantly cheered. Like, yeah, maybe that ought to have given him more of a purpose, but on some nights its… hard. Those nights, when the suit chafes and burns on his skin, when the night air becomes suffocating, when he would see yet one too many red-and-gold graffiti, a tribute—

Peter gulps down air and forces himself to calm down. He’s gotten quite good at that. He bites his lip and blinks.

Pathetic, he thinks, half joking, half bitter. Even after four months, he’s still stuck in this limbo. The brochures and guidebooks, they’re all a bunch of crap—because it didn’t get… hasn’t gotten… will never get better. It’s there, creeping up behind him when he least expects. It’s there, even after he’s learned to shove it beneath sarcasm and witty banter. It distills, condenses, reverberates; sometimes overwhelms.

It’ll take three days for the field to recharge and re-align itself. Three days to spend in this strange alternate dimension, this less-swanky version of his New York, with dirtier air and heavier clouds, but also more people, more hustle and bustle, more energy.

But no… him. Never him. Peter’s looked. He’s been to six other universes already.

No him.

He turns and leans his forehead against the cool glass. The dark inky surface dances and pulses with the city lights behind him.

“I miss you, Mr. Stark.” His breath fogs on the smooth pane. He has to try really fucking hard so his voice doesn’t crack.

He forces air into him, to push back the tightness.

“Please… let me find you.”

Silence answers him, like it always does.

The vibrations are what he notices first, passing through the concrete and stone and steel of the building’s bulk to tickle at his soles, like tremors in a spider’s web.

Peter tilts his head, feeling the stiff sinews of his neck crack and pop. He’s been staying in the same spot for an hour, he reckons.

Then the faintest of melodies reach him, and he realizes that the vibrations are music. Very loud music.

Somewhat groggy, Peter turns his head to look up, where the rest of the Empire State’s impressive height disappears into the gloom. He shrugs. Couldn’t hurt, he decides. Besides, the music is kind of good—unfamiliar and different in style, but good.

He webs and climbs the rest of the way up, still careful to avoid the cameras. As he gets closer to the top, he makes out burning beams of light poking into the sky. He makes out laughter and the din of conversation. He makes out cheers and applause and the click of cameras.

It’s a good thing the Building is a carbon copy of the one in his world, or someone would have found him by now. Peter swings and jumps expertly in the blindspots, and soon he’s just below the Observation Deck.

Where a party is in full swing.

Practically next to the Deck, now, Peter pokes his head over the railings, relying on his Sense to tell him where the crowds are thinnest. Tuxedoed men and elegant women are everywhere, laughing and chatting and dancing, glasses of champagne in their hands. They all seem to be converging on one side of the Deck, so Peter takes this chance to hop over the railings and shimmy his way up to the terrace above.

There must be close to a hundred people in attendance tonight. Peter thinks they must be either business people or entertainment people—he sees quite a few lavish dresses, blazing with colors and ostentatious display, looking not at all practical to move around in.

Peter wonders what the party is for. Then again he doesn’t really care. He occupies himself by observing the way the people move, the way they talk. The suit helps filter out the worst of the bright lights and sounds, and he sticks himself to a wall, just quietly watching.

It’s been so long since he’s been to a party. When was the last time?

Ah, that Stark Industries Charity Tony had roped him into attending, a few months before Thanos. ‘Pepper forced me to go so now I’m forcing you to go,’ the man had said, grinning. ‘Misery loves company, kid.’

That was a century ago.

Peter sighs. Maybe he’ll recognize some people here, he thinks, even if they’re not the people he wants to recognize. He’s already seen six incarnations of the Kardashians across as many universes, for example, and his mouth twitches in disgust at the thought of meeting a seventh. It makes him angry to think people like them exist across the multiverse, but not the warm, sarcastic voice he hears in his dreams, or the hand he wants to feel ruffling his hair after missions, saying, ‘good job, kid’.

He brushes his thoughts away.

Well, guess what? Life doesn’t work the way you want. Suck it up, Parker.

A round of thunderous applause drowns out his thoughts. Peter huffs. Another celebrity has probably just arrived; either that, or some kind of speech is about to start. He couldn’t care less, either way. Someone clears their throat

“Hello, hello!”

Peter almost falls off the antenna. His head whirls to pinpoint the voice, a ship homing in to the beam of a lighthouse. He yanks off his mask, and the world assaults him with information and sound and light, and his heart rate skyrockets to probably over 150, pounding relentless at his temples. He ignores all that. They don’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He fixes his gaze in the direction where most of the applause is coming from.

All that matters is the voice, that voice, his voice—Peter holds his breath, throat throttled, his mind a potpourri of fleeting words and formless thoughts and disbelief and disbelief and disbelief. And beneath it all… a hint of what strays dangerously close to hope.

“Thank you, thank you all so much for coming!”

It’s him. It’s got to be him. The timbre, the confidence, the hidden smirk. The warmth.

Peter never ran so fast in his life. Ran, hopped, skipped. He could’ve thwhipped himself over, but his entire body was shaking and he didn’t trust his aim. He skids to a halt by the end of the terrace, panting hard even though the short sprint should’ve been like a casual stroll to his enhanced body.

He hesitates a split second. Then he looks down—

It’s him It’s him It’s hIM IT’s HIM IT’S HIM. He is here, he is in this universe. He is alive, alive, aliVE, ALIVE, ALIVE.

Peter crumples onto the floor, barely keeping enough wits about himself to rein in the volume of his gasping breaths. They came, and came, and came, wracking his thin wiry form, tsunamis of joy and relief, and still that disbelief. Abruptly he snaps his head up over the low concrete wall, terrified that the man would be whisked away if he so much as blinked, like a mirage, a hologram, another one of BARF’s cruel simulations.

And he’d lose him again.

But no. The man is still there, still present, right there. Talking. Laughing. Holding a champagne glass. He says a toast, mingles with some celebrities, takes a sip.

Peter laughs. It’s a quiet laugh, yet somehow hysterical. Half-deranged.

Seven worlds. Seven universes.

I found you, he thinks. I found you.

He thinks it so strongly, so violently, that he can almost imagine it hurtling across the air, louder than any shout or declaration.

I found you, Mr. Stark.

“Bye honey! Love you!”

Robert puts down his phone and smiles fondly in the direction of the Hamptons, invisible behind New York’s skyline and its pulsating, effervescent night. Just a short drive away, Susan and the kids are waiting for him, with the promise of pop tarts and a family movie night. No, nothing from the MCU… Exton’s in a bit of a Batman phase right now, and Avri idolizes her brother.

Hey, at least he’ll be watching a different billionaire superhero on screen for a change!

Robert chuckles and shakes his head. The whirlwind press tour ended not too long ago, and overall, he’s had a very good few days. It’s nice to finally have the chance to wind down and enjoy a well-earned meal or two with his friends and co-stars, not to mention a few (more than a few!) video calls with his family.

The din of the party grows louder behind him. He’s been able to excuse himself from the general hubbub with Susan’s phone call, and he breathes in the night air, not exactly in a hurry to get back. He’s always loved the energy and goodwill coming from the fans, but eleven years and ten movies in, it’s both bittersweet and incredibly satisfying to have completed his journey in such a way. This fundraiser ball will be the last official engagement for him in quite a while, and he’s looking forward to the peace and quiet (not that things are ever that quiet with a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old).

A small voice pipes up from behind him.

“M-Mr. Stark?”

Robert snorts. No rest for the wicked, it seems. All the same, he turns around and cocks an eyebrow, stepping effortlessly into character. A trivial kindness on his part can be the highlight of someone else’s day, so why not play Tony for a little while longer?

“Alright, you found me,” he says with a quick shrug. The light from the skyscraper’s spire blinds him temporarily, and he can only make out the shadow of a figure. “And you are? Come on, step forward.”

The figure remains frozen. Robert squints. It’s a man, he thinks—not very tall (which is saying something, coming from him), and built rather strong. Probably one of the younger guests at the ball.

He beckons again. He knows how to deal with star-struck fans. “Come on,” he says, this time letting a bit of warmth into his voice. “I’m not gonna fire a missile at you. Unless you’re secretly from HYDRA?”

The young man is trembling, Robert notices—so violently that, even with a good ten feet’s distance and his silhouette darkened by backlight, the shiver is still apparent.

The actor shrugs. Sometimes fans get more than a bit overwhelmed; he’s not one to judge. He takes a step, still squinting, and hears a sniff. Ah, so they’ve probably seen Endgame, huh.

But then, finally, the person steps closer.

Robert’s mouth drops open. Then he beams. “Tom? I thought you’re in Mexico!” He strides forward, arms outstretched. “Should’ve given me a heads-up that you were dropping in!”

Tom is oddly silent, but Robert hears an unmistakable gasp as his arms wrap around the young man. There’s a split second pause, and then Tom is hugging him back, almost uncomfortably tight.

“Woah there,” Robert says, taken aback. “Press tour that bad, huh?”

Tom doesn’t answer. He’s still trembling. Robert frowns at the texture at his fingertips.

“Is that—” he looks down, and laughs. “Did you smuggle that off set?”

Tom still doesn’t answer. Instead, he… whimpers. There’s no other word for it. He whimpers: a plaintive, tiny noise, halfway broken.

“Mr. Stark,” he croaks, and buries his face in Robert’s shoulder. Then, quietly, powerfully, he begins to sob.

Robert rubs his co-star’s tense heaving shoulders. For a prank scene, Tom is really giving it his all—tears are coming hard and fast, and already the fabric of his tuxedo is damp. You owe me a new suit, Robert thinks fondly as he settles into the rhythm of the shoot. He wonders where the cameras are at, and wonders where they’ll use this footage; maybe on the press tour for Far From Home?

He expects someone to shout And Cut from the sidelines. Tom just hasn’t stopped crying, and his grip is tighter than ever. But then a full minute passes, and all he hears is the buzz of conversation back from the party, and the occasional whistling wind, and Tom’s quiet, devastated sobs.

Surreptitiously he glances around. He’s been in the industry long enough to know every possible camera angle they can surprise him with, and… he doesn’t see a camera. Not even a drone.

This is him, Robert realizes with a pang in his heart. Just him.

He hasn’t seen this kind of panic in the young actor ever since the early days of Spider-Man’s inception into the MCU, and even back then, Tom had certainly never just… broken down, like this. Robert doesn’t ask about why he’s here at the party, why he’s in costume, and a million other questions that demand answers. Those can come later.

“Hey,” he says, gently brushing the young man’s hair. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, buddy.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom gasps. “I-I’m s-sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Robert frowns. He double and triple-checks that there really is no camera, before his gaze comes back to the boy in his arms. It makes no sense. Why would Tom not drop character? Yet the emotions seem so genuine.

“Do you want to go inside for a bit and talk?” Robert offers finally, unsure again whether or not this whole thing is a prank.

Tom seems to consider for a moment, before he nods. Almost sheepishly he steps away from Robert, still sniffling. He takes a shaky breath, visibly steadying himself.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says, glancing at his feet. “I… I guess I’m called Tom in this dimension but I…” he trails off.

Robert’s frown deepens. Before he can further question his young co-star, though, his phone buzzes, and out of habit he slips it out of his pocket.

It’s a message. From Tom.

[Tom Holland]: just wrapped up press tour in Mexico!

[Tom Holland]: heard u’re on the last leg too, Boss Man, so congrats

[Tom Holland]: oh and jake says hi

[Tom Holland]: see u stateside! say hi to susan & the kids for me :)

[Tom Holland]: Sent a photo.

Robert swipes his phone open. It’s a photo of Tom and Jake, making the webshooting motion as they enter the airport gates, a crowd of fans behind them. Robert blinks. He lifts his gaze.

Tom is in front of him, in costume, head still lowered.

He looks down at his phone. Double-checks the time-stamp.

Tom is in Mexico. About to fly.

Robert feels dizzy. He looks back and forth between the two Toms, then focuses his attention on the Tom who’s here. He reaches out and touches his cheeks, trying to see if there’s make-up or even a face mask. Tom lifts his head at the contact. His eyes are red and twinkling still. His face is entirely real.

“Who… are you?” Robert asks in a whisper.

“I’m, I-I’m Peter,” the young man stammers. “Peter Parker.” He looks on the verge of tears again. “Mr. Stark, you have no idea, I just—I’ve been to so many dimensions and—”

“I’m not Mr. Stark,” Robert says, numbly. He pinches a cheek, his own this time. It hurts. It’s real. “My name is Robert.”

Not-Tom looks as if he’s about to say something when he blinks. A split second later, he leaps up—ten feet, easy—over Robert, over the balcony, and over the railings.

Robert’s heart almost stops. He rushes to the edge of the Deck, and looks down in stunned horror.

The young man hasn’t fallen. Instead, he is plastered to the side of the building—no wires, no safety harness, no equipment of any kind. Just… sticking.

Robert blinks. Blinks again. His mind is blank.

Not-Tom seems to sense something, and looks up. Their eyes meet. Not-Tom gives him a small, grateful smile.

“Robert?”

Robert jumps. He whips around to see Gwyneth, who happens to be at this event.

“Oh hey,” he says. He gulps even though his mouth feels dry. “Hey.”

Gwyneth smiles. “You were taking so long they sent me to find you. Everything fine back home?”

“Uh, yeah! Of course, of course.”

“Good to hear. Come on, they’re waiting for your speech.”

And with that, she’s already moving away.

Robert breathes out. He casts one last look over the railings.

Not-Tom is still there, clinging to the building. Peter is still there. The boy hasn’t looked away, and upon catching Robert’s gaze, his eyes shine.

“Wait for me,” Robert blurts out. “I want to talk to you.”

Peter’s eyes widen. Then he nods.

“Okay.”

Part 1 of 2. Also on AO3.

My main post-Endgame Iron Family fic is Hearts of Iron!

TAGLIST:

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[millenniumfae]

Dark Souls Cooking: Estus Flask Recipe

For the next video game recipe, we’re going to replicate the Estus draught from the Dark Souls franchise. I’ve already done Estus soup, but this time we’re delving deeper.

The player’s main source of healing is from these draughts of Estus, and they’re refilled when you rest at a bonfire. The player, as many of you know, is something called an ‘Undead’, because you’re cursed with the ‘Darksign’; you can’t stay dead, you eventually come back to life as spry as ever. But the more you die, the more ‘hollow’ you become until you’re one of the countless mindless zombies roaming the Dark Souls world.

And when the play dies, you respawn at the last bonfire you rested at. AKA, the player is ‘transported’ to the bonfire with their filled Estus flasks, looking a bit more wrinkly and zombie-like. Thing is, the story of Dark Souls places a huge emphasis on the twisting of time and space. So it’s not necessarily that the player’s body is warped back to the bonfire and re-animated, but more like you’re entering a different timeline where weren’t actually defeated. Possibly. It’s ambiguous like that.

So Estus is not the same magic that can actually revive felled Undead like the Darksign does. It’s not the force that’s converging entire countries closer together and putting lands into states of stasis. It’s not something that can reverse your hollowing progression. It’s something that, I guess, heals immediate stab wounds as they happen, and the like.

Also, not every character in-game is Undead. And the few confirmed non-undead NPCs are never shown drinking Estus. And the god Lloyd, a hunter of the Undead, uses a talisman that blocks Estus usage within a certain proximity. Perhaps Estus is indeed intricate to the Undead experience, as suggested by the item description, “The Undead treasure these dull green flasks.” 

Basically, Estus itself is an energy that heals Undead, and Undead only. It’s refilled at bonfires, and there’s that whole Gwyn the God and First Flame thing that’s the main plot of the Souls series. 

(“… Oh, one more thing … here, take this … an Estus Flask, an Undead favourite.”)

But Estus isn’t some holy magic. Humans exist almost in opposition to the divine of Dark Souls. We hold ‘humanity’ within ourselves, which is more closely related to the feared Abyss than the power of fire. Gwyn feared humanity. Humans are considered to be the catalyst of the age of Dark. We, as human Undead, are not reliant on fire the same way one might think when first introduced to the concept of Estus.

It’s the bonfires that heal the Undead when you sit at them. So since you refill your flasks at these bonfires, many people assume that Estus is just that. Bottled bonfire flame. After all, ‘aestus’ is latin for heat.

But there’s another interpretation - the Undead curse came into existence the same time Gwyn refused to let the Age of Fire pass, and tried to prolong the First Flame by throwing himself into it. The fact that Undead humans are revived at bonfires might be something of a side-effect of Gwyn’s pig-headedness. Humans are cursed to follow Gwyn’s footsteps in some roundabout, incoicidencial way. So long as this current Age of Fire is prolonged, we can’t die. We can’t move on. We’re all bound to fires and bonfires and the First Flame as prisoners.

Therefore, these bonfires exist throughout the world because they’re little branches of the First Flame, and your Undead curse is what reacts to the bonfires - not you specifically. So, we can say that drinking Estus is merely ‘prolonging’ your Undead curse, the same way that your Darksign is a product of Gwyn’s forced prolonging of this current Age.

So Estus isn’t the holy healing potion that people might think. It’s just bottled First Flame essence that increases your Undead life. Your Undead curse. Sure, fire can be warm and life-giving and all that, but not being able to ‘move on’ from this Age of Fire? Not being able to continue time, and stay forever bound to fire? Now that’s a curse.

(The Dark Souls series has a lot of Eldritch writing, thanks to its use of manipulating time and space. Makes sense that FromSoftware’s next game (Bloodborne) was all about that Lovecraftian genre.)

Why is all this conjecture important? Well, I was wondering what my Estus recipe should taste like. If Estus was this holy healing magic, then that’s one direction. But I don’t think Estus is the nectar of the gods. It’s literally just fire, and the Undead covet them as healing sources even though its just reacting to their Darksign.

This realization almost makes this recipe harder to make. It’d be one thing if I was trying to replicate an angelic potion of heavenly sweetness and vanilla. I’ve no idea what fire is supposed to taste like.

In my Dark Souls Estus Soup recipe, I went towards the spicy direction, in order to emulate a burning sensation. This time around, the dedication towards canon is a more serious endeavor. After all, the idea of ‘Estus soup’ was kinda silly to begin with. Estus flasks, on the other hand, is the real deal.

Who of Dark Souls history invented Etsus? It’s never said. Dark Souls is split between two extremes - either there’s some deep, artsy lore behind why something is what it is, or we just kinda have to accept it because video game logic. There’s a reason why Filianore is cradling a cracked egg when you find her sleeping corpse, but there’s probably no lore reason why items in-game glow a shiny white sprite.

As far as the creation of Estus goes, our two clues are; the whole bonfire connection, and the description of the flask that holds it - “An emerald flask, from the Keeper's soul. She lives to protect the flame, and dies to protect it further.” Fire Keepers are people who dedicate their lives to tending and protecting a single bonfire throughout their lives. And in the last two Dark Souls games, they’re the only way you can level up.

(There is a theory that Estus soup is, in fact, boiled-down monsters or Undead. On rare occasions, you can get a free refill of Estus upon killing an enemy, kinda like how in Bloodborne, you get blood vials from killing enemies. So the Hunter harvest blood from their slain foes, and the Undead of Dark Souls can somehow absorb Estus energy on occasion. Hence, a theory on how Estus soup came to be.)

Fire Keepers are allies to the Undead. They protect the Bonfires, and therefore protect your sake. Protect from what, I don’t know. But they stand there all day, regardless. After all, the death of a Fire Keeper resulted in the snuffing of a Bonfire.

Although Estus isn’t divine ambrosia of the heavens, it’s still a concoction meant to serve you. To heal you. Not healing you of all curses and afflictions completely, but good enough. The reach of a Fire Keepers persists whenever you take a draught of Estus.

So you’re carrying around this flask of glowing liquid to swig whenever you get a Dragonslayer Arrow through your noggin. Therefore, to recreate Estus, I began thinking of protein shakes. Other people tend to go in the alcoholic direction, possibly as a homage to the whole ‘fire’ sensation. But I think of real-life Estus as a medicine rather than a drought of liquid courage.

If curing the Darksign was antibiotics, Estus would be Muscle Milk’s Non-Dairy Everyday Protein formula. Protein shakes aren’t as hokey as some might believe; while there’s no real evidence that building muscle requires a higher protein intake, using bodybuilding supplements can intake the protein (amino acids used to repair muscle tearing) while omitting the carbs, sugars, and salts irrelevant to maintaining muscle mass. 

Basically, a protein shake contains the stuff you need to repair muscle micro-injury. You can imagine a magical version of a protein shake to instantly heal your sore muscles after a workout, complete with a firey kindling animation. 

The most popular source of protein in theses shakes is whey protein. It contains all the amino acids humans cannot synthesize, and therefore must ingest throughout our diets. Soy, egg, and rice are also popular too. ‘Whey’, for those of you who don’t know, is part of the cheesemaking process - after the fat of milk has been curdled and removed to become cheese, the liquid that remains is called whey. Basically, it contains a lot of milk nutrients, without the fat.

(Boss ahead. Therefore, try Praise The Sun.)

Now, I’ve tasted a few protein shakes myself. During the beginning of my hormone replacement therapy, my legs were getting so sore from simply walking down the street. I don’t eat a lot of meat, so I decided to get protein powder and add it to my coffee. There’s a sort of ... powdered milk aftertaste, but most overbearingly it’s the artificial flavoring of the powder itself. 

And like Rocky has shown us, you don’t need branded protein powder to make a ‘protein shake’. Most popular protein-shake-from-scratch is with egg whites. However, using just eggs doesn’t result in a lot of protein, so people usually add more sources of protein such as peanut butter. 

I do like the idea of using eggs. It’s poetic, since this is a ‘healing potion’, with that imagery of breaking an egg’s shell and consuming its fluid and yolk. However, consuming raw eggs in select countries (such as the USA) runs the risk of salmonella poisoning. Therefore, we’re going to use powdered egg yolk - its a popular ingredient for bakers. And only the yolk, because that’s a) where the protein is, and b) where we’ll get a nice source of yellow.

The entire ingredient list is;

3 tablespoons powdered egg yolk

2 scoops unflavored protein powder

A cup of almond milk

2-4 tablespoons raw honey 

Pinch of turmeric, chipotle powder

As with all my video-game-cooking recipes, I choose all the ingredients to emulate the time and setting. Except this time Etsus is likely not supposed to be deconstructed into groceries a peasant could harvest. However, the rule still stands - almond milk was a popular drink during the plate armor days. Raw honey instead of purified white sugar. 

The turmeric gives a deeper yellow color to the mix, and the chipotle provides the slightest smokey burn to the aftertaste. A pinch of either won’t be tasted when you take a swig, it’s only after you swallow do you feel the slight peppery bitterness of the turmeric, and the smokiness of the chipotle, along with a soft burn on your lips. Very true to Estus’ bonfire origins.

Making this protein shake is easy. Combine, stir/blend, and serve! It’s low calorie, great for energy, and it tastes perfectly decent.

Time to hit the road and reach that next bonfire, before finally tackling the boss.

[13bb-blog1]

PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE – The Long, Awful Drive

Frogurt Belch was an existential mess. ‘This is certainly the end,’ he thought to himself, and repeated it internally again and again as he drove his beat-up Pontiac toward a cliff jutting off into the Atlantic Ocean. He began to say it out loud, over and over until he was shouting at the top of his lungs, drowning out the radio and the sound of heavy rain falling on his windshield. He kept screaming as tears began to stream down his face.

He swerved out of the way of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, masked by the water in his eyes and on his windows, breathing a sigh of relief. He pulled over to the side of the road, opened his door, and vomited onto the muddy ground. He wiped his mouth and lifted his head when he heard a familiar sound.

The radio was playing his song. Frogurt had been a star. Just two months ago, out of nowhere, Frogurt Belch had released a hit single, “Turn It Down,” and became instantly famous. For a while, one couldn’t go anywhere without hearing the song itself or some parody of it. Frogurt was on talk shows, doing meet and greets, and being hounded by the paparazzi. He had been scheduled to host Saturday Night Live the next week.

His live shows, just like his song, had become legendary in the month that they appeared. After all, Frogurt had only made one piece of music in his entire life. The concerts became almost orgiastic conglomerations of considerably more talented artists aching to share a stage with the one, the only, Frogurt Belch. Even if you hated “Turn It Down,” it was worth it to go to a Frogurt concert to see the rest of the pure talent assembled. 

Yes, Frogurt’s life was extraordinary, and extraordinarily changed from what it had been before. He had been living alone, sad and lonely. His only consolation was his television set, which he’d watch religiously. God, he loved TV.

He would wake up every morning, at six thirty precisely, and would stick to the same routine. He would sit on the toilet, struggling, give up to get in the shower, brush his teeth while in there, get out and dry himself off, and reluctantly return to the seat for a bowel movement. He’d go into the kitchen and pour himself a bowl of Cheerios, grabbing the phone from the wall mount and dialing his mother.

Jessica Belch was not a frog like any of her sons. That had come from her husband’s side of the family, God rest his soul. She often wondered if maybe that was why she often disagreed and argued with so many of them. There were a couple of children that she hadn’t heard from in years after particularly nasty partings.

Frogurt knew that the issue of froggishness had nothing to do with the fact that his mother was simply a bitch in almost every sense of the word. He, being the only Belch brother to actually love her, had taken up the job of consoling her and helping her keep the household in check after the death of his father, but it was an impossible task. Jessica was simply inconsolable and insisted upon having things her way. She was a bit tyrannical, and the sad passing of her husband earned her enough pity that she could continue living in a ridiculous manner.

She insisted that Frogurt call her every morning, knowing that he was one of the few children over which she still had power. Honestly, anyone could have had power over Frogurt. He was spineless, a mess of psychological afflictions, paranoia, and anxieties. He’d been like this since birth; when he was a child his brothers would never want to play with him because he was boring.

After the morning phone call, Frogurt would get dressed, putting on the same sort of boring shirt every day, and walk to the train station. Every day he’d buy a newspaper, which he always managed to leave on the counter at the bodega, and take the subway into Manhattan.

The subway was where Frogurt’s worst fears came to life. Nothing went on, but inside Frogurt’s head his thoughts ran rampant. He’d had the fear of rapes and mugging put into his head at a young age by Jessica, who’d hoped to dissuade her sons from taking the train alone. Frogurt had a nightmare that night, ending with him dead on the tracks and his older brother Hector, Jr. pissing on his corpse. Frogurt dreaded taking the train every morning, but it was the quickest way to get to work.

He pictured every other mild-mannered commuter as a depraved pervert or a murderous malcontent, out to skin him and eat his heart. In his addled mind, the indecipherable drone of the subway announcements turned into the voice of Satan himself, urging Frogurt’s fellow passengers to commit all sorts of egregious and hellish acts on the poor frog.

He emerged from the stinking crack of the earth gasping for breath. Every day he would walk the block and a half from the station to the unimaginable dull office building where he would perform his unimaginably dull job.

In those days, Frogurt was a telemarketer. Every day his bosses, two lecherous, looming twins who were the oversexed and underworked sons of the owner of the company, would come into his cubicle, slap him upside the head, and set down a binder filled with numbers to cold call in order to hock whatever garbage the corporation was selling that day. They’d take turns hitting him across the face until he cried in pain, docked his pay for disturbing the peace, and slapped each other’s asses on the way out.

On that fateful day when Frogurt’s life began to change, the binder was devoid of any numbers, with each page simply reading: random. Frogurt sighed a deep sigh and got to work dialing.

Nine hours later, after an entire day of being yelled at by the elderly who were sick of telemarketers calling them and trying to sell them random junk, Frogurt stumbled out of the office building and took a drastically wrong turn. Somehow, in his stupor, Frogurt wandered uptown and into the heart of Harlem. He didn’t notice his mistake for a while, as he was deep within his own mind, thinking of Charlotte from accounting and how she’d winked at him, or maybe she’d just blinked. Still, it was more than Frogurt was used to, and he clung to that moment with great hope. He was imagining them growing old together when he realized he was somewhere completely wrong.

He realized where he was and his mind started racing. Here was where he was going to die. His life was going to end right here, right now, on the wrong end of a knife or a gun wielded by some gap-toothed homeless miscreant out for blood or money. They would approach him, see his nice shirt, and riddle him full of bullets before he could cry out in his weak voice that he really didn’t have any money whatsoever. Frogurt turned over some last words in his head, knowing that he’d want to say something good before he kicked the bucket.

Frogurt didn’t die. Nobody cared about Frogurt back then, especially not anyone in Harlem. His back arched to make himself look bigger, Frogurt slowly turned around and made his way back downtown, back to the train station so that he could get back home. A little kid with hair bigger than his head and a voice deeper than Frogurt’s insisted that he take a local magazine, for which Frogurt eagerly coughed up three bucks to avoid his imagined bloodshed, and soon he was back home in his tiny apartment.

He put a frozen meal into the microwave and sat down to watch TV when the phone rang, as it always did. It was Jessica.

“Frogurt,” she said. “Where were you when I called at seven? You know I always call at seven.”

“I know, Mama,” he replied. “But I was out.”

“Out? Out doing what? What could you possibly have been doing out?”

“Not out. Just outside. I got lost.”

“You got lost? You’ve been doing the same thing for years now and you still get lost.”

“I—”

“When are you going to grow up, Frogurt?”

“Mama, I just took a wrong—”

“Frogurt, don’t you know how dangerous it is out there? Don’t you remember what happened to your father?”

Of course Frogurt remembered. How could he ever forget?

“Of course, Mama.”

“Now that’s a good boy. Frogurt, I need you to come over here tomorrow.”

“Mama, there’s a novel writing class at the Learning Annex that I wanted—”

“Oh please, Frogurt, you and I both know that you won’t work up the courage to go to that, so be a good little boy and come help me move my fridge?”

“Why can’t Hamlet help you with that?”

“Oh you know how he is, Frogurt, you know I can’t get him to do anything for me. He’s not like you, Frogurt. He’s not my special little boy like you are, Frogurt.”

“Okay, Mama.”

Frogurt absentmindedly began to leaf through the magazine he’d bought in fear back when he was in Harlem.

“And Frogurt, I want you to call your brother Slumleg. I want you to find out how he’s doing and how his kids are. Don’t bother asking him about that Italian slut.”

“Okay, Mama.”

“Have you heard the news, Frogurt?”

“No, Mama.”

It was some sort of hip-hop magazine. Frogurt wasn’t very big into music back then, besides the theme songs to whatever was on television. Nonetheless, Frogurt was sort of intrigued by the rappers on the cover decked out in gold and diamonds and enamored by the beautiful women within the pages.

“Your brother Hector, Jr. has knocked over another bank. Can you believe that boy? Where did we go wrong, Frogurt? Thank God I had at least one good one. You know, Frogurt, your father and I should have just skipped right to you. One would have been good enough. We didn’t need a whole troop of frogs marching around and giving me and the US government headaches. Between Hector’s crimes and Jib Lanes going around hunting that piece of shit Willie, not to mention whatever it is Eight is up to, I have my hands full. Oh of course not, Giblet,” she said to her stupidest son, who was there with her. “You’re a good one too.”

“Mmhm, Mama.”

Frogurt had read the short rag from one end to the other and his eyes had lit up with excitement when he reached the end. There was an advertisement there: a contest was being held by some underground rap label. They promised that they could make a star out of whomever sent them the best song they could make.

“Well, Frogurt, are you going to come over tomorrow?”

“Yes, Mama. I have to go now, Mama, my show’s going to start.”

“Goodbye, Fro—”

He didn’t even watch the show. He spent the entire night on the computer, absorbing thirty years of hip-hop knowledge in a ten hour period. By morning, he had concocted in his head what was, to his estimation, the perfect rap song. He skipped work the next day in order to go to Sam Ash and spend what little allowance Jessica had given him that month on a drum machine.

By that evening, he had finished. “Turn It Down” was created, in all of its glory, and Frogurt slipped it in the mailbox the next morning as if he were mailing a letter bomb. He took the train into work that day and didn’t even mind the horrible cretins who rode the subway with him. When he got off he thought he saw the little kid who sold him the magazine and shook his hand with incredible enthusiasm. Frogurt very nearly got beaten by an angry midget that day, only to come face to face with his even angrier bosses.

“Yo, Faggurt,” said Fettuccine, the stupider of the two brothers. He pushed Frogurt to his counterpart.

“Where the fuck were you, Frogurt?” asked Alfredo, the dumber twin. He pushed Frogurt back, harder.

“You were supposed to be here yesterday, you shit.”

“Who the fuck gave you permission to ditch?”

“I—well, I was—” Frogurt stuttered.

“Okay, I don’t give a shit,” said Fettuccine.

“Dad’s gonna tear you a new one. He’s gonna fuck you in the ass,” warned Alfredo.

That black midget came upstairs, looking for Frogurt. He was an emissary from the record company. Frogurt had won their competition, even though “Turn It Down” had been pieced together almost entirely out of stolen Jay-Z songs.

“Fuck you!” Frogurt said to the twins on his way out. Fettuccine decked him in the face.

And after that, it was all amazing. Frogurt’s life was changed completely around. Suddenly, he had everything. Money, power, women, cars, you name it. Frogurt was living large on top of the world, and Belch was a household name. He bought Jessica a beautiful apartment to live in with Hamlet and Giblet, while he moved out onto Long Island, quitting his job at the telemarketing firm. Girls fainted at the sight of him. Men pushed each other over to shake his hand. Everyone clamored for a piece of Frogurt. For the first time in his life, he felt special.

Then all that passed. After two months of Frogurtmania, nobody cared anymore. Frogurt was a one hit wonder, even if he was a potent one. Slowly, he watched his new life crumble around him. He quickly went into debt. Saturday Night Live and a hundred other venues cancelled on him. The sponsorships, the commercials, the tour, the album: they all fell to pieces. He had to sell his Ferrari and his house and watched as everything went back to the way it was, but worse. Frogurt moved in with his mother and brothers and spent a torturous two nights there before he decided that he was going to kill himself.

It was late at night when Frogurt sneaked out of the apartment and took Hamlet’s rarely driven car out of the garage. It was raining and thundering as he drove calmly out of the city, beginning to hyperventilate as he realized just exactly what he was going to do. ‘This is certainly the end,’ he thought to himself.

He sat there, the car parked on the side of the road, listening to his song play for the first time in two weeks. Before that it had been ubiquitous. He was too sullen to even bob his head along to the beat:

“F to the R to the O-G-U-R-T Everyone wants to get down with me My name is Frogurt F to the rogurt I’m in the back of the club And I’m eating my yogurt DJ, turn the music down I’m tryna do my homework.”

Frogurt realized just how true the lyrics he wrote were: it was a hard knock ouch for ouch. His life had turned into hell. It was all gone. He figured it must have been a mistake; that some people are just born to live inconsequential lives. That was Frogurt. His life was boring, it was depressing, but it was his. Then some great something or other in the sky had made a smudge on a piece of paper and suddenly he had everything. It must have been a fluke!

But he noticed it. He noticed his mistake. He went back and fixed it, and Frogurt was sent hurtling into his old life, back into drudgery and nothingness. He couldn’t bear it. Frogurt had tasted the good life and every mouthful without it tasted an awful lot like shit. That’s why he was there. He felt that his life had had its peak and that there was nothing left to live for.

He closed the door and turned the car back on. He drove it to the precipice, facing the water. He took a long look at the inky blackness of the sea spreading forth before him. In his mind he thought of that one time Charlotte had winked or maybe just blinked at him, and then he thought of all the women that had come after that. He thought of his mother, his father, and his brothers. He thought of the cold embrace of all that sea in front of him.

The song ended.

“That was Frogurt Bean or something with “Turn It Down,” last month’s most popular song. No one cares now, though. Last time I heard or cared, Frogurt had died. Good riddance, I see. In more interesting music, here’s the Rhythm Sec—”

Frogurt angrily turned off the radio. He took deep breaths, crying. The Belches always believed in destiny. Frogurt’s father, Hector, had always told the children that something had a plan for them, and there was no fighting that. He buckled his seatbelt and revved the engine.

“I guess this is my destiny,” he said to himself. “To die here alone, hurtling off this cliff. I wonder what they’ll tell Mama. She always liked Hamlet the most anyway.”

He put his foot on the gas pedal and inched forward.

“Nooooo! That ain’t ya destiny, Frogurt, ya ras bumbaclot!”

Frogurt was no longer alone in the car. The ghost of his father had joined him. Frogurt quickly pulled his foot off the pedal. The Pontiac tottered on the edge.