#I think I like making everyone deranged because it's easier to draw

[hartlesshart]

4/14 how we got here -> Page 1

Continue on if you dare -> Page 5

[trafficlife]

Breaking Point

It took three seconds for Grian to convince Jimmy to push off the minecart. It took two seconds for Jimmy to fall to his death, a trail of lightning following his path. And it took less than one second for the remains of Joel's sanity to disintegrate completely.

word count: 1363

ao3 link

It happened in a blur. Too fast for either Joel or Grian to process.

They knew Jimmy could be a bit of a klutz but this was the worst time for his clumsiness to kick in. Yes, he fell off of Skynet multiple times—all the bad boys were guilty of that—but it didn't matter too much: back then, he had enough time on his clock, and more than enough time to make it up.

But the last grains of sand had fallen, drowning the canary in the sandstorm.

The lightning struck, sealing Jimmy's fate. But he was dead before he even hit the ground.

Everything that followed the canary's final words was akin to static to Joel's ears. He felt his communicator buzz repeatedly in his pocket. There would be a lot of commotion considering this was the fourth time in a row Jimmy was out first. But Joel didn't want to see the messages. He didn't want to believe it.

He dug his fingers into his palms which would be drawing blood, if not for his leather gloves. This wasn't part of his plan. This wasn't supposed to happen. Hell, it should've been Joel who died first, not Jimmy!

Joel had been thinking about sacrificing himself for a while. Everyone was aware of Jimmy's curse. Joel thought he could break it, that he could free him from this cycle. The universe proved him wrong.

And he hated it when the universe proved him wrong.

His head was reeling, blood pumping through his veins, eyes narrowing and flashing red, like a warning. When Joel was red, everyone knew to heed his warnings. But this time, it was somewhat different. The bad boys were anchoring him, slightly diminishing his violent urges. But now one of the chains had snapped, and Joel was already floating into the torrential waters.

Grian seemed to notice, and he gently put a hand on Joel's shoulder. Joel flinched and turned to look at the avian. Grian's eyes were wide with concern, contrasting Joel's narrowed, maniacal ones. "Joel, breathe! Please... Try to relax."

Joel scoffed, shrugging Grian's hand off his shoulder. "That's much easier said than done, Grian, and you know it." He turned away and began walking in the opposite direction, aware that Grian was hot on his heels. "How?! How could he just bloody fall off the bridge?!"

"Joel..."

"I mean, we've all fallen off Skynet, but this isn't the first time Tim pushed off a minecart! Why wasn't he more careful?!"

"Joel—"

"I cannot believe this. This wasn't supposed to happen, I was supposed to prevent this!"

"Joel!"

"WHAT?!" Joel snarled, whipping his head back towards Grian. The avian froze, like a deer in headlights. He remembers this expression, from Last Life when he teamed up with Joel. He remembered his wild expression, his battle-ready stance, his shrieks and cackles as blood dripped from his weapons and hands, staining the ground he walked on.

He remembers Pearl’s blood dripping down from Joel’s axe in Double Life. His chestplate was stained blood, eyes twitching as his lips formed a vicious smile. “You think you’re unhinged, Pearl?! You have no idea!” 

Except for Etho, due to their former soul bond, Grian was probably the closest to knowing what “unhinged” really was for Joel.

There were so many words that could describe Joel on his red life: feral, deranged, unhinged, unstable. But surprisingly, Grian thought "broken" was the most fitting.

Becoming a red life was always Joel's breaking point. From his sanity to his restraint, everything went off the edge and shattered once it hit the bottom. Joel was a living storm, wild and untamed. But inside of that storm, were all of the fragments that made him whole, that kept him sane.

This was a different case because Joel was grieving. Before, he was just broken beyond repair; now, the grief shattered what was left of his fragments, making it impossible to put him back together.

(Even if he wasn't grieving, Joel wouldn't be easy to fix anyway.)

Joel saw the fear in Grian's eyes and he just crumbled. He choked back a sob as hot angry tears rolled down his face, resting his forehead on Grian's shoulder. Grian frowned, gently caressing Joel's head and wrapping his wings around him in a feathery hug. Joel clung onto Grian's red jumper, his nails threatening to rip the fabric. "I can't. I just fucking can't, Grian..."

"I know..."

"I was going to sacrifice myself for him," Joel whispered, though Grian was aware of this fact. "I should've let him kill me, at least a couple more times."

"How much time do you have left, Joel?"

"3 hours and 20 minutes." He took a shaky breath, glancing up at the avian over the rim of his glasses. "I could've given him an extra 90 minutes. Probably 2 hours." Grian nodded slowly. He wanted to protest that giving Jimmy 2 hours would kill Joel but they both knew that. That was what Joel wanted.

"You tried so hard, Joel," Grian murmured. 

Joel huffed. "Obviously I didn't try hard enough." He let go of Grian, hands still balled up in fists. He really needed to punch something, to let go of some of his emotions. “Sorry, I... I need to be alone.” 

“No need to apologize.” Grian gently squeezed Joel’s shoulder reassuringly. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to come back from this.” Joel didn’t believe that. But he still appreciated Grian for saying it. It sounded more believable coming from Grian, than it would if it came from Joel himself.

After Grian left, Joel looked down from Skynet, where Jimmy fell. Even from so high up, he could see the scorched patch of grass from the lightning. 

It disgusted him to look at it.

He then went back into the remains of their base, which accurately represented Joel’s current mood: a mess, barely staying together, incredibly hopeless. His breathing was irregular and ragged and he grinded down on his teeth. Joel took a deep inhale.

And then he screamed.

It was loud, ear-splitting, and it only reinforced Joel’s insanity rather than help relieve it. He dug his fingers into his curly dark brown hair, doubling over as if shot by an arrow.

Then, Joel chuckled darkly, but it quickly devolved into a despair-filled cackle. Joel threw his head back, his sunglasses flying off in the process. His pupils were dilated and angry tears rolled down his cheeks. The cackling made his throat ache and his bloodlust had never felt so overwhelming before. He punched one of the windows, shattering it completely. Some of the shards had pierced through his glove, blood soaking through the fabric  and dripping down his wrist.

The despair quickly caught up to him. He sank to his knees and sobbed, having exhausted all of his fire. Only disdain ran through his veins. He despised this wretched world for being so damn cruel. He despised himself for not trying harder. He should have tried harder, he should have.  

It felt so… bad.

And, for the first time in any of these games, he hated feeling bad.

Eventually Joel stopped crying, tears still rolling down his cheeks. He began carefully plucking the shards from his skin, gritting his teeth. “Stop crying, you fool,” he hissed to himself. “Not like it’s going to magically bring Jimmy back.”

As angry as he was, and as angry as he’d be for the rest of the game, Joel couldn’t let his time go to waste. This has to mean something. And he knows that Jimmy wouldn’t want him to give up. 

He looked up at the clear sky through the shattered windows. Jimmy probably logged off by now. But deep down, Joel hoped that he was watching, to see that Joel wouldn’t quit on him.

Joel was never much of a quitter anyways, though he felt particularly close to doing so now. 

The universe proved him wrong once, but he’d be damned if it proved him wrong a second time. 

(Yet the universe knew that Joel’s insanity would lead to his downfall, once again. It was very good at leading him on.)

[hostess-of-horror]

Inspired by our other conversation. If you were put in charge of the next HHN, you can make the houses, the stories to them and the scarezones, what would you do?

Kinda like the HHN wishlist but I am curious of what you would do in the details of it. 👀

- @classicdeadfan

*SQUEALS OF PURE DELIGHT*

@classicdeadfan, you have no idea how much I wanted to talk about something like this! I love haunted houses, scarezones, and Halloween in general, so of course I would have tons of ideas as to how I would develop a proper attraction!

The Main Theme:

Now, I never really thought about an overall theme for HHN, mainly because I only ever thought about specific themes for houses and scarezones. Although, the more I think about it, the more I'm leaning toward a "deranged artist" horror story theme. I know that The Director is a "deranged artist" that already exists within the HHN-verse, but I was thinking more along the lines of the Killustrator from Singapore's HHN event.

Or perhaps, Sander Cohen from BioShock.

Okay, maybe not him specifically, but an Icon character much like him. If there's anything I love, it's the concept of an artist who uses murder and other horrific ways to create masterpieces.

Another thing I also really want is Cindy to make her appearance as an Icon (she was going to be one years ago, but she was switched due to the multiple child kidnappings in Florida at the time).

So... Cindy + "Deranged Artist" = A very meta main storyline where Cindy, after years of being promised to have her own "Icon"ic debut, finally lashes out against Universal Studios for denying her the chance to shine. With a cursed sketchbook in hand, Cindy unleashes her twisted, child-like drawings into the streets, killing anyone and everyone in their path.

2. The Scarezones:

I'm going to do five scare zones for my HHN event because there were five of them last year, and honestly, there are so. many. ideas.

Halloween Horror Nights 32: Drawn in Blood - the main entrance to the entire event. Cindy has finally taken over Halloween Horror Nights as her personal canvas and the blood of those who denied her years ago is the ink of her pen. You will encounter Universal Studio employees and creative teams being torn apart, gutted, beheaded, and tortured by her living creations. Her father, the Caretaker, will also be there, supporting his daughter as she wreaks havoc. Beware of Cindy, or else you will become her next biggest inspiration!

Army of Frankenstein - the scarezone spin-off to The Bride of Frankenstein Lives, where the Bride's various experiments have now been released into the outside world. Cower in fear as you witness villagers get attacked by these man-made beasts and are forced to bow before their malevolent conqueror. Nothing will stop the Bride from hunting down all of mankind until she either wipes them out or until they surrender to her...

Vamp '32 - a "prequel" to Vamp 85. Set in the year 1932, the Great Depression has fallen upon all of humanity. Where life has become difficult, death is now far easier than ever before! Enter the party of the century as poor souls are tricked into getting easy employment for the hosts and higher-ups. In the world of undead flappers and gangsters, fresh blood is the most valuable of all!

Bugs: Unleashed! - the sequel to Bugs: Eaten Alive. After the failure and destruction of Buzzcon, the mutated bugs are now taking over the world! Step into the 1950s as a suburban neighborhood becomes a hot spot for breeding and human food supplies, and armies are just about helpless in fighting these bugs off. You better BUZZ off, or else you're dead meat...

Haunted Couture - inspired by Vanity Ball, this scarezone has turned into an exclusive R.I.P. tour of the "Gore"-geous world of fashion. Using the leftover flesh from her previous massacre (main entrance), Cindy's revenge has taken to new heights as her victims become living mannequins for all to see and scream! As someone once said: "Beauty is pain."

3. The Haunted Houses:

All of these are not in a particular order, as I am searching through wiki pages and whatnot to come up with some good house ideas.

Vikings Undead: Glory and Gore - a previous scarezone turned haunted house. Follow along with an excavation team and witness their newest discovery yet: an unknown burial mound that holds the remains of an ancient Viking king named Audun the Unyielding. Little did they know that their trespassing has cursed them all and he and his Draugr army now rises to satiate their bloodlust. Face your fears in battle and prove yourself worthy of the gates of Valhalla!

Terrifier - an IP haunted house about Art the Clown and his menagerie of gore. Venture through the dingy neighborhood as you are caught in the midst of a grisly murder spree, and Art is on the hunt! This maze is not for the squeamish or the faint of heart... Use your wits to escape, or die trying!

Universal Studios: Opera of Terror (Phantom/Dracula maze) - the sequel to the Universal Monsters line-up. A mob has risen to take down the infamous Opera Ghost as Christine Daae is in his clutches. But as the Creature from the Black Lagoon emerges from the depths of the sewers, chaos unfolds as the two iconic Monsters battle it out for Christine's love. Bodies will drop (as well as the chandelier... again!). Who will win, and who will drown in defeat?

Yokai Hotel (Japanese Creature maze) - Check-in into one of Japan's finest hotels for a night or two... but watch out! This modern hotel has a secret: within its wall remains an ancient curse and the ghouls had taken their place as its eternal residents. You will encounter vengeful ghosts, horrifying demons, and unsettling creatures as they try to feast on your soul. As you go deeper, you will unlock the secrets behind the owner's lineage and what their true intentions are.

Feartime Emporium (Devil Dogs) - Schittie's Kidz from Slaughter Sinema has now become a funhouse of death! Enter Lizzy Lemming's Funtime Emporium as the children within turn psychotic and kill anyone they see. Climb through the booby-trapped playgrounds, sneak through the blood-soaked arcade center, and pray they don't catch you. And whatever you do, let them eat cake... and pizza... and whatever the hell else they want!

SyFy's Chucky - the official HHN house of this year... very self-explanatory!

Retail Hell (original) - it turns out that working in retail isn't all that it's cracked to be. The horror comedy maze of the HHN event, Retail Hell is a minimum wage employee's worst nightmare. A "Karen" has been infected with rabies, and now every "Karen" and "Ken" are going into an animalistic rage, ripping human flesh with their teeth! Survive your way along with the employees and security as you fight against these ballistic zombies. The main mission? Protect the manager at all costs.

Dollhouse of the Damned: Restitched - the popular haunted house from HHN 24 (2014) has finally returned with a vengeance! Revisit the horrors of the dollhouse, now with brand new scares and even more terrifying toys to be frightened of. As you enter, you will experience a realm where good toys go to die and evil comes out to play. Once again, this house is no child's play!

Horrormoon Suite (original) - during the 1970s, Cupid's Arrow Resort was once the perfect place for newlyweds to spend their post-wedding days together. To this day, it lays dilapidated... but far from abandoned. Within its graffitied walls resides a cult of "Undesirables" - people who were rejected in terms of love. In the hopes of finally having love in their life, the Undesirables will do anything to achieve an inkling of romance. Anything...

Legends of London (original) - Jack the Ripper is not the only terror that stalks the foggy streets of London. The city is wrought with death and cruelty, fictional or otherwise, all the way back to the days of kings and queens. Travel through time as you are haunted by the dead and hunted by the deranged. What will it be: slaughtered in an alleyway? Cooked into a meat pie? Or perhaps, beheaded for crimes you never committed?

[muunberry]

I don't have to explain myself for anything I like, but on the off chance it provides some perspective to those who need it, I want to throw some things out there.

Personally, when I ship two characters, I don't think about their age because they're fictional characters and in my head they're like in a timeless state of sorts. They're just there. They're cool, cute, hot, whatever and they just exist in my head.

But sometimes when I get really into the ship and start making my own headcanons, I make a timeline of events and sometimes the characters age in my HC. I have a very logic-based imagination. I like grounding many of my ideas in plausibility.

Like for RenTan, if Ren survived that fight with Akaza he would have a longass recovery time because you know, arm thru his chest... so I imagine it's at LEAST a year or two before he's in any sort of shape to think about anything other than "holy fuck I feel awful maybe death would have been easier" lol. And if we are following Tan, he's like roughly 16 by the time Mugen Train happens, so if you add a year or two onto that he's 17-18. An adult by many cultures' standards.

PLUS!! Ren and Tan barely knew each other, but they did have a strong connection. So maybe another 6 months or so before some kind of relationship might start forming between them, so Tan would be nearly 19 by the time they even first kiss lmao.

But none of that really matters because they're not real people. It's fake, it's fun because I get to imagine two people amazingly passionate for each other in a loving, nigh on perfect relationship because sometimes I need that lil escape to fantasy where everything works out with a happy ending.

Also I just like imagining/drawing/writing my two favorite sexy characters fucking and that's OK too lmfao.

So like. Let's chill ok?

Not everyone is a deranged psycho rubbing their greasy hands together like "hehehehe yes I enjoy thinking of problematic/gross things because they're problematic/gross."

Also no shade whatsoever to people who like darker content. Yall are just as valid.

Just be a good person in real life, y'all.

[tearlessrain]

The Anatomy of Lumpy Kiba

(and how to identify him in the wild)

disclaimer: this is not a wolf anatomy tutorial. it’s a tutorial on how to recognize the features of one specific wolf silhouette so you can get pretentiously annoyed about it. don’t take my advice about things.

also, don’t harass artists over this shit if you happen to see it. I shouldn’t have to say that but the internet’s favorite pastime now is spontaneously deciding to make some random civilian’s life miserable for a minor misstep and it’s a fucked up thing to do. yes plagiarism is bad but frankly while the original clipart was obviously traced, that ship sailed over a decade ago and I don’t blame everyone for using this wolf silhouette because you have to go out of your way to avoid it at this point if you’re searching for free clipart. this is meant to be funny and lighthearted.

now, with that out of the way.

nobody asked for this but I need something to occupy my brain and the notes aren’t really slowing down on that post (this is what I’m referencing btw) and I’ve seen a few people questioning my claims that it’s all the same wolf silhouette and that the original is a still from the anime Wolf’s Rain. I also really enjoy when people find this bastard in weird places and want to make it easier. so I’m doing that. in a style flagrantly stolen from mcmansionhell, which I think is fitting given the subject matter of shameless plagiarism. to start, here’s one of the cleanest/most exemplary instances I could find, broken down. There’s some variation in rotation, nose shape, and scruff distribution, but it all basically averages out to this:

further analysis, examples, and deranged ranting under the cut!

not all of these details will be present in every instance of Lumpy Kiba (especially in smaller examples or jewelry where a lot of detail is lost), but more than 2-3 together with the same pose and you’ve got a set of weirdly specific anatomical issues that are unlikely to all occur naturally together unless someone is referencing an already badly-rendered wolf instead of a photo. The most consistent and noticeable feature of Lumpy Kiba is those hind legs, with their dangerously pointy hocks and very long and concave metatarsals, but the tail position, nose shape, and pronounced shoulder bump are also strong indicators.

 for reference, here’s a photo of a real wolf in a similar pose. note the very rounded hocks and overall lack of lumps.

when you find a wolf silhouette clipart that ISN’T Lumpy Kiba, it won’t necessarily have perfect anatomy but it will have a lot more in common with the photo, like this dude

Wolves That Are Lumpy, But Not Kiba

stylizing is a thing though, and on rare occasions you WILL find a howling wolf silhouette that resembles neither a real wolf nor Lumpy Kiba. it was surprisingly hard to find ones that weren’t just “Lumpy Kiba but severely warped/altered” (I’ll get to those in a minute) but these were the two clearest examples I could find that are definitely not Lumpy Kiba or derived from him:

there are of course more differences than what I’ve pointed out, but those were the key points I used to pick them out from the ‘howling wolf silhouette’ image search.

Weird/Hard To Identify Examples

in my digging around for example images for this post, I came across not only a staggering amount of Lumpy Kiba at every turn, but some that I initially thought were doing their own thing that, on further examination, were clearly referenced from Lumpy Kiba with some “you can copy my homework, but change it a little so the teacher doesn’t notice” slapped on. unfortunately the defining characteristics of Lumpy Kiba are so glaring and distinctive that if you use him as your only reference, it’s GOING to be noticeable. this, by the way, is why if you’re learning anatomy you NEED to reference photos (and real life if you can) instead of other peoples’ drawings. everyone stylizes, everyone has strengths and weaknesses, and weird things happen when you just copy another artist instead of actually learning what an animal looks like.

(this, incidentally, is the whole problem with Lumpy Kiba in the first place, but I’ll get to that)

here’s two that most likely weren’t traced, but the artist definitely referenced Lumpy Kiba exclusively

also two particularly weird examples that barely qualify as Lumpy Kiba, but which both were undeniably shaped by his influence. the first one being this unholy frankenwolf that uses components from Lumpy Kiba but also apparently a few other wolf silhouettes:

and if you thought we were done with that youtuber “tribal wolf tattoo” guy, I found someone who made a truly next-level copy of his slightly distorted trace of a moderately shitty vector of an anime screenshot. even after that game of visual telephone, the Lumpy Kiba telltale signs are still present. if anything, they’re in their purest form here, because not one single person in this chain ever looked at a photo of an actual wolf.

Click here for Part 2: Origins.

[gronjon44]

REVILLAGE: Happy Ending AU

So I keep seeing people think of happier endings for RE8 and I wanted to take a shot at it.

Heisenburg is secretly communicating with Chris Redfield, and the two cooperate to kill Miranda, but the assault on Ethans caravan in the cold open throws their plan into wack.

Heisenburg then pretends to go along with Miranda's plan for the ceremony and, when he gets choice over Ethans fate, he opts to get hin out of Mother Miranda's clutches and send him on a path straight to his mill.

When they meet Ethan is met by him and Chris, who Ethan rightfully assaults on sight.

After a brief explanation from Chris about Mia's identity he cools off and Chris pulls out the journals we find in the climax of the game (Heisenburg supplies them to Chris to give him the answers he needs, and Heisenburg himself obtained these Journale through communicating with the Duke, who in this AU is the hidden 5th Lord)

Chris knows it's too soon to call H.O.U.N.D squad so they try to think of a plan;

Heisenburg opts kill the other Lords and use Rose to kill Miranda, but Cnris and Ethan rightfully protest using Rose as a weapon, to which Ethan suggests that perhaps they convince the other Lords to aid them in killing Miranda.

Heisenburg: They won't do shit to help us Miranda has them all Brainwashed, Alcina and Moreau especially.

Ethan: If you can change sides why can't they? And we'll need all the help we can get if we want to kill the bitch.

Chris: He has a point-

Heisenburg: Can it Boulder Boy I know. *sighs* Look if we're gonna do this we do it my way and on my terms, and the way I see it they'll all kill you two on sight if I'm not around, especially you *gestures to Chris*

Chris: What do you suggest?

Heisenburg: Ethan and I go to each one and TRY to talk to them. Doubt they'll listen but if you two wanna try this then we start with Donna.

Ethan: Isn't she-

Heisenburg: The mentally deranged one with a killer dolls? Yeah and she's the best place to start; we start with Moreau or Alcina they'll kill me on sight and then go straight for you.

Chris: I don't like this-

Heisenburg: Well it's the only plan we have so let's go.

Heisenburg and Ethan leave for the Beneviento estate, with Chris staying behind to help evacuate the remaining survivors of the village (Elena does still meet Ethan and the other villagers do all survive, though Elena's father does still die)

Ater making their way through dolls and... certain bosses... they finally see Donna and Angie, to which Heisenburg is unnaturally caring towards Donna.

Donna: Karl... Why are you here with... him?

Heisenburg: Donna hear me out-

Angie: He should be DEAD! You lied to Mother and we should TELL HER!

Heisenburg: CAN IT you little shit! Donna she's been abusing us for years you have see that.

Donna: You're... lying...

Ethan: Please you have to listen-

Angie/Donna *in sync* : You're supposed to be dead. You're going to ruins mothers plans for Rose and we should just kill you now

Ethan *pulls out the Bio Journal on Donna* : You think I'M the enemy here? Read this and tell me who's worse.

Donna reads the journal, seeing how Miranda views her as a test subject and sees her psychological profile, how Miranda viewed her as unfit as a vessel for her daughter.

Donna: No that... that's not...

Heisenburg: Donna you don't have to do what she wants you can help stop her you can get your life back.

Donna: I...

Angie: They're lYING! They want to ruin the ceremony and take Miranda away from us its a TRICK!

Donna: Its in her handwriting Angie‐

Angie: Let's just kill them now! Mother will be so happy...

Ethan: Those are her words we can all see it plain as day. Please Donna, help us end this.

Donna: I-

Angie: C'mon let me gut him right now Donna! He should've died when we was brought to the castle-

Donna: Angie stop...

Angie: No they need to-

Donna: Angie stop.

Eventually, through some leftover shred of humanity, she returns the flask to Ethan and the three then leave the estate, a small Bridal doll left among an even larelger collection of dolls that would never see the light outside that old house.

They then leave to visit Moreau who is much more headstrong then initially expected.

Moreau: Mother has...cared for us and you'd... betray her like this..?

Donna: Moreau I-

Heisenburg: Listen you puss filled sack of shit Miranda views us all as test subjects she doesn't see us as her children, much less you or I.

Moreau: You're...lying... She-*coughs*-she loves me... She gave me my Cadou...

Donna: The Cadou's are what made us into Monsters Moreau.... there's better for us then this. The ceremony will just give her reason to dismiss us.

Moreau: But... she loves us...

Heisenburg argues that Moreau is a lost cost, and suggests killing him now, though Donna believes he can be swayed.

Ethan: Moreau listen‐

Moreau: You just want to RUIN her special ceremony! She gave us these flasks to... to prepare for it... she loves us and knows we'll care for them like our children... because she's do the same for us...

Ethan: Moreau I'm a father, a parent. And I can see that Miranda isn't your mother. If she really cared about you would she have turned you into this... this thing? You used to he human and she called this a gift. Help us and we can help you. You don't have to live like this.

Moreau: You're... you're lying-

Ethan: If she cared for you would she leave you alone in this swamp with a bunch of mindless animals who used to be people? People who cared for her just as much as you care for her?

Ethan hands Moreau the journal detailing his evaluations, gently placing it in his hands.

Ethan: If you really think she cares about you, then you'll throw this in the water.

Moreau takes the journal and, before throwing it to the swamp, opens the first page and begins reading, eventually slumping to the ground.

Moreau: She... She doesn't care about us... Our Cadou's were all just... tests to see if we'd survive for Eva...

Ethan: I told you. It hurts to know the truth but if you help us it'll all be better. *offers Moreau his hand* I promise.

Moreau, silently, hands Ethan the Flask and agrees to help eliminate Miranda, so long as he can go back to his swamp when they're done. Knowing the truth hurts too much for him...

They then travel to Castle Dimitrescu, met by her daughter Bella awaiting their arrival.

Heisenburg: Bella.

Bella: Heisen-bitch.

Donna *pushing Heisenburg back* : You know why we're here.

Bella: I do, and you've been ordered to accompany me to my mother's quarters, though she's requested you leave all weapons out here. Including the Hammer.

After Heisenburg finally gives up his weapon Bella leads the guests to Alcina who, unsurprisingly, is disappointed in all of them

Dimitrescu: Now I must say to see you here Moreau is quite a shock. You of all people I expected to put up more of a fight. Donna well... let's face it you've never been all there.

Moreau: They're right Alcina-

Dimitrescu: And why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of you? The things she's done for us these past years are just as easily dismissed all because this Man Thing before us said a few mildly persuasive words?

Heisenburg: I told you she was a lost cause-

Cassandra appears and draws her cicle on Heisenburg, barely slicing his neck.

Cassandra: Speak ill of Mother again or we'll-

Heisenburg: You'll what? I could bend that toy of yours right now but I won't because that "Man Thing" wanted to talk to you.

Ethan: Alcina-

Dimitrescu: Speak when your spoken to-

Ethan: No actually I won't. Listen I know you have alot of family beef and to be honest, I don't want to get involved but here I am. You have daughters so you understand what being a parent is like. You'd do anything for them, correct?

Dimitrescu: I... I would.

Ethan: Then you know that I won't stop until I get my daughter back where she belongs. If something happened to one of your daughters do you think Miranda would care? Would she bat an eye if one of them died right now?

Dimitrescu: She cares for all her children-

Ethan: But they aren't her children are they? None of you are really. All she wants is Eva and she'll do anything for it. What do you think she'll do with you all when she has Eva back? She won't her other children when she has her real daughter back. Be honest with yourself and consider just how much she really cares about you.

Dimitrescu sat in silence, everyone in baited breath, until she ordered everyone leave the room except for Donna. Her daughters protested, but she affirmed her decision once more.

Dimitrescu: They really convinced you then?

Donna: Alcina I-I have never been a hundred percent mentally, you were right about that. But for a brief moment I felt... clear headed, like I was sound of mind for the first time since before my parents died. I know you noticed Angie is gone, and I'm glad she's not here. I left that doll behind because I want to move on, to a future better then what Miranda has promised us.

Dimitrescu: But she gave us these gifts Donna. How can you or Moreau just turn away from her-

Donna: I've been mentally and physically scarred by Miranda, Moreau even moreso. You an Heisenburg got off easier then we did. I know you still follow her but please *Donna pulls out the Analysis Journal about Alcina* Just read her own words for yourself.

Donna leaves the room to let Alcina read the journal who, for a brief moment, just stares at it in silence, debating whether or not to actually read the journal; an hour goes by before Alcina steps out of the room, everyone at attention.

Heisenburg: Took you long enough.

Her daughters circle around her, they're words drowned out by Alcina making eye contact with Donna, who gives her a silent smile.

Dimitrescu: Daughters I've decided that we will... Help them. They speak truth and we will help them. Miranda does not have our best interests at heart and I will not allow any harm to come to you three.

Alcina hands the flask to Ethan, making eye contact with him before letting it go

Dimitrescu: From one parent to another, don't fail us.

With the final flask obtained they return to Chris, now joined by H.O.U.N.D Squad, who reveal that Miranda has secretly kept Mia alive for experiments, and wants Ethan to come alone with the flasks. Ethan, not wanting to risk his wife's life a third time, agrees to go alone.

With the flasks he goes to Miranda who, with a chained up Mia, begins to explain her life goal and tells Ethan how, even after everything he's gone through, he's still going to fail, even after coming back from the dead (this prompts the reveal that Ethan is part of the Megamycyte/Mold created by Eveline, and how his unique body is what made Rose even possible.

Before anything else can happen Chris, having tracked Ethan, begins the assault on Miranda, giving Ethan a chance to rescue Mia.

This leads to the fight with Miranda, Alcina and Heisenburg appear to aid him in battle while Donna and Moreau escort Mia to safety.

Miranda, in a fit of blind rage, guts Ethan and rips out his heart (and the flasks) and leaves him limp while she prepares the ceremony.

As Miranda continues with the ceremony Mia runs to Ethan, who in his last words, tells Chris to take care of Mia and Rose.

Moreau who, after seeing all this unfold, is so touched by Ethan he quickly uses a Cadou to ressurect him, which manages to bring him back as a newer more bioweapony Ethan Winters

Just when Miranda finishes the ceremony Chris shoots her enough for Donna to snatch the baby from her and give Alcina and Heisenburg room to let loose and deal more damage to her.

Chris knows Miranda won't stay dead unless they destroy the Megamycyte, and reminds them that he planted a bomb on his way in. When he pulls out the detonator Moreau asks where the bomb is and he tells him it's planted in the main chamber of the Megamycyte, to which he snatches it and begins running towards Miranda.

Moreau: I can't live if Miranda doesn't care about us... I won't stand by her lies... not anymore.

Moreau turns into his larger fish form and tackles Miranda, sending her over a nearby cliff that happens to lead to the Megamycyte chamber. He yells for everyone to run.

With those final words everyone escapes the village before the bomb can go off, leaving Miranda, the Megamycyte, and Moreau all wiped out with the rest of the village.

Everyone goes the own paths from here on out. Heisenburg joins Chris as a member of H.O.U.N.D Squad

Lady Dimitrescu finds a new castle with her daughters and opts to take the village survivors with her (the men aren't all immediately killed and the women become hand maidens who AREN'T turned into savage vampires)

Donna Beneviento leaves with Alcina as she feels most comfortable in her company, even striking a relationship with one of the daughters (probably Diana or Bella)

Ethan, Mia, and Rose leave to a new home, with Elena going with them as a caretaker to Rose, they move to another European safe house, hopefully able to finally live peacefully.

This took awhile, almost 6 hours. This is the first real AU fic I've ever done and I apologize if it isn't the greatest but I wanted to make a happy ending AU for the game.

Also yes Moreau dies in the end still cause let's face it his whole existence revolved around pleasing Mother Miranda and I don't think he would've wanted to live in a world where she didn't love him.

[scripts4dreamers]

I literally JUST sat down, pt.2

Part One, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

AN: The case stalls, but no one’s willing to give up on you just yet. Characters: Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Aaron Hotchner, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi.

Pairings: Spencer Reid x reader

Spoilers: None

Warnings: Mentions of crime and violence, alcohol

(Again! Massive shoutout to @pirateismywayofspeaking​ for the constant support and ideas! And lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist!)

—————————-

It’s a well known fact that there are three certainties in life; death, taxes and the willpower of one Penelope Garcia. In less than an hour she had somehow organized to get all your clothes and personal possessions delivered right to the BAU, packed in your favorite suitcases and all. A couple of things had to be kept in evidence because the UnSub might have come into contact with them, but all the important stuff was there. It was comforting, having your stuff safe with you and, as you sat through the long and rigorous process of being interviewed, you felt better.

“And you’re 100% sure that none of your employees could have possibly done this?” Rossi asked, “Maybe someone you recently fired? Or someone who has a history of violence?”

You gave him an incredulous look, “Rossi, come on. Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to hire someone with a violent past?”

“You checked everyone out?”

“Full background checks on all three employees,” you agreed, “the harshest thing on any of their records was a parking ticket and a decade old charge for underage drinking.”

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temples right where you knew he got headaches.

“We know the poem is significant to the UnSub. It’s an old love poem, so it’s got to be someone who has some sort of connection to you,” he repeated, “it's personal.”

You shook your head, “Hotch, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t had a romantic relationship in years. There’s not a lot of time when you work 14 hour days.”

“Don’t we know it,” Rossi agreed, “so, a stalker, maybe?”

“That’s a hell of a way to make first contact,” you scoffed, “a phone call would be less risky.”

“And less effective.”

You conceded the point with a head tilt, and then looked back at Hotch, “Hotch, can we take a break? We’ve been at this for hours.”

“Of course,” he agreed, “get some rest, Y/L/N.”

“No, it’s okay, there’s work to be done here. I can stay,” you assured, stretching your stiff limbs.

Hotch shot you a look, but said nothing, obviously sensing that you weren’t going to give in without some sort of fight. Instead, he just gave you a terse nod, and walked out, leaving you with Rossi.

“You’re impossible, you know that, right?” He said.

You smiled, shrugging, “What can I say, Ros? I learned from the best.”

He chuckled, shaking his head and ruffling your hair as he walked past you, “Good to have you back, kid.”

The bullpen was busy when you walked back in, suitcases in hand, striding your way over to your old desk. It’s scary how little had really changed in the year since you’d been gone. Aside from Spencer’s semi-annual hair evolution, everything was the same; the smells, the sights, even the comforting clack of Garcia’s heels against the floor. It was comforting, almost painfully so but, as you reached your old desk, you noticed something was wrong.

“Whose stuff is this?” You asked, gesturing to the stacks of files and piles of paper scattered all over the surface.

“Mine,” Emily said, not even looking up from her work.

“But...you have a desk,” you pointed out.

“And now I have two,” she replied simply, “you can sit somewhere else.”

She was being stubborn and you felt a lick of irritation flare up inside your chest. Emily Prentiss had been one of your closest friends for years and, when you’d left the BAU, she’d taken it the hardest. Any other time, you would have understood her resentment but, given the circumstances, you weren’t feeling particularly generous.

You crossed your arms over your chest, “And where do you suggest I sit?”

Emily shrugged and gave you a sickly sweet smile, “You can share with Reid.”

You felt yourself flush with heat. Emily had known about your feelings for Spencer, she’d even encouraged you to act on them. You knew she’d never actually betray your trust, but even that subtle dig was enough to make you want to argue. You opened your mouth but, before you could say anything, Spencer interrupted.

“Here, Y/N,” he smiled, patting a spot beside him, “I’ve got space.”

You pressed your lips together, but relented when he took the time to pull an empty chair over for you to sit in.

“Thanks, Reid,” you said, taking the offered seat.

“So, did you and Hotch figure anything out?” Spencer asked.

You shook your head, “Nothing we didn’t already know. Rossi thinks it might be some kind of stalker?” You offered.

Spencer frowned, “A stalker? That doesn’t make any sense, what kind of stalker starts off their pursuit with a murder?”

“A very, very desperate one.” Emily offered.

You wanted to snap something like; ‘oh, so now you’re talking to me?’ but you bit your tongue. You knew you were on edge, and now wasn’t the time to lash out at the only people who could really help you.

“Or very deranged.” Spencer suggested

You shuddered, picturing a faceless man in all black running his blood soaked hands across your walls, drawing a jagged smiley face above your bed, memorizing the faces in your pictures. You exhaled and pushed the thought away.

“Does this even count as an escalation?” You asked, “I’m not sure there’s really anywhere to go from here.”

You were met with stony silence as Emily and Spencer inspected their respective files. You knew what they were thinking, what everyone was thinking; whatever this was, it was bad news.

“Do we know who our victim is, yet?” Spencer asked.

“Nope,” you sighed, “the UnSub burned off his fingerprints and removed several of his molars before he dumped the body, the ME is doing her best to get a DNA match, but it’ll take time.”

“The mutilation is odd, considering there wasn’t any evidence of torture on the victim before they died,” Spencer said.

“It’s gotta be a forensic countermeasure,” Emily agreed, “but it’s extremely sophisticated. Our UnSub must have experience with law enforcement.”

“But as a perp or a cop?”

You sighed and buried your head in your hands, letting the familiar back and forth wash over you like white noise. You’d had this conversation before, many many times, and it never got any easier. Usually you lived for the puzzle but, now that you were the one under scrutiny, it felt like your brain was rebelling against you.

“Y/N/N?” Spencer asked, touching your shoulder gently and snapping back to reality.

“Mm?” You replied.

His face softened as he took in the exhaustion radiating off your body.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, “Just a little drained, that’s all.”

The clicking of heels against the floor drew your attention and you looked up just in time to see Garcia swooping in with her purse.

“You ready to go, crime fighter?” She smiled.

“Go where?” You asked,

“Home!” She smiled, “I have the honor and privilege of hosting you tonight.”

“Garcia-“ you started.

“No! No arguing.” She insisted, “I’ve already found us a lovely little Thai place for dinner, and there’s a bunch of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer lined up on my DVR.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes fondly, “I hate how well you know me.”

She smiled devilishly, “Sounds good, right?”

“It sounds incredible and you know that because you’re a super genius who knows literally everything.” You teased, pushing yourself onto your feet, “Okay, Wonder Woman, let’s go.”

As you made your way out of the office, you cast one last look over your shoulder, smiling when Spencer met your eye and gave you a small wave.

————————-

“Okay, Sugar Plum, spill,” Penelope pushed, handing you a full glass of wine, “how’re you really doing?”

“With what?”

Penelope shot you an incredulous look, “With, you know, all of it. The murder, the mystery, being back at work, the Spencer Reid of it all.”

You spluttered through a sip of wine, “The what? ‘Nel, you can’t be serious.”

“What? I’m just asking,” she insisted, “he followed you out earlier, you’re sharing a desk now...it wouldn’t be crazy if maybe your old crush came creeping back in.”

“Penelope” you started, “some creep dropped a dead body in my bookstore and broke into my apartment and you think I’m thinking about Spencer?” She didn’t answer, just raising her eyebrows and you sighed, sliding down the couch, “Okay so I’m pathetic.”

“No you’re not!” She insisted, “You guys were like two peas in a pod, back in the day. Plus, you’ve seen like a thousand dead bodies, you’re probably just desensitized.”

“Still,” you sulked, “I can’t believe I’m still thinking about Spence.”

“Naaaaaaaaw,” she swooned, squeezing your knee, “you called him ‘Spence’, you haven’t done that in ages.”

“Fuck off, Nel” you said without any real malice, burying your face in your hands and sighing again, “please tell me I’m being ridiculous.”

Garcia smiled, a knowing glint in her dark blue eyes as she sipped her wine and watched you squirm. She’d kept in touch with you when you left the BAU, insisting on weekly brunch meetups and girls nights and a million other things that you’re not sure you would’ve survived without. She’d been like a lifeline in those first few months and, because of that, she was the only one who really knew how hard leaving had been for you. She’d been the one who sat through the hours of crying and panicking and wondering who you were without your job, who’d held your hand when you went to get a small business loan, who’d sampled your cookie recipes and helped you design uniforms. Penelope Garcia had been there for all of it. You had a photo of the two of you together at the bookstore next to your bed. It was one of your most treasured possessions.

“Now, Sugar Plum, you know I’ve always had a soft spot for you and the Boy Wonder. He’s lovely, you’re lovely; he loves you, you love him, I love you both, it’s a match made in FBI heaven as far as I’m concerned-“

“But?” You prompted with a rueful smile.

“But,” Penelope agreed, “he took it really hard when you left, and I’m not sure how he’ll handle losing you a second time.”

You frowned, “He never lost me. None of you lost me, I just got a different job! It’s not my fault that basically no one bothered to keep in touch.”

Penelope’s face softened and she smiled at you sympathetically, “Pumpkin, you know it’s not like that. When you’re in the BAU, it’s like we’re living in our own little crime bubble, everything outside just kind of….fades, you know?”

“I know…”

“And with Spencer, well, you know he’s never been the best at dealing with abandonment, the poor thing’s been through so much already,” Penelope continued, “he tried to keep in touch. He really did, and he talked about you all the time.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She sighed, “I don’t know. I guess I just-“ she shrugged and squeezed your knee again, “I don’t want you to think that he forgot about you, that’s all.”

You felt a small smile tug at the corners of your lips, and you gripped Garcia’s hand.

“Thanks, Nel.”

You knew she was right. Life in the BAU wasn’t like life on the outside; you lived by different rules, took different risks, valued different things. It was strange and intoxicating and you really couldn’t fault your teammates for continuing to play the game the way they always had. You’d chosen to leave and you had to live with the consequences of that.

“Can we talk about something besides boys now, please?” You asked, “I want this girl’s night to pass the bechdel test.”

She smiled and clapped her perfectly manicured hands, “Oh do not fret, ma Cherie because I’ve got so much to catch you up on-“

You listened with rapt attention as Garcia filled you in on the last twelve months of FBI gossip. You laughed together, ate Thai food and just relaxed together. With every Perfectly Penelope story, you felt a little more of your tension slip away and, by the time you made it to bed, you were feeling almost normal.

Penelope had made up the couch for you, complete with pillows and blankets and a homemade quilt. It was comfortable, too comfortable. So comfortable, that your brain had way too much time to mull over what Penelope had said earlier.

Spencer hadn’t just forgotten about you. What did that mean? He’d taken it hard when you left...the questions bounced around your mind like wasps, keeping you awake. Without meaning to, your mind started to drift, sifting through the years worth of memories you’d kept locked away in a box in the back of your mind.

————————

“You are the most insufferable person I’ve ever met,” you laughed, “I’m fine, Spence.”

“You’re not fine, Y/N, you got shot.” Spencer reminded you, his eyes still sparkling with the relief of seeing you alive and in good spirits.

You were sitting in the back of an ambulance, a throbbing pain resonating from the wound in your shoulder as the police searched through the nearby crime scene and Spencer inspected your face. It was cold and dark, but the sirens and flashing lights meant that it was anything but peaceful, and you knew it would still be many hours before either you or Spencer got any sleep.

“Yeah well, we’ve all been shot,” you pointed out, “and, statistically speaking, we have a 100% survival rate.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but he was smiling so you knew he wasn’t too mad.

“You’re bastardizing my beautiful statistical analysis and using it for evil. Remind me why I’m bothering to check on you, again?” He teased.

“Because you loooooove me,” you teased back, jostling his shoulder with yours, “and because I just took a bullet to the shoulder for you.”

He chuckled but avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes, “Yeah that would explain it.”

Something in the atmosphere changed and you looked over at Spencer, noticing the way he worried at the inside of his cheek with his hands in his pockets. His brow was furrowed too, like he was sad, and something in your chest pinched.

“You alright there, doc?” You asked.

“Don’t do it again,” he said, looking up and catching your eye.

You paused, “don’t do what?”

“Take a bullet to the shoulder for me,” he explained, “get hurt trying to protect me. Promise me you won’t do it again?”

You pressed your lips together, recognizing the same feeling of fear and guilt in Spencer that you, yourself, felt any time someone you cared about was in danger. You reached out, pulling one of his hands out of his pocket and giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go. Spencer held on for a second longer, his dark eyes filling with something as he took you in.

“You know I can’t promise that, Spence,” you said gently, “if we’re ever in a situation like this again….no way I’m just letting you die to avoid a couple of stitches.”

“No, you don’t-” he paused, getting himself worked up, “you don’t get it. I watched my girlfriend get shot right in front of me, I-I’ve lost so many people that I care about, Y/N, and I can’t lose anyone else. Not for something as stupid as my own life.” 

“Your life isn’t some insignificant thing, Spence,” you insisted, “it’s important! To me, to the team, to everyone. We’re a family, Spencer, families have each other’s backs. Always.” 

He took a deep breath and nodded, carding his fingers through his hair like he was agitated. 

“Just-” he started again, “just promise me you won’t do it again.” 

“I can’t.” you insisted, “I can’t make that promise. 

He turned to face you, looking more tired than you’d seen him in weeks, “Then promise you’ll be careful. Promise me I won’t lose you too?” 

Your heart ached, and you longed to reach out and wrap him up in your arms, but you restrained yourself. 

“How about this; I’ll promise that you won’t lose me, if you promise that we’ll always be best friends, and that you’ll try to start valuing your own life as much as you value mine or Morgan’s, deal?” You offered, extending your hand for Spencer to shake.

Spencer frowned, opening his mouth to argue but, before he could, an agent interrupted.

“Agent Y/L/N? Dr. Reid? Agent Hotchner is looking for you.”

———————————-

You snapped back to reality with a jolt, and realised you were lonely. So much time had passed since that night, but you remembered it all perfectly, every detail. It wasn’t an especially meaningful night, there were a million moments just like it, but something about it had stuck. Maybe it was the potential, the wondering, that thing that he never got to say. You wish you’d gotten to hear it now.  

You fumbled around in the dark for your cellphone, typing out a message and pressing send before you could think better of it. It was short, and to the point, and you would be shocked if he responded but, once it was done, you felt something in your chest loosen, like maybe you’d been wanting to send that message for a really long time.

To Spencer Reid:  Hey, Reid? I’m sorry I left, I never meant to break my promise. 

With the heavy weight of remembering suddenly lifted, you realised how tired you were, and you let sleep drag you under. If you’d stayed awake a little longer, you might not have missed the way Spencer kept typing, typing, typing away some message he never sent. Or the eventual response, which only came in three hours later: 

You never broke your promise, Y/N. I broke mine.

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

Taglist: @ourfavoritesergeantbarnes​, @confused-and-really-hungry, @word-scribbless​, @reidloversisforever​, @ashookykooky​, @l0ve-0f-my-life​, @shilohpug​, @tangerinenotions95​, @petitchatonbleu​

[schmokschmok]

i’ll mako mermaid out of you

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationship: Keith Kogane x Lance McClain

Characters: Hunk Garrett, Keith Kogane, Lance McClain, Pidge Holt

Wordcount: 6,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Fusion

H2O: Just Add Water Fusion

Mermaids

Comfort/No Hurt

Summary:

It's Lance's idea to steal Coran's boat to go to Mako Island, so it's basically his own fault that he'll never swim competitively again.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940753 

CN: Anxiety Attack, Blood (not graphic); Mentions of Death & Food

#1

What could go wrong?, Lance said.

It’s not stealing if we’re bringing Coran’s boat back before dusk, Keith agreed.

I don’t think it’s a good idea. Maybe we should wait ’til tomorrow, Hunk objected.

Vroom, vroom, motherfuckers!, Pidge exclaimed as they jumped into Coran’s boat. Get in, losers, we’re going Mako Island.

Keith’s got to confess that it seemed like a good idea when Lance first suggested it: Borrowing Coran’s boat, driving out to Mako Island, examining the bush. (He would be lying if he said that he didn't think about all the rumours of supernatural phenomena surrounding Mako Island. And he would also be lying if he said that he didn't feel excitement rush through him at the mere thought of finding signs of monsters or cryptids.) But now that they're trapped inside a fucking volcano, he begins to regret every decision that led them to this point.

“It’s too steep,” Pidge says, not for the first time. They stand at the tunnel they all climbed down about half an hour ago, Hunk’s next to them, and they both won't stop looking for a way out the same way they got in.

Keith and Lance, on the other hand, are pretty sure there's no chance they could climb up again. (Keith tried, okay, but if he can’t do it, it’ll be impossible for Pidge.) So, their fingers search for openings in the wall while their feet carefully avoid stepping into the pool in the middle of the room.

“Found anything, yet?” Lance asked from the other side of the pool.

Keith wipes sweat from his forehead and shakes his head before he replies: “No. Nothing.” He turns around and catches sight of Lance who's feverishly patting at the stone as if there could be an opening if he just looked thoroughly enough.

The full moon shines brightly through an opening at the top of the cave, seeping into almost every nook and illuminating the water, the floor and the crowns of their heads. Maybe, if they wait just a little longer, there could be enough light to see properly. Maybe that will help them find an alternative exit.

“Hey gays,” Pidge says suddenly. “There are tide marks on the stone.” They're sitting at the water now and feel up the edge with the tips of their fingers. Right beside them is Hunk crouching down to verify their assessment. “There has to be a connection to the ocean.”

Cautiously making his way back over to Hunk and Pidge, Keith attempts to look for a passage deep down in the water, but he can’t make anything out in the darkness. He wants to say It’s worth a try. However, in the exact same moment Keith opens his mouth, Lance says: “Heck, only one way to find out!” And he jumps in like there is not even the slightest possibility of sharks on the other side; like he could just do that without Keith jumping right after him.

And Keith definitely would have rushed into the water mindlessly if it wasn’t for Pidge’s hand on his shin holding him back. (He wants to look down and reassure Pidge that everything’s alright because of the way their fingers claw their way into his clothes and the underlying skin, but he can’t avert his gaze from the point where Lance disappeared into the darkness with not more than having taken off his shoes.)

It feels like forever until little bubbles surface and Lance emerges with a smug grin on his face. (Hunk, Pidge and Keith release a breath they all very much knew they were holding.) Almost floating, he moves his arms in little motions to stay above the surface.

On one hand Keith really wants to smack him, on the other hand he’s glad that their escape seems to be easier than feared. Lance’s voice echoes off the stone walls: “It’s not far. Everyone could do it. A toddler could do it. Even Pidge could do it.” Maybe his grin is even wider than before.

Sighing, Hunk takes off his shoes, slides his feet over the edge of the pool and slowly sinks into the water to Lance, with clear disdain on his face. Following his example, Keith crouches down to remove his shoes, when he hears Pidge’s voice low and almost inaudible near his ear: “Keith, I … I can’t do this.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Keith replies irritated and glances at their face. “Lance says it’s not too far.” They wince and move the hand they were leaning on in front of their body. (Keith doesn’t want to make a scene or draw attention to them but it’s hard given the fact that they’re only four people in one single volcano.)

“Keith, yes, it is,” Pidge says in a hushed tone, perhaps even quieter than before. “I never told you because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it but … I don’t really know how to, y’know, swim.” Nervously, their index finger and thumb adjust their glasses and it’s obvious they expect some sort of comedic response or mild laughter but Keith only furrows.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to. We got this,” Keith reassures them, before gesturing towards their shoes. “Take them off. And don’t think we’re not going to talk about this later.” He sinks into the water, before reaching out to Pidge, who’s just now pocketing their glasses, encouraging them with a small smile to trust him. And, surprisingly, they accept the hand he’s offering without questioning him. Hesitatingly, they lower their body.

They can’t stand (in fact, none of them can) and Pidge holds onto Keith, panic evident on their face. To comfort them, Keith slings his arm around their waist.

“Everything’s alright?” Hunk asks, moving closer to them. “Pidge, you don’t look too well.” Wax-pale face and shaky hands, they nod, maybe a tick too frantic, but Hunk and Lance don’t seem to realise their emotional state. At least for now.

And that is precisely the moment the full moon is finally in its zenith, filling up the whole opening at the top of the cave. The water surrounding them begins to bubble and glow in an iridescent blue light. An unnatural fog builds up right above the water surface and disperses the moonlight between their bodies.

“What the fuck? What the actual ever-loving fuck?” Pidge screeches, while basically scrambling to get on top of Keith. Every word out of their mouth is accentuated by near hysterical panic and huffed, air sucking breaths.

In a nigh impossible attempt to not suffocate or drown, Keith holds Pidge in place, fingers digging into the hem of their top and stabilising their hip, while gulping down air and staying afloat. (But he’s barely holding it together himself because this? This is not natural. And it’s probably not good.)

Lance and Hunk cling to each other, indulging in litanies of oh, my gods and what the hecks.

It only lasts for a few seconds until the full moon surpasses its zenith and the water calms down, glow slowly fading. Aghast and brimming over with fear, Lance separates from Hunk and exclaims: “We should get the heck outta here.”

Hunk and Keith nod, then Hunk and Lance disappear below the surface without another word.

“Inhale deeply and don’t let go. On three,” Keith says, before counting to three in a low voice. Almost at the same moment Keith and Pidge inhale and submerge, following Lance and Hunk through the dark water and the passage deep down to the other side of the stone wall.

It only takes about thirty seconds until they reach the other side and break through the surface, able to breathe again. Not even for a moment did Keith’s grip on Pidge loosen. Nonetheless, they look deranged and almost close to tears. They suck in air heavily and cling onto Keith as if he’d let go any second now.

“Only a few metres, now,” Keith huffs, more paddling than swimming but without getting far.

Suddenly, there’s a second arm around Pidge’s waist and half of their weight gets lifted off his shoulder. Their face is still buried in his neck and their hot, heavy breath meets his exposed skin. Keith smiles at Hunk who lends him a hand and together they make their way to the shore under Lance’s sorrowful eye.

Pidge’s breath becomes shallower and shallower. They attempt to control it by forcefully holding their breath and then slowly releasing it. But it doesn’t seem to work. The shallow little breaths return.

Keith’s feet hit the ground just a moment after Hunk’s. With joined forces they carry Pidge onto the beach and set them down on the sandy ground. Or at least try to because Pidge won’t let go of Keith and he hangs awkwardly in the air right above them, placing his entire weight on his knees.

“What’s going on?” Lance’s low voice is almost inaudible because Pidge’s laboured breath is drowning out about nearly everything around them.

Voice matched to a soft murmur, Hunk answers: “Not sure.”

Keith wants to tell them what’s going on, just to make sure that they don’t worry too much, but it’s not his place to tell them Pidge’s secret, is it? (At least they’re keeping their distance in an attempt to lessen the pressure on Pidge.)

Keith’s hands wrap around Pidge’s and free him with slow, gentle movements from their grip. While carefully pushing them away from him, Keith murmurs comforting words to calm them down. (He’s not even sure what he’s saying.)

“You know, you’re seriously badass,” he says, and Pidge lets out a sound akin to a laugh. “No, no, no. I mean it. That was incredibly brave, Pidge Gunderson.”

“Fuck you, Keith,” Pidge huffs in between sobs, then they let themselves fall onto their back and giggle hysterically. “Shit! Shit!” Keith sits down next to them, and Hunk and Lance join them, still unsure how to handle the situation.

“You’re gonna tell us what’s going on?” Lance asks as he’s searching for Keith’s hand on the ground. Their fingers interlace with each other and Keith gives Lance a small smile.

Even though Pidge was in the process of wiping tears from their face, they make a dismissive gesture with their hand, telling Keith to answer for them.

“Well, apparently Pidge thought swimming would be a useless skill, so they never bothered to learn.” Lance freezes. The only reason Keith even realizes it is because Lance's grip on his hand tightens. He doesn't say anything and neither does Keith. Instead, it's Hunk who speaks up.

“Oh my god, Pidge, why didn't you say anything?” It's obvious he's working himself up and Keith knows for a fact how horrible it is to feel guilty on top of a panic attack, that's why he's shooting Hunk a look who immediately ducks his head and blushes.

“Pidge, is it okay if I hug you?” Hunk asks next, slowly reaching out to them but merely hovering above their arm, unsure if he's allowed to touch them.

A soft voiced and shaky “that would be nice” later, Hunk wraps his arms around Pidge and squeezes them tight against his chest. The pressure on their ribcage seems to force them to even out their breathing, and after good half a minute, it looks like they’re finally in control over their body again.

Lance is uncharacteristically quiet beside Keith, and Keith throws a glance out of the corner of his eyes towards him. There’s a tension between his eyebrows and his lips form a hard line, discontent oozing from every single pore.

“You okay?” Keith asks lowly as to not disturb Pidge’s and Hunk’s moment, ready to get brushed off by Lance who never really liked being called out on his insecurities, especially not in front of other people. Even if these people are his best friends. (It’s a strict one-person confidentiality with Lance, has always been.)

“It's just … they go to the beach with us regularly. I dropped them into the ocean several times. I could have killed them.” Lance stumbles over the words trying to come out too quickly and all at the same time, hushed voice almost breathless. Suddenly, all blood drains from his face, he’s even paler in the light of the moon, and he stares right past Keith at Pidge.

“Did you just,” Lance can’t seem to decide whether he wants to sound outraged or scared shitless. “Did you just dive, like, under water? Even though you can’t swim?! Pidge, what the heck!” Keith tightens his grip on Lance’s hand, but the tension in Lance’s shoulders doesn’t ease the slightest, and Lance doesn’t even close his mouth all the way before he continues. “This is dangerous as fuck, Pidge!”

It’s not hard to see how this is going to go if nobody stops Lance right this second. Keith can hear Pidge’s breathing picking up again and feel the rapid beating of Lance’s heart in the space between his fingers.

“Lance,” Keith says with a finality in his voice, “this is not helping. And you know I wouldn’t have let them drown. Matt would kill me. They’re stuck with us.”

Lance groans in response but keeps quiet otherwise. Keith doesn’t know what he did to shut Lance up, but this is clearly not the time to question it, so he turns towards Pidge and Hunk, the latter finally letting go of the former.

“I for one,” Keith continues, calling the attention to himself, “think we should get the fuck out of here.”

And no one tries to argue with him.

#2

It’s only been a day since they’ve come back from Make Island, hurriedly bringing back Coran’s boat before he can realise it’s been missing in the first place. Keith fell right into bed after a quick shower to wash off the sea salt because he can imagine all too clearly Lance’s smug comments about his dried up, flaky skin if he wouldn’t. And the thought alone is enough to warrant precautions.

He’s been lying in bed all day, only getting up to snack through the kitchen and bother Shiro during lunch hour. But after a few hours he got restless, skin itching with the need to go out again and exercise in any shape or form. So, he slipped into knee-length joggers and a tank to take a short run through the neighbourhood.

The first ten minutes stretch longer than anticipated, exhaustion from a too short night still prevalent. (He hasn’t talked to Pidge yet, anger at their carelessness and dishonesty predominating now that the initial worry has worn off. But it’s not their fault, they didn’t really lie about anything, and it’s in their right to not disclose information. So, he’s left with aimless anger that he’ll hopefully run out of his system.)

After almost half an hour, he finally feels more at ease, the steady thrum of his feet on the pavement soothing his nerves and lulling him into a somewhat peaceful state of mind.

And that’s when he runs past a sprinkler, right through the spray, seeking out every little refreshment in the summer heat he can find, and, all of a sudden, losing the ground underneath his feet, falling face first into the wet grass.

Keith doesn’t know what just happened, rolling onto his back to stare at the sky self-pityingly for a second, breath coming and going in short, controlled bouts. When he tries to plant the sole of his feet on the ground to get up again, he realises that he can’t and props himself up on his elbows to take a look at his feet, getting caught completely off-guard by the sheer absence of his feet. And legs. In lieu, a red scaled fish tail flops aimlessly on the ground.

“What the fuck,” Keith says to no one in particular, not even in the right mind to thank every deity in existence that there is no one to witness his incoming breakdown.

Without his own volition, his right hand reaches out and prods at a stray scale on his hipbone where the tail bleeds out into his skin.

Now, Keith knows the weirdest thing should be that suddenly he’s half fish or whatever, but he can’t comprehend that right now anyways, so he’s mostly weirded out by the fact that it doesn’t feel like he’s touching skin but more like applying pressure to a finger- or toenail. It’s not a real touch, but the ghostly remnant of applied pressure. It feels terrible and Keith fucking hates it.

“What the fuck,” he says again for emphasis, because how is he supposed to explain this to Shiro? Shiro, gotta move out, live under the sea, doing fish things? That's not going to happen.

He tries to get up a few times, to find footing even though he knows it's impossible. Because if he doesn't try to fight his tail, what is he going to do?

A few unsuccessful attempts later, hands and forearms covered in grass stains and dirt, he thinks that if he can't get up and walk away, he can still crawl his way back to safety. (His mind helpfully supplies him with Lance's name and face, apparently the only choice at hand as Shiro is still at work and Lance is the only human in Keith's life that he knows like the back of his hand. And for the first time ever it actually proves useful because Keith knows that around this time Lance is training for an upcoming swimming competition.)

Digging his elbows into the ground, Keith crawls his way off the grass, only to be met by the rough texture of the pavement that scrapes across his abdomen and tail in the most painful way possible. Dragging skin (or scales for that matter) across asphalt is admittedly not the smartest decision Keith has ever made.

For a moment he contemplates just rolling the whole way, but he’s as quick to dismiss it entirely when he experimentally rolls onto his back and sees the blood and dust clinging to his skin. Maybe the pavement had been rougher than anticipated.

His head drops onto the ground with a low thud, and Keith can’t hold back an exasperated groan. If anyone’s going to see him, he’s sure to find himself within a fish tank in under an hour. (Is he able to breathe underwater? What if he’s just a dude with a fish tail and can’t even breathe underwater, but they think he’s some kind of mythical mermaid creature in desperate need of water, and he drowns?) This can’t possibly get any worse, he thinks.

The sprinkler splutters to a halt, and the only thing Keith can hear is the crying and chattering of the seagulls and the ships and boats dashing through the water not too far away. Just one single human being with binoculars could end his suffering – or his life, depending on their nature. At least he’s still in the sun, slowly but steadily drying off (and out? He’s still not sure how this is supposed to work).

In the end, it doesn’t take too long for him to be completely dry again and a prickling sensation to set in in his legs – tail, whatever. He wonders surprisingly clear headed if this is how he’s going to die. Just softly prickling to death until nothing is left but a few stray red scales.

But instead of losing consciousness or ascending into another plane of existence, the collar of his shoe starts digging into his heel rather uncomfortably. Keith wonders if he did something wrong in this or in his past life to deserve dying with a shoe collar pressing into his Achilles tendon.  

Keith shoots upright with wide eyes and stares at his shoes, at the exposed skin of his shin and finally his grey joggers, trying to comprehend that the tail is gone. No scales, no fins, nothing. Not a single trace of his mermaid moment. This time around, Keith wonders if he hit his head on Mako Island, and the resulting concussion made him hallucinate for about ten minutes.

He doesn’t know what to do or think, so he jumps up and takes up his run again, changing directions towards the public pool in hope of catching Lance.

The pool comes in sight in record time, and if Keith had more on his mind than fuckfuckfuck, he’d probably be at least a little bit proud of the fact that he’s not panting in utter exhaustion as he passes through the gates and heads straight for the pool Lance is most likely to train.

When he reaches the pool, he can already spot Lance’s brown head of hair, surprisingly dry. Not a single drop of water clings to his skin even though he’s sitting right next to the water, only inches separating him from being able to dip his toes. His arms wrapped around his knees, he rests his head on them, too, gaze loosely directed at the surface, but Keith’s quick to realise that Lance doesn’t actually look at the water. He’s far off with his thoughts, and he almost jumps in shock when Keith flops down beside him.

“Jesus Christ, Keith,” Lance exclaims, hand pressed against his rapidly beating heart, “make a noise, dude.”

Keith doesn’t answer, studying Lance’s pale face instead, almost reaching out to touch one of Lance’s freckles to will the rest of his face into colour again, but he holds himself back in the last second possible, hand hovering aimlessly in the air until he places it gently on Lance’s shoulder as if that had been the plan all along.

“Everything okay?” Keith asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Lance replies defensively, obviously not good in the slightest. “You spooked me, that’s all.”

Keith nods, and silence engulfs them for a few heartbeats while they look at each other. Keith with an imploring gaze, Lance with a closed off expression as if he’d stand a chance not telling Keith what’s going on with him.

“Did something happen?” Keith asks after a moment because if Lance is in a bad mood, his ten-minute fish tail hallucination can surely wait half an hour or longer. Maybe he doesn’t have to talk about it at all again. If he’s waiting long enough, he’ll forget it himself. Maybe. Eventually.

Lance (who is really, really bad at keeping anything secret from Keith) almost mewls in uneasiness, but quickly corrects his outburst with a dismissive: “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Maybe,” Keith agrees, trying to keep his tone light. “Maybe I will. You’ll never know if you don’t at least try.”

Furrowing his brow, Lance seems to contemplate Keith’s words, weighing his options against each other, growing visibly more anxious with every second that ticks by. But Keith keeps quiet, gives Lance the space to make up his mind. And even if he doesn’t want to (and even if it will be the hardest thing to do) if Lance decides that he doesn’t want to tell Keith, then Keith will accept that, too. (Is that character growth? Shiro’ll be so proud of him, disgusting.)

From one second to the other, Lance’s gaze hardens in earnestness, and he straightens up, turning towards Keith, opening up his whole posture to puff up his chest while he says determinedly: “I can’t tell you.” He pauses as if to muster up all the courage in his bones. “But I can show you.”

In one flowing movement, Lance stands up and extends his hand for Keith to take, then he hoists him up with surprisingly little effort, and Keith’s cheeks heat up embarrassingly. But Lance doesn’t pay him any mind, just drags him along with their still intertwined hands.

“You can’t show me here?” Keith asks in confusion, watching Lance shake his head in response.

“I cannot. Under no circumstance,” Lance replies, not slowing down in the slightest when Keith almost trips on his own feet trying to trail after him.

They leave Lance’s bag behind, and Keith is soon to realise that they’re walking towards the beach, the rocky part where Keith knows for certain that the possibility of running into other people is slim. – He has no idea whatsoever why Lance would drag him there.

“Why did you come anyway?” Lance asks absentmindedly, clearly preoccupied with his own problem at hand.

So, Keith decides that it really, really doesn’t matter what he thought he experienced, and says dismissively: “Nothing of importance. It can wait”, and it can. Lance’s thing is much more important, whatever it may be. (And if Keith gets enough distance between himself and the aching scrapes on his stomach, then he can ignore the episode forever. Probably.)

“Okay,” Lance says lowly, and they don’t talk for the remainder of their way. Which is unsettling in its own way, because Keith can count on one hand the times that Lance hasn’t filled their silence with mindless chatter and exaggerated retellings of stories Keith has heard a hundred times before. Not one of those times had been a happy one.

He tries to swallow down the agitation welling up inside him, but it’s harder than anticipated to swallow down something that has already nested just inches shy of his stomach. Needless to say that he doesn’t feel calmer when they finally reach the beach and Lance climbs down the stairs, still pulling at Keith’s hand to ensure that he’s still following, still coming, still present.

After a short walk around and over a few large rocks, they reach a small part of the beach that is entirely secluded from the rest, sheltered from prying eyes and curious minds, and Lance comes to a halt, back still turned to Keith, but still holding onto Keith’s hand as if he’s in constant fear of Keith disappearing on him. (As if Keith could leave Lance. As if anything on this planet could make Keith leave Lance. It’s ridiculous.)

“I’m going to show you something,” Lance says before turning around and staring into Keith’s face, looking for something Keith can’t comprehend. “And you’re going to stay calm.”

“Yeah, I thought that’s why we’re here,” Keith retorts impatiently, agitation growing steadily, but Lance doesn’t let himself be bothered by Keith’s temperament. They’ve known each other for so long, Lance is probably not surprised by anything Keith does anymore. (Well, except the whole tail thing. Which Keith won’t bring up, so Lance doesn’t even get the chance to be surprised. Check and mate or whatever.)

A shaky smile appears on Lance’s lips, and he lets go of Keith’s hand all of a sudden, leaving behind a sense of loss Keith only experiences when Lance touches him and withdraws again. It’s a unique feeling that reminds him unpleasantly of the equally unique flutter in his abdomen whenever he sees Lance after too much time apart. (Too much is a malleable phrase, because on some days Keith can’t even escape the flutter when Lance comes back from the kitchen after getting up to fetch them a glass of water or a snack for their movie night.)

Lance walks backwards, eyes trained on Keith, until only a few inches separate him from the roll of the waves lapping against the sandy shore. With a last shaky breath, Lance repeats: “Remember, stay calm,” and takes a huge step backwards, suddenly ankle-deep in salt water.

For a moment, nothing happens. Lance just stares at him in apprehension, obviously waiting for something to happen. Keith is about to open his mouth to ask Lance what the fuck he’s thinking he’s doing, when the water around Lance’s feet starts to bubble, and his knees give out under him, sending him into the shallow water with a surprised yelp.

“What the fuck,” Keith hears himself say, not for the first time today, and most likely not for the last. “Lance!”

Keith stumbles forward a few steps, scrambling towards Lance, but he freezes as soon as his feet come too close to the steady waves, because now that he’s not only focused on Lance’s toppling, he realises that Lance seems to be more disgruntled and unhappy than hurt. Which could be caused by the large blue fish tail he wears like his least favourite shoes.

“What the fuck,” Keith repeats, loud enough for Lance to hear him, too. Because, let’s be honest, what else could he possibly say. Today is one big clusterfuck of a shitshow, and Keith doesn’t have the emotional range anymore to respond accordingly.

“I don’t know, man,” Lance calls back, even though Keith could probably hear him too if he were whispering. “You’re not going to, like, freak out on me, are you?”

“No,” Keith lies, you know, like a liar. He even shakes his head for good measure.

Displaying his vast knowledge of Keith’s tone of voice and every single expression Keith could sport at any given moment, Lance says: “Sure thing, buddy, please don’t, like, pass out or anything, I couldn’t catch you if I tried.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He says: “No. I get it.”

“You do?” Lance’s voice is sceptical, and he furrows his brows again. Obviously dissatisfied with Keith’s reaction to the whole situation. Or rather lack of reaction. (Maybe he doesn’t know Keith as well as Keith knows him. Or maybe Keith is a terrible human being with one puzzle piece up his sleeve that Lance can’t possibly know about.)

“Yeah, still in shock, I guess,” Keith replies easily, toeing his shoes off his feet and taking the smallest step known to man toward the water. “Funny thing is that I came by to talk to you, too.”

“You said it’s not important,” Lance responds, face growing even more disgruntled. “We’re talking about my thing right now, Keith, get with the program.”

That pries a self-deprecating chuckle from Keith’s lips, and he draws in another deep breath, before he steps forward, cold sea water embracing his feet like an old friend. – Maybe they’re really friends now, considering the big fucking tail that appears where Keith’s legs have been until a second ago, sending him down into the water right on top of Lance who’s yelping in surprise again.

“You dick,” Lance splutters, mouth full of sea water. But then his eyes zero in on Keith’s tail and they grow wide in shock. He scrambles, fingers digging into wet sand until they hit Keith’s scales for the first time and hold onto them like Keith’s tail is Lance’s lifeline. Lance screeches: “This is not important? Not relevant enough to mention once?”

Being propped up on his elbows complicates Keith’s attempts of shrugging, but he thinks he’s getting the point across when he retorts: “You said you had something on your mind.”

For the first time almost completely engulfed by water, Keith tries to ignore the burning of the salt in the scrapes on his stomach, only to relent and navigate his tail into the same direction as Lance’s while rolling onto his back to lift his stomach out of the water.

Meanwhile Lance questions: “Have you always been a merman? Did you bite me to turn me into a merman, too?”, completely ignoring Keith’s admission. He eyes the contrast of their tails – red and blue, both unnatural like poisonous fishes –, wandering until they settle on his stomach, finally taking in Keith’s scratched up skin. “What happened to you?”

“Went for a run, got into contact with water, didn’t know it would end when it dries off, tried to move on asphalt anyway,” Keith rattles off detachedly, taking in the way Lance’s tail bleeds out into his back, singular scales just shy off the dimples above his hip bone. (The tail looks far better on Lance, but Keith won’t say that out loud.) “You seriously think I’d werewolf you into becoming a mermaid, Lance?”

“Maybe merfolk is immortal, and you just can’t live without me anymore,” Lance replies smugly, obviously growing accustomed to the thought that they’re amphibian now. Or whatever else the fuck mermaids are.

Keith decides to give Lance one more win to keep him from getting anxious again, even though he’s not sure if Lance really needs another reason to be self-complacent: “Well, if I were an immortal mermaid and I could turn you into my kind with a bite, maybe I’d do it.”

Lance grins at him now, big and wide and rosy-cheeked, and he lifts his wet hand to gently brush a strand of Keith’s hair out of his face. He doesn’t take his hand back, however. It settles on Keith’s cheek instead, cool skin soothing Keith’s fluttering nerves.

“You know,” Lance says, and his words don’t have the same joking quality to them anymore, clearing a path for earnestness that threatens to spill into Keith’s heart, “if I had to spend eternity with an immortal fish, I’d rather it be you.”

And Lance doesn’t know what he elicits in Keith’s soul, that he throws blotting paper into the burning hot flames of Keith’s yearning right beneath his skin. Lance doesn’t know, and it infuriates Keith greatly, beyond anything else. – And in extenuation of Keith as a person, he never said he’s got any impulse control, and just because he’s grown as a person since his angry teenage years, don’t make him less of a hothead. So, it’s to exactly no one’s surprise that Keith reaches out to Lance, cupping his face hastily and probably a little bit on the rough side to pull him close enough to kiss him.

Keith is not a strong man – mentally wise. He’s really, really weak emotionally speaking. And not kissing Lance has been on his agenda for so long now that he surprises himself with the fact that he didn’t do it sooner. Because only now that he actually does it, he realises just how natural it feels to have Lance pressed against him, bare skin on bare skin.

It doesn’t take long for Keith to realise that Lance hasn’t exactly kissed him back, which is as unsettling as it is anxiety inducing, so he pulls back only to be met by Lance’s wide eyes and slack jaw. Keith’s hand falls down, leaves Lance’s face hurriedly, but Lance stays glued to Keith’s cheek, mouth opening in quiet awe. (Oh, God, Keith really hopes it’s awe.)

“You kissed me,” Lance says matter-of-factly, eyes still widened in surprise.

Keith sighs sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“And we’re both some kind of weird half-mermaid,” Lance states for good measure.

Keith averts his eyes, not knowing where to look instead. “Yeah.”

“What the fuck,” Lance says.

“What the fuck,” Keith agrees.

And then Lance’s lips find his again, and he’s suddenly confronted with half a lap of blue fish tail while Lance’s second hand joins his first, burying themselves into Keith’s hair like it’s the only thing they were ever intended to do.

This time, Keith doesn’t immediately kiss back, still kind of reeling from the whiplash of Lance throwing himself at Keith. And Lance pulls back, almost bending over backwards in an attempt to give Keith some space if he wants it, because Lance is a good guy. (Which is probably the reason Keith fell for him in the first place.)

“This wasn’t some spur of the moment split second decision, was it?” Lance asks almost breathlessly. “You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”

“Kinda, I mean: No—well, I didn’t plan on it,” Keith says, shaking his head to drive his point home. Whatever that point may be. “Not going to back out, though. Don’t worry.”

Lance’s face almost splits in half with a smile so blindingly boyish that Keith forgets to breathe for a moment. He wants to frame this moment, savour it for as long as possible, and never ever let go of Lance’s face or arms or hip. (He will, they can’t stay in the water forever. But a guy can dream, right?)

(Kissing Lance is intoxicating, and it definitely makes up for the throng of hypothetical questions and hypotheses Lance throws his way in between, trying to examine every last possibility of their new state of being before plunging into the water and experiencing it first-hand, even though Keith can’t answer one of them because he’s as new to this as Lance. – Kissing Lance might even be the best thing Keith has ever done, and while he’s still a bit peeved that it took them so long to finally do it, he can’t help himself but think that he doesn’t mind the tail as much now that it is evident that it’s the catalysator of bottled-up feelings Keith didn’t think he could have endured any longer.)

Being a merman is kind of amazing. (Even if Pidge doesn’t agree.)

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 3

 chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.  

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those  birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh.  And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?  

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you  lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.  

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

[halothenthehorns]

GRIM DEFEAT

"Okay," James said, drawing the word far out past its normal syllable count as he glanced carefully between the book and his best friend. "At least now we know Sirius really is at Hogwarts," he finished with a mutter.

"Er, Sirius," Remus said cautiously when the silence just kept dragging on and they just kept staring at him like he would have a completely normal explanation for this. "No offense mate, but I'm honestly wondering if you hadn't really lost your mind on that one."

Sirius was mouthing wordlessly, his eyes so round his friends were wondering if they weren't just going to completely fall out of his head.

"Don't suppose it just has something to do with his low impulse control?" Lily offered weakly. "He finally made his way there and was just that eager to see Harry?"

"If he wanted to get in that badly though, he would have just broken into a home in Hogsmeade and floo'd into the common room," Remus corrected. *

"With a knife?" Harry reminded. Harry couldn't help but shift his weight around uncomfortably as he continued eyeing Sirius. Remus might have meant it as a joke, but Harry really was starting to have this feeling like there was some darker, unknown reason Sirius was trying to get into Gryffindor tower... but what? It had to be because of him, what other motive would he have for going in there? But something just didn't feel right, and as always his mind was unhelpful as ever in giving him a reason why.

The others were trying, their minds spinning in every direction possible for this to seem logical, for any kind of motive that didn't make their skin crawl, but they were all coming up with a blank on this one. At least four of them were, Sirius looked like he'd completely shut down and wasn't going to be processing anything anytime soon.

"If he wanted to get in that badly though, he would have just broken into a home in Hogsmeade and floo'd into the common room," Remus corrected. 

James got uneasily to his feet and walked over to pick up the book, checking his chapter before walking back over and smacking Sirius with it.

"Ouch!" Sirius yelped in shock, rubbing at the spot on his arm, and coming out of whatever trance he'd clearly been in. "What was that for?"

"Felt like someone should for that stupid stunt," James said with an air of carelessness, while he was still keeping a very protective eye on his friend, "got any ideas why you did?"

Sirius shook his head miserably from side to side, sighing deeply before saying, "I don't know, maybe Lily's got something in saying I was just really impatient to see Harry, and I had the knife for protection? I've obviously not got my wand anymore."

"See, I don't know about that," Remus argued back with a frown in place. "It would have been much easier to set up something with me, then we could both talk to Harry at the same time. Even you're not so mad as to think this was a good idea Padfoot."

"Maybe now I'm not," Sirius grumbled, eyeing the ceiling carefully and not looking at anyone.

James and Remus exchanged heartbroken looks, while to be perfectly honest Lily couldn't really come up with a way to argue that point.

Then James grit his teeth in frustration, and made to swing at Sirius again. This time he was paying attention enough to duck, then glared daggers at his best friend. "Why do you keep trying to hit me?"

"Because you're being an idiot," James snapped, and Sirius felt like leaning back at the fiery glare he was now receiving. "I don't want anyone to ever say that again, least of all you. I'm positive you must have a reason for this, and you will get your chance to talk to Harry by the end of the year and explain it." With that he turned to his chapter and began reading; not leaving any room for argument. Remus looked happy that the subject was being changed, agreeing with James all the way, but Harry and Lily exchanged uneasy looks.

Lily couldn't help but wonder if her husband wasn't in denial about this matter. Something wasn't adding up with this, and though neither of them had an idea of what, they were both thinking it might have a little more to do with something other than Harry. Lily just couldn't help but think that, unless Azkaban really had driven Sirius mad, what other explanation could it be?

Dumbledore personally escorted the whole of the house back down to the Great Hall, and moments later the other houses arrived as well in a swell of confusion. Dumbledore instructed all of them that it was safer to be kept in here for the night,

"Interesting little slumber party," Remus muttered, still keeping a worried eye on Sirius. James' words hadn't seemed to be much comfort to him, and he was still rubbing absentmindedly on where he had now been whacked twice, and looked as if he was only half paying attention.

and to remain as quiet as possible, while the Head Boy and Girl were in charge. Percy couldn't help but swell with power as he glanced around the room at that news.

"Course he was," Harry rolled his eyes, now continuously throwing worried glances over at Sirius, they had all noticed he didn't seem to have as much confidence as James did.

Then Dumbledore summoned enough sleeping bags for all of them,

"Glad he remembers the little things," Lily chuckled without any real humor.

"Where did they all come from?" Harry yelped in shock, his mind boggling at the idea of summoning so many things at once.

"I'm fairly confident they keep a private store of those somewhere in the castle," Remus explained, "for emergencies like this."

Harry still found this a pretty big feat, but didn't say anymore.

and left. Percy jumped in at once, telling them all to get to sleep, he was turning the lights out in a minute.

"He is such a killjoy," James smirked, trying his very best to put a sense of normalcy back into his tone that no one actually bought.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione grabbed up their own bags and pulled them into a corner so they could talk in peace, while Hermione asked if Black was still in the castle.

"Absolutely not," Remus said at once, punctuating that with a roll of his eyes to show how ridiculous he thought that was.

Ron pointed out Dumbledore thought so, and Hermione whispered it was good fortune he'd picked tonight to pull that stunt,

James suddenly brightened all the more, a real smile coming across his face as he began laughing.

"I don't see why that's funny," Lily scowled at him, wondering if James wasn't joining Sirius in a spot of madness now.

"I was just thinking that Hermione might be wrong on that one," James disagreed, "and that Sirius was trying to get a bit of irony owed to him on this particular night. All that rubbish-" no one needed to ask why he couldn't actually say the words 'we died' and had instead deflected to that, "on Halloween, so Sirius wanted to make an impression."

Lily's eyes might have brightened with understanding, but she didn't look any more convinced.

Remus was shaking his head from side to side, not looking any more convinced but a little more indulgent as he replied, "think that's giving him a little too much credit mate. Can't imagine Sirius thinking in that kind of poeticness."

"Hello, I am sitting right here," Sirius sniffed, allowing a genuine smile to appear as he was easily able to focus on this simple thing, his friends picking on him. The others were relieved to see him get some sense of normalcy back about him, which made James feel all the worse when he realized no one was going to comment further and he had to simply turn right back to this.

the holiday where everyone was out of Gryffindor common room.

"Perfect time to try and sneak in and wait out for Harry to be alone," Remus reminded Sirius quietly. Sure that plan had some major holes, like he obviously hadn't snooped out and found the password for one; but Sirius could turn into a dog and hide under the bed for just this opportunity. No it wasn't ideal, it would make more sense for him and Sirius to work out something far better...but perhaps Sirius had grown impatient and gone ahead without him? It wouldn't be the first time Sirius had disregarded his advice on something because he was so impatient, though he would have liked to think on something like this he could have gotten through his friends thick skull... Remus sighed when he realized he just kept creating more questions rather than a solution.

Ron pointed out the man was on the run, he probably wasn't keeping track of the days of the week, otherwise he'd have just come right into the hall.

Sirius grumbled something about he still didn't think he was that deranged, but quietly enough he didn't think either of his friends really understood what he meant.

Then Hermione whispered, how did he get in?

"That's something I am still genuinely curious about," Lily said briskly, trying to keep her suspicions about Sirius' mind state out of her voice. She wasn't sure how good a job she did, since James kind of gave her a dirty look anyways, but Sirius distracted them by saying, "I've still got no idea. I really have been thinking about that, and all I can come up with is that I must learn something new within the next year."

"That isn't public knowledge, and that Dumbledore doesn't know and has proofed against, and the rest of the wizarding world hasn't figured out?" Remus asked in disbelief.

They were all genuinely puzzled, only one thing coming to mind in that Sirius was an animagus. That qualified under all of those questions, but what did that have to do with getting past dementors? Sirius did know all of the secret entrances in and out of the school, so if he did waltz right past the guards as a dog and use one of those, was it doable? That didn't answer one of their original questions, of why he hadn't simply done this moments after he'd been taken to Azkaban, why wait all this time? Of course, as far as any of them knew, this hadn't ever been studied; did dementors have an effect on animals? Was it the same basic principle as werewolf bites didn't affect an animal, just humans?

Harry was nearly bouncing in his seat when James voiced all of this, which meant they must be on the right track, he didn't normally show this much excitement when they weren't. By the time they had circled through every bit of possibilities on this subject, they were all practically beaming at having figured out something even this minor. It certainly made them all feel better than the other tons of questions they had about the situation that just kept getting worse.

Others all around the hall were asking this very question, one Ravenclaw kid suggested he might know how to apparate onto the grounds.

"Of course I do, most any adult wizard does," Sirius rolled his eyes. Even finding out something as minor as how he had gotten himself past the dementors finally seemed to have lifted Sirius' mood tenfold, bringing back his more boisterous and rather pompous nature.

He looked to be in such a good mood again, no one bothered to point out to him he most likely didn't have a wand, and the obvious part where he can't apparate inside the actual school; since Sirius knew both of these anyways and was just answering the rhetorical question.

A Hufflepuff postured that Black had disguised himself.

"Actually not that far off," James smirked, now feeling like rubbing it in Lily's face that they most likely hadn't registered and this was how Sirius was getting around. After all, if they had, then surely they would have put out an alert on Sirius' dog form as well as his human picture.

Lily properly acknowledged his smug tone by sticking her tongue at him, having come to much the same conclusions.

While Dean offered that he could have flown in.

"And we've already explained why that wouldn't work," Remus shrugged, "not only that, but dementors could sense him even if I did invite him on the premises, so that wouldn't work all the more."

Hermione scoffed at all of these, asking if she was the only one to have read Hogwarts, A History?

"Only one who's memorized it," James smirked.

Ron told her she was, and Hermione explained why each of those wouldn't work, and she'd love to see the disguise that fooled dementors.

"Well I very much hope it impresses you," Sirius smirked.

Reminding them they were at every entrance, and Filch knew all of the secret passages into the school.

"I doubt he actually knows all of them," James scoffed, "otherwise they'd be boarded up and blocked off from all students."

Lily couldn't help but wonder if perhaps they were. Harry certainly hadn't found any out of the school, but perhaps her son wasn't the best way to argue that point. The one thing she could say for her son was that he really didn't go out of his way to find trouble like that, unlike his father on that one.

Then Percy called that it was time they all get to bed, not to talk anymore.

"Please," Remus scoffed, "as if anyone could sleep with this kind of news going around." If he didn't think it would inflate his friends ego another few degrees, he might have even pointed out just how much of an accomplishment this really was, sneaking into Hogwarts in this manner. Side effects and actual reasons for him doing this aside.

The lights did go out, and then the most dominant noise was the ghosts flitting in having serious conversations with the prefects.

"Not as Siriusly as I could have," Sirius said quickly, taking the absent minded nudge he received from James with a happy grin this time. He was going to soak in this pleasurable mood for as long as he could, knowing by now he shouldn't count on it to last long this time.

Between that and the ceiling above that mimicked the stars outside, Harry found himself wondering if this was what camping was like.

"That sounds like fun honestly," Lily grinned, "I think we really should go camping some time."

"I'll keep that in mind," James acknowledged.

Harry looked horrified at the thought. He had no idea why his mother's innocent suggestion would give him a whomping smack, his first instinct to say he wanted nothing of the sort, but something about him, Hermione, Ron, and the word camping wasn't being taken lightly inside of him. He didn't say any of this though, because as always it came with that nuisance of a feeling that it came with memories he had no business prying into so early.

Teachers periodically poked their head in to check on them, and by the time most of the students had nodded off, Dumbledore himself came.

Despite the confidence James had that Sirius really wouldn't have stuck around and gotten back out of there, he also couldn't help the slight relief he felt at the headmaster's reappearance. Surely if Sirius had been caught, Dumbledore wouldn't have come back, but would be tied up for hours dealing with the ministry and what have you because of it.

Harry feigned sleep as the headmaster approached Percy, who was nearby telling off some kids for talking.

"I think he just needs to keep his girlfriend at his hip, see that 'lighter side of him' we still haven't seen," Remus muttered into Sirius' ear, making Sirius begin snickering again.

Ron and Hermione quickly pretended to be nodding off as well when Dumbledore approached.

"Convenient," Lily rolled her eyes, though to be honest this time she really thought that might have just been a lucky break. Of all the students scattered in the great hall, there was no way they could have possibly noticed those three in particular when they were talking. Even then, it wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that Percy would be cycling near his brother.

Percy asked if Black had been caught, and Dumbledore said no.

This time the other four couldn't help but joining James in the relief at this confirmation Sirius really hadn't been recaptured.

Then he said he'd found another painting to be put in front of the Gryffindor tower.

Sirius grimaced and pushed his hand through his hair in frustration, truly bothered he had clearly hurt the Fat Lady's painting so much it couldn't just be mended quickly, but James distracted him easily enough by asking, "Wonder who they got to do the job?"

There were several memorable portraits some of them suggested, Harry's favorite being Remus who offered they might have even used one of the old Headmaster's ones from Dumbledore's office, but then James really did have to keep reading to get his answer.

Percy asked about the Fat Lady, and Dumbledore explained she was hiding out, still afraid because she'd denied Black entrance when he didn't know the password and he'd lashed out.

Sirius couldn't help but bite at his lip, torn between anger at himself for this act, and confusion as to why he seemed so desperate to get in as really; seeing Harry shouldn't have caused this much of a forceful reaction. Yes, he'd be going crazy wanting to see his Godson, but then he grimaced at his mind's choice of words as he was once again very forcefully questioning himself if he truly had gone...well crazy.

Remus and James weren't having it, refusing to let him dwell on this, so Remus offered him back the baby who Sirius took happily, and James made the comment, "I think she owes you a thanks to be honest. How often does she get to travel the castle like this?"

Harry released a surprised snort of laughter at that, only Lily still look perturbed as her thoughts had been paralleling Sirius' and she didn't seem able to shake it off quite as easily. While no she didn't really think he'd do Harry harm, it still was distressing to even consider what had become of Sirius, and not thinking about it wasn't going to make it any easier if she happened to be right. Then she sighed as she focused back in on James, also recognizing dwelling on it wasn't going to make the problem better either.

Then more footsteps announced the arrival of Snape.

"Oh great, just bloody perfect, I really wanted him to come around and get his opinion on the matter. Would have kept me dwelling all day if we didn't hear his stupid-" Sirius cut himself off by blowing a loud raspberry in baby Harry's face, causing great peals of laughter from all of them at that sudden random act.

Dumbledore asked for his report, and Snape said that the whole of the castle had been searched with no trace, and Dumbledore agreed he hadn't really expected Black to stick around.

"See, even Dumbledore still has that kind of faith in you," James smirked.

Then Snape asked if Dumbledore had an idea how Black got in, and Dumbledore admitted he had several, though none of them fit.

"Would honestly kind of like to hear that," Remus chuckled.

Sirius didn't seem to find that quite so funny, having come to the sudden realization that even Dumbledore probably thought he'd committed that terrible crime, and finding it quite depressing his old headmaster thought that of him. McGonagall would as well, Merlin anyone he once knew would think the worst of him now... except Remus of course. He sighed, refusing to allow his mind to linger on this depressing realization, taking a comfort in that one small fact his friend still would have stood by him, no matter how little influence he could have offered because of his status.

Harry cracked an eye open to see Snape, his profile making it clear how angry he was.

"He would be upset you obviously got the better of everyone in that castle," James cackled.

Snape then tried to remind Dumbledore of a warning he'd given before, now trying to put himself between Percy and Dumbledore, clearly trying to butt him out of the conversation.

"Well then you should have had this out of earshot, like oh I don't know, in one of your offices," Lily rolled her eyes.

Dumbledore agreed with a sharp tone, a clear warning not to keep going.

"Hope he does, as I'd really like to hear this," Sirius said honestly, taking any pleasure in this old bat getting told off.

Snape didn't take that warning, continuing that Black may have gotten help from the school, Snape hadn't been very pleased with the newest appointment,

"I see what he's on about," James rolled his eyes.

"While he's most likely not wrong-" Remus shrugged, but Sirius finished for him, "like I need anyone's help."

Dumbledore cut him off that he did not think for one second a teacher would help Black.

"Huh," the others muttered, Dumbledore phrasing it this way actually managed to spring a few questions to mind. Was Dumbledore implying he didn't think Remus would help him, in which case Remus would have had to lie and fool the headmaster about this; or did Dumbledore possibly know something? That Sirius was innocent every person in this room still believed, could it be possible Dumbledore still believed it too, and hadn't been able to do anything about it during the trial, and was now trying to possibly help out Sirius himself.

Harry in particular didn't really think that, and it also turned his mind into an even darker train of thought, could he be saying that because Dumbledore really thought Remus wouldn't help Sirius? Why though, what could make the headmaster think this? Harry was getting a very sticky feeling deep inside him, that emptiness was rearing its ugly head when his mind was trying to disagree with his gut on this matter.

James couldn't help but hesitate before he kept reading this time, torn between wanting to question this further, and afraid of what answers might crop up. After exchanging a look with Remus, and the silence continued to drag on from the others, he decided to leave that one be for a time.

Then Dumbledore excused himself, saying he had to go and check on the dementors. Percy asked why they hadn't helped search the castle, and Dumbledore stated that so long as he was running this school, no dementor would come through those doors.

"Thank Merlin for that," Lily said in relief. Harry ignored his odd little tick in the brain trying to say that would be a lie someday as well.

Harry looked over to see Ron and Hermione looking just as confused as him.

Sirius couldn't help a surprised snort of laughter, he honestly kept forgetting these kids in the book weren't privy to the knowledge they were half the time. It was more than obvious to them, but of course even Harry wouldn't have known at the time Remus was obviously who they meant. Then that humor dried up slightly, just a tad of resentment taking its place as he remembered all over again Harry really should have known that.

Black was in every conversation for the next several days.

Sirius couldn't help but grimace at that, having always enjoyed attention in his youth, and finding that mirrored back now the worst form of mockery.

Everyone was speculating to no end how he could have pulled off this latest stunt, Hannah suggesting that he turned himself into a bush.

"I threatened to turn you into a dandelion one time," Lily remembered fondly.

That gave them all a soft moment of amusement again, Harry in particular as he asked, "and why was that?"

"I caught him flirting with one of my friends, the day after he'd broken up with another girl," Lily shrugged, "told him to get lost or I'd turn him from a hound dog to a dandelion. Seemed cleverer at the time than it does now."

"I took the threat for what it was though," Sirius shrugged, not looking any kind of abashed at this little retelling, "wouldn't have been the first time Lily'd cursed me for much less."

The Fat Lady had been replaced with Sir Cadogan,

"Wow," Remus chuckled in amusement, "didn't see that one coming."

"This ought to be fun to watch," James agreed mildly.

Harry rolled his eyes, already getting a faint feeling of more agitation then humor, but didn't argue the point.

which didn't please anybody as he randomly changed the password twice a day into the most random things possible.

"Can he do that?" Lily frowned, "thought only McGonagall could do that."

"Probably gave him permission, after my little stunt," Sirius reminded her, with just a touch of bitterness complimenting that.

Seamus could be heard complaining to Percy about it, but Percy pointed out he couldn't do anything about it, as Cadogan had been the only one willing to do the job.

"Brave or suicidal," Sirius piped up again, and when Remus made to smack him again for that dark humor, Sirius quickly reminded, "thought I was allowed to make jokes about that."

Remus sneered at him, still not finding that the least bit funny, but Merlin if it made him feel better who was he to argue?

Harry couldn't care less about this though, as he had his own problem. He was now being followed,

"Oh crap," James groaned, planting his face in the pages for a moment to collect himself at this amount of absurdity all over again. He still found it laughable at best of anyone thinking Sirius could do Harry real harm, but he obviously couldn't convince anyone of that in this future, and it was pointless to grumble on the matter now when Sirius was trying too hard not to let himself stay down on this matter, so he blasted through this part as fast as he could.

by teachers who found any reason to walk with him to his next class, and worst of all Percy, who Harry got the suspicion was acting on orders from his own mother, kept an eye on him like some guard dog.

"Can't deny I adore the description anyway," Sirius huffed to himself.

Remus rolled his eyes, not finding it any more amusing his using the dog jokes then his own name, and dearly wishing he hadn't given up the baby now so that he had more a reason to swing at him.

McGonagall turned out to be worst of all, as she called Harry to her office one day with the demeanour akin to someone dying.

"Only person that could refer to is the Dursleys," Harry offered, trying his own attempt at humor, "then I can't imagine I'd be too sorry."

That did give them all a chance to give a laugh, albeit a dark one as they half wished that were true anyways.

She began to explain that she couldn't hide it from him anymore in a serious tone,

Sirius opened his mouth to say that same joke again, but Remus took the opportunity to poke him in the jaw, smirking as he scolded, "not twice in the same chapter, please save my sanity from that."

Sirius rolled his eyes at him, telling his friend now he was being a killjoy, and James took that distraction to read out the ridiculous sentence

that Black was supposedly after Harry. Harry said he knew this, he'd heard about it over the summer from Mr. Weasley.

"Oh yeah, you could just hear the surprise in Harry," Lily rolled her eyes, wanting to laugh all over again as even she wouldn't have openly admitted to eavesdropping like Harry had done twice now.

While shocked, McGonagall said that he should then understand full well why he was being taken off the Quidditch team.

"She what!" James cried in outrage, now matching the expression that someone had just told him someone had been killed.

"Couldn't they just ask someone to oversee the practice if they're that worried," Remus scowled, knowing he'd personally volunteer in a heartbeat.

"She can't do that," Sirius spluttered in disgust. "What the bloody hell do they think I'm going to do, get onto the pitch and chuck that knife at him?"

"Well, yes it seems," Lily frowned over at him when James and Remus scowled at him for that stupid comment.

Sirius matched her expression, but James refused to let them really start arguing and began reading again swiftly, dearly wishing Harry would do something to make her see sense!

Explaining practices just left him to vulnerable. Harry tried to protests, saying he had a game coming up this weekend, he had to train!

"Well, she isn't actually kicking him off the team," Remus said slowly, frown still in place, but this wasn't as bad as he'd originally thought. "I guess it wouldn't be too bad if you just couldn't practice with the team, but could still play in the games."

"I'd still go crazy," Harry disagreed, "Quidditch was the best stress relief I had, no way do I want that taken away."

McGonagall did consider, and Harry held out hope since he knew his head of house was as much a fan of her team as anyone, so she did bargain that Harry could keep at it so long as Madam Hooch was there at all times.

"Thank you," all the boys breathed in relief. Lily rolled her eyes, she personally wouldn't have felt too bad if Harry hadn't been able to play anymore since the moment he'd started he'd yet to be able to go one game without her heart wanting to leap out of its chest, but she wasn't going to begrudge Harry this getaway either.

While the weather seemed determined to rain on them until they drowned, this had never affected the Gryffindor's practices, now overseen by Madam Hooch.

"Bollocks," Sirius scowled when he realized this was most likely going to be the chapter that held said match.

James gave him a pitying look, but before he could even open his mouth to offer Sirius turned his attention resolutely back to the baby, silently answering before he could offer. Sirius would keep his word, he'd wait until Harry's final year to openly demand his due Quidditch match, but it certainly was frustrating this just kept skipping over him.

James considered for a moment still asking, Sirius might have silently answered but he'd been dealing with so much lately he might have forced him to read it just to put a real smile back in place, but then Remus subtly shook his head and pointed out the now dozing child. If James traded now, baby Harry would fully wake up again, and they may as well give the kid his nap while he could.

The father shrugged and decided to go on. Harry watched all of this with high interest, greatly enjoying the silent conversation that had just taken place, and feeling a depressing realization all over again when he recognized he'd never truly see this in his own time.

It wasn't until the training run before the game that Wood delivered the worst news, that they were going to be playing Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin.

"Those crappy little tarts," James said at once.

"Is Malfoy still faking that injury," Remus rolled his eyes.

"Sadly yes," Harry sighed, that remembered issue making its reappearance. "How come Madam Pomfrey couldn't prove that he wasn't faking this?" He added on, as it was obvious to anyone as far as he was concerned.

James did not look pleased as he worked out, "As it wasn't technically school related, he still had an arm to do his homework and such, I suppose Wood couldn't have gotten this to happen. He had no proof, and so long as Hufflepuff agreed to the switch it wasn't technically forfeiting."

"What's the big difference?" Lily asked curiously, as all the boys were clearly taking a great offense to this. Lily certainly found it sad that these students were still playing up this, but she could tell there was something else about this.

Sirius was more than happy to explain, all the while using a huffy tone at these little jerks, "Every team has a different style of playing. So giving such short notice that the team won't be playing means they've been practicing a completely different regiment then they would have against the other team."

Lily couldn't help but recognize that there clearly was much more thought and skill in this sport then she normally thought, but simply nodded in understanding.

Wood as outraged as anyone at the news as he explained that they'd been able to get away with this because Malfoy's arm was still injured. Of course Wood knew they just didn't want to play in this horrid weather.

"Like it will make a difference when they still play," James spat. "Gryffindor's team will still smoke the field with these backhanded twats."

Harry insisted that Malfoy was faking it, but as they couldn't prove that, they were stuck. Then Wood informed Harry that Hufflepuff's Seeker was named Cedric Diggory.

Harry suddenly released a furious yelp of pain, clasping his hand to his forehead like he'd just been scalded. The others startled at once, looking to him with mounting worry, but Harry was determinedly already putting himself under control, ignoring the painful build up that name had caused and blinking the white spots out of his eyes to glance around and see their fearful looks. He gave them a sheepish smile, but didn't offer an apology this time, knowing by now how that would be received, and instead explained the feeling that had accompanied the flash. "Another name I'm sure I know. It is definitely significant to me," then he paused and cocked his head to the side as he tried to consider and absorb all he could from that already faded feeling without straining himself. He shrugged, recognizing he had nothing else to offer on this.

The rest of them exchanged curious looks, that had hardly explained why Harry felt so strongly about this student, but knew better than to press him for a more direct answer.

The Chaser girls began to giggle.

James rolled his eyes, not understanding that attitude one bit about a rival team, but read curiously.

Wood asked what was so funny, and Angelina happily explained that Diggory was that handsome one, yes?

"Ah," Lily smirked.

"Would recommend against dating someone on a different house team," Remus chuckled, "but to each their own."

Fred snapped back people only thought that because he was too dense to say anything.

"Did I detect a hint of some jealousy in that?" Sirius asked with interest.

"Wouldn't surprise me," James shrugged, not nearly as curious about these boys love life, and far more concerned about what kind of player this Diggory was.

Then Fred continued addressing Oliver, reminding him the last time they'd gone against Hufflepuff, Harry had broken a record for the fastest catch.

"Hope he doesn't let them get too over confident," James noted, quirking a brow in surprise, "letting them get cocky could cost them later."

"Wish someone had told you that sooner," Lily snipped at him, and James gave her an indulgent smile for that.

Wood rounded on him, shouting that was completely different!

"Dang, bit of an overreaction with the shouting," Sirius winced.

"Might I remind you, this is the same boy who said, 'get the snitch or die trying'" Lily rolled her eyes, "I don't think anything's an overreaction to this boy about this game."

"Mum," Harry groaned, "I told you, he didn't really mean that."

Lily shrugged, she still wasn't taking that back.

Wood was still insisting they had to remain sharp, as Diggory was bigger than Harry and his bulk would be an advantage in this weather! They had to win! Fred looked very startled as he began calming his captain.

"Glad I wasn't the only one thinking it," Sirius smirked, though to be honest he did agree with Oliver as well. He would love more than anything to hear about Harry getting the Cup, it would probably make up for any awful feelings he had about this year.

Promising they were taking Hufflepuff seriously.

"Oh come on!" Sirius cried in outrage, receiving two very sharp pokes from both sides of him, making him squirm slightly and nearly waking up the infant. Both boys looked slightly repentant, and Sirius began grumbling if they didn't stop it he was going to move to the fireplace again. James didn't take the threat, well seriously, but he did stop attempting to smother his friend; while he was holding his son anyways.

The weather refused to be on their side, slowly getting worse as time went on, to the pleasure of Malfoy.

"Wish they would just cancel the match, and wait until this little brat stops faking his injury," Lily sighed.

"Not going to happen," James shook his head, "last year was an anomaly, Quidditch isn't usually cancelled for anything, since in the professional leagues Quidditch really isn't cancelled for anything."

He lamented how sad he was he couldn't play because of his injury.

"Someone needs to show that kid a real injury," Sirius scowled.

Harry didn't get much of a chance to think on that, as Wood kept randomly running up to Harry in the corridors and coaching him on maneuvers for the game, and at one point this went on for so long he realized he was late for his DADA class.

"Well then, it's a good thing you have such an understanding professor," James snickered.

Remus rolled his eyes indulgently, privately thinking he would end up defending himself if his future self did give Harry a warning for that, then he went slightly cross-eyed, still finding it just a little weird he was thinking of himself in the future tense at all like this.

Wood was still yelling after Harry as he ran off that Diggory was known for his turning abilities,

"Glad he took the hint," Lily grumbled.

but Harry paid that no mind as he darted into class, already apologizing to his professor for being late, when he caught sight of Snape.

"Say what?" They all frowned, looking genuinely upset and confused at this.

Then Remus blinked in understanding, asking, "don't suppose you know how close to a full moon it was Harry?"

Harry thought about it for a moment before shrugging, admitting he really had no idea as he didn't keep an eye on that type of thing.

James was still frowning as he said, "yes alright, so you wouldn't be feeling too good if that's it, but Snape! No other teacher could have covered for you!"

"I'm fairly sure I didn't get to pick my replacement," Remus offered.

Sirius was just a little too distracted to put his opinion on this, thinking back to that potion and what he'd thought it was. If Remus was still this sick around the full moon, had they been wrong, and this had nothing to do with his lycanthropy? He was still frowning, very unhappy that he might have been wrong on that guess, but also at least a bit happy he'd never voiced this theory, since they would have been wrong and it would have given false hopes to Remus.

Harry was still scowling though, grumbling that, "of all our rotten luck. We'd heard rumors a few times by now that Remus had missed some of his classes because he was sick all the time, but the twins got Sprout for a cover."

They all agreed it was a real misfortune the schedule had worked out like that, but Remus had been right, it wasn't like it had been planned.

Snape wasn't pleased, telling Harry he'd lost ten points for his house for being so late and told him to take his seat.

Remus frowned, since he knew Harry wasn't always late he found that a far harsher punishment then it was called for, but this was Snape, so there wasn't any point in saying this.

Harry didn't, instead asking where their normal teacher was.

"I'm touched," Remus smiled indulgently at Harry, who instantly smiled right back. He didn't need to know the missing link he hadn't then to always know he'd rather have Remus then Snape any day of the year.

Snape smirked as he informed them that he was feeling sick today,

"Sadistic little bastard, finding that funny," Sirius scowled.

Lily gave him a rather ugly look, though mostly for his saying that while holding her son.

then again told him to sit down. Harry asked how sick, and Snape seemed mildly disappointed when he admitted it wasn't going to kill him.

This time James, Sirius, and Harry all said something rather foul for that implied tone, even Lily couldn't help a cheeky response for his being all the more unprofessional in front of the students like that.

Remus was just warmed and slightly amused at their defense of him.

Then he took five more points away from Harry for still not taking his seat, and threatened to do more if his orders weren't followed.

"Maybe if you did more to earn their respect, they'd listen to you," Remus snarked, causing James and Sirius to exchange triumphant smiles, very much wishing Remus would really say something like that to Snape soon.

Harry slunked off to his seat as Snape began talking to the whole of the class, beginning by saying Lupin hadn't left any kind of note about what they'd gone over in this class,

"I doubt that," James scowled, knowing Remus was usually a pretty organized person and would think to do something like this.

"Most likely, you just didn't look for one," Sirius agreed with a growl.

and Hermione raised her hand and began to explain, but Snape told her to be quite, he'd only been pointing out how little Lupin kept up with his work.

"He could have left you a whole damned book worth of notes and you'd still complain," Harry huffed.

Lily gave a disapproving look at her son, clearly thinking these boys were rubbing off on Harry since this was the first time he'd said something like this, but she couldn't disagree either.

Dean shot back that Lupin was the best teacher they'd ever had, while the rest of the class nodded in total agreement.

This time Remus really couldn't help but blush, the combined affection from this class and his family both unexpected and more warming than he would have seen coming.

James and Sirius were unsurprised, James continued in a rather pompous tone of voice as if he'd just received the compliment himself he was so happy for his friend.

Snape was not pleased, looking more menacing than ever.

Sirius rolled his eyes, knowing he'd have to see that to believe it. While he considered Snivellus no one to underestimate during school, he still found it hard to find him 'menacing'.

He scoffed that they were easily pleased, telling how a first year should have been able to deal with the stuff they'd been handling.

"And I might agree with you," Remus frowned, "if they'd had a competent teacher the past two years."

"I was fixing to have heart failure," Sirius told him with a straight face, "watching you agree with him like that."

Remus rolled his eyes indulgently as he explained, "I'll bet that Dumbledore had told me of the past two years, so I haven't been surprised one bit what you've been going over."

He turned to the instructed book, and went to the very last chapter, knowing full well the class hadn't gotten to it yet.

"Typical," James gave a long suffering sigh, before doing a double take at the next sentence.

Which happened to be over werewolves.

"Why that-" Lily then proceeded to call him something that would have made her go red in the face on a normal day. The boys hardly noticed, as their language wasn't much better. What Snape was doing right then was absolutely horrible, and he had no right whatsoever!

Remus went from giddy pleasure he had clearly been handling his dream job like a glove, to shame and fear that he very well might get kicked out of it before the first term was up. If even one student figured it out, mayhem was going to explode inside the castle, owls from parents were going to start arriving...Merlin he might even be arrested. No, surely he was just being paranoid, Dumbledore wouldn't have hired him if it could get that bad... right?

After being the last one to stop his verbal abuse, Sirius finally found some small words of comfort, "look at it this way, students have to learn this every year, and no one figured it out while you were at school. Surely it won't be any different now."

Lily wanted to disagree, saying it was slightly different from a random student to a more prominent teacher, but she refused to be the one to drain what little color had just returned to Remus' face; clearly he'd taken Sirius' comfort to heart.

James was still gritting his teeth so hard he wondered if it was going to crack his skull, Sirius might be right but it didn't excuse this slimeballs actions, but after swallowing a bit of bile forcefully read.

Hermione tried to protest that they were on something else, but Snape snapped at her he didn't need her opinion on it. The class hatefully began flipping to the proper chapter, and Snape began questioning them what were the differences between a werewolf and a normal wolf. Hermione was the only one to raise her hand,

"Guess I'm not too surprised," Remus sighed, not looking nearly as amused as he tried to put into his tone, "Hermione would read ahead and know this."

but Snape ignored this, taunting them that they could come face to face with the monster and not recognize it, Lupin was clearly lacking.

"Yes, because he'd just go out of his way to do that," Sirius growled.

Remus couldn't help but wince, almost happy now that he thought about it, that Snape had decided to take this lesson. Twisted as his reasons were, it was still slightly better than having to do this himself. He chose not to say that aloud though, knowing it wouldn't be received well.

Parvati began to remind Snape that they hadn't studied this yet, and Snape told her to be quite as well, before saying he'd make a mental note to tell the headmaster how far behind this class was.

"Behind?" James scowled. "I'd like to see how many of your students can pass a simple potion, considering how much they all hate you I wouldn't be half surprised if they failed on purpose."

Hermione was still trying to stay on topic, beginning to list the ways she knew the two differed, but then Snape took five points from her for speaking out of turn, and being a know it all.

Harry scowled so badly at the book, he actually made as if to twitch for his wand that time.

"That man has no bounds," Lily yelped in outrage, "he asked a question and then insults her! I can't believe I'm even surprised anymore, after the way he's been treating Neville," she trailed off into foul mutterings, but the other boys didn't have nearly the same restraint. They continued griping about him for a few more minutes until it started getting loud enough the baby started squirming again.

James sighed, but relented they couldn't continue yelling forever, so pressed on.

Ron lost his temper, as Hermione put her hand down and looked near tears he shouted at the teacher that it was Snape's own fault for asking a question he didn't want the answer to. Disregarding the fact that he called his friend a know-it-all once a week.

"And that's why I adore Ron," Lily smiled fondly before Sirius could make a joke about how she'd mimicked him. "Very happy someone said that to him."

James looked for a moment as if he might get up and kiss his wife for that one, having only been a beat away from saying something similar, while the other boys were nodding in fervent agreement.

Snape gave Ron a detention for that, telling him that if he ever spoke about the way he taught again, he'd be the worst kind of sorry.

This thankfully didn't reignite the attitude, though it hardly lessened it. The only reason they weren't doing a bit more than grumbling was because they could hardly argue that point, though they each found it personally loathsome at the implied threat he'd just made to a student.

Then Snape set them to work on taking notes, while going over previous assignments they'd had. He was critiquing that one had been graded wrong, kappa's weren't from Mongolia,

"What, did the student simply say East Asia and that just wasn't specific enough for you?" James scowled.

and on one he wouldn't have given the student a three out of ten it was so poorly done.

"I'm finding it more of a miracle every day anybody ever passed his courses," Sirius snarled.

When they were finally released, Snape set them the homework of an essay on how to spot and kill a werewolf,

"He shouldn't even be allowed to assign homework while he's subbing," Harry huffed.

Remus personally felt he might have argued that point, for any other teacher, but didn't find it worth it for this pompous git.

two rolls of parchment,

"Two rolls of parchment?" Lily balked. "They may as well just copyright the whole chapter on them."

"He may as well simply write on the board what he's wanting them to figure out!" James snarled.

and he wanted it Monday.

"Please Remus, please drag your arse out of bed and make it to that class," Sirius groaned.

Remus gave his friend a pitying look, though he couldn't deny he hoped so himself.**

He finished by saying it was high time someone took over this class.

"I swear he'd mock Dumbledore himself he's so bitter about not getting this job," James grumbled.

Ron had to stay behind to be given his detention details, while the rest of the class stormed out and hardly waited until they turned the corner to talk about Snape.

"Impressed they even have that self-restraint," Sirius huffed.

Harry was telling Hermione that Snape had never been that bad before, what was it about Lupin?

"Even knowing the answer, this is still stupid," Harry scowled.

Harry wondered if it was all really because of the boggart.

"Actually not," Remus disagreed, then he blinked when he realized Harry actually didn't know the complete reason. Harry now thought Snape hated him for their childhood grudge they had told Harry about, but they had actually left something out when briefly telling Harry a bit about their time during school. No one had brought up the night that Snape had figured out he was a werewolf. Harry didn't seem to be questioning this now, and Remus swallowed hard before asking hesitantly, "ah Harry, why aren't you more surprised Severus knows about me?"

Harry just shrugged as he said, "thought all the teachers would know, none of them seem to be that confused as to why you're sick."

James and Sirius exchanged uneasy looks when they realized what Remus was considering telling Harry, then Sirius nudged Remus hard, not particularly wanting that story to come to his ears right now. Yes Harry right now still didn't really think the worst of Sirius like he did back when he was thirteen, but he'd still rather go as long as possible without that little story coming up.

Remus wasn't going to argue the point, so James took the silent opportunity to keep going.

Hermione disagreed, but did hope Lupin was feeling better soon.

"Trust us Hermione, we all do," Lily sighed.

Ron ran up to them not long later, calling Snape something that made Hermione say 'Ron!'

"What did he say?" Sirius asked, far too amused in Lily's opinion.

Harry told them, which made Lily do a double take that he knew that word, but James chuckled in complete agreement and moved on anyways.

Then he explained his detention was to scrub out the bedpans in the hospital wing, without using magic.

Most of them muttered either 'ouch' or 'ew' for that particular punishment.

Then Ron groused at the world why couldn't Black have hid out in Snape's office and done him in for them?

"Now why didn't I think of that," Sirius cried, shifting the baby carefully into one arm so he could pop himself on the forehead for the theatrics, causing at least Harry to laugh.

Harry woke the next morning with Peeves blowing air into his face.

"I've never known Peeves to get into the dorms," Lily startled.

"We've let him in from time to time as personal vengeance," Remus shrugged, more than happy at this change of subject. "The twins might have done the same for some pregame jitters release."

Harry asked what the point of that was, and Peeves just laughed as he left.

"He's a lovely chap really," James snickered.

Harry glanced at his clock and saw it wasn't even five in the morning.

"Dang," Sirius drew the word out, now grimacing in pity.

It was impossible to go back to sleep though, the weather outside was so awful you could hardly see five feet. So instead Harry got up and went downstairs to lounge in front of the fire, but as he was leaving his room, Crookshanks tried to sneak past, and Harry had to grab him to stop him.

"That cat really does seem to have it out for Scabbers in particular," Lily winced.

Harry gave his mom a curious look, very much wondering why his gut's first reaction was to agree with his mother's obvious joke. Cats didn't 'have it out' for any other particular animal...right?

He pulled the cat outside and scolded it, telling him to leave Scabbers alone.

"Never met a pet with a grudge," Remus chuckled without any amusement.

Harry was left stewing in the common room, reflecting that the larger boy Diggory who he'd seen in the hallway would have a better time in the field today as this weather wouldn't bother his bulk nearly as much.

"Well dang, this just all kinds of sucks," Sirius grimaced.

He didn't move around too much, except to occasionally get back to his feet and stop Crookshanks going back up to his room,

"Jeez, I think Hermione should put a leash on this cat," James scowled.

"We'll be lucky if we go till the end of the year without another accident like last time," Sirius agreed.

but before long the rest of the team arrived and they went down to breakfast. Oliver was in a clear panic as he kept eyeing the storm outside, and Alicia tried to calm him down it was just a little rain.

"Admire the girl's pep anyways," Remus smiled.

"Even if this sounds like quite a bit more than 'a bit of rain,'" Lily smirked.

Such was the popularity of Quidditch, that the weather be damned, and the stadium filled to capacity just like always. As Harry tromped down in the muck, he spotted Malfoy and his friends with an umbrella laughing at the lot of them.

"You just wait you pompous, arrogant little thing," James sneered, "you've got four more years of this game, and I'll bet the next time you do have to play Harry the weather's going to be just as bad, and Harry's still going to sweep you seven ways."

Harry couldn't help but grin at his dad for the confidence, allowing him to ignore a building sense of unease about this game. He was trying very hard to ignore this, not wanting yet another game to be ruined again.

Inside the locker rooms, Wood was trying to give his usual pep talk, but words were escaping him, until finally he gave up and led them outside.

"Wow, poor kid," Sirius said in sympathy.

Lily still couldn't help but feel he was taking this a little too seriously, but she also recognized that there wasn't much she could do but continue hoping nothing to bad happened during this game. One quick glance at Harry didn't help those spirits.

The wind was so fierce Harry was staggering even before he made it to the center of the stadium, and already half blinded by the rain all over his glasses.

"No one's still showed you that charm," James scowled at Harry's team mates. Sure it didn't say anyone else wore glasses, but surely someone would have taken the time to show Harry this.

Harry just shrugged, admitting that no, no one had told him about this so he'd not known to do it.

Harry was having problems seeing his own glove, how was he going to find the tiny golden ball? The Captains of the teams shook hands, and while Diggory tried for a smile, Harry saw that Wood looked more tense then anything.

"Nicer than some other teams, I assure you," Remus snickered.

Harry didn't hear Madam Hooch's order to get on their brooms, but he followed suit as the others did, and also went on faith as he kicked off that the whistle had been blown.

James couldn't help the little swell of happiness that reading this caused him, absolutely positive that nothing could go wrong during this game.

He shot into the air like always, but soon found himself completely lost. He couldn't hear the commentator, could barely make out the sea of students below, and more than once a Bludger nearly took his head off because he couldn't see through the downpour drowning his glasses.

All five of them were frowning at this, knowing the game was hardly any fun in these conditions. James was still personally affronted someone, like himself, hadn't been able to give Harry some simple advice like blocking the rain from his glasses, but he refused to let his mood stay dampened and so read on with forced chipper.

He only just noticed Wood waving him to the ground, and Harry shot down to find Wood had called a timeout, and Harry took the quick moment to try and wipe off his glasses.

"What did you even have to dry them on," Sirius rolled his eyes, "sounds like everything on you was soaked."

Harry nodded, admitting he hadn't exactly done a good job and had in fact made his glasses even wetter.

Harry asked what was going on with the rest of the game, and found they were winning by points, but they had to catch the Snitch soon to keep it. Harry was just pointing out how useless he felt with the glasses when Hermione showed up, telling Harry she knew something that might help.

"Thank Merlin for Hermione," James smirked.

"High time someone thought to give you that spell," Sirius agreed.

She took Harry's glasses and used the spell Impervius on them.

Harry nodded to himself, now determined to commit that spell to memory for future use.

She explained that now they would keep water off his face, and Wood looked likely to kiss her.

"I'm sure that would have been a sight," Remus said, not even bothering to hide a light laugh at this obvious joke.

They returned to the game with renewed vigor, and Harry was just banking around the field when he saw it again, in the highest points of the stands was sitting a black dog.

All of them released surprised bursts of laughter at this. Even Lily had to admit, loco or not, Sirius would certainly not have sat by when he found out Harry was on the Quidditch team and would swim across an ocean just to see this for himself. Harry went from startled at realizing this to amusement himself, further burying that nuisance of a feeling that something really bad was about to happen. Surely he was just remembering the feelings of having to play in such weather.

Harry was so shocked he nearly slipped off his broom,

Sirius refused to let his wince ruin his proud look, so he'd startled Harry again, Harry was sure to shake it off and continue playing.

but when he steadied himself and looked again, the dog was gone.

"Looks like you got spotted," Remus noted lightly.

Sirius cocked his head to the side, curious why he would have moved even if Harry had stared at him. Honestly he'd have much rather his future self had done something that would make Harry want to seek him out, rather than this constant disappearing act. The Knight Bus he could understand not wanting to hang around, but in the stands like this, why should he do more than he already was to stay out of sight?

He didn't get long to dwell on it, as he spotted Cedric racing into the sky, and feet above him, was the snitch.

"Dang it Sirius," James fake scowled, "quite distracting him!"

"Well I am just so sorry he spotted me at all," Sirius grinned with good nature, then he turned to Harry and said with mock sternness, "how dare you pick me out in the crowd like that and get caught off guard."

Harry was chuckling lightly, ignoring the growing tension inside of him as he continued bouncing around in unease. All of the boys noticed his mood this time, and James frowned for real now, wondering if Harry really might have lost the match this time. He quickly turned back to the book rather than let anyone dwell on it too much.

Harry slammed into high gear, yelling at his broom to go faster so he could catch up,

'Doubt yelling at it actually helps' Lily couldn't help but think, but leaned forward, just as hopeful as anyone else that Harry truly did win.

but then he realized something weird was happening. The howl of the wind was dying down, and a new cold was seeping in. He glanced around in confusion, wondering why his hearing was failing him,

Harry groaned, coiling back into the couch suddenly as the ghost of a chill crept back over him; he now knew without a single doubt what was going on, and he didn't want this one little bit.

James turned an ugly shade of gray as he looked swiftly from the book, to his son, to Sirius; coming to the sudden realization why Sirius might have run out of there now. If Sirius had sensed the dementors coming, it's no wonder he would have bolted.

Sirius had to restrain himself from not shivering so hard it would wake up the napping child in his lap, but instead wrapped his arms as tight around him as he could without disturbing him. Remus gave him a pitiful look, but no words of comfort really came to mind.

Lily made a choking noise, remembering all too well what had happened the last time Harry had been around those things. She didn't even have the heart to ask how high up he was on his broom, but simply scooped up her sons hand and held it tightly in her own, feeling slightly warmed when he returned the pressure.

then Harry glanced down as he recognized that cold feeling, and saw them moving on the field blow, gliding up towards them.

"Like I needed confirmation," James muttered as he turned the page with perhaps more force than necessary out of nerves.

At least a hundred dementors,

"A-a hun-" Lily stuttered, looking nearly faint.

"Harry passed out when he was around one," James moaned, his hands shaking so hard the book was close to falling from his grip.

Harry didn't seem to appreciate the reminder, but he just couldn't muster up the energy to gripe at his dad for it. The echo of that empty, cold feeling was as clear now as if he were in front of a dementor right now, but it wasn't nearly as bad as what his gut was insisting. Something was about to happen, something bad, something that his family wasn't going to appreciate hearing about.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, still on the same mindset as James and hoping that at least this time someone would step in sooner and try to get rid of those dementors. Then each remembered their own reason why that wouldn't have happened. Remus was too sick to attend class, surely he was passed out in a bed somewhere. Sirius had just made a run from the arena, most likely unaware of Harry's condition, and even if he was, could he really do anything to help without getting caught?

James swallowed hard, now desperately wishing he had forced Sirius to read this chapter just so he wouldn't have to, but knew it wouldn't be right to force anyone else to read about this either, so he mustered himself up and read.

could be spotted floating towards him,

'Why him!' Lily wanted to sob. Those things were in a stadium full of people, she vaguely understood why they would have been attracted to the swells of emotion coming from there, but why would any of them focus on her son in particular. She wasn't an expert on dementors, and wasn't even sure of how they worked. She understood they could be controlled and given directions, but she also couldn't understand how that would relate to her son. She had no doubts though that no one understood this any better than her, maybe Remus, but she was far more concerned with hearing that Harry didn't break every bone in his body and couldn't bring herself to ask without really starting to cry so bottled that in.

and once again Harry could hear screaming beginning inside his head, it was a woman he knew, then he could make out her words, 'not Harry.'

Now the book really did clatter to the floor, and James couldn't help the tears that sprung to his eyes. He realized what Harry was remembering now...

"Oh," Lily whispered, swallowing very hard and blinking slowly and carefully as she tried her very best not to burst into tears as she suddenly realized what her baby's worst memory was.

Harry went pale as his father, leaning away from the book as if it were going to lash out and bite him, and almost wishing it would. That would feel better than this horrible pit that was growing inside of him as that memory came back to mind.

James was just looking down at the book like it truly was his dead wife. He didn't think he could do this, sit here and read about Lily's final moments. It wasn't like when he'd realized the deadly situations Harry was in, like reading the basilisk. Then, he could continually glance up at his grown son, and take comfort Harry had survived. Now though, now he truly couldn't do that, because Lily...

"Here," and suddenly his son was being placed into his vacant hands, and James was rather startled to realize that his lap had some odd little wet spots. He shook his head so violently his glasses were nearly tossed across the room as he glanced up and around to see Sirius now picking up the book and rummaging around for his spot. Then he quickly went about settling his now fussy child, who clearly wasn't pleased at the sudden change in placement.

Both Sirius and Remus were the color of new snow, and one look over showed Harry and Lily were only a bit better than James because they were clinging to each other. Harry was all but curled into his mother, and while Lily's lower lip was trembling violently she was holding herself together by brushing her hand repetitively through her son's hair in comfort for them both.

Sirius' hands were shaking so bad, he was likely to get a couple of paper cuts from flipping pages until he found his place, but he'd take that any day rather than try and watch James say what he forced out next.

There was another voice, telling her to move, but the woman refused, begging over and over again not Harry. Harry knew he should do something, because that woman was going to die, but there was nothing, he knew nothing but sound as the woman continued to scream for mercy. Then he blacked out.

He had read all of that so fast, most of the words had strung together and his voice was so thick with emotion it was lucky they understood any of it. They all had though, so it was more unlucky in this case. Sirius had to clear his throat several times before he made as if to keep going, but then James forced himself to collect his emotions, and shove them out so that he could deal with it later. For now, he gave Sirius a grateful squeeze on the shoulder, and offered back Harry.

Sirius took a moment to silently asses his friend. He didn't really like what he saw, but under the circumstances the fact that James wasn't curled up into a ball on the floor was a miracle in itself, so he relented. Recognizing that James needed to do this for himself, not only finish this chapter, but continue reading this play out.

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look, loaded down with concern and their own distraught at the situation, but Sirius did indeed take the baby back so that James could read. Taking several deep breaths to make sure he could go on intelligibly, he began again.

There were other voices now, talking about how lucky Harry was he wasn't dead, it was a very good thing the ground had been more mud than anything, but it couldn't have been that bad as his glasses hadn't even broke.

"That's right comforting to wake up to that is," Harry mumbled, rubbing furiously at his arms to get the ghost of that chill away. Lily wrapped her arm protectively around him, not letting any more space between them then she could help, but knew better than to offer a spell to warm him. This wasn't the kind of thing normal heat could cure, but her warm hug seemed to be doing the trick.

Harry struggled to remember, but was coming up blank. He had no idea where he was, or how he'd got there, or what could have caused this.

"Don't rightly want him to remember to be honest," James huffed, dearly wishing he could purge that own memory from his system, let alone it festering in his son's mind.

Then someone whispered how scary it had all been, and Harry's brain caught up and he did remember as his eyes jerked open.

Remus sighed, wondering if it might be in his power in this future to convince Dumbledore Harry might do some good with a couple of extra DADA lessons. He was clearly vulnerable to dementors in particular, who could blame him, and Remus knew without a doubt he'd work day and night with Harry to help him learn the charm to counter them. Considering how limited he'd been so far though, he couldn't help but wonder if the headmaster would assent to this. Clearly Remus didn't have a lot of say in the matter, despite that right now he wouldn't have cared and done it anyways no matter what anyone said, it seemed in this future he may have lost his will along with his friends.

Harry was in a bed in the hospital wing, with the majority of his team around his bed looking like they'd had a mud bath. Ron and Hermione were there as well, though more wet then anything. Fred was the first to get over his shock of him being awake, asking how he was?

"Absolutely peachy, and you?" Sirius scowled.

Harry let his mind rewind back, to that Grim he'd seen, watching Diggory go after the Snitch, then the dementors showing up.

The group gave a collective shudder, now knowing they'd rather break an arm then allow Harry near those dementors again.

Harry asked what happened after that, and Fred told that Harry had collapsed, falling fifty feet back to the ground.

"Because this wasn't the worst day of my life already, I really needed that mental image," James scowled, for the first time ever really wanting Fred to shut up now.

Alicia mumbled that they'd thought he'd died. Hermione made an odd noise, her eyes looking rather bloodshot at that statement.

That drew a wane smile from Lily at least, remembering her little guess that Hermione might truly see Harry as more than a friend, or at least it was heading that way, but she still felt a little too emotional about a few other things to really think on it.

Harry wouldn't linger on that, asking when the rematch for the game would be.

James snorted so violently the book nearly slipped from his grasp again.

"Well, glad he's got his priorities straight," Remus said in a too high pitched voice.

Harry gave them a rather sheepish look, before shrugging and admitting, "really didn't want to dwell on that memory in front of them, so I picked the first thing that came to mind."

"Would they do a replay?" Lily asked quickly, fully understanding his logic.

James mulled that over for a moment, deciding he needed to thank his son for giving him this distraction as he said aloud, "It depends. What with the dementors interrupting, and depending on when exactly Harry fell off, if that other kid caught the Snitch before Harry fell it would have been fair."

Harry didn't think his feelings could actually sink lower, but now as he continued remembering his teammate's faces, and his father's words sinking in, he realized this day actually could get worse.

James winced as he realized he wasn't exactly helping, so hoping he was wrong he read.

When no one answered him, Harry then came to the conclusion that they'd lost. George explained properly saying Diggory had got the Snitch right before Harry fell.

"Dang it," they all muttered, though absently noting they didn't feel nearly as down about this as they should have. Somehow, this game just didn't feel as important as it should have anymore. They were certain that if Harry had won and this still happened, they would have properly congratulated him, but do to circumstances, James instead did what any good father would and told his son, "'s'alright Harry. Can't win every match you play right? You're still a damned good Seeker, but even the best have to lose at it sometimes."

Harry beamed over at him, warmed beyond belief the others didn't blame him all the more for not only bringing up this terrible memory, but losing the game to boot. They were in fact going out of their way to comfort him and still try to make him feel better.

Diggory had tried to call it off, asking for a rematch himself,

"Least he's a decent kind," Sirius grinned.

but even Wood had admitted it was a fair game. Harry then realized his captain wasn't present, and asked where he was. Fred told that he was drowning himself in the shower somewhere.

They all grimaced, thinking the captain of the team should be up there making sure Harry was okay along with everyone else, but none of them could muster up the energy to be too mad at him, still drained themselves.

Harry curled into himself then, pressed his forehead against his knees in frustration and grabbing at his hair. Fred wouldn't allow that, shaking Harry's shoulder to keep his attention.

James immediately took back what he'd thought before about wanting the twins to shut up, and hoped these two would set Harry straight then like he had now.

Comforting the boy that Harry couldn't win every game there was, it had been bound to happen. George jumped in that it didn't even put them out of the Cup, it all added up to points from the other teams.

"See, you're not even out of the running yet," Remus reminded bracingly, making Harry really smile this time. He may have lost the match, and was still stuck on hearing his mother's last moments, but it was still good to know he hadn't lost his team the running. Surely there must be some way to combat dementors and their effects, his gut was already assuring him he was on the right track so that he could fix this problem and hopefully not have to deal with this ever again.

Harry said nothing, still frozen on the fact that he'd lost his Quidditch game.

"Happens to the best of us," James and Sirius said together. It still wasn't as funny as it usually was to them, but any attempt at humor was happily welcomed as the somber mood continued to linger.

Madam Pomfrey came marching over then, telling them all to get out so Harry could rest.

"She's such a killjoy," Remus huffed with a roll of his eyes.

Ron and Hermione didn't move though.

"Oh good, at least they got to stay," Lily slightly perked up.

Hermione began to explain how angry Dumbledore had been when he'd heard, that he'd been the one to use a spell to slow Harry's fall to the ground,

"Good of him, least someone did," they all muttered a variation of this, still wanting to kick at themselves for not being the ones to do this.

and how he'd used some silvery spell to make the dementors go away.

"What silver stuff?" Harry asked swiftly, having noted before this was what Remus had been said to do as well to make them go away.

Remus was quick to respond, explaining all about the spell, and by the end Harry looked nearly back to normal. He was so sure in that moment that he must have already learned this, no matter how advanced Remus kept trying to tell him it was. The spell seemed very familiar to him, it seemed to hold a significance he couldn't place, plus Remus being the one to tell him this felt right. When Harry tried to explain this to them, they all beamed with pleasure, having no doubts that, no matter how hard it would be, Harry, along with Remus' help, could master this.

Then Ron jumped in that Dumbledore had been the one to take Harry up here, but it hadn't looked good, everyone thought he might be...

James grimaced in disgust, mentally tallying up the times he'd had to say that aloud, and growing more than sick of the number.

he didn't seem able to finish, but Harry didn't need him to, nor did he really pay it much mind. He was stuck on what he'd heard when the dementors came for him, and the screaming returned. He looked around for something else to think about,

"Guess you didn't tell them then," Lily murmured, hardly looking upset this time. She personally didn't want to sit around and hear Harry explain this to anyone, let alone his friends.

and asked where his broom was? No one answered.

"Oh this can't be good," James' frown actually deepend at their hesitation, then he read quickly.

It took Harry prompting them for Hermione to begin saying that when Harry had let go, his broom had blown away,

"Someone couldn't have summoned it back?" Sirius asked listlessly, personally still too distracted by memories to come to really think on this much.

and hit the Whomping Willow.

Considering how numb most of them felt, this really couldn't draw nearly as much of a reaction out of them as it normally would have. It was pretty awful that something like that happened to him, but it was clear as Harry continued leaning into his mother it wasn't his greatest concern right now. Sirius couldn't even bring himself to make the joke that falling off his broom had really been the better option.

Harry felt a horrible jump inside of him, well remembering that violent tree as he continued asking,

"And I'm guessing the broom didn't come out on top in that fight," Remus sighed, so quietly no one but Sirius really heard it, and he couldn't really muster up a smile for him this time.

and Ron added on that the tree didn't like being hit.

"I'm sure Harry remembers that actually," James grumbled.

Then Ron finally turned loose a bag full of twigs and the remainder of his handle, and Harry stared down at his destroyed Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Ouch," James muttered, tossing the book away from him and watching with only the vaguest satisfaction as it landed on the table, then reached eagerly out for his son which Sirius willingly handed over.

HPHPHP

So this had to be like the most depressing chapter, for all kinds of reasons. Their wrong assumptions of all these people's motives, poor dang Sirius, Remus, and James, Lily and Harry, and Harry's Nimbus...  but I hope you still enjoyed.

*A hilarious plot hole that I think can be waved off by Dumbledore, he allows Sirius to do exactly this next year but under normal circumstances would be blocked so that any random old person couldn't do exactly this.

**This is just something personal I noticed but couldn't work in how to make anyone point it out since Harry would obviously know by now, but does this mean that Hogwarts has block scheduling? Harry went his whole first week and didn't have DADA until Friday, why would Snape tell them to give it to him Monday. He's clearly assuming he'll have the class again for the assignment to be handed in to him, but that must mean the weeks have different class time frames different weeks. In the next chapter though, they clearly have DADA again on that Monday, so I don't know why they wouldn't have had it on their first week.

[hideyholejournal]

Journal entry #1

August 8 2021

I haven’t written in my journal for months now, mostly because I filled my pretty purple journal and I now don’t have the spare money to buy a new one. It doesn’t help that I’m really picky about what it looks like. A large motivator for me to suffer cramp wrist was how pretty the damn thing was so I’ve decided to start an online journal. That way I won’t have to hand write and the clacks of my keyboard will be my new, and much less pricey, motivator. 

A lot has happened since I’ve last written anything so this first one will be pretty long. I’ll go by chronological event instead of important news first so that it will be easier for me to look back on my memories. Assuming this hell site is still running by then, of course.

To start, my sister finally married her fiancé after nearly four years of engagement. Apparently the main hold up was the family = The mothers, mostly = insisting that they not elope in Vegas like they wished to do. I kind of wish they had just defied everyone but alas, the wedding was on. 

It wasn’t a large wedding, just a backyard shindig with immediate family and a few childhood friends. Still, the party afterward was very fun. It was really hot that day so everyone drank more than they meant to, including me. It marked the third time that I have ever gotten drunk and only reconfirmed that, while I don’t mind being a tiny bit tipsy, getting drunk is not my idea of fun. Every time I’ve been drunk has been a near tears experiences. I just don’t like the feeling At All. 

Thankfully, everyone was generally friendly and there was no fighting between the Jones Girls (Fake Name For Privacy). There was a bit of a close call with this boy my sister was trying to set me up with. I swear Jennifer (FNFP) thinks I’m the female version of some angry know-it-all R/Smart dude because those are the type of people she says I’m like or that I’ll get along with. 

Side rant: Why is it that my mother and sister spent Years complaining that I hated them because I never really talked to them or shared my opinion but as soon as I start to speak up I became a political raging machine in their eyes. It does not matter how nicely I try to speak or how much I control my tone they will always act as if me demanding basic human decency is too much for them to handle. 

Anyway, the dude seemed nice enough at first, plus he was my type of attractive which was extra nice, but as the night wore on little things started annoying me more and more. For example: My niece started talking about how “They” found aliens. She believed this due to a UFO citing she’d heard about. Unfortunately, Augustus or whatever his name was, got high and mighty and started lecturing a Ten Year Old about what UFO meant and how if aliens were ever found the world would lose their collective minds. 

Newsflash dude, no ones gonna think you’re cool because you crushed a little girls fun because you had to be the smartest person at the children's table. (Us Kind Of But Not Adults got put on Babysitting Duty)  Like sure, educate the children on what UFO means but don’t draw some doomsday picture for an audience of ten and under. Children want to explore and imagine new worlds where everything is possible. In fact, this is a part of their development. Don’t crush any hint of imagination because it doesn’t fit your cynical idea of the world. 

After that incident I had no interest in seeing him after the wedding but my options for interaction during were limited so I continued being friendly. The music was turned on a little after food and while I am very much Not a dancer I still enjoy doing it. Unfortunately, I only knew half of the people at the wedding and only two others were in my age range. As a result I had to go around begging people to dance with me. Augustus was staunch in his stand to never dance at weddings and I stopped asking after the first few times (At first I thought he was just shy about his skill level but then he seemed to get annoyed and I left it alone.) But his brother, despite not really wanting to dance overly much, was kind enough to join me. 

In-between dancing I would migrate back to the two brother and ask them random questions to pass the time. I’m not the most social person but in the last few years I’ve been trying to push myself to put myself out there more, asking odd questions has become a fallback in social settings. My favourite to ask is “If you could change the colour of the sky what would it be and why?.” Both brothers said blue because that’s just what the colour is but of course Augustus had to explain why the sky was blue to me. Ugh.

Eventually, we got onto the topic of religion and I informed Augustus that I was a Hellenistic Pagan. Augustus took this as an opportunity to rant about how all religions are just money grabbing schemes, and continued with this after I explained that there isn’t really a church or temple or anything for Hellenistic Pagan’s so there really wasn’t anyone I was giving my money to. Soon after this he said that he just wanted to “Vibe” with the music and not play my questions game. So I left.

I tried not to be offended that we really didn’t connect but the entire situation brought old feelings of inadequacy. I just always feel like I’m too much or not enough in most situations, like I either feel everything all at once or I’m numb all day and I either talk a mile a minute or I can barely force words past my lips. It sucks. 

It didn’t help that when my uncle came over to asked why I wasn’t with Augustus he said that I couldn’t ask weird question's about the sky because it “Makes you look like some deranged girl”.  

The night got better after I moped for a bit but I didn’t talk to Augustus again. On the bright side, my uncle's girlfriend taught me how to two-step and I had a lot of fun white girl dancing to the fast songs. My only dance move is to swing my hips and bounce around. I think I might see about taking some dance classes to work on my coordination. 

I think I’ll end this entry here. There’s a lot more to write but I’ll leave it for later

Bye  

[ahmedmootaz]

What do you know, it seems as if I'm on a roll these days when it comes to drawing these days ignoring the fact that I take literal days to draw such simple characters! How do you do, folks? Fine as always, I should hope!

I stuck with Ducktales (2017) these days. I don't know why, but I drew Louie. I've no real reasons behind my decision, but here he is! Originally, he was supposed to be smiling and waving at the observers, however, I wanted to draw some other figure on the other side of the page, and so my sister suggested making him look terrified considering the...thing I drew.

I'm rather proud with how his clothes, especially the hoodie, turned out. The legs/paddles were a bit odd, and didn't turn out perfectly, but they were a lot easier to draw than Poe's fancy-looking shoes. As such, I tried making his hands look like he was caught off-guard. His neck is a bit tall (Long Neck Louie anyone?), but other than that his face is generally nice. His hair is easily the easiest to draw of the triplets, so hooray for that. His beak wasn't that bad to draw, either. Though I admit I had outside help. I think I enjoyed drawing the terrified facial expressions the most, though.

Regarding our second critter...He's not really related to Louie. Or to Ducktales. Or to Disney, even. He's an entirely different character from an entirely different franchise that has an entirely different owner. He also doesn't actually exist in it. He's my creation. My "Original Character", I believe he'd be called. So, everyone, give a big round of applause to Kermadec The Oarfish!

What, Giant Oarfish are well-liked, aren't they? Loosely based off of how real Oarfish look like, he's a polite, civilized fellow who's often nice to have around. He's also carnivorous, snarky, and pretty unhinged when it comes to many things. Borderline unstable, but he has enough self-awarness and control to stop his madness whenever it puts whoever he doesn't want to hurt in actual danger. I was aiming for a more "Slasher Smile" or "Deranged Smile" than the "Insanity Smile" we have gotten, but either way it's better than real Oarfish's blank thousand-yard-stare expressions. A disclaimer should be said, however: Real Oarfish eyes aren't nearly as decorated as Kermadec's. But he's already twice the size a regular Oarfish could hope to reach, to cut me some Artistic Liberties here.

The small pupils make him look as he's about to snap. I'd originally drawn him with a large one, and it works quite well, but the smaller pupils give a strange sort of insanity. Shame I didn't quite manage to make his facial expressions as threatening as they should've been. His motto in life is that if force isn't the answer, it's because you're using the wrong type of force or you're applying it incorrectly. In spite of this, he's not without his intelligence, though he's no rocket scientist, but he has a little bit more intelligence than the average sentient creature.

Now with him out of the way, Louie wasn't actually tough to draw. He took a day of on-and-off sketching. I think what took me the most time for these two is how much I had to clean-up afterwards without destroying them. Maybe I'll come back to drawing later, maybe not, but for now, I hope you enjoy this!

[aeromuses]

   Ch. 1 Valentine Blues (A Hey Arnold Fan Fiction)

   Notice: This fic takes place sometime between the FTi incident and now. Information may be semi-AU or not fit completely, based on my preferences or an easier “go-with-the-flow” storyline. With that being said, I still always aim to make my stories as canon as possible, or the very least to my standards. Enjoy!

   “Now, now - CLASS...”

   As the school room filled with excitable chatter, Mr. Simmons tried to maintain his importance throughout it all - the large swarms of elementary school children leaning forward in their desks, as he discussed the upcoming Valentine’s Day dance meant to wrap up their very last year at P.S. 118, knowing they would be all too excited, battling the anxious, yet strangely prideful fluttering in his stomach upon the sentimental realization that this would be his very last year teaching everyone. 

   “Class, everyone! Now I know we’re very excited for tonight’s dance, but let’s not forget the importance of slowing down to smell the roses, or oh, say - the snowflakes, since it’s currently a little blustery outside,” There was a light chuckle, until... “OH, who am I kidding? Class is dismissed early, kids! Everyone have a wonderful evening, and don’t forget to pick up your valentine’s on the way out. Wouldn’t want to forget those...”

   “Yeah, yeah...ya-de-ya-de. Valentine’s...sure, right. Looking into MY box is like gazing into the bottom of an empty PRINGLES can.” There was nearly always an almost inaudible muttering at the end of each day, Arnold had noticed, that was Helga G. Pataki, as she marched to the doorway, her voice, however, loud enough to just barely make it to his ears, sure that he could have easily heard past it, if he weren’t the second to last one out the door, observing how it was almost like...almost like she were talking to herself, but hoping someone would acknowledge that she was in the room. Arnold, regrettably, had never even really noticed this, consciously, until the beginning of the year...shortly after-

“Move-IT-”

   With gritted teeth, mind bubble popping like a firm balloon, Helga Pataki was simply standing right behind Arnold Shortman, as if waiting in line, almost resemblant to the way Brainy did, excluding any sensations of her breathing down his neck. 

   “What are you DEAF?”

   There was a hard silence, Arnold’s heart thumping at a noticeable pace, as he tried to shrug off any uncomfortable feelings she had been attempting to instill within him. This was Helga, and the last thing he needed was to admit to himself that she could be a little intimidating, to say the least...not Helga persay, but her proximity, rather, after their last encounter.  

   It had been 4 months...4 months since Helga had spilled her guts out to him, and even though they had brushed it off like it were an accident, Arnold had a hard time looking at her the same again. Deep down, he was just a little...freaked out, to be honest. 

   1....

   2....

   3...

   Seconds passed, until...

   WHAM! 

   And with a kick to his backside, he had hit the floor, hands extending, as valentine’s from his collected box flew everywhere.

   Everything...yet nothing had changed...

   An involuntary groan, and Arnold was rubbing the side of his head, feeling humiliated for letting it happen, again. That is, things escalating with Helga, her usual cackle and sneer as she abandoned him beneath the door frame.

   “See ya later, sucker.” 

   Frowning, Arnold had to wonder...Why did he have to freeze up like that, anytime he saw Helga’s assaults coming? Wasn’t he used to it by now? Would it just always remain the same? Helga, getting away with everything she did? 

   There was a sigh, until Gerald appeared, as if a knight in red hooded armor, always seeming to pop up at just the right moment...or the worst one, depending on how you looked at it.  

   “Aaar-nold, you know I love you man, but WHEN are you gonna STAND UP to the MAN? I hate seeing you push over to her like this. I oughta...oughta-” 

   Raising a hand in defense, there was a harmless shake of blonde hair. “It’s alright, Gerald. Really, i’m fine.” He wasn’t the one who saw Helga that summer ago, after all. It was he who had to live with that burden, not Gerald. “It only makes her-”

   “-look bad. I know, I know. I’ve heard it a hundred times...” A red sleeve wrapped around the boy’s shoulder, as his best friend pulled him in, so they were now shoulder to shoulder. “C’mon man, let’s get out of here and talk about somethin’ else.”

   “Slausen’s?” Arnold would smile at his invitation. 

   “Slausen’s, and then it’s game on!”

   Arnold frowned however, knowing what that implied. “You going with Phoebe?” 

   “I’m sorry, Arnold! Hey, it’s not like you don’t have time to ask anyone! What about Ruth or Lila or, or-”

   “No, it’s okay. You know what Gerald? I think I may actually head straight home...thinking of taking a nap, or maybe just forgetting the dance all together.”

   Besides, Ruth was graduated already by now, and Lila was only a friend. Arnold had gotten over her a while ago, and Gerald knew this. He couldn’t blame his friend, getting excited and going desperate measures. After a pitiful silence, Gerald spoke up once more.  

   “A nap huh? Are you...sure Arnold? I mean sure-sure?”

   “Yeah, i’m sure...” Forcing a small smile to convince his friend, Arnold began going his separate way.

   “Maybe you do need a nap.” He smiled, and then Arnold smiled back, waving goodbye, only to hide the indifference on his face as he turned the corner, a distinct look of apathy there, as his eyelids draped down halfway, displaying a new expression.

   Man, they sure do spend a lot of time together...

   Losing Gerald to Phoebe had been hard for Arnold, who had been feeling especially isolated lately, another sigh escaping him. He missed his best friend. The funny thing was though, he knew that if he told him, he would happily cancel plans. He supposed, deep down, that was about the worst part of it all...

   Arms stretching out wide, Arnold let his lithe frame collapse onto his bed, as he entered his room in the boarder house, rolling to his side only to set an alarm for an hour or so before the dance, in case he decided to show up.

      And before he knew it, there was his alarm, going “Hey Arnold, Hey Arnold!” signifying it was already time to hop back to reality. 

    MEANWHILE...

   Gosh, i’m so stupid, so hopelessly deranged, so horrible to that football head. How could I do something like that to the guy on Valentine’s Day? What’s wrong with you, Helga? Miriam must have had something slipped into her drink before I was born, for cryin’ out loud! What did I DO?

   Arms flailing out in every direction of the bed in desperation, as Helga lie in her adolescent bedroom, nearly kicking the covers right off and onto the floor, fists clenched, as tears were nearly welling up in the corners of her eyes. 

   “How dare I...must I...” An emotional sigh, turning into a scowl, however, as the young girl was interrupted. 

   “HELGA, how many times do I have to tell you not to lock this door!?” There was a loud rattling coming from the other side of the room, growing increasingly more aggressive, until Helga’s face had no other option but to go deadpan. 

   “Well jeez, he actually got my name right, the one time I don’t want to be noticed...nice goin’, Bob...” 

   Feet hitting to the floor lazily, Helga gets up like a zombie, slumping herself to the door. “Cripes, it’s not my fault these doors are busted! Weren’t you or Miriam supposed to call that one in or fix these or somethin’ - OUCH!”

   With some rattling of her own, the door finally busts open, Helga nearly pinching herself, on who knows what, as it swings open full force, just barely missing her head.

   “I don’t know, but things are going to start changing around here, young lady...” Bob walks into the room like a ‘friggin’ dictator’, for lack of a better word from Helga, noseying around the entire room.

   “Yeah, okay Hitler.” She rolls her eyes, as he begins popping open draws and scrummaging, eventually swinging open the closet door too, causing Helga’s eyes to pop open wide. “Hey, what gives!?”

   “HELGA, what is this mess!? Rotten watermelon? You better clean this up pronto! I’m looking for the remote to the TV! Thought you might have been hidin’ it up here.”

   “Dad, since when do I watch TV?” A whine, only ever emitted in the company of her parents, or when she was in the presence of something really scary, such as a sewer rat, suddenly vocalizing across the room. She couldn’t help it - Big Bob and Miriam were irritating!

   “And for your information, BOB, I don’t have it! I’m getting ready for a dance, actually, so if you would just EXCUSE yourself this way, rrrrrgh!” With all of her force, Helga tried pushing him back out the door, only causing him to turn and growl in more anger, harmlessly swinging at her pink bow. “You gotta go, dad, and you gotta go now! I don’t have much time to get ready and impress Arrrr, uh-uh artichokes!” 

   Artichokes! That was a good one! Why didn’t I ever relay that code name to Phoebe?

   And before she knew it, all she could hear was her dad’s mumbling about nut jobs, before something came crashing down abruptly, hitting her dead in the face, like your typical Helga G. Pataki epiphany.

   “WAIT a minute - did I just say impress Arnold? No, I can’t do that! Not after that stupid confession! He knows WAY too much. I can’t have the spotlight on me. That would just overwhelm us both! I gotta come up with a plan! Something solid...something...” 

   Eyes widening, scanning the room, stopped at the stand in closet, where all of Helga’s different outfits were kept, gasping to herself. This included disguises, of course.

   “Phoebe?”

   A squeak emitted from the other line, indicating her best friend and trusty sidekick had picked up.

   “Keep your eyes peeled, because tonight Cecile is making an entrance at the Valentine’s Day Dance.” 

   There was a smirk, and that was it, before Helga Pataki hung up the phone, leaving her friend to peice out the rest. 

[moonlightmadnessreviews]

Child’s Play (2019): Chucky Come Lately, The New Kid in Town

We’re coming up on a month since the release of Orion Pictures’ Child’s Play remake. In the lead up to the polarizing release, there were two very different teams drawn up: you were either Team Good Guy, or Team Buddi. If you were the former, it was thought you were an elitist, unable to see past your love for the original and too closed minded to admit you were even a little curious as to how the new movie would turn out. If you wore the latter team’s jersey, you were part of what is wrong with horror today, ready to gobble up corporate studio schlock even if it means trampling all over the original. At a time when a remake is announced every other week, I want to discuss why it’s okay to root for the home town hero, while also being curious about what the rookie has to offer.

Child’s Play was originally released in 1988, having been written and directed by Tom Holland from a story by Don Mancini, produced by David Kirschner and distributed by MGM. The film was a hit, drawing enough at the box office to spawn six sequels, and the cult following was immediately under the spell of the pint sized, Voodoo practicing antagonist, Charles Lee Ray. I recently turned 30, and it wasn’t until I was in my early teens that I realized the original trilogy was called Child’s Play and not Chucky, as I’d always referred to the movies. Brad Dourif plays Chicago serial killer Charles Lee Ray, The Lakeshore Strangler. After he’s chased into a toy store and fatally wounded by Detective Mike Norris (Chris Sarandon), Chucky transfers his soul into the body of a Good Guy Doll. The rest of the movie follows Chucky and the first person he reveals his identity to, a six year old boy named Andy Barclay (Alex Vincent), as Chucky murders his way through babysitters, old accomplices and Voodoo mentors! All the while, Chucky preys on Andy’s innocence, telling him they’re “Friends til the end!” simply to make it easier for him to transfer his soul into Andy’s body.

This set up was, and still is, perfect! For much of the movie, Chucky is a stoic rubber doll, resembling one of the Cabbage Patch Dolls that were so popular in the 1980s. It’s clear to see how excited Andy is when he gets the doll as a birthday present, and you feel genuine fear for the kid knowing there’s the soul of a serial killer trapped inside his new best friend! I would give anything to travel back in time to sit in the theater on opening night and experience the moment Chucky finally reveals his true nature to Andy’s Mom! What may seem silly to us now must have made for an awesome group experience in that theater, especially considering the amazing animatronics and Dourif’s fantastic voice over work, his animalistic aggression striking fear into children for years after.

For all the praise we can give Chucky and the lore his movies built up, they did become somewhat formulaic, but Chucky and pals had solidified themselves in the minds and memories of millions. It’s easy to see why fans were hesitant, and confused, when the remake was announced. Some went as far as to write off the movie completely before even hearing what the changes would be. Well, as it turns out, the changes were pretty drastic, in part due to the legal issues of having a remake separate from the Mancini Chucky universe, soon to make a place for itself as a spin off TV show on the SyFy channel.

Child’s Play 2019 has brought Chucky and Andy into the era of asking someone for their WiFi password as soon as you walk through their door. The film is directed by Lars Klevberg (Polaroid) from a screenplay by Tyler Burton Smith (Kung Fury 2) and produced by David Katzenberg and Seth Grahame-Smith (IT, Chapter 1 and 2). In our post-Stranger Things world, Andy, played here by Gabriel Bateman (Lights Out), is no longer a six year old child but rather a young teen having trouble fitting in and making friends in his new neighborhood. His mom, Karen Barclay (Aubrey Plaza), is still a single mother working in retail, but the doll she brings home for Andy’s birthday is incredibly different due to the exclusion of one incredibly important character: Charles Lee Ray. Gone is the Voodoo. Gone is the Lakeshore Strangler. Gone is the voice! The new direction is daring to say the least.

In this version, Chucky is a WiFi capable, Cloud connected Buddi doll. As part of their use as an educational tool for children, Buddi dolls learn from their Best Buddies, picking up on their sense of humor, social cues and behaviors. Eventually Buddi could help you keep track of your calendar and even control climate setting in your home. Seems pretty cool, right? Well it would be, except Andy’s Buddi doll was hacked by a disgruntled factory worker who does away with Chucky’s limiters for language, violence, and seemingly even his free will.

What I feel works especially well in the new take is Chucky’s innocence at the start of the movie. A Buddi doll’s only mission is to imprint on their new owner and be the best friend this child could ever ask for. We get scenes of Andy and Chucky playing chess, hanging out, and even looking through scrap books of Andy’s art. Chucky takes a genuine interest in Andy and simply wants to be his Best Buddy, so when Andy is scratched by his mother’s cat, we get the first glimpses into Chucky’s unlocked potential for violence. He wants to punish anyone, or anything, that wishes Andy harm. Chucky hasn’t just imprinted, he is frighteningly obsessed.

One of my favorite scenes plays out as Andy, and his friends Falyn and Pugg (Beatrice Kitsos and Ty Consiglio, respectively) are watching a particularly brutal horror movie. I was genuinely giddy in the theater when the clips started to flash on screen, so I won’t spoil it here. This is where we see Chucky’s gears start to turn. Much like a child who may pick up on violent behavior they’re exposed to, Chucky sees Andy and his friends laughing at the outlandish violence on screen and decides to “entertain” them with a butcher knife.

Through out the course of the 90 minute run time, we see Andy struggling with how to control Chucky, now having gotten the wrong impression of violence and feeling rejected by his Best Buddy. The stakes are raised as Chucky becomes increasingly violent, seeking to please Andy at every turn only to make things worse, like a genie who twists their master’s words, making them sorry for not being more careful with their wishes. Come the third act, we can start to see hints of Chucky’s own fully formed personality, now having been twisted and deranged by the movies events.

This movie was more fun than I anticipated, and it even got my wife’s stamp of approval after I dragged her to the theater with me on opening night! Rather than try to be some incredibly bleak, super realistic take on the story, Child’s Play knew exactly what it was and went all out with the ridiculous concept. The movie’s R rating was also used to its full potential, and though most of the scares are pretty telegraphed, they shower you with so much blood and gore that you can’t help but laugh. Andy’s group of friends, though not nearly as charismatic or fun to watch as the cast of Stranger Things or 2017’s IT, really helped to give the movie some much needed warmth and heart. Brian Tyree Henry (Atlanta), who played this movie’s Detective Norris, also gave a great performance, balancing comedy and that detective bravado just right.

The standouts though were Gabriel Bateman and this movie’s Chucky, none other than Mark Hamill (Star Wars and The Joker in Batman The Animated Series, I mean DUH!). Bateman gave a great performance as Andy, carrying a lot of the movie’s emotion, and Hamill helped give this Chucky his own voice. The third act culmination of Chucky’s deranged personality would not have been nearly as effective if not for Hamill’s amazing voice over work. This is not to say though that the movie was perfect. Aubrey Plaza was bland as Karen Barclay, giving every line that classic, so-edgy-it-hurts, Plaza sarcasm. It works on Parks and Rec and even the movie Safety Not Guaranteed, but it feels so out of place here. Thankfully, Bateman was there to sell most of their scenes together, or I would not have been able to buy into their relationship as mother and son, much less care about their survival. In addition to Plaza, there were a lot of jokes in the first and second act that simply didn’t land. The lines fell flat and hardly got more than a chuckle from most of the audience I was with. I’m sure they were after the wit and timing of the young ensemble cast of IT, but that came from time and intensive work building off screen relationships within that cast. Some jerky editing also made the movie feel like it would have benefited from an extra 15 or 20 minutes, leading to certain scenes that were meant to be emotional being brushed over and rushed.

Lastly, let’s address the elephant in the room: Chucky’s redesign. The very first reaction I heard as Chucky’s face flashed on screen was “Ew, what the fu-“. I want to give the effects team credit for sticking to mostly animatronic work once again, but Chucky’s face was simply horrendous. I’d like to think this was intentional, perhaps they wanted to play up the Uncanny Valley effect as much as possible, but I can’t see myself or any other fans saying the design won us over, no matter how fun the movie was.

Did Child’s Play 2019 have to be a Child’s Play movie? No, not at all. In fact, they could have called it “Alexa Gone Wild.” and it would have held much of the same effect. With that being said though, I think I enjoyed it as much as I did because of their new take. It impressed me just enough to leave me thinking “Wow, that was really fun!” I love the original Child’s Play, and Brad Dourif is quite honestly irreplaceable, but the film makers saw the challenge they had with this new version, knew the audience they had to try and win over and they swung for the fences. I may not be able to convince everyone to give this movie a shot, and I’m fine with that, but I think the most important thing to remember is this: If you’re going to update one of my favorite toys, my “Friend til The End”, then make sure the new version keeps me entertained til the end, friend.

Rating: 3.5 Full Moons out of 5 🌕🌕🌕🌗

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 21

Fanfic summary: (NO SPOILERS IN THIS STORY) After arriving in Saint Denis, Arthur ends up falling in love with a seemingly innocent pianist, only to find himself in a battle with one of the most notorious outlaws to ever emerge from America. Now, between working for Dutch and robbing money for the gang, Arthur has to also protect the man he loves as the two of them try to find their freedom.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Male OC

Previous chapter

This story is also on AO3

From Eddie’s POV

THAT NIGHT

FORT BRENNAND

Struggling in my restraints, I made a futile attempt to shake out of the shackles holding me as the harsh metal scraped against my wrists, causing me to hiss in pain as the cuffs gently clinked throughout the lonely cellar.

It didn’t look like anyone above had noticed what I was doing -- or at least trying to do -- but it didn’t matter much anyways. Without someone to help me, or some sort of tool to break free, I wasn’t going anywhere for a long time. There were far too many guards surrounding me -- as well as some loyal hounds they had trained -- and considering my history with Atticus, I doubted the man was just gonna “forget” about me anytime soon.

If there was any hope of me escaping this place, I’d need help to do it.

I let out a disappointed sigh and allowed my arms to slouch in the shackles, thinking to myself as the night carried on.

What the hell was happening...? How did I end up here? It was only this morning that I was robbing a bank with Dutch, and now, not only was Hosea dead, I had also fallen right back into Atticus Rose’s grasp...after so many years of trying to avoid him.

Part of me almost felt that it’d be best if I just took off on my own, and left the gang behind. I didn’t want to leave Arthur alone, and I loved that man more than anything, but I was putting his life in danger simply just by being around him.

Everything we had gone through, all the people we’d killed -- it was because Arthur was trying to protect me. I was the one thing bringing Atticus’ attention to him and his gang, and I was also the reason that Hosea was now gone.

Perhaps they’d be better off without my company. They had enough to worry about aside from Atticus, and it wasn’t as if I had never been on my own before. Maybe leaving Dutch was the best option. Maybe I could just...disappear somewhere in the country, and never come back. But...I also couldn’t just forget about Arthur either. I couldn’t abandon him.

That man had done so much for me, and shown me a sort of love I’d never experienced before. I had no idea how I didn’t realize it sooner, but Arthur was my freedom. He was the only thing separating Theodore from Eddie, and without him, my life would’ve honestly felt pointless.

I mean, my whole family was already gone. My father, my mother, my sister -- none of them were coming back. And my home was nothing but a distant dream now. Arthur was all I had left, and I’d be damned if I ran away from him too.

Breaking my train of thought, the sound of someone opening the cellar’s door suddenly reached my ears as they pushed it open with a firm thud, strolling inside as if they didn’t have a single care in the world. It was Rodrick.

The deranged man brought a cigar up to his mouth and took a drag, making the smoke dancing around his face in an enigmatic manner as he approached me step by step. He let out a cold chuckle.

“There he is...” Rodrick thought aloud. “...The very last Bishop.”

I was silent in response and simply threw a glare at him, causing the man to walk even closer to me as I turned away.

He crouched down.

“Y’know,” Rodrick began, “when I first told Atticus that you was runnin’ around with Dutch goddamn van der Linde, and falling in love with his right-hand man...heh, he didn’t believe me. Looked me square in the eye and said he thought it was bullshit. Told me he wouldn’t believe it until he saw it with his own, two eyes.”

Rodrick paused for a moment and brought the cigar up to his lips again, afterwards letting out a nonchalant sigh before continuing to speak.

“That’s important, you know?” He pointed out. “If you wanna survive in this beautiful country, you can’t just go around believing every damn thing that everyone tells you. Words ain’t nothin’ but a mask, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to dodge a bullet when you can see it coming.”

I disregarded what he was saying and went straight to the point, eager to get out of here.

“Look, what do you want?” I snapped. “Why hasn’t Atticus killed me yet? I thought that was the whole point of bringing me here.”

Rodrick looked disappointed in my lack of interest in his games and shook his head, but answered me nonetheless.

“Because you clearly ain’t the same little boy we last saw in England,” he replied. “You’ve obviously learned a thing or two since our last encounter. And the truth is: Atticus doesn’t need you dead. He just needs you to be under his control. Besides...with your newfound skills, I’m sure Atticus could find a use for you.”

I instantly rejected the idea. “That bastard’s out of his goddamn mind if he thinks I’m doing anything for him--!”

Rodrick suddenly threw a strong fist at my gut, causing me to cough aggressively as a grin stretched on his pale face.

“Haven’t you noticed, pretty boy?” He taunted with a laugh, leaning dangerously close to me. “We’re all out of our minds. But I wouldn’t worry too much. You’ll come around eventually. It’s just gonna take some...persuasion.”

I scoffed, still slightly dazed from the punch. “...And you’re going to be the one doing the persuading, are you?”

Rodrick rose to his feet and spread his arms out in a proud manner, giving me one last smirk before taking his leave.

“Well...somebody’s gotta do it. And who better than the man with so much...charm?” He fell silent for a second. “I won’t lie to you, Theo. It’s gonna be a long road from here on out. So take care of yourself, you hear? Because Atticus certainly won’t.”

From Arthur’s POV

OUTSIDE FORT BRENNAND

Observing the gang’s hideout from a distant gathering of trees, Dutch, John, Charles, and I all hid among the bushes as we scouted the place out, searchin’ for any signs of a covert entrance or clues that coulda told us where Eddie was.

We had managed to follow Atticus’ tracks back to an abandoned fort not too long after he took the boy, but now that I actually knew what we was dealin’ with exactly, I could already tell that getting Eddie outta there was gonna be a completely different story.

So far, all we could see was a shit ton of Atticus’ men along with a decently-sized group of some O’Driscolls, and from our angle, it looked like they had a number of supply wagons goin’ in and out at all times. Probably sending their people out to raid and bring whatever they stole back to the camp. It was an effective process, if a bit blatant, but now I could certainly see why Atticus’ gang was so strong.

I lowered my binoculars, turnin’ to speak to Dutch.

“It’s a goddamn fortress...!” I whispered. “These fools actually got walls to hide behind, and even more men to guard ‘em. Ain’t no way we can just attack a place like this. We’re gonna have to find another way in.”

Dutch continued searching through his own binoculars, his gaze stuck on the main entrance.

“I’m all up for ideas. Any of you boys see a weak point in their walls? Could be a sloppily patched hole somewhere, or a blind spot we can scale.”

Charles shook his head. “No. If anything, it looks like they’ve reinforced the fort’s protections. If we’re gonna scale the walls, we’ll need to draw their attention elsewhere.”

John offered a suggestion. “Wait, what about the supply wagons?”

Dutch quirked a brow. “What about them?”

Marson thought a for a minute. “Well...maybe a few of us could sneak into them. Enter the fort all nice and quiet-like. Maybe sabotage some o’ their supplies while we’re at it. That’ll draw their attention away from the walls. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang could climb up. Take out the guards up top while they ain’t looking. That way, we’ll have men on the inside and outside.”

The older man almost sounded impressed. “...You know what? That idea ain’t half-bad.”

I chuckled softly, returning to my binoculars as I continued to examine the fort. “I’m tellin’ you, Dutch...we oughta let them wolves have a go at this boy more often.”

John’s expression flattened with annoyance. “Shut up, Arthur.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been suspiciously clever ever since they ate half your brain.”

He sighed in irritation. “I’m startin’ to wish you woulda let them eat all of it at this point--”

“--Hush, you two,” Dutch jumped in, grabbin’ our attention. “Look who’s entering the fort right now.”

Focusing our sights on the main gate, the four of us watched with a newfound curiosity as we fell completely silent, lookin’ to see who Atticus’ guest was. They appeared to have arrived with an especially large supply wagon as well as a handful of men to guard it while they trotted up to the entrance, all full of themselves.

There was crates of dynamite, food, moonshine, and weapons sittin’ in the back, and the more I examined their mounts, the more I realized they probably stole them from our camp. The bastards. Was there anything Atticus didn’t take?

Bringing my binoculars back to the guest, I zoomed in a few times before studyin’ their appearance, only to realize it was none other than Colm O’Driscoll himself. Of course.

“The hell is Colm doing here?” Charles questioned. I let out a worried breath.

“He and Atticus have some sort of...partnership going on,” I explained. “They’re teamin’ up against us. Though, I hadn’t seen Colm ever since Eddie broke me outta his camp. And I certainly didn’t expect to see him again after that shitstorm. Makes you wonder why he’s suddenly decidin’ to show up now.”

Dutch recommended an idea. “Well, maybe this is our chance to find out. John and Charles, you two stay here a while longer and keep scoutin’ this place out. Tell me everything you find when you get back. And be discreet. Arthur, you and I’ll go back to camp and think of a plan to assault this fort. Maybe we can build off of John’s suggestion. Either way, we need to move quick. Atticus has proven himself to be a man who doesn’t waste time, and we can’t let him get away with Mister Ryan. Lord knows what they’re doin’ to him now.”

I sighed in nervousness. “...If it’s anything like what they did to me, it ain’t good.”

Dutch switched to a more reassuring tone. “Have faith, Arthur. We will get Eddie out of there before it’s too late. Tell him, John.”

Marston gave me a sincere look. “Eddie gave himself up to save Jack. Me and Abigail will do whatever we can to help. That boy’ll be fine.”

I tried to hide how much this situation was truly scarin’ me and kept a straight face, simply staring blankly at the grass below.

“I sure hope so.”

Dutch packed his binoculars and began walking towards his horse, signaling me to follow.

“Anyway, we should get moving. Not only do we have a man to rescue, we also gotta figure out where to move our camp next. Shady Belle ain’t safe for us no more, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened this morning. We’ve got to leave.”

I climbed on top of my own mount which I had switched out with Bullet and gave the big boy a pat on the neck, lightly kicking my spurs into his sides as I rode alongside Dutch.

“And what about...Hosea?” I asked, my voice a bit softer than I intended. “What’re we gonna do about him?”

Dutch’s face sank with sorrow at the thought. “I...I sent Bill and Lenny out to bury him somewhere proper. Somewhere peaceful, and away from this horrible swamp. I’m thinkin’ of paying him a visit later, once we get things settled.”

I nodded in agreement. “I might come with you.”

The older man’s melancholy was suddenly replaced with a sense of anger, and he gazed at me through the night’s darkness, giving me a determined glare.

“He’s the last one, Arthur. No more. We ain’t losing anyone else. Especially not to Mister Rose, or to those goddamned Pinkertons! We are survivors, for God’s sake. We fight to live free, and I will not allow these...sheep to think they can simply kick us around! Hosea said it himself: people like Eddie are the reason we do what we do. People like him are the reason we’re more than just common outlaws and criminals. Because unlike Atticus, and unlike Colm, we have got something to live for. And I’ll be damned if I let them take that from us.”

I picked up my pace and broke into a gallop as Dutch and I entered the more open fields, the two of us ridin’ underneath the moonlight while we headed back home.

“Well, whatever we do next, Dutch...” I said, “I’m with you.”

He glanced over at me, his brown eyes filled with a sense of protection.

“I know, son,” he replied gently. “I know.”

[ramajmedia]

IT: 10 Movie Memes That Will Have You Dying Of Laughter

Stephen King certainly nailed it when he created the villain of Pennywise the dancing clown as his main villain in the colossal novel IT. Clowns are scary to a lot of people already, but the way that Pennywise terrorizes Derry and the Losers Club is enough to give readers of the book and viewers of the miniseries and films nightmares for decades to come.

RELATED: 10 Great Gifts For Fans Of IT

If anyone in real life came face to face with Pennywise or a Pennywise lookalike they'd probably run for their lives, but it's easy to laugh at what may terrify you when you're sitting comfortably behind a computer screen. And since Pennywise and the entire saga of IT is such a cultural touchstone, it's no big surprise that the story, it's characters, and it's villain have been memed hundreds of times. There a lot of gut busting IT memes out there on the internet, but here are ten that will have anyone dying of laughter.

10 People Eaters

Now, if Hannibal Lecter and Pennywise the dancing clown came face to face, would they be natural born friends or foes? Or better yet, who would eat who first? Hanny and Penny seem like they'd have a lot of things to bond over that they wouldn't be able to relate to with anyone else, since consumers of human flesh are pretty hard to come by in the real world. However, they're both elitist jerks who think that they're superior to every other living thing on the planet, so it's not that hard to imagine there would be some natural enmity between them too.

9 The Thrills Of Life

And if we're being real, the mailman is probably about as happy to see people creeping on his deliveries as any normal person would be to see Pennywise the clown creeping on them. But it's okay to be excited about the small things in life, and there are very few things that are quite as mundane yet thrilling as getting a long awaited package finally delivered.

RELATED: The 5 Best & Worst Stephen King Film Adaptations (According To IMDb)

And although Pennywise undoubtedly is unfamiliar with the thrill of receiving a package that isn't in a human flesh wrapper, he can at least relate to the feeling of having to wait for what you want for an exceptionally long time and then finally getting it.

8 #JusticeForTimCurry

The latest adaptation of Stephen King's epic novel IT has been massively successful for a lot of reasons. It's certainly because the movies themselves are very entertaining and successful adaptations of the original source material, and it is undoubtedly in large part because Bill Skarsgard's performance as Pennywise is a genuinely terrifying thing to behold. However, the old school IT miniseries was legendary for a reason too. Parts of the series definitely don't hold up to the test of time, but Tim Curry's performance as Pennywise the dancing clown is the stuff of legend, it genuinely left an entire generation of children traumatized for life.

7 People Be Fighting To Get Into That Sewer

Pennywise enjoys terrifying his prey before practically swallowing them whole, but realistically if he wanted to make easier and quicker work of his hunting then this would be a perfect way to do it. I mean, if he told people that he had free Beyonce tickets then the people of Derry would be lined up around the block fist fighting one another for the chance to get into a sewer with that creep. Eating seems to be the only goal in life that Pennywise has, so fueling an all you can eat buffet with this kind of fib seems like an ideal situation for him.

6 Two Turntables And A Microphone

There are a lot of wonderful things about Stephen King's IT, but one of the most obvious things that make it awesome is that it is so easily meme-able. I mean, with a title like IT there are literally an infinite number of hilarious and weird puns that can be made with it, which is pretty perfectly encapsulated in this particular meme.

RELATED: The Best Performances In Stephen King Adaptions, Ranked

Most people are already familiar with the Beck song that this meme borrows lyrics from, so they can easily finish off the classic tune that this meme starts everyone off with. And once again, playing DJ would probably be a great way for It to draw in even more victims.

5 Look Normal And... Eat Children?

It's certainly a testament to the filmmaking skills of the IT Chapter One and Chapter Two crew that they manage to take the objectively aesthetically pleasing face on Bill Skarsgard and transform it into one of the most viscerally disturbing villains that the cinema world has ever seen. And while we can respect a classic meme format like this, I think it's safe to say that even the edgiest of edge lords wouldn't want to roll over in the middle of the night and see the toothy grin of this people eating maniac staring back at them in the darkness.

4 The Tiniest Terror

Well that's certainly one way to kill boredom. The skills of the photographer and makeup artist in this impromptu photo shoot deserve a world of props, because this is the kind of cosplay that would make even the most season Comic-Con attendees green with envy. But can you imagine what it would be like to just be walking around town and spot this strange and terrifying sight? This kid is probably cute as a button beneath all of that makeup, but letting him out in the wild looking like this seems like a recipe for disaster. It's one instance where a grown adult being brought to tears out of fear of a child would be completely understandable.

3  An Almost Foolproof Plan

Too soon, meme creating bros! And yes, 27 years after the fact is still too soon. IT Chapter One clearly wanted to torment it's audience as much as possible with Georgie's death, because aside from it being genuinely terrifying they hired about the cutest child actor in the world to play the part of Pennywise's innocent meal.

RELATED: The 10 Most Anticipated Horror Movies of 2019

Georgie just came out to have a good time and he's honestly feeling so attacked right now. And even an adult wouldn't have the foresight to predict that a happy jaunt out in the rain could end with being consumed by a deranged sewer clown, so Georgie deserves a pass for his mistake.

2 Maybe He's Born With It

There aren't many reasons that a normal and sane person would want to compliment Pennywise, but honestly his makeup skills are deserving of some respect. I mean he's running around the sewers eating people and occasionally getting stabbed in the face, but his makeup is always looking fresh and flawless. Most women can't even have a snack without having to reapply their lipstick, so whatever Pennywise is using has got to be some seriously impressive product. And it's a new era in makeup, guys are rocking makeup looks as well as girls, so Maybelline being inclusive and using a man to represent their products would be very woke of them.

1 Everyone Knows That Guy

You know, there is actually a genius idea hidden in this meme here. Everyone knows that person who is constantly vaping, even in the most inappropriate of places. But if anyone happens to be that vaper who can't go more than twenty minutes without ripping their Juul then there is a very simple way of doing it without getting hassled. Just dress up as Pennywise! Yes, that requires a lot of day to day effort in terms of makeup and styling, but if you're sitting at a restaurant or bar taking a puff looking like that then absolutely no one is going to have the courage to ask you to stop.

NEXT: 10 Hilarious IT Memes That'll Make Pennywise Seem Hilarious

source https://screenrant.com/funny-it-memes/